Bent Road

Chapter 28

Celia feels Arthur behind her, his body so much broader and taller, shielding her from the northern wind. No snow has fallen in four days, so while Arthur and the other county workers have cleared the roads and driving is easy enough, the temperature has continued to fall and not a flake has melted. Fourteen inches of snow covered the ground by the end of the day that they found Julianne, and the wind has stirred up the landscape, driving the snow into five-foot drifts in some spots and leaving frozen barren ground in others. Inside the cemetery, snow disguises the graves that lie in St. Anthony’s shadow, making them almost beautiful. Someone, probably the two black men standing near the fence line, waiting and smoking, shoveled a path from the gate to Julianne’s gravesite and the area around. Still, Celia’s feet are cold and damp and beside her, tucked under one arm, Evie shivers. Celia pulls her closer, letting Arthur shield them both.

Beside Evie, Daniel stands with his hands folded and his head lowered. The entire town is here, a sea of dark coats and hats that surround a tiny grave, lying in the shade thrown by three large pine trees. The pines’ branches are thick and white and clumps of snow drip when the wind blows. Celia tries to think it is a lovely spot for Julianne, so much nicer with the trees and the view of the church than the newer section of the cemetery where Mrs. Minken was recently buried. Here, Julianne lies near the grandparents she never met. Here, she lies in a grave that was probably meant for her mother.

From their spot near the back of the crowd, Father Flannery’s voice, fighting with the heavy wind, is no more than a broken few words. “Tender young life… accept God’s will… forbidden… we powerless sinners…”

Arthur touches Celia’s arm and points to a closer spot, but Celia shakes her head and squeezes Evie. She is afraid to go closer, afraid that whatever took Julianne might find its way to her family. After a brief silence, the mourners around Julianne’s grave say “Amen” in tandem and, following their lead, though she can’t hear Father Flannery, Celia makes the sign of the cross, nudging Evie to do the same.

Behind her, Celia feels Arthur make the sign across his chest and his deep voice echoes “Amen.” She leans into him, letting the sound of him comfort her. As everyone parts, filtering down the narrow shoveled path toward the gate, Evie tugs on Celia’s sleeve. In a whisper, she asks to go to Elaine, who is standing a few rows up with Jonathon, Ruth and Reesa. Celia nods, and watching until Elaine has wrapped both arms around Evie, she turns toward Arthur. He is gone.

Daniel offers his arm to Mama because when Dad slipped behind him and started to walk away, he whispered for Daniel to take care of her. Mama takes Daniel’s arm and smiles up at him. She does that now, smiles every time she has to crane her neck to see into his eyes, as if she’s proud that he’s finally become a man. Except maybe taller doesn’t really mean he’s a man yet. He hasn’t fired a shotgun. He’s still afraid of Jack Mayer and Uncle Ray, and he cries when he has to be alone at night and remember Julianne Robison lying under that white quilt. Being taller isn’t all it takes to be a man. A man doesn’t hit a crippled kid square in the nose. Only a boy does that, no matter how tall he is.

Watching the others leave, Daniel wonders if Ian told yet and if his pa will see Daniel standing there by Julianne’s grave and come punch Daniel in the face for doing the same to Ian. Ian’s brothers had picked him up from the ground after Daniel punched him, and one of them shoved a napkin under Ian’s nose. Then they both looked at Daniel like they had never seen him before and dragged Ian, only his one good leg able to keep up, to the bathroom, where they cleaned him up so not even Mrs. Ellenton knew anything happened. Daniel doesn’t see either of those brothers walking away from Julianne’s grave. In fact, he doesn’t see any Bucher brother, or Mr. or Mrs. Bucher or Ian. Maybe he should tell first. Maybe he won’t get in as much trouble if he tells what Ian said about Aunt Eve getting bloodied between her legs and murdered in Grandma Reesa’s shed. Watching Dad walk away from Julianne’s grave, Daniel decides to tell because that’s probably what a man would do.

