Ruby
When asked to describe their childhood, country music stars invariably tell tales of poverty, hunger and deprivation. Born in small, rural towns in Tennessee, North Carolina, Texas or West Virginia, they often relate memories of poor farmers and coal miners, hand-me-down clothes, three-room shacks, countless siblings and, occasionally, drunkenness, drug abuse and prison sentences. Twenty-nine-year-old Brett Walker was the exception to that rule.
Born in a suburb of Philadelphia, the son of an electrician and a high school math teacher, Brett had had a happy, uneventful childhood. He was an honor student and was never involved with drugs, fighting or petty theft. Although he always loved music and was gifted with a strong singing voice, Brett surprised everyone when he announced his intentions of becoming a country and western singer. He had never been west of Pittsburgh, and the only "country" he had ever seen was the Pocono Mountains. And, although he dressed like a cowboy for his act, the closest thing to a horse he had ever ridden was a Ford Mustang. Yet despite his non-traditional upbringing, Brett's natural charm, musical talents and striking resemblance to a young Brad Pitt skyrocketed him to the top of the country music charts.
An extremely wealthy and handsome celebrity, Brett was always surrounded by a horde of adoring females. At first, he was delighted by the attention of so many beautiful women, but he soon tired of their never-ending reverence. Like Barbie dolls coming off a Mattel assembly line, they were all blond; they were all gorgeous; they all had perfect bodies but seemingly empty heads. Without exception, these stunning sycophants were eager to please him, yet the singer invariably grew bored with them after only a few dates. Perhaps that's why when he met a woman who was not interested in either him or his music he lost both his heart and his head to her.
Brett spotted the girl of his dreams at the Grammy Awards ceremony. The first thing he noticed about her was her hair. How could he help but notice it? It was a color that had to have come out of a bottle; Mother Nature had never intended anyone to have hair that shade of red. But it was not her fiery locks that made him stare at her most of the evening. Despite the punk hairdo, the tattoos, the multiple body piercings and the outfit that Brett imagined was left over from the wardrobe of a Mad Max movie, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
About halfway through the awards ceremony, the redhead went to the lobby to smoke a cigarette. It was the opportunity the young singer from Philly had been waiting for. Feigning nonchalance he certainly did not feel, Brett strolled out to the lobby and attempted to strike up a conversation.
"Talk about a melting pot!" he laughed. "Did you ever see such a wide variety of musical tastes under one roof? Placido Domingo, Aerosmith, Johnny Rotten, Celine Dion, Usher, Garth Brooks, Stevie Wonder—from Armani suits to blue jeans to leather and chains."
Used to being hit on by musicians, the woman did not respond. After his disastrous attempt to start a conversation, Brett flashed his "little boy" smile, one that had never failed to melt a woman's heart. Well, there was a first time for everything: the smile failed miserably.
Perhaps she just doesn't recognize me, he thought.
He assumed from her rather bizarre clothing and appearance that she probably was not a big fan of country music.
"I guess I should introduce myself," he said, turning his charm on full volume. "I'm Brett Walker."
Nothing! No reaction from her whatsoever. It was painfully clear to him that this young woman did not know him from Adam. It was amazing. Even if she did not like country music, his was a name as famous as that of Madonna or Michael Jackson. After all, Brett did not know anything about opera, yet he had heard of Pavorotti.
"I'm a singer," he continued lamely. "I'm up for a Grammy for best country and western performance. Are you in the music business?"
No, you ass; she's a shortstop for the New York Yankees! he mentally chided himself. Why else would she be at the Grammies?
"Not really," she replied. "I'm an artist. I design cover art for Warren Music. Look, I've got to go. It was nice meeting you, Brad."
"It's Brett," he said, but the beautiful redhead was already walking away.
At the conclusion of the awards ceremony, he turned to his date, one of the backup vocalists for Little Willie Barber, and asked, "Feel like getting something to eat?"
"Whatever you want to do is fine with me, Brett," she said, smiling so widely he was sure her jaws must ache.
That pearly smile he had seen a hundred times before on a hundred similarly vacuous faces reminded Brett of the Stepford Wives: mindless robots created to satisfy every selfish whim of their superficial husbands. That smile made him more determined than ever to pursue the young artist.
