Bent Road

Chapter 7

Celia stands at Reesa’s stove, a place she finds herself now every Sunday after church services, with a teaspoon in hand and a checkered apron tied at her waist. Using her forearm to brush the hair from her eyes, she inhales the steam rising off a pot of simmering chicken broth, turns her head and coughs. The others sit behind her at the kitchen table. They are watching her, waiting for her, crossing and uncrossing their legs. The vinyl seat covers squeak as they shift positions. Someone drums his fingers on the table. Someone else sighs. Someone’s stomach growls.

“Once it boils, you can start dropping dumplings,” Reesa says. “Be sure that dough is plenty thick this time. Add more flour if it calls you to.”

“And use small spoonfuls,” Elaine says. “Jonathon and Dad like the small noodles. Right, Dad?”

Arthur doesn’t answer. He knows better, Celia thinks, tapping her teaspoon on the side of the pot. The drumming fingers stop.

“Next time,” Reesa says, “set the burner on high and we won’t be holding up lunch until that broth boils. Lord a mercy. Father Flannery will be preaching next Sunday’s mass before those noodles are done.”

Celia digs a spoon into the thick batter and flashes a toothy grin at her mother-in-law whose large body spills over the chair. Scooping up a wad of dough the size of a chicken egg, she holds it over the pot, not really intending to drop it in, but wanting to enjoy the feeling of ruining Sunday lunch before dropping in a proper sized dumpling-one the size of a nickel. But as she holds the dough over the simmering broth, she hears a loud pop that startles her and the dumpling wad falls. Hot broth slashes her arms and face. She jumps back.

“Ray’ll have to get that fixed one of these days,” Arthur says at the sound of Ray’s truck backfiring a second time. He stands, glances out the kitchen widow and walks toward the back door.

Jonathon scoots back from the table and pulls out Elaine’s chair for her. “Let’s give it a look,” he says.

As the three of them walk from the kitchen, leaving Celia and Reesa alone, Celia turns her back on the stove, the chicken broth bubbling up behind her, and leans over the sink so she can see out the window. Ray hasn’t moved from behind the steering wheel and the engine is choking and sputtering. In the passenger seat, Ruth sits with her head lowered. Celia crosses her arms and smiles, thinking she’ll have to tease Arthur for all his worrying. All through church, he had fidgeted, shifting in his seat, crossing and uncrossing his legs as he watched the doors and scanned the pews. Ruth never misses a Sunday. Never, he whispered as the congregation began its first hymn. Perhaps she’s under the weather or Ray overslept. Arthur only nodded and hung his arm over the back of the pew so he could watch the heavy wooden doors at the rear of the church.

“Mind that chicken doesn’t burn,” Reesa says, nodding toward the chicken frying in a cast-iron skillet and then she pushes back from the table, the legs of her chair grinding across the linoleum floor. “I’ll go see to helping Ruth with her dessert. And get those dumplings going. We’ll be all day waiting if you don’t get started.”

When Reesa has left the kitchen and Celia is alone, she looks back outside. Ruth’s head is still lowered as if she’s looking down at folded hands and Ray is beating on the steering wheel, seemingly because the truck’s engine won’t stop running. He is still ranting when Arthur walks up to the truck, followed by Elaine, Jonathon and Reesa. Celia steps back from the sink, pokes at the one giant dumpling that has floated to the top of the broth and, as the rolling bubbles grow into a heavy boil, she thinks she’ll serve this one to Reesa. Reaching for the second burner, where the fried chicken sizzles and pops, Celia smiles as she turns up the heat.

Daniel, startled by a loud pop, ducks and presses against the wall, the wooden slats rough and wet against his back. Inside the small shed, it’s dark and the air smells like Grandma Reesa’s basement-moldy and stale. He tries to breathe through his mouth, thinking the air won’t feel so heavy if he does.

For six weeks, Ian has asked Daniel to look inside the shed at Grandma Reesa’s place. Ian’s oldest brothers thought for sure Julianne Robison was rotting away inside, but Daniel said that was stupid because Grandma Reesa would have smelled her. Ian said to check anyway because his brothers were smart and a fellow could never be sure until he saw it with his own eyes.

Daniel readjusts his feet, careful not to break through one of the floorboards that creak every time he moves. Hearing another pop, he recognizes the sound as Uncle Ray’s truck and, squinting with one eye, he looks through a small hole where part of a plank has rotted away. Dad walks out of the house, smiling, almost laughing. He turns to say something to Jonathon. Elaine laughs, latches onto Jonathon’s side and dips her head into his shoulder. The back door swings open again and Grandma Reesa walks out, rocking from side to side with each step. Daniel thinks of Ian, how he walks with a staggered stride, too, but for a different reason. Tomorrow at school, Daniel will tell Ian that Julianne Robison is definitely not rotting in the shed.