Ruth reaches for Evie, but she slips into Elaine’s arms instead and buries her face in Elaine’s wool coat. Jonathon begins to say something, probably words of comfort. Ruth pats his hand, silencing him, and nods as if she understands why Evie can’t love her right now. Then she steps away from the crowd, not liking the feeling that everyone is leaving Julianne cold and alone, not liking the feeling that everyone is leaving her. Many of these mourners for Julianne have come from the country-farmers who have probably checked every abandoned barn and deserted tractor, fearing that another tiny body will turn up. Some of them stare at Ruth, at the swell she can’t hide beneath her coat anymore, because they haven’t seen her, only heard. They look at her as if they think Ruth should be with a husband. They stare as if she is sinning against poor little Julianne and her parents. Orville and Mary wouldn’t squabble. Mary wouldn’t keep her baby from Orville. Orville and Mary have to witness their baby in a casket, withered away to nothing but bones. Orville and Mary, standing at their daughter’s graveside, withered away themselves, the life gone out of them, two people as dead as the daughter they’re burying. They wouldn’t waste time thinking a beating was so bad. Ruth closes her eyes and lifts her face into the icy wind, hoping it will be easier to breathe, and when she opens her eyes, she sees Arthur wading through the deep snow, away from Julianne’s grave. She holds one hand over her baby girl and follows.

Ruth has come here every week for twenty-five years, and she’s watched the pines grow, first standing with them to her back on the day they buried Eve. They were green then, not snow-covered, and thin and widely spaced. Now they’ve filled in and grown tall, their branches tangling together. The pines have always marked the way-two headstones to the north of the biggest pine, which was bigger than the rest even twenty-five years ago, and three headstones east. She doesn’t have to count anymore, never really had to. Arthur must remember, too, or maybe he’s been here to visit Eve since he came home. Maybe every week like Ruth. He seems to know the way as he steps through the smooth, clean snow and stops directly in front of Eve’s grave. He looks back when he hears Ruth behind him and takes her hand. On the ground, a few feet ahead, stands a gray stone. EVE SCOTT. OUR DAUGHTER. OUR SISTER. OUR LOVED ONE. Ruth pulls off one of her brown gloves and reaches into her coat pocket. Pulling out two smooth rocks, she sidesteps along Eve’s grave, through the snow, and lays them on top of the headstone.

“I always leave two,” she says, stepping back to Arthur’s side. “One for both of us, since you weren’t always here. But you are now.”

Arthur nods. “I couldn’t come before,” he says. “Before now.”

“My stones were always missing,” Ruth says. She feels Arthur watching her, but she keeps her eyes on Eve’s headstone. “My two stones, every time I came to visit, they were gone. Strange. Don’t you think?”

Again, Arthur nods.

“Ray was here that night, the night Julianne disappeared. He was here and he took my stones. All these years, I imagine. Why do you suppose he would do such a thing?”

“I hope to never know the answer to that,” Arthur says and slips around Ruth to block the wind, taking her arm so that she won’t fall.

But Ruth doesn’t move to leave.

“He loved her,” she says. “He would have been such a different man with her.”

Arthur wraps an arm around Ruth. “Doesn’t much matter what might have been.”

“While she was here, while Eve was with us, she was happy because Ray loved her.” Ruth takes Arthur’s other hand, presses it between both of hers. “He would have been a different man.”

“But he’s not, Ruth.” In the dry, cold air, Arthur’s voice is as deep and raspy as Father’s ever was. “He’s not a different man. I’m sorry for it, but he’s not.”

Ruth lifts her chin, turns her face into the wind and nods that she is ready to go. Together, she and Arthur step out of the snow onto the cleared space around Julianne’s small grave. With all the other mourners gone, the tiny casket sits alone, waiting to be covered over by cold, frozen dirt. Two Negro men stand nearby, one of them stubbing out a cigarette in the snow, the other leaning on a shovel. Beside them lays a mound of dirt covered by a blue tarp. Ruth hadn’t seen the open grave before because of the crowd of people, and seeing it now brings tears to the corners of her eyes.

“Come, Ruth,” Celia says, stepping forward. “Let’s get you home.”

Standing near the gate, Jonathon holds Evie, who seems to be crying into his chest, and Daniel and Elaine stand next to him. At the head of the small grave, Reesa talks quietly with Father Flannery. As Arthur, Celia and Ruth walk past on their way toward the gate, Father Flannery steps forward.

“Ruth. Celia. Arthur,” he says, bowing his head to greet them. “I was just mentioning to Reesa that we miss you fine folks at church.”

“Been to church every Sunday, Father,” Arthur says. “Haven’t missed a one.”

