From the Writer’s Desk: Ruby’s House

RUBY’S SOUND ASLEEP on the couch when the giant oak tree in the front yard crashes through the upstairs bedroom.

Storms have a way of calming her—the rain, battering the tin roof; the wind, moaning over the eaves. It soothes her like a lullaby. The bigger the storm, the better.

Lately, it storms every afternoon. Each summer day dawns with the promise of it. The ground bakes in the sun. The humid air rises, thick as syrup. Clouds bloom over the mountains, white and puffy, but stretch into something more sinister—blue-gray and bruised.

It’s about the time the light dims—not like evening, but greenish and eerie—when Ruby takes to the couch. She’s asleep when the air temperature drops ten degrees and the wind picks up, like the sky is exhaling. She’s dreaming when the thunder rumbles, low and long. When birds still in their nests, and dogs hide under beds.

She’s dreaming of Jojo, up in the oak tree. He’s hanging from a branch that reaches up to the house’s second story. She knows he’s going to fall, break his arm, and be stuck in a cast for the first part of the school year. She knows because it’s already happened.

She tries to warn him to be careful, but the words stick in her throat, and all she can do is watch.

She’d been in the back garden the day he fell, the boys out front, playing. His cries interrupted the afternoon’s peace, Ezra rushing around the side of the house to her, pale and sweaty.

Now, she watches, knowing what comes next.

The sound splits her dream in two. Wood splinters from wood. The air pressure shifts, like the house is sucking in its breath. A crash. A boom. Then silence. Her heart thuds in her chest, like it’s trying to escape.

She opens her eyes. The light’s different. Flakes of insulation float in the hallway like snow.

“Jojo?”

She’s stuck in that place between dreaming and waking. She doesn’t know the day, the time. She doesn’t know the year. Is her little boy out in the yard, crying, his arm bent under him?

Then reality hits.

No, her boy is in the ground, asleep forever.

The ceiling groans. More splintering, glass falling from its pane, shattering on the hard wood.

She’s up the stairs in seconds. Wide, leafy branches peek through the roof. Rain splatters on the hallway runner. The tree has fallen into Jojo’s room, invading the sanctuary, like a marauder looting a crypt.

A giant branch rests against the door, barring her entry. She goes to her room, grabs the baseball bat she keeps under her bed. She beats at the branch, ravenous to gain entrance to her boy’s room. The wood splinters and sprays. Finally, it gives, and she opens the door.

The light is bright now, the curtains no match for the gaping hole in the roof. The sky seems to laugh at her, patches of blue peeking through the roiling white clouds. It spits rain at her as she stands in her dead grandson’s room.

The comforter, neat and tidy across the twin bed, is soaked now. The top drawer of Jojo’s dresser is flung open, his socks and underwear wet, like they’ve been weeping.

Glass crunches under her bare feet. A breeze flutters against the curtains, damp and drooping. She picks up a picture from the floor, the glass broken in its frame. It’s of her and Jojo at the county fair, some five years back. Her boy, blue-eyed and smiling. Alive.

She holds it close to her chest, and whispers, “I’ve got you. It’s alright Jojo. I’m right here.”

Then the rain stops, as if heaven knows this poor soul deserves peace.