Bent Road

Chapter 6

Breathing in the cool morning air that ruffles her kitchen curtains and still smells of rain, Ruth crosses her legs, Indian style as Evie would say, and rearranges her skirt so it lies around her on the floor like a halo. Pieces of broken glass scatter as she settles into position. On the stove, a small saucepan sets inside a larger one that is filled with two inches of boiling water-a homemade double boiler. A cheesecloth draped over both traps the heavy, rising steam. On the counter, where it will stay cool, waits a small brown bottle.

From her spot on the floor, Ruth glances at the clock sitting on the stove and dips a teaspoon into a box of baking soda, levels it by dragging it under the box top and drops it into a small glass dish. Using a tight whipping motion, she stirs it into the water already in the bowl and, thinking the paste isn’t thick enough yet, she adds another scoop of soda. She taps her spoon on the side of the glass bowl. Still not thick enough. As she adds a third spoonful, a truck pulls around the side of the house and parks near the garage. A door slams followed by footsteps that climb the outside stairs. Ruth pulls her knees to her chest, cups the small bowl in one hand and stirs the baking soda paste with the other.

The screened door rattles in its frame.

“Ruth. Ruth. You in there?”

Ruth lets her legs fall down into a crisscross position again and uses the back of her spoon to mash the paste against the side of the bowl.

“Ruth, it’s Arthur. You home? I saw you out there on the road. You and Ray. Olivia got out again. Did you see? Damn cow. Everything okay in there?”

The screen creaks as it opens. Arthur knocks on the wooden door loud enough that Ruth feels it through the floorboards. She closes her eyes, actually only her left eye, and holds her breath, bracing herself. But the vibration beneath her is not enough to stir up the pain. She’ll feel it tomorrow.

“Thought you might have something to eat in there,” Arthur says, shaking the locked doorknob. “Eggs are cold at my house. You in there?”

Ruth sets aside the glass bowl and, supporting herself with one hand, she stretches toward a silver frame that lies barely within reach. She hooks the frame with one finger, pulls it toward her and sits straight again. Because the glass is broken, she slips off the cardboard backing, removes the picture and sets it on the floor next to her. A spot of blood drips off the palm that braced her when she reached for the frame. The blood lands on the center of the picture just below Eve’s right eye. First one drop and then another. Eve was fifteen when the picture was taken, maybe sixteen. A few years before she died. Ruth pulls a small shard of glass from her palm and presses her hand against her skirt to stop the bleeding.

“Ruth, hey, Ruth.” Arthur knocks again. “Celia says to come on over for coffee. She’s got those white beans ready to go. Thought you’d like a ride.”

Heavy footsteps cross the porch, pause and walk back. The door rattles in its frame as Arthur tries it again.

“You in there?”

Once the bleeding has stopped, Ruth dips a corner of her skirt into the baking soda paste and begins to polish the silver frame. She starts at the top, scrubbing in tiny circles, a white haze marking her path. The frame had been a wedding present. She polishes it every month, sometimes with baking soda, sometimes with toothpaste. The tarnish is quick to gather in the scalloped edges. Cheap silver, Ray always says.

Having finished the top, Ruth adjusts her grip, folding her hand over the jagged edges of glass clinging to the frame. The pointed shards prick her fingers. She changes position, shifting her weight from side to side, her back beginning to ache where he kicked her. Something cuts into her hip. Another piece of glass, she thinks. All around her, glass lays shattered. Crescent-shaped pieces of wine-glasses never used, cleared out of the china hutch with one swipe of Ray’s right hand. The frame had been an accident. It bounced across the wooden floor and came to rest at Ray’s feet. From inside the silver frame, Eve’s shattered face, her eyes bright, smiled up at him from under the brim of her best Sunday hat.

He had stood for a moment, staring at the photo, his clenched fists at his side and without bothering to look at her, he called Ruth a whore, a God damned whore with no business sneaking off like she did. A God damned whore wearing a pink band in her hair who had no business feeding the folks who thought he stole their girl. He had seen those Wichita men down at Izzy’s café. Thought he’d have himself a decent God damned breakfast for once but then he sees those men with Floyd. Those God damned Wichita men tipped their hats at him, told him what a pleasant wife he had and what good coffee Ruth brewed up for them. Whole damn town is talking about it now. Everyone talking about how much that girl looked like Eve, talking about it like it means something. Ruth couldn’t lie when Ray asked if they’d been to talk to her but promised him that she only told those men the truth-that Ray’d been home all night, eating meat loaf and strawberry pie. The truth is all. Ray had stood for a long time, his good eye staring at Ruth before he kicked the silver frame across the floor into the kitchen. As Ruth crawled after it, glass crackling under her knees, he lifted the same boot and kicked her in the back and again in the left side of the head. When Ruth woke, he was gone.

A door slams and Arthur’s truck fires up. Gravel crunches beneath his tires as he slowly backs up and starts down the driveway. The truck stops when it passes the front of the house, idles there for a moment, and the sound of the engine fades as he drives away.