Bent Road (34 page)

“I knew she was in there, even before I opened the door.” Arthur presses both hands around his coffee mug. “How does a person know something like that? Even before I opened the door. I could feel it, feel something on the other side.”

He looks up at Celia.

“How does a person know?”

Pressing a dish towel over her mouth, Celia shakes her head.

“She had Mother’s statue with her, holding it in one hand. Must have thought it would help her.” Arthur exhales, almost a laugh. “She was so tiny, lying there. More like she was sleeping, except for the blood.”

“It’s so long past, Arthur. It wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault.”

“I dropped her, the statue. Broke both hands off. Mother lost them in the laundry. For days, Ruth searched for them. Long past the funeral. Through every sheet and sock and basket. Looked until she found them both.”

From behind the cover of her dish towel, Celia nods because that is so like Ruth, hunting and searching—probably the only helpful thing she could find to do. Because there is nothing she can say, Celia reaches for Arthur’s hand instead. He lets her touch his fingers. They sit this way, their fingertips intertwined, not speaking, until their coffee has gone cold. Celia wants to remind Arthur that he was a boy when Eve died. He did what his sister asked, thought he was helping. She wants to soothe him, but before she finds the proper words, a familiar sound outside the kitchen window distracts her. Olivia has gotten out again. Arthur will be so angry with Daniel. No, it’s not Olivia. Olivia is dead. Celia slowly pulls her hands away and turns toward the dark window.

Arthur hears it, too, because he lifts up a hand to silence her when she begins to speak. A rustling. A snapping. The wind. Or a coyote. It’s always a coyote. Whenever Celia is lying in bed late at night and hears something outside, Arthur wraps an arm around her, pulls her close and whispers that it is a coyote. Celia waits for him to say the same now, but instead, he holds up a hand to keep the silence and slides his chair away from the table. Celia mirrors his movement, pushing back her own chair, silently, slowly. Arthur steps up to the kitchen window, leans so he can see around the side of the house and exhales.

“Looks to be Mary Robison,” he says, walking toward the back of the house. “Awful cold night to be out and about.”

Celia stands and presses out her skirt. “Well, heaven’s sake, invite her in. I’ll start some fresh coffee.”

Dumping the stale grounds into a tin can near the sink, Celia shivers at the rush of cold air that spills into the kitchen when Arthur opens the back door. She spoons fresh coffee into the percolator and takes three mugs from the cabinet as Arthur and Mary walk into the kitchen, Arthur helping Mary out of her coat. Neither of them speaks. Mary is smaller here in Celia’s kitchen then in St. Anthony’s or the café or her own living room when Celia delivered Ruth’s food. Her face is small enough to cup in one hand and, standing next to Arthur, she seems she might disappear in his shadow. Once Mary is seated, Arthur kneels in front of her, takes both of her hands and rolls them front to back. Then, he unlaces one of her boots and slips it from her foot. Celia steps forward. He sets the boot aside and begins to rub Mary’s foot.

“Arthur,” Celia whispers.

Shaking his head to quiet Celia, Arthur removes the other boot. Mary’s small shoulders fall forward as he rubs her second foot. Celia sets down the coffee mugs, goes to the linen closet outside the bathroom and pulls out her heaviest quilt. As gently as she can, she wraps it around Mary, pulls it closed under her chin and tucks it around her narrow hips. Rubbing both feet at once now, Arthur glances up at Celia.

“She must have walked,” he whispers. Then, leaning forward and inspecting Mary’s eyes, he says, “Did you walk, Mary?”

Mary smiles down into Arthur’s face but doesn’t answer.

“Best you go wake Ruth,” he says to Celia. “Think Mary’ll be needing her about now.”

 

W
ithin five minutes, the glow of the porch lights has faded and Daniel is breathing hard, fogging the air around him though he can hardly see it. His thighs ache from running through the snow, throwing his knees waist high for every step, and his left side throbs. Deep in his chest, the icy air burns his lungs. His own breathing is the only sound he hears. When he reaches a low spot in the snow at the bottom of a drift, he stops, the shotgun still propped over his shoulder, leans forward, and rests with one hand braced against his knee. He is nowhere near the prairie dog mound, or where the prairie dog mound used to be. Ian went back there, flung that dead prairie dog for his brothers to see. The brothers said prairie dogs wouldn’t live there anymore, not since Daniel killed one. Ian said, “Who the hell cares? It was a good shot, a damn good shot, so who the hell cares about some God damned old prairie dogs?”

