Bent Road

Chapter 18

Celia frowns across the table at Arthur as he drops a second sugar cube in his coffee. He is about to drop in a third but stops when Celia raises her chin and shakes her head. From the front of the café, the bell over the door rings, a blast of cold air floods their table, and Sheriff Bigler walks in. He pulls off his heavy blue jacket, which makes him shrink to half the size he was when he walked in, drapes it over a stool at the counter and sits. Arthur lifts a hand to greet him. Floyd nods in return.

“Wonder what brings Floyd out?” Arthur says.

“Having a little dessert like everyone else,” Celia says, pulling off her coat and laying it over the seat back. “And I called him. Just in case.”

Ever since the holidays ended, Father Flannery has been calling the house, saying he hoped the Scotts were a good Christian family who hadn’t forgotten about forgiveness since they started attending St. Bart’s. Tired of the phone calls and thinking that maybe they could get that annulment after all, Arthur finally agreed to meet with Ray. Ruth shook her head at the idea and Celia said an annulment would never happen once Father Flannery found out about the baby. Still, Arthur wanted to try. Celia said she would approve only if they met Ray in the café because he certainly wasn’t setting foot inside her kitchen.

“Shouldn’t have done that,” Arthur says, taking a sip of coffee and making a sour face as if it isn’t sweet enough. He taps his teaspoon on the white tablecloth, leaving a small, coffee-colored stain.

“Why on earth not?”

“Just gonna get Ray riled up.”

“He won’t know Floyd is here for us.”

“Man’s not a fool, Celia.”

Celia brushes him away with a wave of her hand. “Are you doing all right?” she asks, turning to face Ruth, who is sitting next to her in the small booth. She takes Ruth’s hand with both of hers. “Are you feeling okay?”

“I’m fine,” Ruth says. “Please don’t fuss.”

At the front of the café, the door chime rings again. Orville and Mary Robison walk in, stamping their feet and pulling off their coats. Arthur tips his head toward them as if he’s wearing his hat and slouches back down into the wooden bench.

“What do you suppose brings them out?” Celia asks.

“They come every night,” Ruth says, picking at the frayed end of her jacket sleeve. “Have ever since they first got married. Dessert and coffee usually.”

The dinner crowd has cleared out and only the folks who, like the Robisons, have come for cherry pie and coffee are left. Half a dozen at most. At a table near the front counter, Orville Robison waits while Mary takes his coat and hangs it on the rack inside the door. She leaves on her own coat and as they sit, Floyd Bigler swivels around on his stool and walks over to them. He shakes Orville’s hand and takes the seat that Mary offers him.

The two men begin to talk while Mary tips the white creamer, pouring milk into her coffee. The sleeves of her gray flannel jacket hide her hands, making it seem that she has shrunk in the months since Julianne disappeared, and the hair peeking out from under her tan hat is gray, almost white. How can she go on-standing, walking, sipping her coffee-now that no one is searching for Julianne anymore? There hasn’t even been an article in the paper about the disappearance since before the holidays, and Father Flannery said a special prayer for Julianne at midnight mass on Christmas Eve, a prayer that sounded like good-bye. Maybe that’s why folks stopped talking about it and writing about and searching for poor Julianne. They all thought good-bye meant Julianne would never come home.

The chime rings a third time, and Ray walks into the café. He takes off his hat, nods toward Isabelle Burris, who is folding napkins behind the counter, and lifts a finger in her direction.

“Cup of black coffee, Izzy,” he says and, as he winks at her, he notices the Robisons and Floyd Bigler. He pauses for a moment, looks at them and at all the others in the café. Folks have laid down their forks, pushed aside their coffee and are watching. “Get back to it,” Ray says to the room, glaring at them with his good eye while the cloudy eye goes off on its own, and without even a polite nod toward the Robisons, he walks past.

Isabelle follows Ray to the table with a pot of coffee and a white cup and saucer. She stays several feet behind him and only approaches the table after he has pulled a chair up to the booth and sat.

“I’ll leave the pot for you folks,” she says.

“How about a piece of your cherry pie, Izzy?” Ray says, scooting up to the table. “What about you all? Anyone else for pie?”

All around the café, folks pick up their silverware and go back to sipping their coffee.

“Nothing for us, Ray,” Arthur says, sliding the creamer and sugar bowl to Ray’s end of the table.

