How Ruthie Ended the War: Chapter Ten

The thrilling conclusion

This concludes the ongoing serialization of an unfinished novel I wrote and Carson illustrated in 2001. Read: Chapter One, Chapter Two, Chapter Three, Chapter Four, Chapter Five, Chapter Six, Chapter Seven, Chapter Eight, and Chapter Nine.

The Adopting Parlor, as it was called, was unlike any other room in the cavernous complex that was the Kingsley Memorial Home for Homeless Urchins. For one thing, it was the only room which housed furniture that was not in some state of disrepair: the upholstery of the several divans that were scattered throughout the room was not so threadbare as to allow tufts of cotton to show through, and the springs in the chair seats were kept safely confined by the velvety cloth that covered them. The walls were papered in a lovely (if somewhat gauche) red flowered pattern and a wind-up Victrola in the corner of the room, by the table laden with arranged flowers and platters of cookies, played soothing music to the milling children as they wandered around the room in their freshly pressed suits and dresses, talking to one another in hushed, mature tones and munching on cookies. Ruthie, having been given what the Matron referred to as a “respectable raiment,” a stiff, purple dress decorated with butterflies which was at least two sizes too small, stood uncomfortably in the corner of the room, staring at her fellow orphans with an expression of malaise and disbelief. Back in the dormitory, she had been doused, and not without a murmur of objection, with a healthy amount of a nauseating perfume by one of the other girls while another had busily applied a thick layer of make-up to her lips and cheeks. Now, as she absently watched the other children pace the room in twos and threes, she found it was all she could to stop herself from wiping the make-up from her face and running from the room.

Just as she was beginning to hatch her plan for escape, a young boy, dressed in a standard orphanage-issue three piece suit, wandered over to where she stood, two glasses of punch in hand.

“I thought you might be thirsty,” he said, confidently. “I brought you some punch.”

Ruthie shifted her glare from the occupants of the room to the boy, who was, by Ruthie’s reckoning, a good foot shorter than any of the other boys in the parlor. “I’m not thirsty, actually,” Ruthie said venomously, looking away.

“Okay,” said the boy, moving to Ruthie’s side. They stood for a moment that way, before the boy spoke again: “I’m Alexei.”

“Hello,” said Ruthie. Her eyes had fallen on the trio of girls, Regina, Sheryl, and Olga, who were sitting on the farthest divan, whispering and giggling softly to one another.

Alexei sipped at one of the glasses of punch and then, realizing how strange it must seem that he was holding two glasses, sipped an equal amount from the other glass. He let out a satisfied gasp. “This punch is fantastic,” he said.

“I’m sure it is,” said Ruthie.

Another moment went by before Alexei spoke up again: “You know, you’ll never be adopted if you keep up this attitude.”

Ruthie’s mouth gaped incredulously. “What?” she asked.

“Standing here, acting like you’re too good for everyone. Adopting parents like to see outgoing children, willing and able to interact with their contemporaries in a social setting. I, for one, have made sure that I have an attractive array of social skills that I can exhibit in any setting. In fact, I have compiled a list of my extracurricular activities in this portfolio…” Here he pulled out a thick leather binder that had been concealed beneath his arm and displayed it before Ruthie. “My tutor’s remarks, my academic records, my sports statistics, my leadership qualifications (I am the organizer of the orphanage’s weekly Pinochle night), and my several as of yet unpublished essays on modern economics. This, my friend, is what makes an orphan attractive to potential parents.” He snapped the binder shut and slipped it back beneath his arm.

“I don’t care,” was all Ruthie could manage to reply. 

Alexei raised a knowing eyebrow and took another sip of punch. “Well, I guess we’ll just see who will be eating braised lamb shank in a townhouse this evening and who will be eating more gruel.”

“I don’t want to be adopted, actually,” said Ruthie.

“Hemm, hemm. Right.”

“I don’t really.”

Alexei looked up at Ruthie in disbelief. “You don’t? What, do you want to live in this armpit for the rest of your life?”

“I know that my father is alive and that he will come for me,” Ruthie said, shifting proudly in the respectable pumps she had been issued by Madame Rigmor.

“Oh God, don’t give me that,” said Alexei, grunting incredulously. “You sound like little blind Vera.”

Ruthie turned to Alexi and glared at him. “Actually, I would rather be like Vera, holding out for my parents to return, than be like you or…or…them!” Here she pointed at the trio of girls, smirking on the divan. “All sniveling and primping. Why, I doubt it if you actually remember that you had real parents to begin with!”

“Well!” said Alexei, stepping away, “Good luck to you, then! And good day!” He bowed to her briefly and walked off to join a group of boys who were standing over by the Victrola. Upon reaching them, he gestured to Ruthie and sneered. The boys tittered quietly, casting surreptitious glances Ruthie’s way. She could feel her face redden.

“Oh, bother them!” she thought to herself, trying to toughen her reserve. It felt as if the entire room was inspecting her there in the corner, uncomfortably clad in her teal dress, her palms sweating nervously. If only escape were possible…

Suddenly, the entryway doors swung open and in walked Madame Rigmor, her hair neatly swaddled in a bun atop her head, her massive form now swathed in the cloth of a hideously patterned pink dress. Her jowls, powdered and painted a deep crimson blush, shook as she announced to the attentive adoptees that the couple, a Mr. and Mrs. Cattlebury, would be arriving presently. “And for godsakes,” she added, “Try to make yourselves presentable.” As she said this, the sound of a whirring automobile could be heard as it approached the house. The children in the waiting room all ran towards the window to watch the car approach, to the shouts of Ms. Rigmor as she demanded that order be kept. All the children, that is, except for Ruthie, who maintained her position in the corner of the room, eyeing the other orphans with disbelief. From over their shoulders she could see through the window as the car pulled up in front of the house and two figures, one aiding the other, climbed from the car and stepped on to the gravel pathway. It was a man and woman, both relatively young, dressed in   

What were they dressed in? What did they look like? What happened?

I don’t know these things, because this is where the manuscript abruptly ends. It’s telling that I stopped mid-sentence; sometimes describing what someone is wearing can be the most laborious part of writing fiction. I imagine if I didn’t have other things to do, if other things weren’t starting to demand my time, I would’ve had the fortitude to write down what this couple were wearing. He was probably wearing a navy three-piece suit; she, a gauzy white summer dress.

At the beginning of this serialization, I entertained the notion that I would take up the story of Ruthie again and continue writing it, publishing new chapters here weekly. I’m not going to do that. At least not right now. I’m already working on a book and things are about to get real busy for the band. All to say: it could happen. I do love this story, for all its faults. Eagle-eyed readers will note the things that I cannibalized for the Wildwood Chronicles — though I wonder now (as I did then, when I was doing the cannibalizing) if some of those ideas actually worked better in the world of Ruthie.

I hope you’ve enjoyed this fragment of a story; it was fun to go back through it and read it again and tweak things here and there. It can be a wonder to look back at work that you’ve made when you didn’t have an audience or a readership, when you didn’t have an advance, when you didn’t have a label or a publishing house expecting your work to arrive on a deadline. I don’t think that freedom necessarily makes for better art — sometimes the deadlines and the expectations and the advances can create much-needed guardrails — but it does make different art. And this thing is definitely different.

Okay, back to your regular Machine Shop programming. Lots of exciting stuff to share soon!