Bent Road (28 page)

Grabbing the knob on the first door with two fingers, he gently pushes and pulls, testing the hinges. They creak but swing freely. He takes one step closer, testing the floors again with his toe, and inspects each hinge. They are tarnished and black but Jonathon will want them. He’ll scrub them with acid and a toothbrush and by the time he hangs them in Elaine’s and his house, they’ll be like new. Before continuing, he knocks on each of the door’s six panels, happy to be doing something that doesn’t involve Mama’s rubber gloves and a bucket of soapy water. Solid. Yep, Jonathon’ll want this one.

Pushing open the second door, Daniel coughs at the dust kicked up and squints into the light that spills across the hallway. A bathroom. Better paint job on this door. Frame is in good shape. Hinges look the same. The third and fourth are keepers, too, making Daniel wonder how many doors Jonathon needs for his new house. The biggest bedroom, which was behind the first door, was empty, but the smaller two still have furniture in them—dressers, a rocking chair, two single beds—all covered with white sheets.

Daniel steps into the second small bedroom and carefully pulls the sheet from a rocking chair. He coughs and waves away the rising dust. Evie would like the red-checkered seat cushion, even if the rocking chair might be too big for her. Maybe, if Norbert Brewster doesn’t want it anymore, Dad will come back with his truck after the snow melts and take the chair home for Evie. It might make her forget about Olivia rotting away in the back pasture and Aunt Eve being dead and Julianne Robison still missing. Before draping the sheet back over the chair, Daniel looks at the ceiling and hopes it won’t cave in on Evie’s chair before they can come back for it. Black mold seeps out from each corner and a single crack runs the length of the room. He backs away from the rocker, watching the snowfall through a dirty window.

Once outside the room, Daniel looks down the hallway to the last door. All of them are fine, and after Jonathon gets through with them, the hinges will be fine, too. Taking a few steps toward the staircase, Daniel calls down to Jonathon.

“Got five good ones up here,” he shouts. “Hardware looks good, too.”

“Did you say five?” Jonathon calls up. “Five? All in good shape?”

Daniel looks at the last door. “Yeah, five.” He coughs.

“All have good hinges?” Jonathon calls back as he appears at the bottom of the stairs.

Daniel motions for Jonathon to come up and see for himself.

 

C
elia takes two mugs from the cabinet overhead and fills them both with coffee. Reesa, sitting at the head of the kitchen table, stitches the belt back onto the body of a lavender and green plaid apron. The fabric is faded and frayed at the seams.

“I’ve never seen that one before,” Celia says, setting one of the mugs in front of Reesa.

“Haven’t worn it.” Reesa drapes the apron across her lap, demonstrating how little of her it protects. “Covered more of me when I was younger.” She smiles, which makes Celia smile and realize that Reesa, after all these months, is making a joke. “Made from a feed sack,” she says, holding the apron up again.

“From a feed sack?” Celia asks. “But it’s such lovely fabric.”

“Mother always picked the nicest ones for aprons. Different sack, different fabric.”

“Do you have others?” Celia asks, looking at the bag sitting near Reesa’s feet.

“Mmmm,” Reesa says, meaning yes, and she lifts the bag into her lap. “Here’s another.” She holds up a blue calico bib apron with a solid blue ruffle sewn at the waistline. “Mother always liked ruffles. Here,” Reesa says, handing the apron across the table to Celia. “This’ll fit you still.”

Celia frowns at the comment, thinking Reesa means that someday Celia will outgrow it, too.

“I couldn’t, Reesa,” Celia says. “Those are antiques. They’re too special.”

“Mmmm,” Reesa says, again meaning yes.

While Reesa inspects the blue calico apron for torn seams, Celia takes a deep breath, and says, “Will you tell me about Eve?”

Reesa continues to run her fingers over the worn cotton, pulling the thin belt through two fingers and tugging when she gets to the end. “What’s there to know?”

“Well, I’m not sure.”

Behind Celia, her bedroom door is closed. Having been up late fixing the back window and watching for Ray, Arthur is taking a nap.

“Arthur is getting more . . . well, more angry. Don’t you think? I’m worried about him. And about Ruth. It seems that . . . there is something else. Something I don’t know.”

“The child is gone. Dead and buried. Not much more matters, does it?”

“No, definitely not. But something is eating away at him. You see that. I know you do. He stayed away from here for so long.”