Ray takes off his hat and coat, fanning the table with a gust of the cold air he brought in from outside. It smells like campfire smoke and oil, but mostly whiskey. After draping his coat over the back of his chair and tossing his hat on the next table, he reaches for the coffeepot and, as he pours himself a cup, his hand shakes, causing a few drops to spill over the side and onto the white tablecloth. He fills the cup only halfway and glances at Ruth. Tiny red veins etch the yellow skin around his nose and mouth and his dark hair is matted against his forehead and temples. He is nearly the man he was twenty years ago-the strong square jaw, the heavy brow, the dark brown eyes. He still has these features, but they have wilted. He begins to drum one set of fingers and, under the table, where he occasionally brushes against Celia, his knees bob up and down.

“Arthur says things are going well for you at the county,” Celia says, although this is not true. Ray has been showing up hours late and looking as if he hasn’t slept. First, he said it was the flu, then trouble with the truck and finally food poisoning by that damned Izzy at the café.

“Things are good enough,” Ray says, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing because his shaking hand spills too much into his mouth. He clears his throat and leans back when Isabelle sets his pie in front of him.

“Anything else, folks?” she asks.

“No,” Ray says. “That’s it.” And he pushes the pie into the center of the table.

“Well,” Arthur says, after Isabelle has walked away. “I guess you’ve been back about a month now.” He pauses, taking a drink of coffee. “And things are working out. Working out fine the way they are.”

“I think it’s long about time Ruth comes home,” Ray says, setting down his coffee and staring at Arthur, but not even his good eye can hold the gaze. “Time she gets back to church, too. Once on Christmas just isn’t right.”

“Ruth’s been to church every Sunday. Hasn’t missed a one.” Arthur shakes his head. “Nope, can’t have her living with you.”

“I’m sober, Arthur. Have been since the day I left.”

“Fist hurts all the same,” Arthur says, glancing at Ruth.

With her eyes lowered, Ruth touches the edge of her jaw.

“You want to come home, Ruth?” Ray’s knees stop shaking for a moment, but they begin to quiver again before Ruth can answer.

Arthur holds up a finger to silence her. “Let’s keep on like this for a short time more,” he says. “Maybe consider whether staying married is the right thing for you two. Maybe you come for a few Sunday suppers so we can talk about it.” Arthur nods at his own idea. “Yeah, maybe a dinner or two.”

Ray presses both hands on the tabletop, steadying himself. He shifts in his seat, the cups and saucers rattling when his knees bump the table. “That’s a damn fool thing to consider.” His good eye lifts to look at Ruth.

She shifts in her seat, pressing back into the corner where the wooden bench meets the wall.

“You considering not staying married?” he says. “This how you start thinking when you quit the church?”

Celia ignores Arthur’s signal to keep quiet. “She has every right to think as she pleases, Ray. You hurt her very badly.”

Ray looks at Celia as if noticing her at the table for the first time. He never quite meets her eyes but instead looks at the individual parts of her. Tonight he studies her neck, the dimple where the two halves of her collarbone meet. After a long silence, Ray pushes back from the table. He stands and stumbles a few steps, knocking over his chair. The loud clatter silences the café again.

“Ruth is coming home tonight,” he says, dropping two dollars on the table. “I’ve been patient enough.” He leans forward, resting his palms on the table. “We’ll fetch your things tomorrow, Ruth. Come along now.”

Arthur tries to stand, but Ray, who is already on his feet, shoves him back down, reaches across the table and grabs Ruth’s forearm. He tries to yank her from the booth as if she’s no more than one of Evie’s ragdolls. She cries out. Celia presses her body against Ruth’s, pinning her in the corner. With both hands wrapped around one of Ruth’s small wrists, Ray pulls. Across the table, Arthur struggles to his feet, tipping over the coffee and creamer. He grabs Ray’s collar and drags him up and away. The weight pressing down on Celia is suddenly lifted. As quickly as Ray attacked, he is gone. Celia takes in a deep breath. With her body still pressed against Ruth’s, she turns. Both men have stumbled over Ray’s fallen chair. Arthur is first to scramble to his feet. He dives at Ray again but finds Floyd Bigler instead.