“I told Father Flannery that maybe we’re getting tired of that drive to Hays. Don’t you think, Arthur? Maybe we’ll see him at St. Anthony’s this Sunday.”

Arthur continues on, holding Ruth’s hand and reaching for Celia’s. “St. Bart’s is suiting me just fine. Nice to see you, Father. If you’ll excuse us.”

Reesa shakes her head.

“The gates to hell are wide,” Father Flannery says. “Much wider than those to heaven.”

Arthur stops.

Father Flannery looks back toward Eve’s grave. The wind has started to fill in the footsteps Ruth and Arthur left in the snow.

Arthur drops Ruth’s hand, steps up to Father Flannery, and in an instant, Ruth knows. She realizes that all along, all these many years, Arthur has known the truth. He’s known the truth about what killed Eve.

“Is there something you want to say to this family?” Arthur says to Father Flannery.

“My concern is for the child, Arthur. For the child and Ruth. I don’t want to see things come to the same end.”

“Arthur, he doesn’t understand,” Celia says, reaching for his arm. “Let’s go.”

“I understand that he’s telling me Eve is in hell.”

“Arthur Scott,” Reesa says. “He’s saying no such thing.”

But he is. Ruth knows he is. Father Flannery thinks Eve is in hell because of what Ruth always feared Eve did to herself. Ruth presses both hands over her belly, protecting her sweet baby girl, sweet baby Elisabeth.

“That child died with a mortal sin on her soul. Would you have that for Ruth?”

Feeling as if Father Flannery can see inside her, Ruth takes two steps away. There was a moment, no longer than a blink, when she wondered if not having a baby would be best. This is what Father Flannery sees. Even now, all these months later, he can see inside and know that she once had the thought. She had considered it, for only a moment, in the very beginning, as it must have been for Eve.

“Eve died because of you and my father,” Arthur says, jarring Ruth back to the present. “She died for fear of you and that church. For fear of her own father.”

Celia is looking between Ruth and Arthur. As certain as Ruth is that Arthur knows, she is equally certain that Celia does not.

Father Flannery takes a step toward Arthur. “The gate is wide,” he says, and after tipping his head at Reesa, he walks away.

Father Flannery walks down the narrow path, through the small gate and out onto the street in front of the church. When he has disappeared into his car, Celia turns to Arthur. He stands with his head down, shaking it back and forth, back and forth.

“I don’t understand,” Celia says. “Arthur. Ruth. I don’t understand.”

Ruth steps up to Arthur and takes his hand in both of hers. “You’ve always known?”

Arthur nods.

“Did she tell you who it was?”

This time, Arthur shakes his head no.

“I hoped she wouldn’t do it,” Ruth says. “I begged her not to. She was so young. So young and afraid.”

“Ruth, what are you saying?” Celia says, trying to see Arthur’s face because then maybe she’ll understand.

Still holding Arthur’s hand and ignoring Celia’s question, Ruth says, “I’m so sorry, Arthur. It was my books. She must have read them. I think she used wedge root. I begged her. Really I did. I told her to tell Mother and Father. To tell them the truth. I told her we would all love her baby, no matter what.”

Celia reaches for Arthur but he pulls away.

“She was pregnant,” Celia whispers.

Beyond Julianne’s grave, Elaine and Jonathon walk toward the car parked in front of St. Anthony’s, Evie wrapped in Jonathon’s arms. Daniel stands alone near the gate.

“And she tried not to be,” Celia says. “But she was so young. Who? Was it Ray’s?”

Ruth shakes her head. “No. She swore it wasn’t. Ray loved her. Loved her so much. He wanted to marry her.” She crosses her hands and lowers her head like she has done so many times before. “We never knew who. She’d never tell. Never really admitted to being pregnant. But I knew she was. I just knew it. Someone hurt her very badly. She was different after it happened. Never the same.” Ruth is quiet for a moment and, as if she realizes something, she lifts her eyes. “Did Father know the truth?” she asks Reesa.

Reesa does not answer. Instead, she raises her chin ever so slightly, just enough that the wind catches the wisps of silver hair sticking out from under her hat.

Ruth leans forward. “Did he know?” she shouts.

Arthur, still facing Eve’s grave, says loud enough for everyone to hear, “He’s the one who told her to do it.”

Ruth’s shoulders collapse.

