Bent Road (18 page)

Sitting at the kitchen table while waiting for the potatoes to boil, Celia fans the book for a fifth time, stirring up a small breeze that fluffs Evie’s bangs. On the count of three, Evie pokes a finger between the pages to mark the stopping point. The book, an early Christmas present from Ruth to Evie, falls open on the table. Celia takes a sip of spiced cider and stands to turn down the burner, leaving Ruth to study the book with Evie.

The family hasn’t returned to St. Anthony’s for a month of Sundays, and it is clear that mass in Hays doesn’t suit the rest of the town, almost as if mass in a different church, even if it is catholic, isn’t really mass at all. Even before the family had attended a single service at St. Bart’s, the other ladies in town stared and whispered when they saw Celia and Ruth in the grocery store. Good Christians attended St. Anthony’s every Sunday and good Christians didn’t leave their husbands, for any reason. Arthur had promised Reesa that the family would go back to St. Anthony’s for midnight mass on Christmas. Perhaps that would do a little something to make the town happy.

Though the rest of the town shakes their heads at the Scotts attending mass in Hays, it has kept Ruth out of Ray’s sight and he seems content to see Arthur at work every day, at least the days that Ray makes it to work. Arthur says Ray is probably drinking again so he doesn’t have time to worry about bringing Ruth home.

In the front room, Arthur struggles to force a crooked trunk into a straight tree stand, and out on the back porch, Daniel sifts through the boxes they moved from Detroit in search of the ones labeled CHRISTMAS DECORATIONS. The air smells of evergreen needles, sap and Ruth’s homemade spiced cider, making the house warm and cozy even as the wind whips though the attic and the sky darkens with signs of snow.

Studying page 275 of Evie’s book, Ruth wraps both hands around her mug, lifts it to her lips but doesn’t drink, and makes a
tsk, tsk, tsk
sound as she shakes her head.

“Is that not a good one?” Evie asks.

“Very poisonous,” Ruth says, glancing up at Celia and tapping the page that lays open on the table.

Celia leans over the book and reads the caption beneath the picture—narrow-leaved poison wedge root. Ruth stops tapping and lays one hand flat over the picture, spreading her fingers so she hides the plant. She leans back in her chair, as if checking on Arthur and Daniel.

“It’s good for her to learn about the poisonous ones, too, Ruth. To be on the safe side.”

Ruth lifts Evie’s chin so she’ll look Ruth in the eye. “This is definitely a bad one. Very bad. One of the worst.”

“Would it make me sick?”

“If you ate it, it would,” Ruth says, swallowing and clearing her throat. “But you’d never, ever eat something you found growing outside.”

“Except if it was in your garden.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Ruth points to the white leaves that look like tiny tubes with pointed ends. “Cows eat them sometimes. Not often. They don’t like the taste. But if they do, it makes them stagger and bump into things. The blind staggers. Very bad. You leave this one alone.”

Evie nods and before Celia can sit again, the back door swings open followed by a gust of cold, dry air. Elaine and Jonathon stumble into the room, their cheeks and noses red, both of them breathing heavily.

“What’s all the commotion?” Arthur says, pounding his leather gloves together as he steps into the kitchen.

Evie giggles at the pine needles stuck in his hair. Celia quiets her with a finger to her lips.

Elaine, still wearing her coat and mittens, sticks out her hand. “We’re engaged,” she says, gazing down at her brown mitten. “Oops.” She pulls it off to show the new ring on her finger. “We’re getting married.”

With a sideways glance toward Arthur, Celia stretches her arms to Elaine. “Oh, sweetheart,” she says, holding the tips of Elaine’s fingers as she admires the new ring. “It’s lovely.” Then Celia lifts up onto her tiptoes and gives Jonathon a hug.

Celia had known this was coming. Not because of any secret Elaine had shared, but because of the speed at which Jonathon was building his scrap house. Every night at dinner, he came with news of his latest find—a load of two-by-fours, a few solid windows, a cast-iron tub. He was especially proud the day he finished the roof because he beat the first snow.

“Married?” Arthur says, holding his gloves in one hand, both arms hanging stiff.

Ruth slides out of her chair, steps up to Arthur and, as she plucks the needles from his hair, she says, “Yes, Arthur. Married. Isn’t it nice?”

Arthur makes a grunting noise but doesn’t answer.

“Arthur,” Jonathon says, sticking out his hand. “I intended to ask your permission. Planned to wait until Christmas day, but it snuck up on us this morning. I meant to ask you first.”

Arthur brushes Ruth away and shakes Jonathon’s hand.

“Have you talked about when?” Celia asks, wiping her hands on her apron. With her eyes, she motions to Arthur that he needs to hug his daughter. He doesn’t seem to understand. “A date, I mean. Have you set a date?”

