Free The Book of Ruth by Jane Hamilton Page B

to be responsible. I couldn’t bear it. I thought about her constantly at school, hoping the best, although my heart told me she didn’t have a chance in the world. I bumped into people in the halls and they pushed me away with their elbows. They didn’t know Maggie was the only person on my mind. I was desperate to hear the end. I raced down the school bus stairs and tore along the road while the boys leaned out the windows jeering at me. I took the porch steps by twos; I didn’t even call, “Hello, hello.” I was out of breath, heaving and gasping. I said, “Hi, Miss Finch.” I couldn’t keep it straight that she was married once and that her real name was Mrs. Finch.
    “Is that you, my deeah?” she asked. She didn’t wait for an answer; she said, “I don’t feel up to reading today. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?”
    “Huh?” I said. I couldn’t believe it. I stood there staring into her useless eyes. It seemed that every time we got to the juicy part in a book Miss Finch wanted to talk. I wasn’t going to listen to her mouth run on. I scowled and flapped my hands with my thumbs sticking in my ears. I hated for her to start in her slow, tired voice about how great it all was back when she was a girl in New England, and how they always ate Boston baked beans and she shoved the beans into a little drawer in the table because she couldn’t stand to eat them. I plugged up my ears but I couldn’t keep my fingers in my eardrums all afternoon and pretty soon the book magic occurred—that is, I sat there with my mouth hanging open, greedy for what she was talking about. She always said, “My deeah, I’ll tell you about the good memories. I don’t have any use for the unhappiness I’ve had in my life.” She told me about her husband, Mel, and his massive coronary attack. He was sitting at dinner and he dumped over into his chicken salad. She told me about their trips, all the beautiful islands, and living in the memories made her cry for the lost pleasures. She had a whole set of photo albums. My job was to describe each picture, and then she told about where they took place. There were pictures of lobsters she ate, and girls doing the hula dance. She went all over the world because Mel was a merchant. I’d go to the islands with her, sitting right by the bed, and remember my favorite parts for her.
    I started to bring Aunt Sid’s letters over to Miss Finch because she liked anything at all from the outside. I think I can imagine how it would be, not seeing a thing except all your past life swirling around in your brain. Any noise would be magnified: the clang of silverware, the mice scratching in the walls, the cats knocking paint cans over on the porch—all vibrations carrying noise long after it’s stopped. Miss Finch was always looking alarmed, saying, “What’s that?” when I hadn’t heard anything at all. So, just as it used to be with Miss Pin, Miss Finch got acquainted with Aunt Sid. Miss Finch, Aunt Sid, and I were a family, always eager to know the news about each other.
    Aunt Sid wrote me more about her life, now that I was older. She talked about her job teaching music at the high school in De Kalb. She said sometimes she closed her eyes while she conducted and she saw flocks of blackbirds leaving the basswood tree at the home farm in one gust, and then all of a sudden she had to perk up, because she realized the students were singing their song without mistakes. Sid was more than your average conductor. She had no children of her own since she never did get married—despite her stunning looks. She probably had so many offers she didn’t know who to pick. She wrote me about the pale green evening dress she wore for the spring concert, plus the white lily pinned to her chest. She had to stand on a platform with her arms stretched out like a goose flapping its wings right before takeoff. And when she brought her arms up in a certain way all the singers opened their mouths and