Short story - Ruby
Ruby
By: Aleta Gay Grimball O’Brien
The first time the painting spoke, I was holding a brush loaded with light pink paint.
“You never painted my left shoulder.”
The voice was calm, slightly annoyed, and came from somewhere near me. The brush dropped to the floor, splattering pink in streaks. I picked up the brush slowly and shook my head, I turned toward the easel.
Lady Justice, or Ruby, as I’ve come to think of her, stared back at me from the canvas.
Blindfolded and motionless, as it should be. She was a work in progress painting. I had only completed the extreme colors, pale pinks and dark burgundies. My eyes kept bouncing around the painting, trying to reconcile the drastic shades. Half finished, including the shoulder.
“Hello?” I whispered, half laughing, “I’m being silly.”
“Honestly,” she said, “you’ve been standing there discussing medium reds for two days. I was beginning to think we’d never move forward. This is not the fashionista cold shoulder blouse I’m thinking of. I’m more than half missing!”
I joined the pink streaks and sat down on the floor. The scales in her painted hand tilted slightly.
“You moved.”
“Of course I moved.”
“You were a painting.”
“I still am a painting.”
“Paintings don’t talk.”
She considered this.
“Fair point.”
Music drifted through the house. The notes floated down the hallway from the front room. Ruby tilted her head.
“What’s that?”
“My son.”
“Your son is a piano?”
“No.”
“Then be more specific.”
I laughed despite myself.
“He’s practicing for his recital.”
The painting grew quiet. The melody of the Toreador March continued, played by fingers that were no longer small but weren’t quite grown.
Ruby listened. Finally she said, “Humans are strange.”
“Why?” and then I thought, “Technically, she’s human too. I didn’t paint a monster” but thought better than to say so.. just in case.
“You spend your entire lives moving toward moments you know will end.”
I glanced toward the hallway. “He started lessons when he was five.”
“And now?”
“He’s thirteen. He’s considering stopping his lessons, but promises he will continue playing music. He’s concerned about school for next year, plus the band and music gifted class clashed with a lot of his recitals this past year.”
Ruby looked at me or rather, she looked in my direction. The blindfold made it difficult to tell.
“And you’re sad.”
“And proud.”
“That seems inefficient.”
I smiled.
“It is.”
The piano continued, for a long moment neither of us spoke. Then Ruby asked, “Why do you punish yourselves longer than you punish each other?”
“What?”
“You humans.”
She lifted one scale.
“I’ve been listening.”
“You’ve been listening?”
“You talk while you paint.”
My face warmed. I couldn’t deny it. I talk to the paintings. I hope I didn’t call her the “ugly stage” yet. I didn’t think I did. Sometimes I tell the paintings, “Hello, ugly. Nice of you to join in, about time you showed up.”
“Oh.”
“Someone hurts you.”
She shifted slightly within the canvas.
“Years pass. They apologize. Sometimes they don’t. But either way, you continue carrying the wound.”
Her voice softened.
“Why?”
I looked down at the brush in my hand. The medium red paint had begun to dry. My hands looked like they had gone through a war with so many shades.
“I don’t know.”
“Curious.”
The scales settled. The piano music ended and a door opened somewhere in the house. Footsteps crossed the hall.
Ruby listened.
“Your son sounds happy.”
“He is.”
“Good.”
Then she frowned, at least I thought she frowned. It was difficult to tell with geometric facial planes, but they did fold into each other.
A few moments passed, before she said:
“You still haven’t painted my left shoulder.”
I laughed.
“That’s your biggest concern?”
“I’m half-finished.”
“You look fine.”
“I have white blank canvas where a shoulder should be.”
“Nobody’s perfect.”
I reached for a light-to-medium hue and she immediately went, “Ewww.”
“This shade of red is dreadful.”
“It’s barn red.”
“It’s tomato soup.”
“It’s not tomato soup.”
“Paint my lips and we’ll discuss it.”
“I have a pretty shade of pink for your lips.”
“I’ll bite if you do that. I want red lipstick and fingernail polish to match! You painted parts of my dress, before you painted my fingernails, what does that say about your priorities?”
