A Soft Place to Land (30 page)

How strange. To have a mother-in-law but no mother.

“In his heyday Solomon was catching three or four rodents a day. But he’s a lover boy at heart, aren’t you, Solo?”

Schwartzy reached out her hand, her long, thin fingers laden with silver rings, and scratched the cat’s back. The cat turned his head toward her and let out a plaintive meow.

“Yo, Schwartz,” said Gabe, who waited by the door, holding Ruthie’s suitcase and her backpack. “I don’t have the key, and these bags are heavy.”

“Why don’t you have your key?” she asked, walking toward him.

“I don’t know. I must have left it inside.”

Schwartzy unlocked the door and then pushed it open, standing aside to let Gabe and Ruthie enter first. As soon as Ruthie stepped inside she noticed the smell of baking yellow cake that she had first detected on Schwartzy. The inside of the house was dark, save for a flicker of candlelight from above the mantel, which Ruthie was pretty sure was an aromatherapy candle, and the source of the cake smell.

“Oh shit,” said Schwartzy, walking toward the mantel. “I forgot to blow this thing out before we left.”

Gabe turned on the brass lamp that sat on the table by the front door and flicked on the overhead lights, revealing a room with smudged beige walls filled with well-worn but comfortable-looking furniture: a dark blue couch that sagged a bit in the middle of each seat cushion; a love seat covered in a floral damask slipcover that Ruthie could tell, even from a distance, was coated with black cat hairs; an old corduroy La-Z-Boy with a reading lamp behind it. There were no rugs on the floor, or curtains on the windows,
only white vinyl blinds, which appeared to be dusty. In the center of the room was a heavy wooden coffee table that looked as if it was from the seventies, cluttered with loose papers, legal pads, and a half-filled coffee mug. Framing the fireplace was a painted brick mantel that housed, in addition to the scented candle, several picture frames and a brass menorah. On either side of the mantel were built-in-bookcases, each crammed full of paperbacks.

“We’re so happy to have you to our home,” said Schwartzy, beaming at Ruthie.

“Thank you. It’s great,” said Ruthie, hoping she was sounding enthusiastic enough. “I love it.”

It
was
great, homey, and Ruthie did love it. But also, being there made Ruthie self-conscious. She was aware, for the first time really, that Gabe had grown up with significantly less money than she had. She already knew that, of course, but she hadn’t thought about it concretely. Even at the age of twenty-one, almost twenty-two, she still could not escape seeing the world through the filter of her youth, through Buckhead standards. She forgot that most people did not grow up in huge homes designed by architects and cleaned by black women, flanked with wide green lawns maintained by Latino immigrants. And though she loved that Gabe was not from that world, not from Buckhead, she was embarrassed by her own blinders, embarrassed by the fact that she was surprised by the middle-class furnishings of his house. What did she expect, that Schwartzy, a single mom and defense lawyer for the poorest of the poor, would have decorated her home exclusively with Stickley’s line of Mission furniture? (Yes, that was what she expected. That was what the aesthetic of both Phil and Mimi led one to expect.)

“Let me show you our room,” said Gabe, glancing furtively at his mom, as if he was a little embarrassed to admit that he and Ruthie would be sleeping together. (And, Ruthie was aware, if Gabe and Schwartzy were from Buckhead, she would be offered her own room, for propriety’s sake if nothing else.) “Then do you want to get something to eat?”

“Y’all don’t mind if I tag along with you to dinner, do you?” asked Schwartzy. “All I’ve eaten today is a PowerBar, and I’m starving. I’ve been working on the Marcus Willis case all day, only stopping to drive to the airport.”

Ruthie wondered if she was supposed to know who Marcus Willis was.

“Of course,” said Ruthie. “Please come. Am I okay going out like this?”

She was wearing jeans and green Saucony sneakers, a cream-colored waffle-knit T-shirt with a long black cardigan on top.

“Are you kidding me? You’re dressed nicer than most of the people in Little Five Points will be.”

They walked two blocks to the Yacht Club, a dive bar in Little Five Points that served southern food. They sat in a smoky booth and drank Pabst Blue Ribbon beers, two dollars a can. Ruthie and Gabe sat on one side of the booth, Schwartzy on the other. They ate fried okra and pulled pork barbeque sandwiches, and then Schwartzy said, “what the hell,” and ordered some wings. Several men stopped by to say hello to her, including a bearded guy with twinkly eyes who Ruthie was pretty sure was the owner of the place. Schwartzy was loose and at ease over dinner, her arm draped over the booth, asking Ruthie questions about her uncle (she had read
Chi Your Mind
), her major, her thoughts on what she might like to do when she graduated.

