Clean Slate

Chapter 59

Briskly, Ruth scooped the chopped chicken cubes into a large blue mixing bowl, carried it to the counter, and started to mix the shrimp and chopped vegetables into it. . . .

Mother was not one for dramatics like towering tirades, or shunning, or other punitive sanctions. No: to rule Ruth with a fiercely iron hand, all Mother needed was to give a certain look every so often, spiced perhaps with a mildly disapproving comment. With such deft moves Mother kept Ruth's will at the level of quivering jelly.

Ruth could remember, at eight years of age, coming home one day from her friend Edith's house. Mother, in one of those softly furious states, informed Ruth she was to be punished for pulling her little shorts down and showing her butt to the other children. How did you know? Ruth had cried. A little birdie told me, said Mother. . . .

And afterward it was ever thus. Ruth met Mother's expectations, obeyed her mother's wishes, mirrored her mother's deportment, from school grades and clubs and friends, to selection of college and membership in sorority and the types of young men to date. Looking back now, she realized she had thought of Wayne Wildern, the blustering maverick young law student born and reared in Shacktown, as a form of rebellion. But Mother had, curiously, approved of the relationship and in fact pushed for the early wedding that Ruth would otherwise have backed out of. And Mother had been right about Wayne – had seen his future – and Ruth's too.

During which Ruth, like a well programmed robot, continued in every way to comport with Mother's prescriptions. This house – Mother's idea. The clubs, civic activities, charitable work, relentless volunteering – all at Mother's behest. Her housekeeping standards, attire, makeup, hair, deportment – all of this and more, met Mother's spoken and implied requirements. In this straight, narrow, deeply grooved path Ruth spent six full decades, all to avoid a disapproving look, reproving comment – to avoid the worst crime imaginable: disappointing Mother. There was never any pleasing Mother. The best you could do was to put off disappointing her.

Then, this past spring, when Mother died, all that changed. Ruth became conscious of a deep, penetrating numbness. Through the wake, the big service, and the other obsequies, Ruth played her well programmed part. But in the weeks that followed she realized that the numbness was not from Mother's death, and it was not new. She'd had it all her life, and it took Mother's death to make her aware of it. . . .

The chicken and shrimp mixture complete, Ruth gathered mustard, apple juice, soy sauce, and garlic, and, with a small power blender, began mixing them in a bowl. . . .

With Mother gone, leaving Ruth forever beyond any peril of disappointing her, Ruth felt the numbness ebb. This made her increasingly aware not only of the appetites that had always burned in her – but also of the new freedom to sate them. She was 61 years of age. No time to waste.

She knew many men, and one of them was certain to seize this moment of opportunity. Fortunately, Earl Bucaro stepped up first. And how lovely it had been! A 17-year-old virgin when she met Wayne, Ruth had never before been with a man other than her husband. Earl's experience and creativity were a good match for Ruth's fantasy-driven sense of eagerness and adventure, and by now there was not much that they had not tried. But for Ruth one of the best parts was watching Earl slowly realize who was really in charge here. Watching him discover that it was in his best interest not to disappoint her. How fortunate that this first dalliance had been with the Superintendent, for he had, besides a certain male sturdiness in bed and an appetite for rough stuff, the most useful resources. Ruth expected to exploit them all before they were done, for, she thought: there's still some virginity left for him to take, and I want him to take it and take it hard. . . .

Ruth poured most of the mustard mix over the chicken/shrimp mixture, stirred the mixture with a few economical thrusts of a wood spoon, and carried the bowl to the refrigerator to marinate. Her thoughts were fully on Sunday, the anticipation of which making her almost breathless. She'd specified an older black man, and a white teen with piercings and tattoos –

A banging came at the side door to the kitchen, and it flung inward. The Judge's bulky form darkened the doorway, looming, motionless, staring. Startled, Ruth froze, then shut the refrigerator door. "Hi, why home so early?"