“Spring, I think. Before the baby,” Elaine says, resting her hand on the small bulge in Ruth’s stomach as the two share a hug.

“What do you mean, before the baby?” Arthur straightens to his full height. His shirt is lopsided because he has threaded his buttons in the wrong holes, his hair is spiked like a rooster’s crown where Ruth pulled out the needles and his face is pale.

“I mean Aunt Ruth’s baby,” Elaine says, her cheeks flushing red. “Before Aunt Ruth’s baby comes along.”

“Isn’t that thoughtful, Arthur?” Celia says, also embarrassed at what Arthur was thinking, and also relieved. “But not until you’ve graduated.” She turns toward Jonathon. “You understand, don’t you?”

“I told her the very same.”

“That doesn’t leave us much of a window,” Elaine says. “Aunt Ruth, your little sweet pea will be along in late June or early July, don’t you think?”

Ruth smiles down at her stomach. “That’s my best guess. But rest assured, she’ll be along no matter when you plan this wedding, so you choose whatever date you like.”

Evie leaps toward Elaine, grabbing for both of her hands. “I have a wonderful idea,” she says. “The dresses. Aunt Eve’s dresses. You can use them in your wedding. That’s why she has so many. She made them all for her own wedding. Sewed them all by herself. With Mrs. Robison. Isn’t that right, Aunt Ruth?”

Ruth looks between Celia and Arthur. “Yes, Evie, but . . .”

“She won’t mind. She won’t mind if Elaine uses them. Aunt Eve made them for her very own wedding. They’re the most beautiful dresses ever. We’ll go to Grandma Reesa’s. We’ll go there and I’ll show you. Can we go, Mama?” Evie stops jumping for only a moment. “And now that Elaine is getting married, Aunt Eve will come home again. She’ll come to see Elaine get married. She’ll come and see how much we look alike. She’ll see that I’m little like her and I have braids like her. Won’t she be surprised? Won’t she?”

“Evie,” Celia says, gripping Evie on both arms to stop her from bouncing. “There’s plenty of time for wedding talk later. Let’s not give Elaine too much to think about.”

“I told her about Eve’s dresses,” Ruth says, stepping back to the table and lowering herself into her seat. “Told her what a wonderful seamstress Eve always was. She saw them in the upstairs bedroom and asked about them.” She turns toward Arthur. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“Mama,” Elaine says, nodding toward Evie. “Go ahead.”

“Not today,” Celia says. “It’s your day.”

Arthur lays his gloves on the table and runs both hands over his hair, smoothing it. “It’s probably best,” he says.

Taking a few deep breaths, Celia squats so she is Evie’s size. “Evie, dear,” she says. “I know Aunt Eve is very special to you.”

Evie puckers her lips and nods. The very roundest part of her cheeks and the tip of her nose are red, chapped from the cold dry winter air even though it’s barely December. A lot of cold weather to go. The ends of her white, silky bangs catch in her eyelashes when she blinks. She tilts her head.

“She was very special to all of us,” Celia says, inhaling and holding the air in her lungs to steady her voice.

“Aunt Ruth showed me her picture. So now I know what she looks like.”

Celia takes Evie’s hands. They are warm and soft and still smell like the pink lotion she rubbed on her arms and hands after her bath the night before. “We know how you love Aunt Eve’s room and her dresses.”

Evie nods and starts to smile, but then stops and nods again.

“Honey, Aunt Eve won’t be coming to Elaine’s wedding.” Celia clears her throat. “Aunt Eve has passed on, Evie.”

Evie crosses her arms and bites her lower lip.

“You know what that means, right?” Elaine asks, reaching a hand toward Evie.

Evie ducks away from Elaine, plants her feet shoulder width apart and rests both fists on her waist. “I’m not stupid. I know what it means.”

“When she was quite young, Evie. She died when she was quite young.”

Celia glances at Arthur. He is leaning against the doorframe with his head lowered and his arms crossed. Less than five months in Kansas, and it must seem to Evie that everyone disappears or dies. First Julianne Robison and now Aunt Eve. In Detroit, Celia knew how to care for her children. She shut off the news when they came down for breakfast, locked the front gate, walked them to school. But here in Kansas, she doesn’t know what to lock. Now her fears walk through her very own kitchen, stand on her back steps, sneak up on her at church. In Kansas, she doesn’t know how to care for her children.

Celia stands from her squatting position and takes a few steps toward Evie. “We all miss Aunt Eve very much. We should have told you sooner, but we didn’t know when it would be right.”

“Why?” Evie asks.

“What, honey? What do you mean, why?”

“Why did she die?”

“No good reason why,” Arthur says. “Never a good reason.”

