After the funeral, they agreed on a sorting day, when what
remained of Dorothea’s life would be packed, distributed, repurposed, dumped.
Ruth was late. Sorry, traffic, she said by way of explanation to her
grieving step-sisters. Carol nodded, lips thinning, her eyes flicking towards
the clock above the sink. Balanced on
kitchen steps, Judy paused momentarily before resuming her red-eyed exhumation
of unused tea sets and preserving jars.
Ruth did as she was bid, aware that even after all these years of
trying to be family, the fractures were heightened in death. Her step-sisters drew together, consulted in
whispers over items deemed worth keeping.
Occasionally there was an exclamation, or a story from childhood days
that Ruth had not shared. Otherwise, they worked in silence, doggedly sorting, allocating,
wrapping in tissue or adding to the growing collection of oddments that nobody
wanted.
“I’ll take these bags outside,” Ruth offered.
“Thanks, there’s a pile of rubbish in the garage.”
Ruth welcomed the fresh air, the soundtrack of normal life. The
bus to town grinding up the hill, a distant lawnmower, children shrieking in
the school yard a block away.
She dropped the bags with the heap inside the door, and as she
paused to enjoy the cool earthy basement air, she saw it. The marquetry table,
folded and on its side tucked between two cardboard boxes. She tugged at it and
lay it on the ground. The top was marked with dirty circles, water stains and dried
remnants of maidenhair fern.
“What’s this one?” she had asked her father.
“That’s boxwood.” His eyes were intent on the pattern as he bent
over the baseboard.
“Which one do you like the best?”
He had smiled. “Which one do you like, Babe Ruth?”
Her nine year old brow furrowed while she examined the bands of
veneer. “I like this one because it’s red like Mummy’s hair.”
“She did have pretty hair.
Almost as pretty as yours.”
It had taken him a year to make the table, to build the sunburst
pattern one piece at a time. Sometimes
they talked; mostly she just watched as he skillfully united the fragments
of veneer: aspen, chestnut and cherry, grained and smooth. In hindsight,
perhaps it was no surprise that when the table was finished, he took her to
meet Dorothea and her teenage daughters.
“She’s not your new Mummy, Babe Ruth. She’s a friend for me and
for you. And I hope you’ll like the girls.
I’m sure we’ll all get along.
Ruth found a rag and wet it under the outside tap. She wiped the
dirt and foliage from the table top. The stains were indelible, from a lifetime
of use and wear. Not everything gets the respect it deserves.
Ruth carried the table down to her car and turned back to the
house. Carol and Judy were standing at
the kitchen window. Carol raised a mug and beckoned her in. Ruth took a deep breath, and went to join
them.
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