“You need to dry before I can add any more layers.” She sighed and the lights went out. As I was leaving the room, I heard the words, “Tomorrow, paint my shoulder before I develop permanent emotional damage.”
The next morning I woke up early and tested three medium shades. She was Ruby, but even rubies have a lot of facets and colorful reds. Her shoulder was the first to get painted. I smiled, but she didn’t say anything to me. I even painted her lips a pink shade, to see if she would get snarky, but I only received silence. The mediums were finished, but she was far from being complete. She had to wait for this layer to dry.
It was late in the evening before I returned to the painting. My son had accomplished a fantastic solo recital. I was over the moon proud of him. As the house became quiet in the evening, I slipped into the studio carrying a small brush and a tube of white paint.
Ruby immediately noticed and apparently wasn’t pleased.
“What now?”
“Highlights.”
She looked horrified. The paint brush came near her and she shifted out of its way.
“White?”
“Just a little.”
“I am ruby red.”
“Light reflects.”
“Not on me. Get that away!”
I dipped the brush, pretending I was putting it down. Then when she returned to her original position, I quickly dashed a tiny highlight along the edge of her shoulder.
Ruby gasped, sputtering with indignation, “Did you... did you just do what I think you did? I... I have never been so insulted in all my life! How... how dare you add that ghostly shade to me!”
While she was stunned, I added another dash and asked her to keep her eyes closed and mouth quiet and have faith in the process. Because it’s something I had to learn when painting, the process can get a little scary. You need to work through it.
After a bit, she looked down..
“I look shiny.”
“You are shiny.”
Another highlight.
The cheekbone.
The blindfold.
The raised arm.
Ruby stared at herself.
“I look expensive.”
“You are expensive.”
She nodded.
“Good.”
I laughed.
The studio settled into a comfortable silence for a while as I worked without speaking. This was the moment of tiny adjustments, tiny corrections, like when pink dripped into the background and I added the background color over it.
I had to put the paint brush down, step away and close my eyes. It’s too difficult to see if I’m over working a project being that near. I rest for a bit and get some water, then look again.
She’s made of all shades - medium reds, dark burgundies, pale pinks, white highlights, scales are in browns and two shades of copper. But no, she isn’t yet complete.
I hear “tap, tap, tap” her fingers are moving irritably on the scale, causing it to swing.
“I’m trying to figure out how to address the lines. Then you’ll be complete.”
“You humans are always trying to finish things and arrive somewhere.”
I didn’t answer... because she was right.
Finish the painting, reach the recital, graduate, get your license, get a job, get married, have kids, retire.
Arrive.
Always arrive.
Ruby understood my frown and she smiled softly,“Yet all your favorite memories seem to happen while you’re becoming.”
I thought of Gregory. His first recital was when he was five years old. I went to his recital in a wheelchair, because the recital was right after my 10 hour breast cancer surgery. I was determined not to miss him singing on stage. I remember looking at him on that stage, such a young child, yet he had the confidence to sing a solo song. I remember wondering how many recitals there would be. I never imagined the answer would feel like both a lifetime and an instant. And now, at his last recital, he is 13 years old. The years have flown and this is an ending to a stage in his life. The award and trophy he received was large and the announcer said, “We call this the Pro Award.” Fitting.
I thought of my parents, of the many trips that they have taken us on. We were called “The Traveling Grimballs” because we drove by car. Everywhere. I didn’t get on a plane until I turned 21. They taught me that being on the road, the journey, is part of the fun.
To Ruby, I said, “We are a river of generations. A river of love, always moving, never arriving, ever becoming. Yet we are all trying desperately to get to the end of things, but not wanting the final end.”
Ruby studied the paintings and photographs in the room. The generations of love. Images that somehow became more valuable with time.
“You are all so worried about becoming older.”
Her voice was soft now, not snarky, simply observant.
“Yet every memory you showed me becomes more valuable with age. Even your first paintings are valuable, because they show your love of art, your determination to continue and how you have grown.”
"They also contain memories." I replied.
