Seasons of Her Life Read Online Free

George hated all women. He hated her the way he now hated Irma and even his own daughters.
    The familiar pain was creeping around her chest again. That old fool of a doctor had told her she shouldn’t upset herself. She snorted. With George in the background, how could she be anything but upset? Obviously, a second rosary was called for. The comforting prayers calmed the pain in her chest almost immediately.
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    Ruby slowed her steps and shifted her mental gears the moment she crossed the railroad tracks. Her right hand was in the pocket of her dress, her fingers caressing the tightly wrapped ring. She hoped it didn’t bulge too much. Her hand worked to flatten the linen handkerchief as much as she could. They’d just think she had a hanky wadded into a ball. She crossed the fingers of her left hand. Sometimes she thought her father had X-ray vision.
    Skirting the gravel lot at the lumber mill, Ruby headed up the street to her house, knowing her parents would be on the porch, waiting for her. She wasn’t late. In fact, she still had almost ten minutes before it would be time to leave for the train station. She sucked in her breath as she cut across the Zacharys’ lawn next door. She stepped behind an ancient white pine and observed her parents for a minute. They were both tall, but there any similarity ended. Irma was incredibly thin with large, bony feet, red hands, and short fingernails. Her hair was a soft brown, the color of the spring wrens. Ruby was never sure what color her mother’s eyes were because she rarely looked directly at her. Probably a greenish-brown. Hazel maybe. She had a warm smile though, particularly when Amber did something that pleased her. Overall, her mother was a tired, weary woman. She worked tirelessly, never sitting down for a cup of coffee or tea. She couldn’t, Ruby thought, because George made her perform. The bathroom had to be scrubbed every day from top to bottom. The kitchen floor had to be scrubbed, too. Monday was wash day; Tuesday was ironing day; Wednesday was baking day; Thursday was for changing beds and window washing. Friday was clean-the-whole-house day, and Saturday was for scrubbing the porches, dusting the jars in the fruit cellar, and going to confession. If there were any free moments, they were spent at the sewing machine or mending by hand. Idle hands were the devil’s work, her father said. If that was true—and Ruby didn’t believe it was—then Irma Connors was damn near a saint. Right now her mother looked nervous, Ruby thought. She was always nervous when she was in her husband’s company, always fearful she would say the wrong thing. Irma survived the only way she knew how, by obeying her husband and keeping quiet. Ruby’s eyes darkened. Her father wasn’t around all the time. There was time enough for an occasional hug or pat on the head or kind word, time her mother chose not to give her.
    George was pacing on the porch, his face surly and mean. As far back as she could remember, he’d always looked just the way he looked now. Muscular and hard, long-legged in creased work pants, his shirt ironed to perfection. Her girlfriends thought him handsome; she thought him ugly, inside and out. He was strong and arrogant. Every day of her life she’d felt that strength and arrogance. Cold, piercing eyes were scanning the sidewalk, watching for her. Even from this distance Ruby could see how his lips thinned out. He was angry—at her, at life. Twice she’d seen those cold blue eyes become warm, and both times he’d been staring at Grace Zachary, their neighbor. He often said Grace was the devil’s own disciple, in her scanty shorts and halter top. Her mother said she was trash. But nothing could make Ruby deny her affection for Grace, who called her honey and sweetie. She’d liked her even more the day she saw her stick out her tongue and make a face behind her father’s back.
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