Bent Road (16 page)

 

“M
orning, sir,” Daniel says.

Uncle Ray looks at Mr. Bucher with his good brown eye, while the bad eye seems stuck on Daniel. He laughs and says, “Would you look at the manners on my nephew?” Then he stands and gives Daniel a solid pat on the back. “Thank you for the hot wake-me-up, Ida. Real kind of you.” Nodding to Mr. Bucher, he says, “Monday morning, then?”

Mr. Bucher stands and shakes the hand Uncle Ray has held out to him.

“Are you off so soon, Ray?” Mrs. Bucher says, poking her bacon with one hand and balancing her new baby on her hip with the other. “Bacon’s almost done.”

Uncle Ray holds up a hand and shakes his head. “No, thank you all the same. I’ll leave you to your family, Ida.”

“Will we be seeing you at church this morning?” Bouncing the baby so she won’t fuss, Mrs. Bucher spears the fatty end of one piece of bacon with her fork, flips it and lays it back in the grease.

“Well, how about that. Today is Sunday, after all.” Uncle Ray says it as if Sunday snuck up on him. “I guess I’ll get along and put on something decent.”

“We’ll all be glad to have you back,” Mrs. Bucher says.

Uncle Ray gives Daniel another pat on the shoulder. On the last pat, he holds on. “Nice manners. Real nice.”

Mr. Bucher walks Uncle Ray outside and waits there until a truck engine fires up before walking back into the kitchen. Mrs. Bucher gives him a nod, or maybe she is taking a deep breath and they both turn to Daniel.

“Ray’s going to be working with your father and me,” Mr. Bucher says.

The clatter of silverware stops and chewing mouths go quiet. The brothers sitting around the table and the one scooping potato peels and the one poking through the cabinets and Ian pause to listen.

“Down at the county. Driving a grader, I suppose. Your pa called last night. Asked me this favor. Said he’d be sending Ray over this morning.”

Mr. Bucher glances over at Mrs. Bucher again.

“Your pa’s a smart man, Dan. Keeping that snake where he can see him.” Mr. Bucher takes another sip of coffee. “Got a warmer-upper for me?” he says, holding his cup out for Mrs. Bucher to fill. “You understand that, Dan?”

“Yes, sir. A snake. I understand, sir.”

After eating two biscuits dipped in maple syrup, something Mama would never let him do, Daniel follows Ian and four of his brothers outside. His gut hurts, maybe because Mrs. Bucher’s biscuits were soggy in the middle, or maybe because he can still feel Uncle Ray’s hand squeezing his arm, or maybe because he isn’t as good a shot as Ian says he is. Before they left the kitchen, Mrs. Bucher said they had only a half hour because everyone needed to wash up before church. She said the whole mess of them was a sorry sight, so a half hour and no more. Daniel pulls his coat closed and, slapping his leather gloves together, thinks that if the older boys go first there won’t be time for him. Mrs. Bucher will call them inside and Daniel will shrug and say, “Maybe next time.” Walking toward the barn, four Bucher brothers leading the way, Daniel wishes he had never seen Uncle Ray and that Ian hadn’t told his brothers that Daniel is such a great shot—a good shot maybe, good for a city kid, but great means better than everyone else, better than every other brother.

“Who goes first?” Daniel whispers to Ian.

One of the brothers, the smallest, walks ahead of the group and lines up three cans on the top rung of the wooden fence that runs between the house and the barn. The wind blows down one of the cans. He kicks it aside, slaps his bare hands on his thighs and shouts, “All ready. Fire it up.”

Ian nudges Daniel forward.

“Me?” Daniel says. “You want me to go first?”

“Sure,” one of the brothers says.

The two oldest brothers didn’t bother following everyone outside. Instead, they are watching from the porch. “Hurry up with it, already,” one of them shouts.

“Here,” says the brother who’s two years ahead of Daniel in school. He hands Daniel a rifle. “You use a .22, right? This is a good one. Got a nice straight sight.”

“Yeah, Daniel,” Ian says. “Show them. Show them what a great shot you are.”

Pulling off his gloves and tossing them on the ground, Daniel takes the rifle. The morning air is cold and wet, making his neck and arms stiff. He squints into the sun rising above the bank of trees on the east side of the house, shakes out his hands and bends and straightens his fingers. “Sure, I’ll go first,” he says. “Those cans over there?”