“Daddy’s right,” Celia says, tilting her head and smiling. “And we don’t need to talk about what happened right now. That’ll be for another day, but you should know that she would have loved you very much.”

“Is that why Aunt Eve didn’t get married and wear the dresses?” Evie asks. “Because she was dead?”

Ruth presses a hand over her mouth.

“Evie, let’s not talk about that,” Celia says. “Let’s just remember how much we loved Aunt Eve.”

“That’s why he hates Aunt Ruth,” Evie says, pointing at Ruth. “Uncle Ray wanted to marry Aunt Eve, but she died. She died and he had to marry you.”

Celia sucks in a quick breath, and Ruth closes her eyes.

“Evie Scott, that is a terrible thing to say,” Celia says.

“I saw a picture. I saw Aunt Eve and Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray is happy. He is smiling in the picture and his eyes are almost normal. Aunt Eve is wearing a straw hat. I saw it.”

Arthur steps into the kitchen and tosses his leather gloves on the table. “You will not say another word, young lady.”

“Aunt Eve died and Uncle Ray had to marry Aunt Ruth. That’s why he hates you.”

“Stop it now,” Arthur shouts, silencing the kitchen.

Evie pushes Celia’s hands away and takes a step backward.

“Please, Evie,” Ruth says. “I loved your Aunt Eve. I loved her so.”

“You could have told me. I’m not a baby.”

“No, honey,” Celia says, reaching for Evie with one hand and for Ruth with the other. “We never thought you were a baby.”

“Everyone thinks I’m too little.”

“No, Evie,” Elaine says, one arm still wrapped around Jonathon.

“No one thinks that, squirt,” Jonathon says.

“I’m not a squirt either.” Evie takes two more steps away. She is almost out of the kitchen. “I’m not too little. You could have told me she was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead like Julianne Robison.” Two more steps and Evie stands where the living room meets the kitchen. “I don’t even care. I don’t even care about either one of them,” and she runs across the wooden floors, into her bedroom, and slams the door.

 

S
tanding just inside the back porch and holding a box of Christmas ornaments, Daniel sees his reflection in the gun cabinet. Behind the glass, his .22-caliber rifle hangs next to Dad’s shotgun. After Evie’s door slams shut, he sets the box on the ground and bends to pull off his boots. Mama bought them at the St. Anthony’s yard sale two weeks after they moved to Kansas. She said they were a good deal and would be plenty big enough to last a good long time. Now, a short five months later, Daniel’s feet ache because the boots are too small. Small boots make crooked toes, God damned crooked toes that don’t have room enough to grow. He sighs, thinking crooked toes are one more terrible thing about Kansas.

Dad and Mama never told Daniel that Aunt Eve was dead, just like they never told Evie. He never thought much about her, but if someone had asked, he would have said Aunt Eve moved away and was living somewhere else, probably with a husband and children of her own. Two probably, or maybe three. Had someone asked, he would have said Aunt Eve was like Mama. He would have said she wore aprons trimmed in white lace and had long blond hair. She probably smelled like Mama, too, and had soft, warm hands. But Aunt Eve is dead, and it makes Daniel feel the littlest bit like Mama is dead. Maybe that’s why Mama and Dad never told Daniel and Evie.

Ian and some of the kids at school said Aunt Eve was dead. They said Uncle Ray killed her twenty-five years ago and now he’s killed Julianne Robison—either he or Jack Mayer did it. One of them’s guilty for sure, that’s what the kids at school said. Daniel never believed them about Aunt Eve. Even though he never knew her, he didn’t like to think about someone killing her, but now he knows it’s true. Now he knows that his parents didn’t tell him about Aunt Eve because they think he’s a baby like Evie.

Still staring at the gun cabinet, Daniel wonders about the shotgun, wonders if it will be heavier than his .22. Maybe too heavy. Maybe too heavy for someone who doesn’t have many friends and everyone thinks is a baby. But Ian says he needs it for pheasant hunting. A rifle won’t work. Not even Daniel is a good enough shot to use a rifle. Ian has enough ammunition, but Daniel has to bring his own gun. The Bucher brothers say that if Daniel is really a good shot, he’ll handle a shotgun just fine. He will use the key on top of the cabinet, take the gun before Mr. Bucher picks him up next Saturday afternoon, and hide it in his sleeping bag. Dad always takes a nap on Saturday afternoons. Mama says the week wears him out and that Dad needs a little peace and quiet. He’ll take the gun while Dad is sleeping. Ian says the plan will work, that the sleeping bag will hide the shotgun. But Ian, who walked too slowly before he got his black boots, has never been pheasant hunting either and he’s never stolen a shotgun, so how does Ian know what will work and what won’t?