As Grandma Reesa nears the truck where the others are standing and watching Uncle Ray curse the engine that won’t stop rattling, she turns toward the shed and stops, her feet spread wide to support her weight, her hands on her hips. Daniel drops down and presses his head between his knees. He sits motionless, waiting, listening.

Every Sunday after church services, Daniel changes into his work clothes when they get to Grandma Reesa’s so he can cut her lawn. Sometimes, Dad gives him other chores to do, too-clean the gutters, spray down the screens, tighten the banisters-but at least until the first hard frost, he mows every Sunday. And every week, as Dad pulls the reel mower from the garage, he says, “Don’t bother around the shed. That’s for later.” But later has never come. “I could take a weed whip to it,” Daniel said one Sunday, remembering Ian’s brothers and the kitten in the hole. He was glad when Dad shook his head and said, “Not today, son.” Since they moved to Kansas, Dad and Jonathon have used a truck and cables to straighten Grandma’s garage and have hammered in new support beams on the porch. They have replaced her rotted windowpanes and reshingled her chimney but Dad hasn’t lifted a single hammer or nail to fix the sagging shed that is no more than six feet by eight with a flat roof and lone door. Daniel asked Aunt Ruth once why Dad wouldn’t let anyone near the shed. “Mind your father,” she had said. “Some things are meant to rest in peace.”

Afraid to look through the rotted plank again, Daniel hugs his knees to his chest and wraps himself into a tight ball. Large cobwebs hanging from the corners of the shed sparkle in the slivers of light that shine through the loosely woven wooden roof. Daniel muffles a cough by pressing his mouth to his forearm. Sitting in the dark and wondering if Grandma Reesa saw him, Daniel remembers the crazy men from Clark City and scans the empty shed for a set of eyes that might be watching him. It’s definitely time to get out.

Lifting up on his knees so he can peek through the hole again, Daniel sees that Dad has stopped a few feet in front of Uncle Ray’s truck. He isn’t laughing anymore. He is staring straight ahead at Aunt Ruth, who has stepped out of the truck and is standing near the front bumper, her arms hanging at her sides. The hem of her blue calico dress flutters in the breeze. Dad stands with a straight back, his feet planted wide. His hat sits low on his forehead. After Dad is done staring at Aunt Ruth, he turns toward Uncle Ray.

Evie climbs onto the bed when she hears a loud pop outside. Holding up the hem of the blue silky dress that slips off her shoulders and bags at the neckline, she tiptoes across the white bedspread so she doesn’t make the springs squeak. Daniel will be angry if he knows she’s tried on the dresses. He’ll probably tell Mama, and Daddy will take a switch to her hind end. That’s what Grandma Reesa did when Daddy was a boy. On their second visit to Grandma Reesa’s house, Daddy had taken Evie out back and showed her a weeping willow tree. It had long, lazy branches that hung to the ground. “That old tree sure gave up her share of switches,” Daddy had said, rubbing his hind end and laughing.

Evie stops in the middle of the bed, one foot in front of the other, her hands spread wide for balance. Hearing no one in the hallway outside the bedroom, she takes another step toward the window. Another loud pop comes from down below, but this time she smiles because she knows it’s only Uncle Ray’s truck backfiring. The handkerchief hem of the dress brushes against her toes. She wiggles them, gathers up the skirt again and leans against the headboard where she can see outside.

After Daddy and the others have walked out the door toward Uncle Ray’s truck, Evie goes back to imagining that she is Aunt Eve. She pushes away from the window, presses her shoulders back and lifts her chin so that she’ll feel taller-as tall as Aunt Eve. No one ever told Aunt Eve she was too small to be a third grader or called her names. Aunt Eve always had friends to sit with in the cafeteria and never sat alone on the steps outside her classroom, watching the swings hang empty or beating the dust from Miss Olson’s erasers. No one ever told Aunt Eve that she was going to disappear like Julianne Robison. Aunt Eve is beautiful and perfect and has the finest dresses. She was never, ever the smallest.

Wrapping her arms around her waist, Evie hugs the soft dress and smells Aunt Eve’s perfume-sweet and light, like the bouquets of wildflowers that Aunt Ruth brings every Saturday morning. Evie closes her eyes and slowly twirls around, the bedsprings squeaking under foot. She spreads her arms wide, spinning faster and faster, lifting her knees to her chest so she won’t trip on the hem and finally dropping down onto the center of the mattress with a loud crash.