Even though Floyd is a much smaller man than either Ray or Arthur, he grabs Ray by his upper arm, shakes him and pushes him from the table. With the other hand, he stiff-arms Arthur.

“What’s going on here, gentlemen?”

“Taking my wife.” Ray wipes his forearm across his nose. “High time she comes home.” He rocks from one foot to the other and shifts his eyes from side to side. “Ain’t got nothing to do with you, Floyd.”

Floyd tugs at his belt. “I guess if Ruth wants to go with you, she’ll go on and do it.” He looks at Ruth.

She wraps one arm around her midsection and shakes her head.

“All right then, I guess you’re leaving alone.”

Celia slides away from Ruth, pushes aside the table that has wedged them both in the corner and begins mopping up the coffee and cream that has spilled. The men in the café, the ones who had been eating dessert, including Orville Robison, are standing. Ray waves them off, grabs his hat from the nearby table and stumbles toward the door.

“It’s wrong, what you’re doing, Arthur Scott,” he says, once he has reached the front of the café.

Standing with one hand on the doorknob, he sways a bit and seems to notice Orville Robison standing nearby. Orville crosses his arms over his chest. Still sitting, Mary stares down at her hands folded on the table. Ray leans forward to get a good look at her.

“Don’t know a man who doesn’t have a say when it comes to his own wife.” Then he pulls open the door, letting in another blast of cold air. “It sure enough is wrong. Sure enough.”

Once Ray is gone, Floyd motions for all of the men to sit.

“Everyone all right?” he asks, picking up Ray’s chair and sliding it back to its original spot at a nearby table.

“Ruth, honey,” Celia says, laying a hand on Ruth’s stomach. “Is everything okay?” Ruth sits with one hand clutching her stomach and the other lying motionless in her lap. Her face has gone white and when Celia touches Ruth’s hand, it is cold.

“You folks are in a tough spot, I’d say,” Floyd says, nodding at Ruth. “You should probably shoot on over to the hospital. Let the doctor have a look.”

Celia and Arthur exchange a glance, but neither one speaks.

“He doesn’t know, does he?” Floyd asks.

Arthur shakes his head.

“Yep, that’s a good enough mess, all right.”

“Floyd’s right,” Celia says. Obviously, Floyd has figured out that Ruth is pregnant, and if he figured it out, so will others. “We need to get Ruth to the hospital. I think he hurt her arm.”

Ruth slides across the seat. Arthur helps her to stand while Celia helps her on with her coat, pulls it closed and buttons it. With Arthur on one side, Celia on the other and Floyd following behind, telling folks to get back to Izzy’s pies, Ruth shuffles toward the front of the café. Near the door, she stops and turns, her one bad arm dangling at her side.

“He wasn’t home that night, Floyd,” she says.

Celia starts to speak but Floyd holds up a finger to silence her.

“Ray, he wasn’t home like I said.” And then facing Mary Robison, she says, “I don’t know that he did anything, Mary. I don’t know. But he wasn’t home like he told Floyd. He wasn’t home like I said.”

Floyd nods as if he’s always known.

“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Ruth says. “I’m just so sorry.”

Evie slowly opens her closet door so that it doesn’t make any sound. Then she squats and crawls under the coats and dresses that Aunt Ruth brought when she first moved into Evie’s room. The clothes smell like Aunt Ruth and, for a moment, Evie thinks Mama and Daddy and Aunt Ruth are home. She wiggles backward out of the closet and listens. They don’t usually go out on a school night. Mama said they wouldn’t be late and that Evie should mind Daniel and Elaine. Evie frowns to think she has to mind Daniel. Waiting until she is sure the house is quiet, she crawls back under the low-hanging hemlines, coughs as she reaches for the extra blankets that Mama stores in the closet, and so that they don’t come unfolded, she pulls them out slowly, one hand on the bottom, the other on top. Next she drags out the box of photo albums that can’t be stored in the basement because they might mildew and there, behind it all, she finds her hatbox. She pulls it from the dark corner, sits crisscross in front of it and, after checking the door one last time, she lifts off the lid.

“This is my favorite,” Evie whispers, taking the perfume bottle from the box with two fingers.

The creamy white bottle has a short belly and a tall, thin stopper decorated with tiny red roses. Evie pulls out the stopper, and even though the bottle is empty, she smells Aunt Eve.