“Yeah,” says Ian. “Get them both.”

Daniel brings the rifle up to his shoulder, rests his cheek against the cold wood, and with one eye closed, his breath held tight in his lungs, his feet square under his shoulders, he fires, flips the bolt action and fires again. Both cans fly off the railing.

“Got them,” Ian shouts.

“Na,” says the youngest brother and the one with the loudest mouth. “The wind knocked them off.”

“That wasn’t the wind,” Ian says. “Daniel got them both. Clean shots.”

“Na, just the wind,” another brother says.

“Doesn’t matter,” Daniel says, flips on the safety and hands the rifle back to the brother who gave it to him.

“It was the wind,” a brother shouts from the porch.

“I’ll show you,” Ian says, limping toward the spot where the two cans landed.

A few of the brothers laugh and mimic Ian’s awkward gait, while the brother holding the rifle takes aim like he’s going to shoot Ian.

“Told you,” Ian shouts, holding up the cans. “Clean shots both.”

The brother holding the rifle lowers it. “Okay,” he says. “So maybe you are a good shot.”

Ian limps back to Daniel’s side. “Told you so.”

The same brother says, “Maybe good enough to go hunting with us.”

All of the brothers nod, including Ian.

“Pheasant. They’re open season right now,” the brother says. “So are quail. Or you might get yourself a prairie chicken.”

“Sure,” Daniel says, remembering the prairie dog’s head that he blew off and the body he left behind. “I mean, not today, because it’s church.”

“Na, next time you come over. In a few weeks maybe,” the same brother says. “What do you think, Ian? Maybe when we get a warm snap, so you’re not so stiff.”

“I’m not stiff. I’ll go anytime.”

The brother laughs. “Yeah, well, in a few weeks. Next time you’re over. We’ll all go hunting. Then we’ll see what a great shot you are.”

“Yeah, a few weeks,” Daniel says. He looks at Ian and tries to remember if he is more crooked since it got so cold. “Anytime.”

Before sliding into the pew, Ruth genuflects, pulls off her stocking cap and smoothes her skirt. She winks at Evie as she does the same, and together, the Scott family sits. Celia and Elaine slide forward onto the kneeling bench and bow their heads in private prayer, and from their pew at the back of the church, Ruth scans the crowd. No sign of Ray’s brown hat or his dark hair. No sign. He is home now and eventually he’ll be back to church. But not yet. Not this morning. Ruth exhales, and feeling Mother’s vibration through the wooden floor as she walks down the aisle, Ruth signals the family by waving one hand. Everyone scoots down one spot to make room.

“What a shame,” Mother says, holding on to the back of the pew in front of them and groaning as she lowers herself. “What a darn shame.”

“Mother, shhhh.” Wondering if Arthur heard, Ruth looks down the line of Scotts.

Mother spreads out as she settles in, anchoring one side of the family, while Arthur anchors the other. She is angry because, once again, the Scotts are sitting in the last pew. One Sunday of every month, Father Flannery publishes a list that shows every family’s contribution to the church, and Arthur’s family remains at the bottom of that list, which means Arthur’s family sits in the last pew. Arthur says the good Lord understands about a man starting his life over and tending to his family first. Mother says the Lord is good but that He’s losing His patience.

“I thought I raised that boy to have some pride,” Mother says, making the sign of the cross. Unable to kneel, she remains sitting, her hands in her lap as she bows her head.

Ruth shifts in her seat enough to shield Evie from the conversation. “Arthur has pride enough for ten men,” she whispers, saying nothing more as Daniel peels away from the Bucher family, dips to one knee, makes the sign of the cross on his chest and slides past Mother and Ruth to take his place between Celia and Arthur.

Mother grunts, which means the conversation is over, so Ruth settles back into her seat. She turns and catches Elaine’s eye. Elaine winks and gives a small nod of approval to the shiny pink lipstick she painted on Ruth’s lips before church. Ruth, returning the smile, touches the corner of her mouth. When she looks back, Mother is frowning. Ruth lowers her eyes, slides forward onto the kneeling bench and with her forearms resting on the pew in front of them, she bows her head.

From this perspective, where she feels safe, she can see the two seats where Ray and she used to sit every Sunday morning. Ray always donated enough, barely enough, to keep their place in the third pew. Now, because Julianne is gone, the pew is empty except for Mary and Orville. Mary is thin, her shoulders frail and rounded, and Orville’s hair has gone white.