Standing straight, Daniel lifts the gun. He braces the butt against his right shoulder and brings the stock to his cheek, keeping his head high. Ian showed him how with a sawed-off broomstick.

“Don’t let your head sag,” he had said. “Keep it straight. Point; don’t aim. That’s the big difference. Aim a rifle. Point a shotgun.”

Problem is Daniel doesn’t have anything to point it at. Staring down the barrel, he sees nothing but dark rolling fields. He listens hard, thinking that maybe he’ll hear chains. Chains dangling from Jack Mayer’s wrists. He’ll see Jack Mayer, his black skin, his white eyes glowing bright as the snow in the dim light. He’ll see those thick heavy arms again, pumping hard with every stride. He’ll shoot Jack Mayer. He’ll shoot him because Ian said Jack Mayer killed Julianne Robison. Except he didn’t. Mr. Robison did, and he’s dead already. So Daniel will point, not aim, because Ian is dead and Daniel doesn’t have any friends left. He’ll lead the target that will be running through the snow, high stepping under the weight of shackles and chains, and he’ll spatter buckshot across Jack Mayer’s back. Daniel will shoot him dead and then he’ll be a man.

But, in the fading light, on the distant horizon where the last of day is sinking, Daniel sees nothing. There is no Jack Mayer. He’s dead somewhere, lying in a ravine or buried under a snowdrift, or maybe he escaped across state lines. For months, he’s been gone, been gone all along. He didn’t do any of those things that Ian read in the newspaper. Didn’t live in Ian’s garage or steal Nelly Simpson’s Ford Fairlane. He’s gone. Daniel lowers the gun and walks toward home, still a boy.

R
uth slips on her robe, pulls the belt tight and opens her bedroom door a crack so no one will see her packed suitcases at the foot of her bed. Celia peeks inside.

“So sorry to disturb you, Ruth,” she whispers. “But Mary Robison is here and she isn’t well. Arthur thinks maybe you could be of help.”

“Goodness, it’s awfully cold for her to be out.”

Stepping aside so Ruth can pass, Celia whispers, “And it appears that she walked. She’s frozen. Frozen solid.”

Ruth shuffles into the kitchen, her slippers sliding across the cold floor, and sits next to Mary. Until Ruth touches Mary’s sleeve, she doesn’t seem to notice Ruth. When she does, Mary lifts her head and smiles.

“So good to see you, Ruth.”

Ruth takes both of Mary’s hands and rubs them gently between her own. “You’re like ice. Some coffee?”

“Milk, please, and one sugar.”

Kneeling in front of Mary, Arthur wraps one end of the quilt around her feet. “That better?” he asks.

Celia pushes two mugs across the table and sits in a chair opposite Ruth and Mary. Arthur sits next to her.

“Nice of you to visit, Mary,” Ruth says. “I hope you’ll let Arthur drive you next time.”

She holds up a finger to quiet Arthur when he starts to talk. After so many years, at least twenty, she feels like the big sister again.

“Did you mean to come here?” Ruth asks even though she knows the answer.

“We used to be such friends, didn’t we?” Mary says, watching Ruth rub her hands over Mary’s. “The three of us. When we were girls.”

“We’re still friends,” Ruth says, beginning to knead each of Mary’s fingers. Slowly, they are warming.

“Only two of us. And not like we were.”

“Girls grow up, I guess,” Ruth says. “Responsibilities and such. Not so much time for friends.”

Making a humming noise, Mary presses her face toward her coffee cup as if letting the steam warm her cheeks and nose. “I remember when we stopped being such friends. The three of us. Do you remember?” Mary pauses and says, “The day Orville Robison got off that train.”

Ruth lifts her eyes toward Celia and Arthur. “Yes, that was a long time ago.”

She swallows. Her heart begins to beat against her chest. She tries to slow it by taking one deep breath after another. Massaging Mary’s littlest finger, Ruth concentrates on the tiny veins that spread like frail blue vines across the back of Mary’s hand.