She sits in the middle of the bed, not moving, not breathing, wondering if she has made the bed collapse. The headboard is still standing. She leans over the side. The bed is still standing, too. Then she hears the sound again. It’s coming from outside. She crawls back to the window and lifts up high enough to see out. Daddy, now standing at the front of Uncle Ray’s truck with Jonathon right behind him, is waving one hand toward Aunt Ruth and pointing at Uncle Ray with the other. As Jonathon reaches out for Daddy, Daddy bangs his fist on the truck’s hood. The same crash that Evie heard. Daddy shakes off Jonathon and holds up one hand to stop Grandma Reesa, who has started walking toward him. Uncle Ray has backed up to the rear of his truck and is motioning at Daddy with both hands the same way he did when Olivia spooked as she walked out of the trailer. He’s trying to calm Daddy, to make him settle down so he doesn’t rear up. In four long steps, Daddy is standing face to face with Uncle Ray.

Shifting in her chair to hear more clearly through the open kitchen window, Celia smiles as Ray’s truck finally quiets down. Next, one of the truck’s doors opens, followed by heavy boots landing on the gravel drive. Another door opens.

“Help your Aunt Ruth.” It’s Reesa, probably calling out to Elaine. “She’ll have a handful.”

At the sound of her mother-in-law’s voice, Celia presses her hands flat on the vinyl tablecloth, bracing herself, the smell of burnt chicken beginning to tug at her. Next to the chicken, which sizzles and pops, though quieter now because its juices have burned off, broth hisses as it splashes over the sides of Reesa’s iron pot onto the hot stovetop and disappears in a puff of steam. Celia presses her feet on the white linoleum and repositions herself on the vinyl seat cover, rooting her body so she won’t be tempted to stand. The God damned chicken can burn for all she cares.

Sundays were pleasant in Detroit. It was the day she wore white gloves and her favorite cocoa velour pillbox hat with the grosgrain ribbon trim. The children wore their finest clothes to church and never worried about dust ruining the shine on their patent leather shoes. Arthur always wore a tie. Sundays in Detroit were properly creased and always well kept until the riots started and everything began to smell like burnt rubber and the Negro boys started calling Elaine. Now Sundays are dusty, filthy, wrinkled and spent watching Arthur pat his belly as Reesa fries up a chicken. Celia shivers thinking of Reesa’s offer that next week she’ll teach Celia how to pick a good fryer from the brood and wring its neck with a few flicks of the wrist.

“Look up at me, Ruth,” Arthur says from outside the window.

Something about Arthur’s voice makes Celia stand. She slides her chair back and leans over the sink where she can see out the kitchen window. Ray and Ruth have both stepped out of the truck. Ray is standing on the far side, where only the top of his hat is visible, and Ruth is standing on the near side, her back to Celia, her arms dangling, her head lowered.

“This why you weren’t at church this morning?” Arthur says, his voice louder.

Ruth doesn’t move. Arthur takes two steps forward and Jonathon grabs his arm. Arthur yanks away, raises a fist in the air and slams it against the hood of Ray’s truck.

Celia startles, her hand slipping off the edge of the sink.

“Tell me, Ruth.”

Ruth lifts her face. Arthur closes his eyes and drops his head. A braid hangs down Ruth’s back, tied off by a bright pink band. After teaching Ruth how to braid her own hair, Celia had promised to wash and trim it when she came on Saturday and she even bought honey for their biscuits. But Ruth never came.

The thick braid moves up and down, no more than an inch as Ruth nods her head yes.

Arthur slams his fist on the truck again and holds up his other hand to Reesa, who has started to walk toward him. He turns to Ray.

“You lay your hands on her face?”

Ray doesn’t answer but instead backs toward the rear of the truck.

“Answer me. You lay a hand on her?”

“This is business between me and my wife, Arthur. No place for you.”

Arthur shoves Jonathon away when he tries again to take Arthur’s arm, and in four quick steps, he is standing face to face with Ray. Ray backs up a few more feet until they are clear of the truck and Celia can see them both. She pushes off the counter, ignoring the charred smell drifting up from Reesa’s best cast-iron skillet and runs from the kitchen.

Evie hangs from the window ledge with both hands, her face pressed to the screen. Daddy grabs Uncle Ray’s collar with one hand and hits him in the face with the other. Uncle Ray holds his fists up in front of his good eye, but Daddy pushes them away and hits him again. Uncle Ray tries to shove Daddy but Daddy won’t let go. He holds on, shaking Uncle Ray like a rag doll and hitting him again and again. Evie pushes away from the window, stumbles over her handkerchief hem and something rips as she pulls the dress off her shoulders, steps out of it and throws it on the floor under the other dresses. She slams the closet door and as she runs out of the room, she hears Mama shout, “Stop, Arthur. Stop.”