Ruby glanced down at her scales, the scales she had obsessed over since the day she came alive. The scales that measured right and wrong.
Balance and consequence - Justice.
Then she said:
“I thought justice would be simpler.”
I smiled.
“I know.”
“Wrong is wrong.”
“Usually.”
“Right is right.”
“Usually.”
She frowned.
“Then why do you keep putting other things on the scales?”
“Like what?”
Ruby counted on her fingers.
“Mercy.”
One finger.
“Grief.”
Another.
“Regret.”
Another.
“Circumstances.”
Another.
“Love.”
The last word still seemed suspicious to her.
“It’s very disorganized.”
I laughed.
“Life usually is.”
Ruby stared at the scales.
The next morning I walked into my art studio. Ruby asked me what was on the agenda. I said, “Laundry and cleaning, then lunch.”
“I beg your pardon? That sounds remarkably unheroic.”
“It’s life.”
Pause, as she considers this. “You’re leaving me unfinished?”
“Just for lunch.”
“I have scales. I am clearly important.”
“You’ll survive.”
“This is not the level of respect usually afforded to great works of art.”
I fear I did indeed create a monster.
Ruby’s nose twitched, “Sniff, sniff.” She asked, “Is your husband cooking ribs for lunch?”
“Yes.”
“Then I withdraw my objection. Smells divine! Enjoy!”
She glanced at the paint I fished out of the cabinet and placed on my painter table for later that evening.
“What’s that?”
“Metallic gold paint.”
She straightened.
“As in my gold?”
“You don’t own the gold.”
“I feel that I do.”
“You absolutely do not.”
Ruby folded her painted arms. Or at least she attempted to. One arm was still attached to a canvas.
“I’ve been very patient.”
“You’ve complained every day.”
“Patiently.”
I took out another tube of gold paint, different shade. Ruby eyed it suspiciously. Then she pointed toward her face.
“I’ve been thinking.”
“That’s always dangerous.”
“I require red lipstick. Not this pink nonsense.”
I stared. I really thought I had gotten away with the pink shade.
“You require red lipstick, why?”
“Look at me.”
“I am.”
“Exactly. I am Ruby.”
I sighed.
“You are Lady Justice.”
“Lady Justice can have standards.”
“And fingernails?”
“Naturally.”
“You don’t even have fingerprints.”
“I fail to see how that is relevant.”
I laughed. The gold would have to wait another day. Painting is an art of creating madly and waiting patiently and giving the art time to breath, then show me where it wants to go. I think Ruby had too much breathing time...
The next evening, Ruby immediately greeted me with a question:
“Why do people say they forgive someone and then continue carrying the wound?”
I made the mistake of not washing one brush the night before. I swirled it in the water, watching the water turn pink before I answered.
“Because forgiveness doesn’t always heal the injury.”
Ruby stared at her scales.
“That seems unfair.”
“Yes.”
Another pause.
“Perhaps justice and healing are not the same thing.”
“This is true.”
“So... the scales weigh something much larger, it’s not just the actions. It’s the people, including the wounds, guilt, repentance, anger, forgiveness. But it can’t carry the weight of forgiveness?”
“You are obsessed with balance and measuring. That is the nature of the beast.”
I started the lengthy and slow process of adding in the gold lines.
I heard Ruby mumbling,
“I would like to point out that I was already beautiful before the gold.”
She continued, “Do not rush the gold.” She thinks SHE is the artist now.
“Why not?”
“Because gold is dramatic. Dramatic things require an entrance.”
She took note of where the gold was going.
And she said quietly:
“These aren’t justice.”
“What aren’t?”
She touched the gold.
“The cracks.”
“No.”
“Then what are they?”
I lifted the gold paint brush and quietly answered:
“Healing.”
Ruby looked over at her scales.
“That’s what I’ve been missing... not law, judgment or punishment. Now, I have healing.”
The word settled between us.
“Yes. Healing. It’s a Japanese art form. If something breaks, they put the pieces back together with gold and it becomes something new, beautiful and... healed. I wanted gold in you, to represent that our justice system is responsible for the healing of the broken too.”
