Bent Road (25 page)

Ruth steps up to Celia’s side. Her body is warm and she smells like Elaine’s lavender lotion.

“How did I not know this?” she says to Ruth. “How could she be so unhappy and I not know?”

“She wasn’t unhappy,” Daniel says. “As long as she had Aunt Eve. That’s why she took all that stuff. I guess that’s why she wore the dress. But now she doesn’t even have Aunt Eve. I think she’s kind of scared about getting taken like Julianne. And she feels pretty bad about Olivia, too.” He takes a few more steps away when Celia pushes off the counter. He shakes his head. “I understand though, about it being the kindest thing. To kill her, I mean. Just wish I hadn’t left that gate open.”

Arthur glances up at Celia before lowering his head to talk into the tabletop. “Cows like that get out all the time,” he says. “They’re jumpers. Could have jumped out.”

Daniel stares at Arthur, not like a boy looks at his father, but like one man looks at another. Arthur tries to hold the stare long enough and hard enough that Daniel will believe Olivia was a jumper, but he can’t manage it. He drops his eyes.

“I don’t want to go to Ian’s tomorrow,” Daniel says, still staring at the top of Arthur’s head.

Celia nods. “Certainly, Daniel. Whatever you want. Get some rest now. I’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”

 

W
hen Mama calls him to dinner, Daniel says he’s too tired. Even when Mama opens the door a sliver and offers him a plate of Aunt Ruth’s stewed chicken, Daniel rolls away and says no. Now, he can hear them, all of them, in the kitchen, their silverware clattering on the table, pots and pans being passed from place to place. They are probably talking about poor Evie and Daniel who have no friends. They probably think Evie is sick because she wore Aunt Eve’s dress to school and that Daniel will never grow to be a man. He should have pulled the trigger and shot Olivia. No matter how stiff and heavy, no matter what kind of mess he would have made, he should have pulled it. That’s what a man would have done. He would have carried the weight of that shotgun on his shoulder and pulled the God damn trigger.

Rolling over again and staring at the light shining under his door, Daniel hopes Ian will go pheasant hunting without him. He hopes Ian can be a pusher and that his black boots will help him keep up with his brothers. Maybe they’ll do well, shoot a dozen birds or so, and then Jacob, the oldest Bucher brother, who only comes home on occasional weekends, will toss them all in his truck and drive to Nicodemus so they can flush out Jack Mayer. Maybe Ian will even get a shot at old Jack Mayer. Through the sight on his dad’s shotgun, Ian will spot the man who’s big as a mountain and black as midnight, and he’ll take a shot. Even if he misses, even if Jack Mayer slips away because he’s dark as night, Ian will have gotten off a shot and he’ll never be quite as crooked again. And Daniel is Ian’s friend, his best friend. Daniel will never be a city kid again if Ian gets off a good shot.

Celia props the last dish in the drying rack, hangs her dish towel on the hook over the sink, and taking one last look around the kitchen to make sure everything is in its place, she flips off the light. Daniel and Evie’s rooms are quiet, have been since dinner. Daniel didn’t eat a bite. Celia will make pancakes for breakfast—his favorite. A light still shines in Elaine’s room where she and Ruth are quietly talking, probably planning the bodice for Elaine’s wedding dress or picking the flowers for her bouquet. Elaine thinks lilies but Ruth likes carnations. Checking that someone locked the back door and giving the deadbolt an extra tug, even though Arthur has twice done the same thing, Celia walks toward her bedroom and meets Arthur as he comes out of the bathroom, a towel wrapped around his waist, the steam from a hot shower following him.

His skin is thicker since they moved to Kansas, like a hide. His face and neck are dark, his hands rough, his back and chest broad. Celia touches his collarbone as she slips past him into their bedroom. He smells of soap. He takes her hand, stops her, makes her look up at him. She knows what he wants. He wants Celia to believe in him, to trust him. Laying her hand flat on his chest, she closes her eyes, breathes in the warm air about his body and prepares to tell him the truth. While he was in the shower, she called Floyd, even after Arthur said it would do no good, that it would only stir up Ray, stir up more trouble. She called Floyd and told him that Ray tried to take her little girl. She lied to Arthur and she was hateful to him, if only in her thoughts. Not once, not ever, in all their years together, has she been so hateful. Not even when Arthur brought home the new truck and lashed her Detroit life to it, did she have a hateful thought. She made herself trust him then and she wants the same now. More than anything, she wants to trust him.

