Bent Road (15 page)

Holding her hands behind her back and taking small sideways steps, Evie edges toward Grandma Reesa’s living room. Everyone else is sitting at Grandma’s kitchen table, talking about how upset they are that Uncle Ray came to the house last night wanting Aunt Ruth’s pie and a jump for his truck. Three times, Mama has told Daddy what a fine job Daniel did watching over all the ladies of the house, but Daniel is still feeling bad about it because he pulls away when Mama tries to brush back his bangs. In between chopping up a chunk of meat, Grandma Reesa keeps filling everyone’s coffee cup, and Mama frowns every time Grandma drops another sugar cube in Daddy’s. Aunt Ruth sits with her hands folded in her lap, not saying much of anything. Occasionally, she lifts her hands from her lap, wraps them around her coffee mug and takes a sip.

“Maybe you should go along and play upstairs, Evie,” Mama says.

Evie unclasps her hands, bites her lower lip and says, “Okay.”

“Mind the stairs in those stocking feet,” Grandma Reesa calls out.

At the sound of Grandma’s voice, Evie stops running and breaks into a slide that sends her floating through Grandma’s overstuffed living room. She sweeps past the coffee table, knocking over a frame, rattling a few of Grandma’s knickknacks, and stirring up the sour, moldy smell that always hangs over Grandma’s house. At the bottom of the staircase, she grabs the small plastic tote that usually holds her favorite doll’s dresses, the ones that Aunt Ruth sews for her. With a running start, she takes the stairs two at time, slides down the narrow hallway on the second floor and is breathing heavily when she pulls Aunt Eve’s door closed behind her.

 

C
elia waits until she hears Evie’s footsteps overhead before asking her next question. “You know him best, Ruth. Was he sober?”

Daniel stands. “Barely,” he says, stepping away from Celia and leaning against the refrigerator.

“What do you know about being barely sober?” Elaine asks. She is sitting across from Celia, and as she speaks, she gazes up at Jonathon, who is standing behind her. She looks like a woman about to be proposed to and Jonathon like a man about to do the asking.

“I know plenty,” Daniel says. “I know I was there and you weren’t.”

Jonathon takes Elaine’s hand, pats it and says, “I’d guess Daniel knows what he’s talking about.”

“He was sober,” Ruth says, nodding at Daniel. “Just barely.”

“Well, that’s it then,” Arthur says. “He’s back.”

Reesa, standing near her kitchen sink, reaches into an overhead cabinet, and as she takes down the saltshaker and seasons the cubed steak she has laid out on a cookie sheet, she leans back and whispers to Celia, “You should salt the meat before you grind it. Not after.” And then, in a louder voice, “I think Ruth should move here. Farther away has to be better. Let the dust settle for a while.” She sets aside the salt and, as she takes a bag of bread crumbs from the freezer, she says, “You do know how to make bread crumbs, don’t you?”

Celia takes a deep breath and smiles. “Yes, Reesa. I do.”

“Ruth isn’t moving here,” Arthur says.

Ruth exhales a little too loudly, which makes Celia chuckle. She presses her lips together when Arthur glances at her.

“I’ll help out however I can, Arthur,” Jonathon says.

“What was that for?” Elaine asks because she, like Celia, saw Daniel roll his eyes at Jonathon.

“Nothing,” Daniel says, studying his dirty, chipped nails when Arthur looks up at him.

Reesa finishes scattering the bread crumbs over the cubed meat. “Do you want to watch, Celia?”

From her seat at the kitchen table, Celia says, “I can see fine from here. Thank you.”

“Can we forget about the meat for a minute?” Arthur says.

“When you do this yourself,” Reesa says, leaning toward Celia as if no one can hear, “you should freeze the meat first, after you’ve cubed it. Makes the grinding easier.”

Celia flashes another smile and the meat grinder begins to whine.

“Are we done with the meat, everyone?”

Reesa, breathing heavily from the effort it takes to turn the hand crank, ignores the question.

“We’re done,” Celia says.

“This is bad,” Arthur says. “He’s awful close now, and pretty soon, you’ll be big as a barn.”

Celia exhales, nodding as Reesa tilts the bowl of ground meat so Celia can see what it’s supposed to look like. “She won’t be big as a barn,” Celia says. “We can still hide that peanut for a few months.”