Daniel presses his face against the hole in the shed wall. Uncle Ray holds up both hands. His nose and mouth are red. Dad keeps hitting Uncle Ray even when his hat falls off, even when Uncle Ray’s head quits bouncing back, even when Mama cries out for him to quit. Finally, Dad stops, holding his right fist over his shoulder, cocked and ready to hit Uncle Ray again.

“You ask Ruth,” Uncle Ray says. “She’ll tell you why I did it.” Blood runs out of Uncle Ray’s nose. “Out there sneaking around on me. All these months, taking food to those God damned Robisons. God damned people say I took their girl.”

Dad lunges and hits Uncle Ray again, splattering blood across the gravel drive. Uncle Ray stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet and lands on his hind end. Dad stands still, watching and waiting while Uncle Ray props himself up on one elbow. Dad’s shoulders lift and lower each time he takes a breath. Uncle Ray starts to stand but stops when Dad reaches into the truck bed and pulls out a whiskey bottle, grabs it by its thin neck and flings it at the shed. The bottle shatters. Someone screams, maybe Mama, maybe Elaine. Daniel falls backward, shuffling like a crab until he is pressed flat against the shed’s far wall. Glass and warm bourbon splash up on the other side of the hole he had been looking through. The bits of glass sparkle in the cool sunlight for an instant before disappearing. The gravel driveway is silent.

Once the glass has settled, Celia turns to Arthur. He has not moved. Reesa reaches out to him but instead stops and walks inside. Ruth stands near the truck’s front bumper, her head lowered, her arms hanging at her side.

“Ruth,” Arthur says.

Ruth raises her head.

Celia gasps, covers her mouth again. Elaine and Jonathon lower their eyes.

“Oh, Ruth,” Celia whispers.

“Go on with Celia,” Arthur says, still staring at the shed, but Ruth doesn’t move. “Now,” he shouts.

Ruth’s shoulders jerk.

“Go with Celia, now.”

Celia wraps one arm around Elaine, both of them standing still, unable to move. Ray lies on the ground, blood smeared under his nose, down his chin, across his collar.

“Jonathon,” Arthur says in a quieter voice.

Jonathon lifts his chin, pulls down his hat over his eyes and takes a step toward Arthur.

“Get them inside.”

Jonathon nods, takes Ruth’s forearm and, with his head lowered so that the brim of his hat hides his face, he guides her toward Celia and Elaine. Celia passes Elaine to Jonathon but shakes her head when he motions her to follow. She watches until the three have gone into the house and the screened door has slammed shut behind them.

“Gather yourself and leave,” Arthur says to Ray. “Ruth isn’t your concern anymore.”

Ray pushes himself up, favoring his left side as if Arthur has broken a rib or two, picks up his hat, pulls it on so the front brim is cocked a little too high and limps toward his truck. “I don’t see how you have any business between me and my wife.”

“How many times, Ray?” Arthur says, picking up his hat and pulling it on. “How many times you lay a hand on her?”

Ray wipes the corner of his mouth, smearing the blood that drips down his chin. He spits red. A cut above his left brow drips blood into his bad eye.

Arthur throws open the truck door. “Not your wife anymore.”

“Arthur,” Celia says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the house and away from Ray. “Please, let him be on his way.”

Arthur pulls away and without looking at Celia, says, “Get inside.”

“You’re a man, Arthur. Same as me,” Ray says, though he is looking at Celia when he says it, not in her eyes, but lower. “You wouldn’t have me telling you about your wife, would you? Wouldn’t want me telling you when you could or couldn’t have her.”

“Well, I’m telling you now,” Arthur says, taking one step to the left so he blocks Ray’s view of Celia. “Ruth is no longer your concern.”

With his forearm, Ray wipes the blood from under his nose and steps up to Arthur. The brims of their hats nearly touch.

“You wait until they come looking for you,” Ray says, “thinking maybe you’re the one took that girl. You ought to know, people think it’s strange, you all moving back right when that girl goes missing. People think it’s strange, all right.”

Arthur nods. “Folks’ll think what they think,” he says and Ray slips inside the truck.

