She had never really thought of him before, either. She knew that everyone has a father, but he hadn’t really existed to her. Now a big hope sprung up in her throat that surprised her.
Suddenly, questions were being raised that threatened to dismantle the gently idle way they spent their days, the candle at Christmas, the fir bough they stole from the tree in the closest park and ran laughing all the way home with through the gritty falling snow.
“He...” Her mother hesitated.
Later, looking back, Ruby would think, she knew she was twelve. She knew her mother’s age, because they celebrated her birthday every year. She could have done the math. Twenty-seven minus twelve wasfifteen, and if she counted the months right, it meant she had been conceived when her mother was fourteen.
But she didn’t do the math. Not then and not for a long time later. Why? Why didn’t she count the most essential numbers?
Instead she asked the one question that was maybe designed to shut the conversation down.
“Did you love him?”
16.
Ruby found Alonzo Pettibone living down a forgotten lane on the far side of the county, on the edge of a vast, nameless swamp. Inhaling the air was like breathing in green.
The retired animal control officer was now in his sixties, and sitting at the edge of a mossy creek, repairing a fishing reel. A few minutes later, Ruby was sitting on a stump nearby, explaining the reason for her visit.
A rowboat waited at the shore, with a tin bucket at the bottom.
“Join me?” he asked, and she nodded.
In moments, they were pushing off from the muddy shore, her feet firmly planted in the bottom of the rough rowboat. He carried the reel, with green fishing line as thick as rope, and at the end was a hook that could catch a shark. The tin can was filled with doughballs, smelling richly of old bacon grease.
He steered the boat down the brackish creek. They entered a deep swamp, flocked with hummocks of weedy land. Trees grew from the water, as dark as darts. In the open areas, the water ran so deep she could feel it. It was like floating above space. She looked down into the black water and thought of caves.
Pettibone carefully baited his massive hook with a doughball. He lowered the line into the deep water, and they watched it disappear.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked.
“Seems like the best place to talk,” he said.
“You don’t feel safe at home?”
“What is home? I thought about moving away—after it happened,”he said, and she knew exactly what he was talking about. A chill went through her, even on this sultry day.
“How come you didn’t?”
“Same thing is going to happen anywhere.”
“Did you ever tell anyone?”
“I thought of that, too—yes. I did tell. The few others like me. There were a handful of us then, not many more now. You know, at first I wondered why they hired me. I was thinking, maybe animal control wants to make change. Maybe the powers that be decided a Black man could do the job better. Or get shot trying.”
“What kind of cases did you get?”
“Mostly animal neglect, out here. People tie their dogs up outside. It gets too hot. Dog knocks over the bowl, old man is inside, poor beast dies of thirst. Or they got a litter and no buyers, toss them out in the swamp. Why, some even say a skinned puppy makes the best catfish bait. You can snag a big one with that.”
He had been counting the feet with the reel. Eventually the line stopped, and she imagined the redolent doughball on the bottom of the deep hole, sending out feelers of scent.
“Once they got over the shock of my Black face, most people were actually nice. Of course, I knew how to do my job.” His eyes shot her way. “I knew how to talk to the old ladies trying to sell you candles while the house reeked like dead cat. Or the bubbas telling you they cut their dog’s tails and ears themselves with kitchen shears, cause everyone knows dogs don’t feel no pain.”
She listened, feeling the soft air.
“You’re quiet,” he said.
“Did most of your cases go to trial?”