Ruby lowered her scales.
For the first time she seemed at peace with the fact that they could never weigh everything. She was quiet, only the faint sound of piano drifted from another room.
Gregory was practicing again.
Ruby listened.
“He plays that section differently every time.”
“He’s trying to improve it.”
“Humans spend an extraordinary amount of time practicing things.”
“We do.”
“Even knowing perfection is impossible.”
I smiled.
“Especially knowing perfection is impossible.”
She continued to watch the gold lines.
“Make sure the healing is symmetrical.”
“Healing isn’t symmetrical.”
“It should be.”
“Life isn’t symmetrical either.”
Ruby considered this. “That seems like poor planning.”
Then Ruby pointed to her mouth.
“I was right about the darker lipstick.”
I laughed.
“Of course you were.”
“And the fingernails.”
“Of course.”
“And the highlights.”
I raised one eyebrow.
“The highlights?”
She hesitated, she gave a long, dramatic lengthy sound of silence, the kind only a painting could manage.
Then she sighed.
“The white highlights are acceptable.”
She looked at her 8 shades of red, the scales, the white highlights and the lines of gold.
Finally she said, before I had a chance to announce it: “I’m finished.”
I blinked.
“That’s generally how paintings work. When I feel like I don’t want to stop a painting, because I’ve been attached to it, that’s when I know it’s complete.”
For once she didn’t laugh, didn’t complain, didn’t even ask for better lipstick.
She simply stood there.
Then she said quietly:
“You were more interesting when you were painting me.”
Oof, I felt that. I would miss our conversations too, the arguments, the philosophy, the debates, even the snarky remarks. As paintings complete, a part of my heart is in them.
“Soon, you will be going to a gala.”
She straightened up, like a peacock fanning its feathers.
“A gala?”
“Yes.”
“With people dressed nicely?”
“Usually.”
“Excellent.”
“You are being donated to the gala to be bid on.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re being auctioned.”
“You make it sound like I’m livestock.”
“Your artwork is for a pro bono cause. It’s their 40th ruby anniversary gala”
“I have opinions. Why do I have to leave? You don’t even know where I’ll end up at!”
She vented some more, then took a breath and asked
“What is pro bono?”
“Lawyers sometimes help people who cannot afford representation. People who are scared. People who have nowhere else to turn. People who need someone to stand beside them.”
Ruby listened carefully.
“So justice isn’t only for people who can afford it?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I’ve spent weeks worrying about my lipstick.”
“You certainly have.”
“And my fingernails.”
“Constantly.”
“Meanwhile people are trying to help strangers... I feel somewhat shallow.”
I didn’t respond.
“Will I still belong to you?”
I smiled, and with a sad sigh, “In a way.”
Ruby studied the gold seams, the highlights, the reds, everything that made her who she is.
Ruby looked around the studio, the easel, the brushes, the containers of water, the photographs and other paintings. “I’ve become rather attached to this place,” she admitted.
“I will add my name, so we will always remember. And... I’m going to show you something I’ve written.” I read the Ruby story to her, a tear of joy slid out from her blindfold. Thankfully it didn’t smudge the reds.
“You kept me.”
“Yes.”
“But you’re not keeping me, the actual painting.”
“No.”
“But you are keeping the best part of us. Our story, our time, our conversations, our friendship.”
I smiled, “Yes.”
I turned out the lights, but the kitchen nightlights stayed on. It shined the light into my art studio, just enough. I walked away, but later went back for a glass of water. To my surprise I heard voices. It was Ruby and a voice I haven’t heard before.
“Hold on.”
I heard a sigh from someone else, another female voice
“What now?”
Ruby said,
“You’re wearing a ruby necklace.”
“Yes.”
“A very nice ruby necklace.”
“Thank you.”
Ruby said accusingly,
“Why do YOU get the ruby necklace?”
By this time, I knew who the second voice belonged to. It was the other Lady Justice painting. Only her face wasn’t painted red. In my mind, I thought of her as Lady Justice to keep her separate from Ruby.
Lady Justice was confused.
“Because I am wearing it.”