Celia waits, but Reesa doesn’t respond.

“He thinks he should have saved her, doesn’t he? His father thought that, too. He blamed Arthur. Blamed Arthur for Eve’s death.”

Reesa pulls a spool of blue thread from her sewing case, wets one end by dabbing it on her tongue and, lifting her hands to catch the light coming through the kitchen window, she pokes it through the eye of her needle.

“Reesa,” Celia says, leaning forward. “Please tell me what happened. I’m worried about what Arthur might do.”

“What happened twenty-five years ago won’t change what’s happening today.”

“Maybe it won’t,” Celia says. “Or maybe it will.” She stops talking when Arthur walks out of the bedroom, running a hand through his dark hair.

“The boys back yet?” he says, buttoning his flannel shirt and walking past them toward the bathroom.

Celia looks at Reesa as she answers. “No, but soon I hope.”

Reesa pulls off a yard of thread and ties one end in a knot. The bathroom door closes.

“I just can’t help but worry,” Celia says.

 

D
aniel steps back as Jonathon walks up the stairs, carrying with him a small paper bag filled with hardware from the cabinets. “Here,” he says, handing the bag to Daniel. “Cabinets are no good, but I got all of the handles and knobs.”

Daniel takes the bag, cradles it in one arm and points at the first door with his screwdriver. “Looks good to me,” he says. “Scrape them and paint them. They’ll be okay.”

Jonathon nudges Daniel as he passes by. “You’re finally learning something worth learning, aren’t you, city boy?”

They start with the closest door. Daniels holds it while Jonathon unscrews it from its hinges. The job is easy until only the bottom hinge is left attached and Daniel has to hold the door square so it doesn’t bend the hinge and ruin it. He uses his legs for leverage and tries not to grunt so Jonathon won’t know how heavy it is for Daniel.

Once they have removed the door from its frame, the two of them carry it down the stairs and prop it up in the foyer where the wind and snow can’t get to it. Then they go back upstairs and do the same thing three more times. At the second small bedroom, Daniel asks Jonathon if he thinks Mr. Brewster would let them have the rocking chair for Evie. Jonathon says that he thinks a bottle of bourbon for Mr. Brewster would be a fair trade.

By the time there is only one door left, both Jonathon and Daniel have pulled off their coats and hats. “Just one more,” Jonathon says. “We’ll get it downstairs, wrap them up in a tarp or two and head on home.”

At the end of the hallway, Daniel opens the last door enough to grab onto the edge with one hand while holding the knob in the other. He waits while Jonathon unscrews the top hinge and braces himself as he pulls off the middle one. The door is instantly heavier. Daniel uses his legs to stabilize himself, and this time, he can’t help the grunt that escapes him.

“Here,” Jonathon says, taking part of the weight once he has removed the last screw. “Let’s lay it down for a minute.”

Daniel rests the bottom of the door on the floor and, following Jonathon’s lead, he slowly lowers it, walking backward so it can lie down in the hallway.

“Good Lord,” Jonathon says, dropping the door the last few inches.

The sudden movement makes Daniel stumble backward. When he catches his balance, Jonathon has already stepped over the door and taken two steps into the bedroom, blocking the entry. Daniel follows, slipping around Jonathon, stumbling again as he steps into the room.

“Jonathon,” he says. “What is that? Is that . . .”

Sheets cover none of the furniture in this room. A dresser and chest of drawers stand on opposite walls and a lace curtain hangs in the room’s only window. Bright white light spills inside, making the pale yellow walls shine. The snow is still falling. And there, its wrought-iron headboard centered on the largest wall, is a single bed made up with a white quilt that someone has carefully tucked around the remains of a very small person.

“Julianne Robison,” Jonathon whispers. “After all these months. It’s Julianne Robison.”

Celia steps back, giving Ruth more room to roll out the noodle dough. Soon the white floury clump is nearly paper-thin and Ruth is dabbing her neck with a dish towel. She smiles at Celia, only half a smile really, and after pulling a tea towel from the top drawer, she drapes it over the noodles.

“They have to dry a bit now,” she whispers.

Celia nods, and she and Ruth sit at the kitchen table with the others.

“Part of the roof had collapsed by the time we got back with the sheriff,” Jonathon says. “Fellows from Clark City came out, too.”

Arthur stretches and rests one arm on the back of Celia’s chair. Ruth sits next to Reesa; Daniel, across the table from them.