“I’m thinking about going to culinary school,” said Ruthie. “My uncle taught me how to cook when I was thirteen and I’ve kind of been obsessed with food ever since.”

“That sounds so wonderful! Not that I can cook for shit. Poor Gabe had to eat a lot of Stouffer’s.”

“I would rather eat Ruthie’s cooking than go to dinner anywhere in Berkeley,” said Gabe. “She’s that good.”

Ruthie allowed herself the pleasure of the compliment. “Thanks,” she said, glancing at him almost shyly. “That’s so nice.”

“It’s true,” said Gabe, his mouth full of pulled pork.

“I think you’ve got the right idea,” said Schwartzy. “Choose a career that brings you pleasure. I mean, I find a lot of meaning in my work, I really do. But Christ almighty it can bring me down. Take the appeals case I’m working on right now: a death row case. This kid, Marcus Willis, was convicted of murder ten years ago, when he was eighteen, on the basis of two convicted criminals’ testimony—men who were offered lighter sentences if they turned state’s evidence, by the way.

“So Marcus’s execution date is set for this March, and it’s probably going to happen, despite the fact that both of the men who testified against him have now retracted their stories. And the damndest thing is, Marcus is pretty much ready to go. I mean, when you’re on death row they keep you in solitary twenty-three hours a day. It’s a hellish existence. So why am I busting my ass trying to get a stay of execution for Marcus even though I know in my gut it’s hopeless?”

“Because the death penalty is wrong,” said Gabe. “Simple as that.”

“Sure,” said Schwartzy. “But that’s not why I’m doing it. I’m busting my ass for Marcus’s mother, LeVanda Willis. Forty-six years old, and waiting for her son to die. She’s who the state is really killing in March.”

God, did Ruthie feel shallow. How could her culinary ambitions appear as anything but light, frivolous, next to Schwartzy’s dedication? Gabe’s mother had spent a lifetime fighting death row convictions; Ruthie wanted to beat egg whites for a living.

“What about the governor? Is he sympathetic to Marcus’s case?” asked Ruthie, wanting to show Schwartzy that she had something intelligent to contribute to the conversation.

Schwartzy practically spit out her beer. “The governor? Sympathetic toward the plight of a poor black man from Grady Homes? No, we don’t have him on our side. Now, if LaVanda Willis had wanted an abortion back when she was
pregnant
with Marcus, then the good governor would have been very concerned. Very concerned with the sanctity of life. Just like my son, here.”

Gabe glared at his mother. Ruthie was too surprised to say anything. She was stunned by the bitterness of Schwartzy’s tone.

Schwartzy shook her head, pulled on a strand of her hair, stretching it from a ringlet to a straight line. “Oh God, I’m sorry, sweetheart. That sounded awful. I’m too tense. You are nothing like those political assholes. You have a good heart. It just still surprises me, you know? My son, Gabe Schwartz, the Catholic.”

Schwartzy looked pleadingly at Gabe. Gabe’s jaw was clenched and he was staring down at his fried okra. Ruthie wanted to excuse herself, to hide out in the bathroom, to walk to the bar and order another beer, and yet she felt stuck to the seat, her discomfort with the situation keeping her glued down.

“Oh God, did I just reveal something that you two haven’t even talked about yet? You know Gabe’s a Catholic, don’t you, Ruthie?”

“I do,” said Ruthie, carefully. “I think it’s great, the social justice work Gabe does.”

“You do know that your biggest anti-death-penalty supporters are the Catholics, don’t you, Schwartzy?” asked Gabe, looking intently at his mom.

“What do you think about his stance on abortion?” Schwartzy asked Ruthie.

God, Ruthie did not want to be in the middle of this. How irritating, really, that Schwartzy was pressing on the issue, especially when Gabe was so clearly upset.

“We’ve just agreed to disagree,” she said, acting as if the subject were something they had dealt with long, long ago. In truth, she and Gabe had avoided the topic of abortion ever since that first conversation at Caffè Strada. Ruthie knew that if their relationship continued at its current intensity she was eventually going to have to tell him about what happened with Brendan. But for now she just wanted to enjoy being coupled without all of the messy remnants from her past leaking into the present. He knew all about Julia and her parents. For now that was enough.