“Yes, but I’m Ruby.”
“And?”
Ruby stared.
Lady Justice stared back.
“Do you not see the problem here?” Ruby asked.
“No.”
“My name is Ruby.”
“Congratulations.”
“You are not Ruby.”
“I am aware.”
“So why are YOU wearing the ruby?”
Lady Justice adjusted the pendant.
“Because it complements the painting.”
Ruby put a hand over her heart.
“It complements the painting?”
“Very well.”
“And what complements me?”
Lady Justice looked her up and down.
“A tendency toward dramatic complaints.”
Ruby gasped.
“I should be wearing the ruby.”
“You are a painting.”
“So are you!”
“I am a symbol.”
“You are a symbol wearing my birthstone.”
Lady Justice smiled slightly.
“I don’t believe rubies have birth certificates.”
Ruby opened her mouth.
I covered my mouth with my hand to smother the laughter. It felt good to not be on the receiving end of Ruby.
“That is not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“The point is that everyone will look at this painting and say, ‘What a lovely ruby necklace.’”
“Yes.”
“And nobody will ask if Ruby herself has a ruby.”
Lady Justice considered this.
“Do you want the necklace?”
Ruby folded her arms.
“That’s not the point.”
“It sounds very much like the point.”
The scales tipped ever so slightly.
The gold seams shimmered.
Lady Justice leaned closer.
“Ruby.”
“What?”
“If it helps, the necklace is not the most valuable thing in this painting.”
Ruby hesitated.
“No?”
Lady Justice touched one of the golden seams.
“No. These are.”
Ruby looked at the gold. The gold wasn’t inside of Lady Justice, like they are in Ruby. Lady Justice had gold lines radiating outside of her.
For once Ruby didn’t have a clever reply. Then she lifted her chin.
“Fine.”
“Fine?”
“Fine. You can keep the necklace.”
“How generous.”
“But I’m borrowing it for the gala.”
Lady Justice laughed. Ruby decided that was almost as good as winning. Ruby tugged at her blindfold.
“I still don’t like this.”
Lady Justice didn’t look up from her scales.
“You’ve mentioned that.”
“Repeatedly.”
Ruby sighed dramatically.
“You know, before the artist painted this thing on me, I could see.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I could see the room. The easel. The paint tubes. The water bottle she kept forgetting was there. The family photos, the other paintings.”
Lady Justice smiled.
“Yes.”
“I could see everything.”
“And now?”
Ruby was quiet.
“Now I can’t.”
Lady Justice touched the edge of her own blindfold.
“I could see once, too.”
Ruby looked up.
“You could?”
“Long ago.”
“What happened?”
“I learned there are different ways to see.”
Ruby groaned.
“That sounds like something a symbol would say.”
“It usually is.”
Ruby leaned back.
“My creator’s mother is blind too.”
Lady Justice nodded.
“Yes.”
“I don’t understand how she does it.”
“Does what?”
“Knows things.”
Lady Justice smiled.
“Ah.”
Ruby frowned, “She can’t see a face, but somehow she knows when someone is sad. She can’t see someone walking into the room, but she knows who they are.”
“Yes.”
“She knows when someone is pretending to be happy.”
“Often.”
“She knows when her family needs her.”
“Very often.”
Ruby folded her arms.
“How?”
Lady Justice was silent for a moment.
Then she asked,
“When you could see, what did you notice most?”
Ruby brightened.
“The reds.”
“Of course.”
“The gold.”
“Naturally.”
“The ruby necklace.”
“I should have known.”
Ruby grinned.
“It is a very nice necklace.”
Lady Justice shook her head.
“But while you were looking at colors, your creator’s mother was listening.”
Ruby’s grin faded.
“Listening?”
“To voices. To the rhythm of how a person walks. To the tones in the words.”
Lady Justice touched one of the golden seams.
“To pauses.”
Another seam.
“To worries hidden between words.”
Another.
“To joy.”
Ruby looked down.
Lady Justice continued.
“Sometimes when one way of seeing becomes impossible, people become very good at another.”