Wayne did not answer. Just came straight toward her, heavy gait creaking the floorboards. He wore no coat. His tie was loose and his trousers were soiled, and he carried a thin silver case under his arm. Frightened at his determined mute advance, Ruth edged back toward the butcher block as her husband, fleshy face a mask of unseeing rage, came right at her. "Don't," she managed, as Wayne, almost upon her now and still coming, cocked his arm across his chest. Frozen, disbelieving, she just stood there as Wayne stopped, swung his fist and – way too late she tried to duck – back-hand smashed her square on the temple, the thunderous blow igniting a burst of sparks and an explosion of pain in her head as she left the floor.

She did not feel herself land. But she was not out long. The leg of the butcher block was in front of her face as she blinked, coughed, experimentally moved her aching head. Her shoulder jabbed with pain, and she'd bitten her tongue. She heard Wayne's voice talking down at her. Not shouting. Not terribly coherent. A kind of breathless babbling: "Fucking cunt? You did this? I had to – I had to see it? What were you thinking? Do you know what you've done? Look. Look at this. Look at this."

She felt him grab a fistful of her hair, jerk her head to the right. There on the floor a couple feet away sat the silver case. Its lid was open now, and it was some kind of screen, a video player of some sort. On screen she saw her own image, nude, mounted on Earl, riding him, eyes shut, smiling, head tossing – but she could not see it clearly. Her eyes seemed unwilling to focus in concert. Something warm and moist was oozing down her right cheek. She wondered if she could crawl, perhaps rise. She had to do something. Above her Wayne was bellowing things like all over, all done, say goodbye. He was about to kill her. She knew this for an absolute certainty. What could Earl have been thinking? Why did he betray her? She did not feel scared, or angry. That would come later, when she'd have time to assess the damage these men had done her. Especially by Wayne. Who had quite a nerve, barging in here and attacking her and injuring her and shouting at her, when after all he was the one who, for months and months, did Debby Brody in Ruth's bed. In Ruth's own bed.

But those discussions would come later. For right now she felt terribly determined, and focused on the present threat. Beyond the screen she saw the vague white shape of the refrigerator door. That helped her orient herself. The drawer she needed was to its left. She wondered if she could get there. Once there she could pull herself to her feet, keeping herself between him and the drawer. . . . Wayne was still declaiming, hurling invective, pacing a circle, entranced as always by the sound of his own voice. Carefully Ruth edged up onto her knees, got her bearings, and began feebly to crawl, hoping he was too busy to hit her again.

---

Mac motored his Suburban up the winding narrow Mount Madison street. The Friday late morning was still hazy and humid and getting quite warm, without much breeze to stir up the murk. Around him the elegant homes on their green treed acres sat silent and unattended. On this work day, most residents were occupied elsewhere. The street was deserted too, the only moving vehicle being a black-and-white taxicab headed out at the bottom of the hill. Mac felt relieved that he'd be talking to the Judge away from the Court House. Out here they could have some real privacy. Maybe the Judge would open up to him. Who knows, Mac mused, maybe he's ready to change his ways; maybe I can actually help him to.

The red brick three-story facade of the Judge's Second Empire house looked blank and unattended, its curved-top windows reflecting the hazy sunlight. No vehicles were visible in the driveway or the turn-around. Mac parked, got out, walked over to the stoop and up the steps to the massive black front door. No sounds issued from inside. Mac rapped the brass knocker; waited. Nothing. Rapped again. Still nothing. He had the thought that maybe the Judge had come home to take Ruth to an early lunch. He walked around to the driveway again and looked up at the garage. Through the small glass windows in the double doors, he could see vehicles occupying both slots. So odds were, somebody was home.

The side entrance beckoned. Mac walked over and up the two concrete steps. Just then the door opened and Ruth Wildern appeared. The familiar gray apron snugly hugged her slight form. But today, glasses dangled from a chain around her neck. Most surprising was the blue and white bandanna wrapped tight to her head. Unusual attire for this cool, quiet, elegantly competent woman. "Hi, Mac," she said, sounding glad indeed to see him. "How nice that you'd stop by."