Nearly knocking Daniel to the floor when he stands, Arthur pinches his brows at him as if Daniel is somehow always in the way. “And what then? A half a mile away, Celia. What then?”

“Why are you angry with me? I didn’t invite the man back.”

“I didn’t say I was angry with you. I said . . .”

“Please,” Ruth says, pushing back from the table with one hand and holding the other over her stomach. “Don’t argue. Maybe Mother is right. Maybe I should live here. It is a good bit farther away.”

“You plan on staying locked up here for good?” Arthur says. “Never going to church again? Never going to the store? That,” he says, pointing at her stomach, “will be hard to hide in a very short time.”

“That’s uncalled for, Arthur,” Celia says, starting to stand, but Ruth holds up a hand that stops her.

“I understand what you’re saying, Arthur. Really, I do. But I’m not your problem to solve. Let me move here with Mother. It will be easier. I’ve done it before. Lived here for a time.” She pauses. “Lived here until things quieted down. Besides, Ray was sober. Maybe he’ll stay that way.”

Daniel, one foot crossed lazily over the other, clears his throat. “Ian says some folks think Uncle Ray did something to Julianne. He says folks think Uncle Ray is that crazy.”

“Ray didn’t do anything to that girl,” Arthur says, leaning against the wall. “Man’s a damn fool and a drunk, but he didn’t take that child. Folks are just trying to piece together the past.”

“How do you know that, Arthur?” Celia says, feeling that she should believe her husband, have faith in him, know that he’ll protect his family. But since the moment Ray stood on her porch, his one good eye staring at the buttons on her blouse, she doesn’t feel any of those things anymore. She doesn’t believe. She’s heard the murmurs when she and Ruth walk through the deli in Palco, seen the sideways glances. More and more, people believe it. They believe Ray is the reason Julianne Robison has never come home.

“How can you be so sure?” she says. “We should be cautious, more mindful.”

Outside, a truck rambles down Reesa’s driveway, stops and idles near the garage.

“Think your ride is here, Dan,” Jonathon says, stepping back from the table for a better view out the kitchen window. “Yep, it’s Gene Bucher.”

“Can I go, Mom?”

Celia nods, motioning for him not to forget his overnight bag.

“Your toothbrush is in the side pocket,” she calls out as the screened door slams. “And mind your manners.”

When the truck passes by on its way back to Bent Road, Arthur sits again, but this time, instead of pressing his back straight and sitting with one foot cocked over the opposite knee, he leans forward and rests his head in his hands.

“Ray didn’t do anything to Julianne Robison.” He looks up at Celia, holds her gaze. “He didn’t do it.” He stares at her until she lowers her eyes. “And please don’t you start talking about leaving,” he says, turning toward Ruth. “You know damn well I can’t have you living in this house.”

The meat crank stops.

“I’ll stay,” Ruth says. “But only if you promise to listen to Celia. Don’t be so sure of what you don’t really know.”

“Fair enough,” Arthur says. “And in the meantime, no one, I mean no one, breathes a word about this baby.” He scans the table, fixing his eyes on each person for a moment before moving on to the next. “I need some time to figure this out.”

Celia smiles until the meat grinder begins to squeal again.

 

E
vie opens Aunt Eve’s closet slowly so that it doesn’t make any noise, lays her tote bag on the floor and walks across the room to make sure the bedroom door is latched. On the table near the closet, the Virgin Mary stands, holding out her new hands, the ones Daddy glued on after Evie told him that Aunt Eve would surely be upset if they didn’t fix her statue. Daddy asked Grandma Reesa first. She looked sad about it, but nodded and handed Daddy a tube of glue from the kitchen junk drawer. Evie runs a finger over a tiny spot of glue that Daddy didn’t wipe clean. It has dried into a hard, clear bubble. Pressing on the door twice, Evie tiptoes back to the closet, lowers to her knees and unhooks the buckles on her tote bag one at a time.