Pulling their door closed, Arthur backs Celia toward the bed. As she lowers herself, Arthur standing before her, she lifts her hands and lays them on his stomach, bending her fingers, gently denting his dark skin with her nails. If he is more of a man now, then she is more of a woman. When they lived in Detroit, Arthur wore a starched shirt to church, shined his shoes once a week and sat for a haircut every fourth Tuesday. Celia wore pearls on Sundays and set her table with pressed linens. But here in Kansas, Arthur’s shirts are fraying at the collars and cuffs and Celia’s pearls are packed away in a box in her top dresser drawer. They are different, both of them.

Letting her hands slide down Arthur’s flat stomach, Celia pulls apart the towel at his waist. She needs him to make her feel clean again because the showers and shampoo and soap did not. She needs Arthur to make her forget the way Ray looked at her or the feel of him grinding himself into her thigh, to make her forget the thought of Ray with her little girl, his dirty hands touching Evie’s yellow hair. Clawing Arthur’s back, she draws him down on top of her and buries her face in his shoulder where the muscle dips into his neck. He pulls her skirt up, presses aside the crotch of her cotton panties, and forces himself inside of her with one quick motion. The pain lasts only an instant. His movements are quick, fierce, almost angry. Pressing his face into the mattress, he muffles a groan. And then his breathing quiets. He shudders and is still. Celia needs something more, wants something more. But it’s over.

Waiting until Arthur has rolled off her, Celia inhales a full breath, sits up, unbuttons her blouse and skirt and pushes them to the floor. The night air chills her damp skin where it was pressed against Arthur. Kansas has made her body harder, like it was when she was younger. Her stomach is flat again though marred by silvery white lines where it stretched for her babies. Her hips are soft and white, but narrow, slimmer than they were in Detroit. She reaches for Arthur’s hand and places it on her left breast, holding it there until he begins to roll her nipple between two fingers. He breathes faster again, slips the same hand between her legs and presses apart her knees. Celia lies back, exhaling and not hearing the dry grass that crackles outside her window.

 

E
vie rolls on one side, afraid to close her eyes because every time she does, she remembers the red silky inside of Olivia’s neck and the black blood that she lay in. Daniel tried to cover her eyes before she saw but he was too slow. Evie always thought blood was red. Now she wonders why babies are blue and cows bleed black blood. She should have asked Uncle Ray. He is more of a cowboy than Daddy. Uncle Ray would know about blue babies and black blood, but he didn’t want to talk much on the ride home. He didn’t even ask about Aunt Eve’s dress even though it stuck out from under the bottom of Evie’s coat. She saw him looking at the blue ruffles. Mostly, Uncle Ray looked like he hadn’t slept a single night in his whole life.

“Girl ought to wear trousers when it’s so cold” is the only thing he said.

Thinking that next time she sees Uncle Ray she’ll ask him about black blood, Evie rolls over and looks at the drawer where she hid the picture of Aunt Eve and Uncle Ray. Mama made her return the rest of Aunt Eve’s things to Grandma Reesa and she has to write an apology letter on Mama’s best stationery so they can send it through the mail. Mama doesn’t know Evie kept the picture.

Across the kitchen, Mama’s bed creaks. Sometimes, when the house is dark, Evie hears it. Mama always says they are making up the bed with clean sheets. Tucking in hospital corners, straightening the quilt, fluffing the pillows. Soon enough, Mama is done tucking her sheets and the house is quiet again. Maybe Evie can sleep without closing her eyes. Cows do that sometimes, or is it horses? Another question for Uncle Ray. But Evie isn’t a cow or a horse. She tries closing her eyes. First one, then the other. Everything is black for a moment and then she hears a knock. Maybe Mama is making the bed again. Evie opens her eyes and sits up. She hears another quiet knock. Tapping on glass.
Tap, tap, tap.
Someone is at the back door.

