“The judge will grant you a restraining order which will last a year. Also, he will determine whether you should be granted financial compensation and support.”
Dottie pressed Tara’s hand and nodded, and her pink lips mouthed “Yes.” Tara turned to look at Ruth, who rubbed her arm and flashed her happy smile.
Tara looked down at her bitten nails. She wondered what Amma and Daddy might say of her new adventures. She could imagine Amma’s precise words: “What kind of wife takes her husband to court?” That’s what our neighbors and relatives will say. Daddy and I will have to bear the brunt of such loose talk.
The neighbors and relatives need not know, Amma. You need not know, Amma. Tara rubbed her face with both hands, and when she looked up, she shocked herself and everybody else when she said, “Yes, madam. Where is the courthouse? Can we file the papers today?”
She felt Dottie to her left and Ruth to her right, press her arms in approval.
“I’m so proud of you!” Ruth leaned in to whisper into her ear.
Some of Kendra’s businesslike manner disappeared when she flashed a sunny smile. “I am afraid it’s too late today. I suggest that you go to the courthouse first thing Monday morning.”
Tara spent the weekend doing whatever Ruth did, following her around like a child in oversized clothes—brown pants and a navy knit top from the church clothes closet that Dottie had picked out for her. They, along with Dottie, devoted themselves to a church project—filling care packages with hand sanitizers, wet wipes, deodorants, laundry detergent sachets, and candy to be dispatched to soldiers in Iraq, remembering to insert Ruth’s thank you note, written in her childish handwriting, into the bag. They dropped off the packages at the church and then went visiting Ruth’s friends.
On Saturday, they brought flowers and a card to a woman dying of cancer at the hospice off Clairmont Road. Martha could not say much, as she had tubes that helped her breathe and eat, but life still lived in her pale gray eyes. Ruth held Martha’s bony hand and gossiped about people they knew in common. Tara sat on a stool and watched, as Ruth lost herself in an embellished account of how Jane Moore’s daughter had finally admitted to her parents that she was lesbian.
“Now, that’s all right, Martha. God loves everybody. It’s not for us to judge,” she added.
Tara noticed how the story spread life from the dying Martha’s inquisitive eyes to the rest of her face.
Later that afternoon, they visited Sally Andrews, a junkie hooker at the county jail. They left their cell phones and purses behind in Ruth’s car because those items would not be allowed in, Tara learned. They went through the security search and then waited in line to deposit an envelope filled with crisp dollar bills into Sally’s personal account. They awaited their turn to take the elevator up to the little room with dividers and phones. Sally appeared, beaming into the glass of the divider, a weathered expression clinging to the last vestiges of what once must have been a striking face. She waved at them and eagerly grabbed a phone.
Tara marveled at how Ruth knew what to say to a woman dying of cancer and to a woman who was incarcerated for being a public nuisance. Her silly banter told them what they wanted to hear: that they weren’t alone in the world, that she cared.
That night, after they had dined on homemade chicken walnut salad and cornbread, Ruth settled down in the family room with a book. Tara relaxed on the carpet cross-legged, Doodlebug next to her. Her eyes fell on a small, framed black-and-white family photo on the side table, in the shadow of the lamp that stood behind it. A young couple and a boy of about seven stood in the front yard of a house, smiling into the camera. The man was immaculately dressed, his hair neatly brushed back. The woman wore a form-fitting dress that ended an inch above her knees, and had a sixties-style bouffant. The boy had his hands on his hips, a naughty smile on his lips.
“Ruth, is that your family?” Tara pointed to the photo. Ruth nodded.
“That’s my husband Joseph and son Charlie. And me, of course. This was taken outside our home in Augusta. I forget which year. They are both with God. Joseph passed two years ago. But Charlie left us first.”
For the first time since she arrived, Tara saw the effervescence on Ruth’s face flatten and fade.
“I’m sorry,” she said.
Ruth folded her reading glasses. “Life has to go on.”
“Yes.”
“When Charlie died of cancer, my life fell apart. I had just retired after teaching at the county school for thirty-five years. I knew no other life. My only son was gone. He was divorced and didn’t leave behind any children. My life had lost all meaning. I prayed every night for guidance, to make sense of the loss. One day, I decided to make peace with my life. I discovered that making others happy made me happy. And so, every day, I wake up with the intention of making one person a little happier. You know, my dear, as they say, joy is contagious. It rubs onto me.”
Ruth lived a charmed life despite her losses because she made herself useful to others. Perhaps, to Ruth, Tara was just another beneficiary of her kindness. But Tara couldn’t help but see Ruth as a surrogate mother and not just a kind woman who was helping her out because that was her nature.
On Sunday afternoon, they went shopping to buy three bras, a pack of cotton panties, and a cell phone charger for Tara, whose phone had died on Friday. Ruth insisted on paying for everything. When the phone was sufficiently charged, the first thing that lit the screen was a message from Sanjay.
“Tell your mother to stop calling my home number.”
My home number. Like she didn’t live there anymore. Like she had no part in his life anymore. Like he hadn’t wasted even a moment to wonder what had happened to her. Tara felt a twinge of sorrow. What did she expect? Remorse? Guilt?
She knew Amma would be frantic, but she wasn’t ready to tell her anything yet. She didn’t respond to the text message, but she emailed Vijay that night, telling him she was out on a trip with Sanjay, to tell Amma not to worry about her. It was a vague email with no details, but she would worry about filling in the facts—real or made up—later. She hoped fervently that Sanjay had not picked up the phone and told Amma everything.
On Monday, Ruth accompanied Tara to the courthouse. When she was finally ushered into the chambers of Judge Greg Thomas for the ex parte hearing, Tara had clammy hands, and her throat felt like it had been rubbed with sandpaper. Sitting in the outer hall, she had imagined Judge Thomas to be an imposing man with a gruff manner, someone like Grandfather Madhava. She had worried incessantly about freezing, not being able to even open her mouth to make her case. But she had imagined wrong. Judge Thomas had kind brown eyes and a warm voice. He read the petition, then asked her questions, and his sympathetic manner put Tara at ease. She recounted, in brief, what must have seemed to Judge Thomas a sad story of domestic abuse. He had no hesitation in granting her the temporary restraining order she sought against Sanjay. He set the court date for two weeks later. A sheriff’s deputy would serve Sanjay at his apartment, he said. Sanjay would have the opportunity to make his case during the second hearing.
Ruth had decided they had to celebrate Tara’s win even before she was out of Judge Thomas’s chamber. So, they drove over to B&B Cafeteria, where they made plans for the next two weeks over fried chicken, green beans, collard greens, sweet potato soufflé, corn bread, and iced tea. Tara would have more privacy in Dottie’s finished basement, where she could come and go as she wished, cook her own meals, and watch any TV show.