Evie tries to love all of Aunt Eve’s dresses the same, thinks that if she has a favorite among them, it will hurt Aunt Eve’s feelings but she can’t help herself. She loves the blue one best. She loves the three soft ruffles and the silky sash. She loves the silver flowers embroidered on the lapel that feel cool when she runs a finger over them. Most of all, she loves it best because, as she slips the dress off its hanger and presses it to her face, she can smell Aunt Eve. After taking one deep breath to make sure the flowery sweet smell is still there, she holds the dress by the shoulders, folds one side toward the center and then the other. Next, she drapes the dress over her left forearm and again over her right, lays it in the bag and refastens the two buckles.

Daniel exhales hot breath into his cupped hands. Even through the old green sleeping bag that Ian brought up from his basement, the wooden floor is cold. The Bucher house doesn’t have a heater, only a parlor stove in the main room off the kitchen where Ian’s two older brothers are sleeping. In Daniel’s house, they have a radiator, the same radiator that cooked up Mrs. Murray. Mama says that never happened, but every time it clicks on, he thinks he can smell roasted skin.

Watching the Bucher brothers through the opened bedroom door, Daniel wonders if they are the lookouts for Jack Mayer. He pulls his knees to his chest and scoots farther down into the sleeping bag that smells like someone peed in it. Ian had said the cats did it, but Ian’s brothers laughed like Ian was the one who did the peeing. Next to Daniel, Ian is sleeping, and by the dual snoring coming from the bed in the corner, so are the two brothers who share Ian’s room. Daniel breathes through his mouth so he can’t smell the sleeping bag and covers his ears so he won’t hear Jack Mayer climb through the kitchen window to sneak off with Mrs. Bucher’s leftover brisket and mashed potatoes.

By morning, the house is warmer. The Buchers may not have radiators in every room, but they have enough people in their family to warm up the place quickly. Daniel pulls on a gray sweatshirt and the wool socks Mama packed for him and follows Ian into the kitchen. It smells like his kitchen, except for the pee smell that is stuck to him. Coffee bubbles up, bacon pops on the stove and dish soap foams in a sink of hot water. Daniel presses down on his hair and straightens his sleeves.

“Good morning, sir,” he says when Mr. Bucher nods in his direction.

Ian nudges Daniel and muffles a laugh. “Something quick for us, Ma,” he says, walking on one flat foot and one tiptoe. Since he got his new boots, he walks that way whenever he doesn’t have them on, probably so he can forget about being crooked.

“Yeah, Ma,” one of the older brothers says. He scoops a handful of potato peels out of the sink and tosses them in an old coffee can. “Daniel’s going to show us all what a great shot he is. Okay we use your .22, Pa?”

Mr. Bucher nods over his coffee cup.

One of the brothers, the biggest, and the only one wearing a hat, turns in his seat. Mrs. Bucher doesn’t seem like the type of mother who would allow hats at the table. Except when the man turns, it isn’t a Bucher brother.

“Morning there, Dan.”

Uncle Ray raises his cup and tips his hat.

C
elia pretends to sleep as Arthur slips out of bed. She knows they’ll be late to church if they don’t get a move on, because the sun is high enough in the sky to fill their bedroom with light. Once Arthur has left the room, Celia pulls the blankets to her chin and tucks them under her shoulders. The front door opens, closes, and opens again and Arthur stomps his heavy boots. He only uses the front door when he is gathering wood for the fireplace from along the side of the house. When the night temperatures dip so low, the radiator can’t keep up, but Arthur will have a fine fire going in no time. Newspapers crackle as he twists them into kindling and, after a few minutes, the sweet, rich smell of a newly started fire drifts into the bedroom. The house will warm quickly, but Celia wonders if even then she’ll want to get up.

She pushed Arthur away last night, gently, but firmly, and this morning, she pretended sleep. She should tell him but won’t because it’ll only make things worse. She can’t tell him how Ray looked at her out there on the porch the other night, how she can see what Ray is thinking and that it makes her ashamed. Or maybe Arthur would think her silly, or worse yet, selfish for thinking of herself instead of Ruth. Maybe she is silly and even selfish, too. Whatever this feeling is, shame or guilt, it’ll pass. No, she can’t tell Arthur, because if she really made him understand, if she made him appreciate that in the privacy of a single glance, a man can tell a woman that he is coming for her, he’d kill Ray. Just like that. He’d kill him.