“You’re so full of shit, Schwartzy. You pretend to be all about
free speech, the First Amendment, blah, blah, blah, when in fact you can’t tolerate any opinion other than yours.” Gabe was clearly on the attack.

“Oh, sweetie,” mused Schwartzy. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I know you are. You’re entitled to believe whatever you want. It’s just—”

“It’s just what?” he asked.

Schwartzy reached across the table, squeezed Gabe on the forearm. “It’s nothing. I love you,” she said.

Gabe slanted his eyes at her, but the tension seemed to have dissipated, somewhat.

“Anyway. New subject. Are y’all going to go see Catfish at the WP tonight? I would, but I’ve got a dozen files to get through before tomorrow morning.”

“You want to hear some blues?” Gabe asked Ruthie.

Ruthie smiled. “Sure.”

What a relief to have the evening alone with Gabe. Ruthie hadn’t realized how much tension existed between Gabe and his mom. They were close, obviously, but there was an angry center to the relationship. Funny, in Berkeley Gabe never shut up about Schwartzy. His love for her was so obvious. Ruthie had expected that in Atlanta it would be obvious, too, that she would be witness to Gabe treating his mother with abject adoration. Had expected, even, that she might be jealous of how close he and Schwartzy were. But no. It was Ruthie Gabe looked at adoringly.

The Westside Pub—or WP, as Schwartzy called it—was a run-down little one-story shack on Howell Mill Road. Growing up, Ruthie had a friend from St. Catherine’s who lived on Howell Mill, though her house, a two-story white-columned estate near Trinity Presbyterian Church, was five miles to the north, in Buckhead proper. There were no columned ancestral homes near the WP, only the city’s waterworks, an outpost of the Atlanta Union Mission, and the Atlanta Humane Society. Ruthie was pretty sure she wouldn’t see anybody from Buckhead proper inside the bar,
either. That was a relief. She did not want to have to make small talk with people who knew her from that other life, from before her world flipped upside down.

The parking lot was full, so they parked down a side street. As Ruthie and Gabe walked, holding hands, from the car to the bar, Ruthie glanced around furtively, sure they would soon be mugged. Gabe, wearing a plaid scarf with his Army jacket, looked completely at ease, not worried at all.

The inside of the Westside Pub was as low-rent in appearance as the outside. There were pool tables to the left, the stage to the right, the bar straight ahead. The band—Catfish—was on break, but they had left some of their instruments onstage, including a set of spoons and an old washboard. Drunk people, mostly white, ordered shots and beer from a plump woman with pale skin and red hair whom Gabe, walking up to the bar, called to by name.

“Eugenia,” he said. “You got any food left?”

He turned to Ruthie. “Eugenia makes a mean chicken-fried steak, for those on her good side.”

Eugenia flicked her eyes from the change she was counting to Gabe. She smiled. “Where you been hiding out, darlin’?”

“California,” he said. “Don’t you remember? I’m in my final year of college out there. And thank god for that, because you can
not
get a decent piece of chicken-fried steak in Berkeley.”

“Well, you cain’t get a piece of chicken-fried steak here, neither. You’re too late. You know Catfish and them bring an appetite. Wish I’d saved something for you, though. You’re too damn skinny.”

Gabe laughed. “Eugenia, meet my girlfriend, Ruthie. She goes to school with me out in California, too, but she’s a southerner at heart.”

Ruthie loved that Gabe introduced her as his girlfriend, but she thought it was ridiculous that he claimed her to be a southerner at heart. If anything she felt like a Jew at heart, not that she was one, but Uncle Robert and Dara, the closest people in the world to her, were. Gabe was, too, at least by blood.

“Ain’t you been feeding this boy out in California?”

“I’ve been trying to, believe me,” said Ruthie, with an affected southern accent. It wasn’t that she was trying to imitate Eugenia; it was just that the woman’s way of talking was contagious.

“Well, darlin’,” said Eugenia, turning to grab an empty beer mug off the shelf behind her before holding it beneath the fountain and pulling on the tap labeled
BUDWEISER
. “Try harder. And get this boy on back to Georgia as soon as you can. His mama misses him, and we do, too.”

Ruthie wanted to say something about how much she would miss Gabe if he were to leave California, but she knew better than to try to turn this conversation into anything serious. They were just talking, just shooting the shit, something that came as a relief after their tense dinner with Schwartzy.