“Do you remember?” Mary says. “It rained the day he came. First good rain in so many years. All the dust put to rest that day. Do you remember? Everyone in town thought Orville Robison brought us a miracle.”

Ruth tries to lift her eyes to Mary but she can’t. Instead, she lays Mary’s hands in her lap and covers them with her own.

“I thought I was marrying a miracle worker. So carried away with him. Big and broad as a barn. And so handsome. Wasn’t he handsome?” Mary lifts Ruth’s chin with one finger. “He did it, Ruthie. He hurt your Eve. When she was so young. He hurt your Eve, did things to her no man should be doing to a child. And then your family came home again. After all these years, they haunted him like a ghost. Hurt him especially to see the little one.” She cups Ruth’s face with one hand. “I didn’t know how to stop him.”

 

W
ondering if Arthur hears the rustling outside the kitchen window, Celia nudges him, but he is listening to Ruth and Mary Robison and he brushes her away. She has been trying to follow the conversation, but isn’t able to because she can’t shake the feeling that something is watching her. Outside the window over the sink, the maple tree’s bare branches tap on the side of the house and the porch light throws long, thin shadows that skip into the corners of her eyes, startling her. She’s a little jumpy, that’s all. So much has happened. Celia takes a deep breath and exhales as she moves her chair closer to Arthur’s.

“What is it you’re saying, Mary?” Arthur asks, scooting to the edge of his seat.

Ignoring for a moment that it seems someone is lurking outside the kitchen window, Celia realizes that she missed something very important. She reaches for Arthur’s arm, but he pulls away.

“Arthur,” she whispers. “Let’s not lose our tempers.”

Again, Arthur ignores Celia. “Tell me, Mary,” he says.

Keeping one hand on Arthur’s forearm, Celia shifts in her seat to face Ruth. “I don’t understand, Ruth,” she says. “What’s going on?”

Ruth doesn’t answer. Instead, with her hands covering Mary’s, she stares over Celia’s shoulder. Celia slowly turns. There, in the dark window with the maple’s bare branches bouncing in the north wind, a large shadow slips by. Celia jumps up, the back of her chair bouncing off the kitchen cabinets and catching her left ankle. She stumbles and cries out, but before she can steady herself, Arthur grabs her arm and yanks her backward.

“Go,” he says, stepping in front of her and waving them all toward the front bedroom. “Get all the girls. Shut the door. Lock it.”

Celia limps around the table, keeping her eyes on the window even though the shadow is gone now and hurries Ruth and Mary toward the farthest bedroom—Ruth’s room now that she stays with Elaine.

“What is it, Mama?” Evie calls out from her room.

“Here, Evie. Come here.” Celia grabs Evie’s arm like Arthur grabbed hers, hustles Ruth and Mary into the room, and pulling Evie in after them, she slams the door behind her.

“Mama,” Evie says, jumping into the middle of Ruth’s bed and tucking her knees up under her. “What is it?”

Celia presses her ear to the closed door as she waves at Ruth to back away. “Sit down,” she says. “It’s nothing. Nothing.”

“Celia, did you see?” Ruth says, helping Mary to sit on the bed.

Celia glances around the room, which is brightly lit with two lamps and the overhead light. At the end of Ruth’s bed sit two suitcases. “The lights,” she says, though she doesn’t know why. “Put out the lights.”

“Why?” Evie says. “What is it?”

“Please, shut them off.”

Ruth turns off the two lamps near the bed as Celia flips the switch on the wall. The room falls dark. The house is quiet. Celia stands at the door, listening but hearing nothing.

“I know what it is, Mama,” Evie says, her voice floating up out of the darkness.

Three silhouettes sit on the bed, smallest to tallest. The smallest sits up and lifts her head.

“It’s Uncle Ray.”

Daniel stops in the shadow of the barn, his shotgun propped over one shoulder. His crooked toes are numb and his fingers have gone stiff. The cold, dry air burns his mouth and throat each time he inhales. The day was only warm enough to melt the very top layer of snow. Now, with nightfall, the slippery coating has frozen to an icy shell. With every movement, every step, the snow crackles underfoot. Trying to stand still, he breathes into a cupped fist to warm the air before taking it in again. He leans forward, out of the shadow. Straight ahead, between the house and the barn, the porch light glows in a perfect circle, and in its center, stands Uncle Ray.