Evie stops on the last step, holds onto the banister and leans forward. The downstairs room is full of gray smoky air. Trying to see into the kitchen and beyond to the back porch, she listens for Daddy and Uncle Ray and wonders if they’re still fighting. Mama shouted for them to stop but maybe Daddy and Uncle Ray won’t listen to Mama. She blinks, clearing her tears. Not seeing anyone, she squeezes her nose closed with two fingers and steps down, touching the wooden floors with one toe. She holds that pose, trying not to breathe any of the smoky air and listens.

“Good Lord in heaven.”

A crash follows Grandma Reesa’s shout.

Evie presses her tiptoe foot flat on the floor and steps down with the other. Still pinching her nose, she walks through the living room and as she nears the front of the house, she covers her mouth and coughs. The gray smoke is thicker and swirls overhead. Waving it away, she steps into the kitchen. Grandma Reesa stands at the stove, her back to Evie, a silver potholder on one hand.

“Fine food charred to no good,” Grandma Reesa says and, sliding the large iron skillet off the hot burner, she reaches into the sink, pulls out the cast-iron lid with the potholder, lifts it overhead and slams it back into the sink.

“What got burnt, Grandma?” Evie asks, her hands pressed to her ears in case Grandma throws anything else. She bites down on her lower lip when her chin wrinkles.

“Burned every last piece of chicken,” Grandma Reesa says, holding the skillet up by its long thin handle. Black clumps of chicken stick to the bottom, even when she shakes it. “Help me, child. Get the bucket from the mudroom. We’ll be scrubbing these walls for days.”

Pulling a fan from under the sink, Grandma Reesa sets it in the kitchen window. “The mudroom, Eve. Get the bucket from the mudroom. My green bucket.”

Evie runs into the large closet where everyone leaves their muddy boots on a rainy day, grabs the green bucket and hurries back to the kitchen. Grandma Reesa has begun pulling the white curtains off their rod. The fan drawing cool, outside air into the kitchen ruffles her gray hair and blows it across her blue eyes-the same color as Evie’s, except older.

“Run the bathroom sink full of hot water and soak these,” she says, brushing the hair from her eyes and handing the curtains to Evie. “Go on now. This mess will keep us busy all day if we let it.”

“Daddy is fighting with Uncle Ray,” Evie says, wrapping her arms around the bundle of curtains.

Grandma Reesa puts the green bucket in the sink and begins to fill it.

“I saw them,” Evie says. “Outside. Fighting.”

“Drop a bar of hand soap in the water.” Grandma Reesa pulls a long-handled spoon from a drawer and points it at Evie. “No bleach. It will yellow the cotton.”

“Daddy was hitting Uncle Ray in the face. Knocked him down and everything. I saw them from upstairs. I was in Aunt Eve’s room, cleaning it for you. I dusted her dresser and fluffed her pillows. It’ll be ready for her when she comes home.”

Grandma Reesa stabs the spoon into a bowl. “Go on now,” she says, yanking it out and jamming it back in. “This smoke will ruin my curtains. Go on now.”

“Where’s my daddy?” Evie feels her chin wrinkle again. She blinks as the air blown in by the fan parts her bangs. “He’s hitting Uncle Ray.”

“Run the water until it’s good and hot. Get on with it.”

“I saw them from Aunt Eve’s room. I saw Daddy fighting.” Evie stands in the middle of the kitchen, still hugging the curtains. “I wanted Aunt Eve’s room to be nice for her. I wanted…”

Grandma Reesa lifts her white mixing bowl with both hands and slams it down on the counter. “Don’t you speak to me about Eve, child. Don’t you do it. Now get that hot water running. Get those curtains soaked.”

Evie presses her face into the bundle of curtains. She lifts her eyes enough to see Grandma Reesa standing at the sink, her back to Evie, her right elbow jutting in and out as she scrubs the black skillet with a scouring pad. Evie nods her head, walks into the bathroom, breathing in the smell of the lemon-scented curtains, and closes the door behind her.

The devil’s claws are waist high. Walking toward Mother’s back porch, Jonathon guiding her by the elbow, Ruth brushes a hand over the pink, funnel-shaped blooms. The flowers are blurry through her one good eye. It still waters, as if she’s been crying, but she never does. The tears will pool for a few more days. She licks her top lip, which is silky smooth where it has swelled to twice its normal size. Even though it hurts, she can’t stop licking it. Sometime during the night, the shaking stopped. It always stops during the night. Ruth blinks her good eye and sees that some of the blossoms have died off, the tender petals shriveling and turning brown. The rest will follow and Arthur will mow them down soon. They won’t bloom again until spring. Before walking inside, Ruth touches one of the woody claws that has dropped its seeds, and she knows she’s pregnant.