Confession

This is part 12 of 13 • Table of Contents

Below the highway, the building with the twenty-third door still stood as testament to the sacrifice of the Russian poet. Using only his willingness, he enabled an entire community to retain their home. With his last wish to do good expired, the machines, confronted by a willing victim, retreated, and the mud left behind on the poet’s face and arms spelled in symbols the creed embodied by all people who speak of beauty disguised as pain.

Ruth Tarver found the Russian poet’s body, held him for a while, and wept. More rain fell. In the mansion of the construction company that tore down tenements, Ruth held the owner in a different position until he was forced to gulp the bathtub water into his lungs. A throw rug got wet.

Are you now dirty or clean? she asked, but the man who tore down tenements didn’t answer. And he never took dwellings from the humble poor again.

The governor scratched angry rashes on his cheeks. Get Ruth Tarver damn it, he said.

Yes sir, said Alexander Jack. He turned to go.

Wait, said the governor. I was a five year old boy once.

Why are you telling me this?

I want people to like me, I suppose.

Alexander Jack stayed silent.

We all start out innocent, Alexander.

Yes, he said. Maybe we do.

Alexander found Ruth in the post office selecting stamps. When he entered, the postmaster hurried into a back room and shut the door. Ruth turned.

I was a five year old boy once, said Alexander. We had a swimming pool.

What’s that got to do with me? Ruth asked.

It was the last time my father loved me.

Ruth stood still. This strange confession at this strange time made her wonder if she had wandered by mistake into a crime memoir. She knew, perhaps more than anybody, that monsters grew from once quiet seeds, and that they hadn’t always found the world twisted and cruel. She knew that she herself had grown somewhat caustic, but she still enjoyed a quiet moment in a pre-dawn park before the sun revealed all the sharp, jagged edges with which the world covers kindness.

I’m sorry, said Ruth. My father loved me very much.

But the air of improbable intimacy had moved on. Alexander Jack, private man, put a collar on Ruth’s neck, and led her outside to the car.

On the way downtown, another private man asked Ruth to name three things found in her childhood.

Why? asked Ruth. Alexander Jack, behind the wheel, looked up at the rear view mirror.

It helps us compose your confession, said the private man.

If you knew how to choose, you wouldn’t have to, said Ruth.

She knew they couldn’t refute that. They had no tinted words in their black and white world. At the same time, she knew she had to explain herself at some point, or Chekov, who loved to invent rules on his days off, would file a complaint.

The private man grunted, and Ruth said: Okay. We all had an equal footing. We didn’t know what nostalgia meant.

Technically, that was only two, but the private man turned to watch the streets pass.

Without coercion, I, Ruth Tarver of fragile heart do solemnly swear that the male protagonist tried to help me find my way in the world, and as repayment for his compassion, I bashed his head. I slapped honest judges and planted bombs in vestibules. I failed to heed the words of the administration when they asked me politely to keep my mouth shut and my hands out of hardware stores. I personally besmirched the good name of the governor even though it has not been revealed. I lied about my father and kissed Alexander Jack. I forced my friends to conspire with lies I told under penalty of perjury. I killed the Russian poet, and ran two stop signs.

Life is a bitter and unfair struggle for self-worth, said the governor. Isn’t it?

What do you want? asked Ruth.

Sign the document please.

And if I don’t?

We’ll do it for you.

It’s too late, said Ruth.

What’s that supposed to mean?

The seeds of your fall are planted.

But the governor only laughed, and told the private men to take Ruth away. They gripped her arms and led her out the door.

At a window, the governor looked out at smoke from several buildings in the distance. For now, the city hosted an angry fire of discontent spread by complainers who refused to accept their proper position in the hierarchy of rulers and ruled. But that would soon change. The governor knew. As soon as Ruth Tarver took her place among the imprisoned or executed, her disciples, who were unable to have an original thought, would scatter like crematorium ashes to compliant winds. Then the world would rise and prosper in the darkness his God intended.

The Thirteen Faces of Ruth Tarver • This is part 12 of 13 • Next Part • Table of Contents

Getting to the end. One more part coming up soon. Many thanks for sticking with Ruth and all the others that wandered onto the set. Share your thoughts below or hit reply to the email if you like.

May you stay blessed and open-minded,

Victor David

Share

Leave a comment