* * *
It seemed that for Brett Walker, like for most men, the greatest thrill of romance was in the pursuit. For so long, dating had been like shooting fish in a barrel, requiring little or no effort on his part. He vowed that this time it would be different. He was going to enjoy the chase as a cat enjoyed toying with a mouse.
His plan of attack was truly brilliant. First, he called Warren Music and learned that the gorgeous woman with the crimson hair went by the name of Ruby Rose Raymond. Ruby Rose. It was her name that gave him inspiration. Roses, dozens of them, all long-stemmed, all red, one rose at a time, were delivered to her office and her home. A card that read simply, "It's Brett," accompanied each one.
After more than two weeks of roses, the rubies began arriving: ruby earrings, a ruby anklet, and even a ruby stud for her pierced nose. The cards accompanying the jewelry included his private phone number. Finally, after receiving a ruby necklace, the young artist called the singer and, with a little persuasion on his part, she agreed to go out with him.
It was not that Ruby had been playing hard to get. She was just not interested in Brett. For one thing, she did not go for his all-American boy, clean-cut good looks. She much preferred men with dark, brooding demeanors. If given a choice, she would rather date Johnny Depp than Brad Pitt.
The other reason for her indifference was Brett's taste in music. A die-hard rock fan, Ruby had an aversion to country music, always associating it with inbred, uneducated country bumpkins. How would she be able to spend an entire evening with some backwoods hillbilly? What would they talk about? She thought about Jeff Foxworthy's "You know you're a redneck" routine. It did not seem quite so funny now that she was about to go out to dinner with a man whose last date may have been with his thirteen-year-old cousin.
Far from being a redneck, however, Brett proved to be intelligent, sophisticated and perfectly charming. Ruby had half-expected him to arrive in a pick-up truck complete with a gun rack on the roof and a Confederate flag on the license plate, so she was pleasantly surprised when a late model Bugatti pulled into her driveway. Dressed in Tommy Hilfiger jeans and shirt and a pair of Reeboks, Brett Walker did not look too bad.
Thank God he isn't wearing a cowboy hat! Ruby thought with relief.
After a delicious meal in a romantic French restaurant, Brett took her to—of all places—an amusement park. Ruby had not had such fun in years. They stayed until the park closed, riding every ride at least once and the roller coasters several times.
* * *
For the first time in his life, Brett Walker was in love. Every night he would pull up to Ruby's house in his Bugatti and take her to a movie, concert, museum, bowling alley, ball game or restaurant. After six months of dating, Ruby moved into Brett's mansion where the singer spoiled her outrageously, giving her little tokens of his affection, such as a red Ferrari with a rose painted on the hood and "Ruby" on the personalized license plate.
Although the two young people had many things in common, it was their differences that most tantalized Brett. He was captivated by the red spikes of hair, the ruby stud in her nose and the semi-sleazy punk way in which she dressed. He was especially fascinated by her Bohemian taste in modern art, poetry and avant-garde movies. A talented painter, Ruby had once dreamed of moving to Paris to pursue a career as an abstract artist. Starving in a garret did not appeal to her practical side, however; so, she reluctantly accepted the job with Warren Music.
Now, living in luxury with Brett and no longer shackled by financial restraints, Ruby was free to quit her job and devote her time to more serious painting.
Brett and Ruby's life together, though far from a conventional one, was a very happy one. Except for his occasional concert tours, Brett liked to work as close to a nine-to-five day as possible. Of course, his workdays were far from mundane, consisting mainly of rehearsals, recording sessions, publicity shots, interviews, music videos and talk shows. There was even the possibility of a movie contract on the horizon.
Ruby, who had a small staff of domestics to take care of their twenty-two-room mansion, would go up to her studio on the third floor and paint to the music of the Beatles, the Doors, U2, the Rolling Stones, Credence Clearwater Revival, Queen or whatever band most inspired her that day.
In the evenings, Brett would come home from work and, with a perfect Ricky Ricardo accent, yell up the staircase, "Lucy, I'm home!"
It was a cue for Ruby to run down the stairs and into his waiting arms. For Brett and Ruby, there was never a shortage of interesting subjects to discuss and never a dull moment. Whenever Brett's schedule allowed, they would travel. They took a sailing excursion to Cape Cod, a camping trip to the Smoky Mountains, a weekend in Miami, a week in Hawaii and a short cruise to Bermuda. Then, while on a jaunt to Las Vegas, Brett and Ruby were married in a wedding chapel on the Strip.