“I’m always afraid I’ll break it,” she says, and setting the stopper back in the bottle, she places it on top of the stack of blankets.

Dragging the box farther out of the corner and wrapping her legs around it, Evie takes out the picture of Aunt Eve and Uncle Ray and props it up on the closet floor. Next, she pulls out a compact, a brush and a hand mirror-all decorated with the same red roses-and lays them on top of the blankets. She took all four from Aunt Eve’s room on the same day, but the pink heart-shaped brooch and purple scarf with gold stitching that she removes next, she took one at a time on separate days. Last, she slips one hand into the box and slides it under a carefully folded blue dress. She wiggles her fingers in the soft ruffles and rests her other hand on top of the dress, the silk sash feeling cool and smooth. Lifting the dress from the box, she takes it by each shoulder, holds it to her neck and lets it drape down her front as she stands.

“It’s too long,” Evie whispers, slipping the dress over her head and threading her arms through each sleeve.

The blue silky skirt flutters against her bare toes and the waist falls past her hips. At the neckline, six inches of blue piping left unstitched hang from the dress and the shoulder seam is torn because she tripped over the dress when Daddy and Uncle Ray were fighting. Evie gathers up the low hanging waist and ties it off in the proper place with the silk sash. The feathery sleeves tickle her elbows. Looking down, she thinks the dress is short enough, but without Mama’s help, Evie can’t do anything about the wide, torn neckline that slips off her shoulders or the dangling trim. Mama would pin it all up with safety pins, like she does the Halloween costumes that are too big, but Evie can’t ask Mama for help.

“It’ll be fine,” she says. “Just fine.”

Sitting in the backseat of Arthur’s car, Ruth recognizes the throb in her shoulder and the lopsided way her coat hangs. It’s probably dislocated, has happened before. She lets her bad arm lie at her side and, sliding down in the backseat of the station wagon, she slips her good hand inside her jacket so she can feel her little girl. She hasn’t told anyone that she can feel Elisabeth kicking or that she has named her baby. She deserved a name. From the moment Ruth felt she was a girl, Elisabeth deserved a name. A name would give the tiny new baby something to hold on to, a little more courage, or maybe it was Ruth who needed the courage. She smiles at the tiny flutter that stirs her insides and, laying back her head, she closes her eyes as the car rambles over the gravel road.

Up in the front seat, Celia and Arthur are silent. No one has spoken since Ruth told Floyd the truth about Ray. Not a word since they walked out of the café into a strong north wind, not as Arthur pulled away, the café’s lights dwindling behind them, not now as they drive down Bent Road on their way to the hospital. Celia is no more than a shadow, occasionally checking on Ruth, reaching over the seat to pat her knee. Next to her, Arthur sits tall, stiffening and bracing his arms each time a truck passes and he has to ease the car toward the ditch. Celia is the first to speak.

“Will Floyd arrest him now?” she asks, her shadow turning toward Arthur.

“Don’t suppose he has reason to.”

“But he’ll look into it, right?”

“Don’t really know.” Arthur rubs his palm against his forehead. Father used to do the same thing. “I suppose he’ll ask Ruth some more questions, pay Ray another visit.”

Celia reaches back and pats Ruth’s knee again and probably smiles though Ruth can’t see.

“Well, he’s not coming to dinner. I can’t imagine why you invited him.”

“I didn’t invite him, not for certain. Just suggested. Tried to ease my way in. Maybe buy a little time.”

“Well, I don’t want him around the kids. He did something to that girl. I just know it.”

“I’m handling him the best I can for now,” Arthur says.

Ruth closes her eyes again when another truck, driving in the opposite direction, flies past. The friction between the two automobiles and the heavy north wind rock Ruth from side to side. She closes her eyes and tries to hold her arm still.

“He’s waiting him out,” Ruth says into the dark car.

Celia’s shadow turns, stretching one arm across the back of her seat. “Waiting him out? What do you mean?”

“He thinks Ray will die soon. That he’s drunk himself nearly dead.”

A set of oncoming headlights outlines Celia with a yellow frame. “Is that true?”

Once the other truck has passed and its headlights have faded, Arthur shrugs. “Can’t help what a man does to himself.”

“I don’t even know what to say about that,” Celia says. “Besides being a horrible thought, what are the chances?”