Jonathon continues. “They had a hard time of it, getting up the stairs to find her.”

Reesa shakes her head and makes a
tsk tsk
sound. Daniel props his elbows on the table and rests his chin in his hands. His nose and cheeks are red and probably chapped, too. And Elaine, who was checking on Evie and making certain her door was shut tight, walks back to the table and stands behind Jonathon.

“Floyd brought her down. Couldn’t do much looking around, though. Wrapped her up tight as he could in that quilt of hers and brought her on down. Nothing left. Not a damn thing of her left.”

Celia presses her hand over her mouth. “Are they sure it’s her?”

“Sure as they can be. She had blond hair. Looked more like dried straw, what was left of it. But Floyd, he said that means blond. And she was no more than a bit of a thing.”

Ruth stands. Everyone stops talking.

“Just checking my noodles,” she says, slipping behind Celia.

“So, what’s next?” Arthur says. “Has anyone told Mary and Orville?”

“Floyd was going there straightaway from the house. Roads weren’t so bad yet near town, so I’m sure he got there. Didn’t want to bring them out to the house.” Jonathon takes a sip of coffee that must have gone cold. “Funeral’s next, I suppose.”

Everyone around the table nods and Reesa makes her
tsk tsk
sound again. “How are those noodles coming along?” she asks Ruth, who is still staring at the counter.

“You know the strangest thing about it all?” Jonathon says, not really asking anyone in particular. “She’s been there all along. The mattress, well . . .” He pauses, scans the table and whispers, “Floyd said it was stained, badly. From all the decomposition.”

“Good Lord in heaven,” Reesa says.

“But the quilt that was laid over her,” Jonathon says, “it was clean. White as brand new. And the room. Spotless. Furniture dusted. Windows clean. But that quilt. That’s the strangest of all. Clean as brand new.”

Celia pushes back from the table and goes to stand with Ruth at the counter. “You all right?” she asks, touching Ruth’s shirtsleeve.

Ruth nods that she is fine, and says, “Who would do such a thing? Who would do such a terrible, terrible thing?”

“Jack Mayer,” Daniel says. “That’s who.”

 

A
few days later, when the snowstorm has passed and the trucks have cleared all the roads into town, Evie has to go back to school. Miss Olson called Mama on Sunday night to say all the teachers decided it best not to disrupt the children’s lives anymore than they already had been. Julianne had been missing for such a long time, after all. Mama shook her head after she hung up with Miss Olson and told Evie and Daniel to rustle up some clean, warm clothes because Monday was a school day.

On Evie’s very first day of school in Kansas, everyone had known that she had to sit where Julianne Robison would have sat if she hadn’t disappeared, because everyone had to sit in alphabetical order. Scott sat where Robison couldn’t, but this morning, as Evie walks into class, pulling off her coat and mittens, Miss Olson has mixed up all the desks. Some point forward, some sideways, some toward the back of the room. Most are still empty.

“Today is crazy mixed-up day,” Miss Olson says. “Pick a seat, Evie. Pick any seat you like.”

Evie hangs her coat on one of the hooks inside the door and walks past Irene Bloomer and John Atwell, toward the back of the room, wondering why Miss Olson mixed up all the desks, but she doesn’t wonder for long. Miss Olson doesn’t want anyone to know which desk would have been Julianne’s if she wasn’t dead. But Evie knows. She knows because she sat in it for the whole first part of the year. The pencil holder in Julianne’s desk is covered with black scribbles and someone carved a five-pointed star in the bottom right corner. At the very back of the room, in one of the desks turned sideways, Evie sits. She lowers her head as the rest of the kids walk into class, everyone giggling at the silly messed-up desks even though they’re supposed to be sad about Julianne being dead. Some of them must remember this, because after they giggle a little, they cover their mouths and lower their heads, too.

After the second bell rings, Miss Olson tells everyone to settle down and turn their desks if they can’t quite see the blackboard. Squeaks and squeals bounce around the room as everyone scoots until they can see Miss Olson. Once the room quiets again and Miss Olson begins to call attendance, Evie lays her index finger on the tip of the star, slowly traces each of its five points and wishes she could be dead like Julianne Robison. If she were dead, being small wouldn’t matter because no one makes fun of a dead person. If she were dead, Julianne Robison could be her friend. If she were dead, she wouldn’t have to miss Aunt Eve and Olivia.