"Hi, Ruth. Hate to bother you. I heard the Judge headed home early today. Can I have a word?"

"Really? Nobody said anything to me. He's not here. Not yet, anyway. Care to come in and wait?"

"If it's no trouble," Mac said, thinking: My, isn't she the effusive one today.

"No trouble at all." She stepped back, allowing him through, and closed the door. The brightly lighted kitchen echoed with the ticking of clocks and the murmur of classical music. Enticing aromas of food in preparation suffused the air. Up high, a ceiling fan whirled. Mac could not recall ever noticing it before. He looked at his hostess. She stood by the butcher block. Her eyes seemed odd, unfocused; one more or less clear, the other more reflecting, like the house windows he'd just seen.. She said, "What do you need to see the Judge about?"

"Oh, pretty much a work thing," Mac answered. "Didn't want to have it hang on over the weekend."

"Well, I'm sure he'll be here soon."

She was not right. Not herself. Mac studied her, trying to get a handle. "What've you been up to lately?" he asked conversationally.

"Oh, just. . . ." She made an absent, ineffectual gesture. "Cooking. We have the state senator coming out tonight. And his wife. Do you know them? The Boldens."

"'Fraid not." He could see now that there was definitely something wrong with her. The bandanna, knotted tight across her forehead and around her head, was showing a dark spot by her right temple. Mac stepped closer. "Hurt yourself, Ruth?"

With fingers that just slightly trembled she touched the bandanna, but said, "No, not really, why?"

"Looks like maybe you're bleeding," Mac said, squinting. "On your head there."

"Oh, well," she said, "it was so dumb of me. I hit my head on a pantry door, trying to fetch my mop." She laughed. "Do you believe it?"

From elsewhere, a phone started to ring. Mac said, "Maybe I should take you in somewhere? Get you checked out?"

"No, no. I'm fine. Excuse me, I'll be right back." She went up the hall toward the front of the house. Mac's uneasiness was growing by the moment. This was not the Ruth he knew. For all the homey touches, the kitchen felt inimical: not the sounds so much, or the appearances either – but the smells. That was it. The smell. There was garlic, for sure, and spices, and a fatty fry-smell. But then something else entirely. The faintest acridness, a scent impossible to completely disguise or to dissipate no matter how far up you cranked the ceiling fan – a smell most familiar to Mac from by-gone days. Gun smoke.

He could hear Ruth's voice faintly up the hall, talking on the phone. Quickly he scanned the kitchen. The eating area, table, chairs, counters, butcher block, utensils, glass faced cupboards – all seemed normal. No bullet holes, blood stains, corpses tucked away in corners. At the back of the kitchen sat a small secretary, next to a door that Mac suspected led to the basement. The expanse of linoleum flooring seemed to reflect oddly – a translucent streak of some sort. Mac stepped that way, getting a different angle of the light, and now he could tell that something damp had been drawn across the floor, in a more or less straight line toward the door. Walking to the door, he opened it.

And his heart stopped.

There, on the descending wood steps, lay Judge Wayne Wildern, head downward. His suit trousers had slid up some, showing stoutish ankles and black socks and shiny black wing tips. His white shirt had one, two, maybe three separate bloody rips – bullet holes. He was still alive, his breathing a pained and effortful rasping in-out, in-out. His head was averted so Mac could not see his eyes. Down the stairs, in the darkness, there was an odd flashing of light. To the right was another door, half ajar, showing steps headed up. Mac felt frozen. All he could think was get help, get help, get help right now. He was just turning back toward the kitchen when he heard Ruth's quiet voice: "Oh, my. I wasn't ready for you to see that yet."

She stood just inside the kitchen, at the opposite end. The bloodstain had grown on her bandanna. Her mouth was a fixed smile/frown, jaws locked. Now both unblinking eyes were oddly opaque.

And in both her hands she casually held a small black handgun.