Oddly enough, things between them began to change as soon as Ruby became a wife. She was no longer content to leave the work to the maids and took a more active role in running the house. Soon, she and Brett stopped going out in the evenings since Ruby preferred to cook dinner herself. Day by day, the rebellious artist was turning into a house frau, and Brett was not happy with the transformation.
He fervently hoped that the change in his bride was only a temporary phase, one that would soon pass. Still, when Ruby declined to accompany him on a six-week West Coast tour, he did not try to coax her into changing her mind. Furthermore, his phone calls home, consisting mostly of tiresome small talk and uncomfortable silences, all but stopped as the tour drew to a close.
* * *
At the end of the West Coast tour, the Bugatti pulled into the driveway, and Brett pushed the button to open the garage door. To his surprise, the Ferrari was gone. In its place was a Ford Astro van with a license plate that read "Ruby."
Oh, no! What happened to the girl I fell in love with? Did I make a mistake in getting married? he wondered.
Despondent at the direction in which his marriage was headed, he opened the front door of his Nashville mansion. He expected to hear Metallica or Bon Jovi coming down from the third floor, but the house was eerily silent. As Brett walked up the stairs, he prayed there would be no other surprises in store for him. Then he opened the door to his wife's third-floor art studio, or rather what had once been the studio. Gone were Ruby's canvasses, her easel and her stereo system. There were no longer any poetry books or art magazines lying on the floor and no wicker swing chair suspended from the ceiling. The room was completely empty. Briefly, Brett wondered if his wife had packed up her things and left him.
Meanwhile, Ruby tiptoed up the stairs, hoping to surprise him.
She came up behind him and whispered, "Ricky, I'm home."
Brett turned and stood there like Lot's wife, unable to move, staring down at the woman he had married. But it was no longer the Ruby he fell in love with; it was another Barbie! What had happened to the nose ring, the Mad Max clothes and the spiked red hair? That girl was gone. Standing before him was a clone of the countless mindless, blond, smiling Stepford Wives he had tired of so easily.
"What's the matter, darling?" Ruby asked sweetly. "Would you like something to eat? What would you like? I'll fix you up anything you want."
She smiled a wide, ear-to-ear smile.
"Get out of here," he growled between clenched teeth.
It was not really Ruby he was angry at; it was the invasion-of-the-body-snatchers pod woman that had assimilated his beloved wife.
At least it could have left the red hair, he thought angrily.
"Brett, what's the matter? Did I do something wrong? Just tell me if I did. I'll do anything to make you happy. Anything at all."
Ruby had no idea that this was the wrong thing to say, and she did not realize the fatal mistake she made when she stared adoringly up at him and smiled.
Brett grabbed his now-blond wife by the arms and shook her.
"You ruined it!" he screamed. "Why did you have to change? I loved you the way you were."
Afraid of his sudden, unreasonable anger, Ruby tried to pull away from him. When Brett saw the fear in her eyes, he quickly let go of her. Ruby's fear turned to terror as she felt herself falling backward. Brett reached out to grab her, but he was not quick enough. In a matter of moments, Ruby lay at the bottom of the stairs like a broken doll.
Following Ruby's accident, the housekeeping staff was discharged without explanation. Brett's concert dates and recording sessions were canceled. His TV and radio commitments were indefinitely postponed. Talks of a movie deal were immediately terminated. If the promoters did not like it, let them sue him. Brett Walker was retiring from the music business.
* * *
The Bugatti pulled into the garage and parked next to the Ferrari with the rose painted on the hood and the license plate that read, "Ruby."
Brett opened the front door and called out, "Lucy, I'm home."
As he walked up the stairs he could hear Queen's "Bohemian Rhapsody" playing on the stereo. He opened the door to the third-floor art studio. On the right side of the wide, open room were Ruby's canvasses, easel, poetry books and stereo. On the left side, delivered only a few hours after his wife's fatal fall, was the new furniture she had purchased while Brett was on tour: the dresser, the high chair and the crib.
Sitting in the wicker swing chair was Ruby herself. An art magazine was lying open in her lap, but her lifeless, sightless eyes stared vacantly ahead. Brett sat down on the floor beside her and through crazed eyes gazed lovingly at the Mad Max outfit, the ruby stud in her nose and the spiked hair a shade of red Mother Nature had never intended hair to be.
Salem once fell in love with a redhead, but her coloring was natural.