“And you, too,” Arthur says, turning to face Reesa. “You told her, too, didn’t you?”

Reesa stands motionless, her chin in the air, gray wisps of hair blowing across her forehead.

“She was too afraid to do it alone,” Arthur says. “So I helped her. I gathered up the wedge root. I boiled it in one of Mother’s pans. I did it.”

Daniel stumbles backward when Aunt Ruth screams at Grandma Reesa. Up until that moment, he had been planning what to tell Dad, how to tell him about Ian’s nose and how Daniel almost broke it. But now, something else seems more important, and Aunt Ruth is shouting about Aunt Eve and how it wasn’t Dad’s fault that she died. She wasn’t murdered and bloodied up by Jack Mayer. Something else killed her. Something that Daniel thinks a man should know, but he isn’t a man yet. He takes a few steps backward until he feels snow underfoot, turns to follow Elaine and Jonathon, and there, in the shadow of a large pine tree growing near the fence line, stands Uncle Ray.

He must have been there all along, standing behind everyone who came to say good-bye to Julianne Robinson, because his collar is up and his hands are buried in his pockets making him look like he’s been cold for a very long time. He probably hid back there because more than ever folks are talking about him being one of the rabble-rousers in town and how they think he must have taken Julianne Robison for sure. But he isn’t causing any trouble now, only watching Mama and Dad and Aunt Ruth talk, but also he looks like he’s not really seeing them. A blue bruise lies over one of his eyes and his bottom lip is still swollen from the beating Dad gave him. As Daniel takes a step to follow Jonathon and Elaine, his boot snaps the icy crust on the cleared path and Uncle Ray turns. Seeing Daniel seems to wake him. Daniel stops. He should call out, warn them, because none of them notices that Uncle Ray is coming at them from behind the pine.

Standing by the mound of dirt that will bury Julianne, the two Negro men see Uncle Ray. One of them is leaning on a shovel and he pulls it out of the snow like he’s ready to hit Uncle Ray with it if he needs to. The other man throws back his shoulders but doesn’t have anything to hit with. Dad sees the men bracing themselves. He sees Uncle Ray.

“Ray,” Dad says, which stops Uncle Ray. “Not today, Ray. This isn’t the place.”

“You knew all this, Ruth?” Uncle Ray says, ignoring Dad and looking straight at Aunt Ruth across Julianne’s grave. “My Eve was pregnant?”

Aunt Ruth doesn’t answer but instead wraps her arms around her baby.

“She did it to herself?” Uncle Ray asks.

“I said, not now, Ray,” Dad says, louder still.

Again, Uncle Ray ignores Dad.

“That was a child bled out on the floor of that shed?”

No one answers. Mama turns away. Aunt Ruth looks down at her stomach. Grandma Reesa tips her face to the sky like heaven is up there and she can almost see it.

This time, Uncle Ray shouts as loudly as he can.

“That was a child?” His voice booms across Julianne’s grave.

Mama presses a hand over her mouth, which means she is about to cry. Grandma Reesa turns to leave, and Dad starts toward Uncle Ray but Aunt Ruth grabs his coat sleeve, stopping him.

“Yes, Ray,” Aunt Ruth says quietly, but the wind is to her back and it carries her voice for her. “That was a child, he or she-a baby.”

Uncle Ray steps back when Aunt Ruth says it, almost like she slapped him, slapped him hard right across the face. Then he looks up at Dad. He looks directly at Dad and points at him. “And you did it,” he says. “You killed my Eve.”

The two of them stare at each other, waiting for something.

“Yes,” Dad says. “I did it.”

Uncle Ray’s hat is cocked high on his forehead, showing off his tired eyes and gray skin. His face is thin and his cheekbones, like his hat, are cocked a little too high. His coat hangs on his shoulders and his pants bag around his boots as if he must have shrunk since he bought them. Dad once said too much drinking will wear heavy on a man. It looks like it has weighed Uncle Ray down about as far as he can go. After staring at Dad for a few more minutes, long enough that the Negro man with the shovel takes a few steps toward him, Uncle Ray walks away, down the cleared path, toward the station wagon where Elaine sits inside with Evie and Jonathon. He walks past the car without saying anything to Jonathon, who has stepped out probably because he heard all the shouting. He walks away, until he disappears down Bent Road without ever looking back.