Ruth has known Mary all of her life, but she didn’t meet Orville until her thirteenth birthday. That was the day Orville stepped off a westbound train and walked into the Stockland Café. The café was crowded because dark clouds were rolling in from the south, the kind of dark clouds that meant rain. Every other dark cloud, for years it seemed, had been dust rolling in from Nebraska or maybe Oklahoma. Folks were tired of shoveling it from their homes and draping their babies with damp dish towels. The day Orville Robison arrived, folks were set to celebrate because those dark clouds meant rain. Finally, rain.

Wearing a tattered, old straw cowboy hat with a small red feather stuck in the black band, Orville walked into the café, carrying with him two leather suitcases. He had dark hair, almost black, and skin that made folks think he probably had some Indian blood in him. Sitting together at the booth nearest the front door, Eve, Ruth and Mary were sipping unsweetened tea, and the moment Orville Robison set down his suitcases, Mary smoothed her hair, bit into a lemon and said she liked that red feather. She said it meant good luck, said that feather was what brought the rain clouds. She said she’d marry any man with a feather like that tucked in his hat.

By the time Orville finished his first cup of coffee, he had noticed the three girls, just like they had noticed him. Leaning on the café counter with one elbow while a young Isabelle Burris dropped two cubes of sugar in his coffee, Orville Robison tipped the brim of his hat toward the girls’ table. Even at thirteen, Ruth could see that he noticed Eve most of all. She had the kind of beauty that made people stop to stare at her as if they might never see such a thing again. Orville was no different from most folks who saw Eve for the first time. He looked at her once, at all of them sitting around the table, glanced away, and as if surprised, as if unable to trust his own eyes, he looked again. The second time, he looked only at Eve. But Eve was barely fifteen, so within the amount of time it took Orville Robison to finish that cup of coffee, he settled on Mary, the oldest of the three—nearly nineteen. Six months later, Mary Purcell became Mary Robison. Together, the three girls hand-stitched Mary’s wedding gown and she wore a red feather tucked in her garter.

Lowering her eyes and pressing her hands together, Ruth prays that Julianne will come home to Mary and Orville soon. So many years, the two of them went without a child, but then, like the rain that came after so many years of dust, Julianne was finally born. Even after Mary’s hair had started to gray and her friends were counting grandchildren, Julianne was born. Ruth finishes her prayer for Julianne with a silent “Amen,” makes the sign of the cross to bless the Robison family in God’s name, opens her eyes and there is Ray, sitting in the third pew.

 

C
elia reaches across Elaine and Evie and touches Ruth’s forearm. Her face is pale again, like that first day she slid out of Ray’s truck, a strawberry pie cradled in her hands. Ray nods in their direction. His eyes, even the bad one, rest on Ruth. With the tiniest motion, no more than raising one eyelid, he calls Ruth to him. Placing a hand on the back of the pew in front of them, Ruth turns toward Celia again. Celia squeezes Ruth’s arm until she can feel the small, tender bone through her wool overcoat. Ruth lowers her head and scoots forward on the wooden bench.

“I can’t believe he would sit right there next to Mary and Orville,” Celia whispers and shakes her head. “You stay put, Ruth.” And then to Arthur, she says, “Tell Ruth to stay put.”

It seems that all through the church, in the pews in front of Ray and behind, people begin to scoot in whichever direction will take them farther away from the man they all think took Julianne Robison. Ever since the men from the state came to help Floyd search for Julianne, people have become more convinced than ever that Ray took the child and that he killed Eve all those years ago. Getting their first glimpse of him since he came back home, they raise their hands to their mouths so they can whisper unseen. They take sideways glances. They turn away if Ray catches their eye. Some of them even give Ruth a fleeting look, just long enough to pucker their lips at the sour taste of it all and shake their heads, but Mary and Orville Robison seem to take no notice. Instead, they stare at the empty spot where Father Flannery will soon stand, without even a glance toward Ray.

“Arthur,” Celia whispers again. “Tell Ruth to stay put.”

Arthur tips his head in greeting to Ray, and with the smallest nod, he motions Ruth to go.

Celia sucks in a mouthful of air, and with Daniel caught between them, she hisses at Arthur. “What? What are you doing?”