“Pretty good from the looks of him.” Fending off the wind and the rough gravel roads, Arthur’s hands and arms shake on the steering wheel.

“I’m sorry, Ruth. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”

“He’s thinking he’s seen a man nearly dead from drinking before and that Ray looks about the same.”

Celia glances between the two of them.

“Papa,” Ruth says. “Papa drank himself dead. But Ray’s not that close yet, Arthur. Not like Papa. Not as bad as Papa was in the end.”

Another car approaches. Ruth sits up. The more she talks, the more numb she feels inside. She didn’t realize it in the café, or the night Ray came back from Damar, or the day Arthur asked Gene Bucher to give Ray a job, but sitting in the car, blinking against another set of approaching headlights, she knows that Arthur is counting on time because he doesn’t know any other way.

“Arthur,” Celia shouts. “Look out.”

Arthur jerks the steering wheel, his shadow falling to the right. The car slides across the gravel road, throwing Ruth against the doorframe. Her head bounces off the window. Something jabs her side. Pressing her one good arm straight out, she braces herself against the front seat. The car grinds to a stop. Heavy tires spinning on the hard dry gravel fade in the distance. Outside the front window, a dust cloud settles like dwindling smoke in the headlights and a long winding tail and arched back appear-tumbleweeds caught up along the fence line on Bent Road. Someone had better clear them away soon, Ruth thinks, or they’ll pull down the fence, and she closes her eyes.

Daniel lies in bed. Through his wall, he hears Evie fumbling about in her closet when she should be sleeping. Elaine told them lights out so she and Jonathon could sit on the couch and talk about flower arrangements, cummerbunds and the house that Jonathon will finish before they marry. Already, the wedding is the only thing Elaine talks about and already Jonathon is around even more, being Dad’s extra set of hands. Daniel pulls his pillow over his head and rolls toward the window. He stares at the white sheers lit up by the porch lights so that they shine with an orange glow and wonders if Jack Mayer really stole Nelly Simpson’s 1963 midnight blue Ford Fairlane.

Ian brought the newspaper clipping to school last Monday. He said that Nelly Simpson was married to the richest man in Hays and there wasn’t a man, woman, or child in Rooks County who would dare leave a fingerprint on Nelly Simpson’s Ford Fairlane. Never mind, steal it. No man except Jack Mayer. Ian said Jack Mayer wouldn’t give two God damned cents about Nelly Simpson or any other Simpson.

“We got trouble now,” Ian had said, sitting across from Daniel at the cafeteria table and propping up his short leg on the cross bar. He didn’t need to do this with his new boot because both feet could touch the floor at the same time, but he did it anyway. “He’s got himself a car now. He can get to anyone he damn well pleases.”

“I thought he was living in your barn.”

“Sure he was, but now he’s got a car. It’s trouble. Real big damn trouble.” Ian glanced around as if Jack Mayer might be standing right behind him. “My brothers say maybe we can hunt him down.” He lowers his voice. “After we go to shooting pheasant, maybe we’ll go to shooting Jack Mayer. It’ll be practice. Real good practice. We’ll track him down.”

“How we going to track a Ford Fairlane?” Daniel asked.

Ian opened his brown bag lunch, looked inside. “Dogs,” he had said, pulling out a sandwich wrapped in waxed paper. “We’ll use dogs.”

When Daniel opens his eyes again, the white sheers still shine with an orange glow, his pillow is lying on the floor, Evie’s room is quiet and the telephone is ringing. Outside his door, footsteps cross the living room floor and move into the kitchen. The phone stops ringing and Jonathon’s muffled voice drifts into Daniel’s room. He closes his eyes and opens them again when there is a tap on his door.

“Daniel,” Elaine says. She knocks again, louder. “Daniel, wake up.”

She cracks the door and the light from the living room makes him blink. He lifts up on one elbow. “Yeah, I’m up. I’m awake.”

“Get yourself dressed. That was Daddy. There’s been an accident.”

Daniel sits up, resting his hands on his knees.

“Get yourself going,” Jonathon says, taking Elaine’s place. Daniel wants to tell Jonathon to get his own damned self going, but instead he swings his legs over the side of the bed and puts both feet on the cold floor. In the next room, Elaine taps on Evie’s door.

“No time for questions,” Jonathon says. “Get a move on.”