D
aniel wants to bang on his wall. He wants to punch a hole all the way through to Elaine’s room and into her fat mouth. She and Aunt Ruth are still whispering about the wedding. All night long, probably all through dinner, and even now when they should be sleeping. Elaine doesn’t care one damn bit that Olivia died. She doesn’t care that Evie wore Aunt Eve’s dress to school or that everyone calls Evie a nigger lover. She doesn’t even care that Evie almost got swiped like Julianne Robison. All she cares about is studying and finishing high school so she can have the wedding that she spends all night, every night, planning with Aunt Ruth. Daniel sits up, lunges toward the wall he shares with Elaine, pulls back his fist, ready to punch a hole all the way into her room, when he hears a knock. The last time Mama checked on him, he pretended he was asleep so she left his door ajar. Unwrapping his fist and dropping his hand to his side, Daniel walks to his open door and listens. Yes, someone is knocking.

 

R
uth keeps talking, thinking that Elaine won’t notice the quiet creaks coming from Celia and Arthur’s end of the house. She gathers the fabric at Elaine’s waist with the fingers that stick out of her sling and weaves a straight pen into the satin sash. “That should do it,” she says as Elaine muffles a laugh. “Now, be still.” Ruth ignores the giggle. With so much to be sad about that day, the laughter is sweet. “I can’t keep taking this in. You need to eat better. You’ll waste away to nothing by the wedding if you’re not careful.” She folds over another patch of loose fabric farther down Elaine’s hip and this time when she smiles at the quiet creaks, it’s because they make her feel that maybe things will be fine again. In these quiet moments, the house binds together.

“Will that do?” Ruth says, patting Elaine’s hip and looking past her into the mirror on the back of the door.

Elaine so resembles Celia, though her features are dark like Arthur’s. Still, she has her mother’s long, soft waves, and even late at night, her eyes and cheeks shine the same way Celia’s did when she smiled at Arthur through a cascading white veil.

“Perfect,” Elaine says. “Just perfect.”

The creaking stops and the house is quiet.

“Let me help you,” Ruth says as Elaine wiggles out of her wedding dress.

“I need to use the restroom first,” Elaine says, stepping off her stool and reaching for the doorknob as she hops from side to side.

She must have been holding it, waiting for the creaking to stop. They both begin with a smile before breaking into giggles.

“I can’t wait anymore.” Trying to muffle her laughter, Elaine opens the door a crack. “Did you hear that?” she says, turning toward Ruth.

“Sounds like someone is on the porch.”

“Who would come so late?” Elaine says, and stepping out of her dress, she slips on a robe.

Ruth waves Elaine aside. With one hand pressed to her full, round belly, she says, “I’ll have a look.”

 

C
elia opens her eyes. She rolls her head toward the dark window. No moonlight. No sparkling Battenburg lace curtains. Next to her, Arthur’s eyes are closed. Covering her bare chest with one arm, Celia sits up and feels for the quilt. She finds it at the end of the bed and tugs but it is tangled in Arthur’s feet. She tugs again, causing his eyes to open, and she hears it. A knock at the back door. She drops the quilt.

“Arthur,” Celia whispers, poking his shoulder. Yes, she hears a knock. Louder now. “Arthur, did you hear that?”

Arthur rolls on his back to see Celia leaning over him, barechested. He lets out a quiet moan and reaches for both breasts.

She pushes his hands away. “Shhhh,” she says. “Listen. I think someone’s at the back door. Do you hear it?”

Reaching with one hand for the spot between Celia’s legs, Arthur mumbles something about the wind. Celia slides off the end of the bed, yanks the quilt from under Arthur’s feet, causing him to startle, and after wrapping it around herself and securing it by tucking in one end, she stands and looks straight into the eyes of a black silhouette standing in the window.