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I nod.
Slowly.
Very slowly.
Well, this is awkward.
I sit quietly, not knowing what else to say or do to fill the silence because Reed certainly isn’t saying or doing anything either. He’s just looking down at his hands as he mulls over the situation.
I wonder if he regrets bringing me here.
Ruth, however, is apparently on a roll now, and she doesn’t stop talking, as if listening to my song has awoken a part of her that had otherwise lain dormant for some time.
“When Reed first played me his song, I cried my eyes out. I couldn’t stop crying for days, and it just melted my heart. He’s so terribly gifted with his words.”
I nod. “He is.”
Reed is still staring at the floor in front of him, and I watch as his body tenses up and a sad stillness overcomes him. His eyes stay fixed on the ground, but I can tell he’s not really looking at anything in particular, and his mind is somewhere else altogether.
“As you can understand,” continues Ruth, oblivious to the situation unfolding around her. “‘Three Two One’is such a personal song for me, and for Reed… and for Quinn too, for that matter. But I don’t have to tell you that. I’m sure Reed’s told you the circumstances behind that song and how he came to write it?”
“Actually, no he hasn’t.”
Ruth turns to look at her son. “Really? Why not?”
“I guess it just never came up,” Reed lies. His knee starts bouncing up and down. “Go ahead. If you want to tell her the story, go for your life. But I’m not going to sit here and listen to it. Not again. I’m going to go find something to do out back.”
He stands suddenly, knocking his leg against the coffee table, and then he storms out before anyone can stop him.
Oh, no.
The entire mood of the evening has suddenly soured, and there’s not a thing I can do to bring it back again. I glance back over at Ruth, observing the deep purple scar that curves around the end of the short stub just below her knee, where her lower leg once existed.
“I don’t know what’s got into him tonight,” she grumbles.
“Moody artist.”
“Yeah, maybe,” she says thoughtfully, worry lines etched around her eyes as she looks back at the kitchen door her son just escaped through. After a moment of silence, she takes some cheesecake from the tray and hands me a plate. “Would you like to hear the story about how Reed came to write ‘Three Two One?’”
I nod, and then cover the awkwardness of the situation by licking the heavenly goodness from the end of my spoon. I’m a glutton for punishment, in every aspect.
Ruth rearranges herself on the sofa, getting comfortable. “Well, when Reed was younger, he must have been about thirteen, I suppose, because it was about five years after his father passed away. I used the last of our savings from his father’s life insurance policy and I bought a small convenience store on the corner of Parker Street. It’s a nice neighborhood and with the factory I was working at closing down, I saw it as an opportunity to buy myself a job, and in turn, buy a future for me and my son. With a little more cash flow, it would allow Reed to do all the things that the other kids were doing. He’d gone without so much already and I just always wanted the best for him.”
I smile, knotting my fingers together. Ruth Devlin is the epitome of sweetness and maternal devotion.
“I worked my backside off in that place, got it up and running and in the end we had a great little business that turned a very decent profit most weeks. Reed helped me out in the store after school, and Quinn did too, most weekends.”
“Sounds perfect.”
“Well yes, it was. But it was getting too busy for me to manage on my own through the week, so I employed a lovely young girl named Maggie who had just moved to the area and she and I worked marvelously together. Maggie wasn’t one for small talk. She mostly kept to herself, but she was an excellent worker and never let me down. We found a sort of peace and quiet between us that we both enjoyed.”
“That’s nice.”
“Yeah, it was.” Ruth nods. She takes a sip of coffee from her mug, wiping her mouth with a napkin. “So, anyway… Maggie would open up the store for me in the mornings while I got Reed ready for school, and then I’d head in just in time for the busy morning rush. We’d work all day together, and then Reed would come straight to the store once school got out and Maggie would head on home again.”
She stops talking and shakes her head as if the memories are hard for her to talk about, and the emotions of the past have lodged themselves firmly in her throat.
I don’t know why though? I guess I’m about to find out.
