Free Drowning Ruth by Christina Schwarz Page A

sorts of tests, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time.” He stroked the top of the box fondly.
    “I'm afraid I didn't get your name this morning,” I said finally. “Is it Owen?”
    “It's Owens, the last name is. Clement is my given name.”
    I gave my own name then and held out my hand, which he shook rather too vigorously.
    He offered to get me a second cup of coffee, but while he was at the counter, I realized my break had ended five minutes before. No time to make apologies, I told myself. As I hurried out the door, I saw him arranging a whole plateful of cookies, ladies' fingers and lemon icebox and more anise. It seemed that we would probably never meet again.
    We met because of Private Buckle and then I killed my parents. Had I mentioned that? No, I thought I hadn't. Of course, I didn't mean to kill them, but in a case of death, how much does intent really matter?
    I killed them because I felt a little fatigued and suffered from a slight, persistent cough. Thinking I was overworked and hadn't been getting enough sleep, I went home for a short visit, just a few days to relax in the country while the sweet corn and the raspberries were ripe. From the city I brought fancy ribbon, two boxesof chocolate, and a deadly gift from Private Buckle. I gave the influenza to my mother, who gave it to my father, or maybe it was the other way around.
    When I saw the fever on my mother's cheeks, I made Mathilda take Ruthie to the island, although for all I knew it was already too late.
    “But it's so lonely there,” she said.
    “Better lonely than dead,” I told her. It was important to be efficient, to be blunt. “Think of Ruthie.”
    I was a good nurse, as I've said, and I brought all of my training to bear. I followed the doctor's orders to the letter, even though I needed no instructions; I knew the course. I forced spoonfuls of honeyed tea and chicken broth between their lips to give them strength. I dosed them with quinine at eight, at twelve, at four, at eight again, day and night. I opened the windows in their room for fresh air. I tucked the quilts tightly around them to make them sweat. I changed the linens twice a day, more often when the blood from their noses began to stain the pillow slips.
    “Mathilda?” my mother said as I bathed her face with a warm cloth.
    I assured her she would see Mathilda later, when she was better.
    “Where's Mattie?” my father demanded, throwing the blankets to the floor.
    I tried to explain about contagion, about how she was safe with Ruth, about how they would see her once they recovered. But they were delirious with fever. They refused to understand. “Mathilda,” they called. “Mattie!” Finally, when their skins had turned pale blue for lack of air, I pretended.
    “Yes, Mama. Yes, Papa,” I said. “I'm here.”
    My mother smiled then. My father sighed and relaxed. They were comforted.
    I wonder now if, in some way, I thought I could be Mathilda after that. I wonder if I thought I could act like her at least, with hercharm and her daring. If so, I should have known better. Of course, I didn't think about any of that then. I only thought to ease their suffering, to help them heal, to be a good nurse.
    I did everything right. Everything. But it meant nothing. They got away from me. Their lungs full of fluid, they drowned in their bed, first my mother, then my father. I was helpless to hold them back.
    Mathilda and I buried our parents on an Indian summer day in Nagawaukee's graveyard, under the lurid, mocking sugar maples. Neighbors and friends had been with us all morning, but now, on the way home, their buggies turned off one by one onto other roads, until there was no one else, either before or behind, and we were alone. At the gate, I jumped down and fumbled with the new latch.
    “Here, like this,” Mathilda said, coming up beside me. Her eyes were so red and swollen that she could barely see, but the gate opened easily under her fingers. In all those months I'd