Ruby by Ann Hood

through the archway to a room that held Janice’s parents’ old furniture—made of heavy dark wood with years of furniture-polish buildup. It was too big for the small room. But there were fresh flowers in a vase, and candles lit, and what Olivia recognized as Janice’s wedding china. The pattern, Olivia remembered, was named Strawberry Field, just like the street where Ruby lived, cream-colored plates with small ruby strawberries in the center, dusted with gold flecks. Olivia thought of that small house, of Ruby’s mother, and tried to picture the girl there, sullen and hostile and desperate to go. The image comforted her; she knew Ruby wouldn’t go back.
    Carl seemed especially awkward in here, with his faded jeans and large gut and flannel shirt. He gripped a bottle of beer in one hand, the edge of the table in the other.
    “We’ve never eaten in here,” Kelsey whispered.
    Janice laughed nervously. “Of course we have,” she said.
    Kelsey looked at Olivia with great seriousness. “Honest to God, we never eat in here. Not in a million years.”
    “Well,” Olivia said, watching Janice bring in steaming plates of food, everything either undercooked or overcooked, “it’s lovely.” This ceiling fan seemed even more sluggish, and Olivia felt as if she were getting a facial with all the hot air and the steam rising from the platters.
    When she’d finally brought all the food to the table, Janice surveyed everything nervously. Olivia was reminded of the way Janice had acted when presenting oral reports in school: flustered, like she was now, blushing slightly, almost giddy.
    “Since it’s June,” Janice said in her oral-presentation voice, “I made summery things. Like risotto primavera and stuffed chicken breasts with spinach and sun-dried tomatoes.”
    Janice pointed to the food as she talked. Carl and Kelsey glanced at each other. Back in the kitchen, Alex was in his playpen, grunting. Olivia wondered if maybe Janice should have been more careful with that folic acid.
    The food was passed around in silence, with a forced formality that sent Olivia straight for more wine. She was embarrassed for everybody. She wished she hadn’t come. She and Ruby could have rented movies. Movies about babies. Baby Boom and Look Who’s Talking and Three Men And a Baby. They could have sat together under a quilt and eaten popcorn and watched movies, the way people do.
    “Don’t you think?” Janice was saying.
    Everyone was looking at Olivia, who just shrugged and laughed a little. People excused her for everything these days, rudeness and absentmindedness and for not listening when she should.
    Janice spoke louder, slower, like Olivia’d gone deaf instead of drunk too much wine. “Don’t you think summer is a good time for fresh starts?”
    “I suppose,” Olivia said. “Starting over” was a phrase people always used around her. They told her to “start over,” how important “starting over” was. But Olivia still wasn’t sure what it entailed. Moving away? Getting remarried? Dyeing her hair red? Learning to tango?
    “Carl?” Janice said with a “Come on, do it already” look.
    “Yeah, well,” Carl said.
    Olivia noticed that Carl unrolled his stuffed chicken breast and scraped the stuffing from it. He picked all the vegetables out of the risotto primavera.
    He stroked his scraggly beard and said, “You remember Pete?”
    Olivia shrugged again.
    “Of course you do,” Janice said with strained gaiety. “From our wedding.”
    Olivia almost said something about how badly she’d looked that day in that screaming green dress and with her ridiculous French curls, but then she remembered that all of that had been Janice’s doing, so she tried to look as if she was straining her memory. “Pete,” she muttered. “Pete …”
    “I work with him,” Carl said. “Pete Lancelotta.”
    Carl sold clothes hangers, of all things. To clothing stores. He also sold the racks to hang clothes on and the spinning