Ruby thought about that. I listened to her silence and leaned against the doorway.
Then Ruby said quietly,
“So maybe she sees more than I ever did.”
Lady Justice smiled.
“I believe she does.”
Ruby sat with the thought. A rare thing. The gold seams shimmered softly.
Finally Ruby pointed at Lady Justice. “You know, for someone wearing a blindfold, you’re awfully good at making people think.”
Lady Justice laughed. “And for someone wearing a blindfold, you’re awfully observant.”
Ruby smiled. “Don’t tell anyone, especially our creator.”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
“And don’t tell anyone I was serious for nearly a whole minute.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Good.”
Ruby straightened her shoulders.
“Now let’s discuss the truly important issue.”
Lady Justice sighed.
“The necklace?”
“The necklace.”
Lady Justice tried to get serious, “Sometimes people see with their hearts.”
Ruby countered “That’s lovely. Back to the necklace.”
Lady Justice’s eyes rolled under the sash, “Ruby…”
Ruby folded her arms, “I’m just saying if we’re discussing justice, we should also discuss accessories.”
Ruby did get serious for another moment, “I believe I understand now. What is expected from not being able to see in order to truly see.”
Lady Justice smiled.
“Good.”
“And I understand more. I have grown as a person.”
“You have?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
“Now I know the necklace should belong to me. And I want a matching set of earrings.”
“Justice is not about appearances.”
“Then why do you look so impressive?”
“That is not the lesson.”
“It is a lesson.”
“I know you understand more about who we are now.”
“Yes and I can look fabulous while doing it.” Ruby laughed.
Lady Justice closed her eyes.
“Ruby…”
“What? It was worth a try.”
Ruby thought for a moment, “So our creator’s mother sees with her heart.”
“Perhaps.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“It is.”
“Do you think she would like my ruby necklace?”
“You don’t have a ruby necklace.”
“A terrible oversight.”
“Ruby, you are impossible.”
“Thank you.”
“That was not a compliment.”
“It is now.”
Lady Justice had to hide a smile.
This wasn’t the end of the necklace ordeal, because I happened to show a friend a beaded woven necklace in ruby colors to a friend. After the friend left, Ruby pounced.
“You made that?”
“Years ago. Before my son was born.”
“Why have I not been informed of this?”
“Because you are a painting.”
“This is highly relevant information! You have a ruby necklace. You painted a ruby pendant on HER. And me, what am I - chopped liver? The red-headed stepchild?”
“You are the ruby. You are the gem. You don’t need a necklace.”
Ruby sighed.
“Why do you make them? The necklaces.”
“Because I enjoy it.”
“That’s not enough of an answer.” Still feeling petulant.
“It is.”
“No.” Ruby taps one of her scales.
“You paint things because they mean something.”
Tap.
“You write stories because they mean something.”
Tap.
“You keep photographs because they mean something.”
Tap. Tap. Tap.
“So why the necklaces?”
“Because the work, the process of creation is part of the joy and because people wear necklaces close to their hearts.”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“Now, can you make me earrings?”
The day that I packed the paintings to bring them away was a little bitter sweet. I prayed they would find good homes, places where they will be enjoyed and appreciated. I shared those thoughts with Ruby. I seriously considered not delivering her to the gala.
“Of course I should go to the gala. I have been preparing for weeks. There will be people. There will be admiration. Possibly even appetizers. And... Aleta, if you kept every painting you loved, eventually you’d run out of places to keep them.”
I grumbled, “A complaint my husband has often said.”
“And if I stayed, I’ll spend the rest of my life arguing for you to add a necklace and earrings.”
“Besides,” she continued, “I thought my purpose was to sit on a wall and be admired.” She touched the scales. “But if I help someone I’ve never met…”
Then touched the gold seams.
“If my leaving helps heal someone else’s wound…”
Then she smiled.
“Perhaps that’s part of justice.”
She wagged a finger at me, “But just know this... If they hang me next to an ugly painting, I shall be deeply offended.”
I closed the studio door smiling. Some paintings leave quietly. Ruby was never going to be one of them.
Ruby in her various stages
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