Bent Road (6 page)

Feeling heavy footsteps coming toward her, Celia lifts her head. She straightens, wrings out her washcloth and hangs it over the faucet. The footsteps slow and stop directly behind her. She closes her eyes. Arthur leans against her, wrapping his arms around her waist.

“Good morning,” he whispers.

His coarse voice, the voice she normally only hears when he lies on the pillow next to her, makes her smile.

“Coffee?” he asks. His breath is warm on her left ear.

Celia draws one hand across his rough cheek and nods toward the pot that is still steaming. “You need a shave,” she says, her smile fading when she looks back outside and sees the golden leaves.

Arthur pushes aside her loose hair and rubs his rough chin and jaw against her neck. “No razors on Saturday.”

In Detroit, Arthur ran a lathe, carving metal into ball bearings and shafts that were shipped to the automotive factories where they ended up in alternators and generators. The red and blue patch that Celia sewed on the front of each work shirt read MACHINIST. Spinning metal for ten hours a day made Arthur’s forearms strong and hard and he came home most nights smelling of motor oil and rubbing the back of his neck. Now, in Kansas, thanks to Gene Bucher, he drives a backhoe and a grader for the county and he comes home at night rubbing his lower back, sometimes hurting so badly from the vibration of the heavy equipment that his legs flare out at the knee and he walks with a rounded back. Grading the dry roads that ride like a washboard gives him the worst ache, and on those nights, Celia rubs Evie’s old baby oil between her palms to warm it and kneads it into his back and shoulders.

“Will you work today? What with the rain.” Celia stretches and relaxes into Arthur’s hold. He seems bigger here in Kansas and thicker through the chest.

“Later,” Arthur whispers. “I’ll drive around, check the outlying roads.” He leans closer, moving his hands over her stomach. “Better not take the car out until the ground drains. Don’t want to gut the driveway.” Pressing against her, he gathers two handfuls of her skirt and gently pulls until the hem lifts up over her knees. “The kids still sleeping?”

Celia tries to reach for a mug in the cupboard overhead, but Arthur keeps his hold on her.

“All except Elaine. She’s gone off fishing with Jonathon.”

Arthur rubs his jaw against her cheek.

“Ruth’s coming today,” Celia says, nodding toward the white beans she has rinsed and set aside. “She’ll be helping me with those ham and beans you were wanting.”

In Detroit, Celia had shopped daily at Ambrozy’s Deli where Mr. Ambrozy made the best kielbasa in the city. He added beef and veal to the finest cuts of pork and cooked it up with garlic and a touch of marjoram, his secret ingredient. Every Friday, she made Hunter’s Stew with Mr. Ambrozy’s kielbasa and sweet sauerkraut, and Arthur always liked her cooking just fine. But on the first morning in September, he had said that a good old-fashioned plate of ham and beans sure would be nice. Not knowing how to prepare such a thing, Celia had asked for Ruth’s help.

Arthur mumbles something about Ruth always running late. Then he drops Celia’s skirt and presses against the entire length of her body.

“Now stop that,” she says, smiling and trying to turn into his embrace, but he places his hands on the counter, trapping her so she can’t move. “Ruth will have food for the Robisons, too. Will probably want you to run it over straightaway.”

“What is that?” Arthur says, his tone suddenly clear and strong. His voice comes from over the top of Celia’s head instead of near her left ear. “What the hell is that?”

 

S
tudying the three sets of muddy footprints on her kitchen floor, Ruth takes a bottle of ammonia from under the sink and sets it on the counter so she won’t forget to clean them when the men leave. Next, she checks the timer she set for her banana bread. It’ll be ready in seven minutes and she hopes the men will be gone by then.

“Sorry to barge in like this,” Floyd says, pushing the creamer across the table to the other two men.

Ruth pours three cups of coffee.

“Mostly these two fellows are going to ask the same questions I have.”

One of the men, the larger of the two and the one who doesn’t bother to take off his hat, pulls out a small pad of paper. He taps a pencil on the edge of the kitchen table and tips his head to one side, giving Ruth a sideways glance. “Won’t take long, ma’am,” he says.

The other man, who is no bigger than Floyd, nods down at the floor. “Sorry about this mess.” Then he pours cream in his coffee and after checking the sole of each shoe, he glances up at Ruth and smiles with closed lips.

“More questions?” Ruth asks, standing at the kitchen sink where she can watch out the window for Ray’s truck. Floyd must have waited until Ray left for the day because not five minutes after he pulled away, Floyd drove up with these two men in his car.

“These fellows are from Wichita. Work for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. They’ve been down here helping us search for Julianne seeing as how we haven’t gotten so far.”

“That’s good,” Ruth says. “That’s very good.”

“Where’s your husband off to this morning?” the larger man says. He knows Ray is gone without asking.

“Smells mighty good,” the smaller man says, nodding at the stove where two loaves of banana bread are baking.

“The Stockland Café,” Ruth says, answering the larger man’s question. “Always has breakfast there on Saturday mornings. And then to the farm.”

Their own land is too small to make a living from, so Ray has leased the Hathaway place since Mr. Hathaway died fifteen years earlier. It’s a twelve-mile drive toward town and usually, almost always, keeps Ray away until dusk.

The larger man studies his pad of paper. “That’s the Hathaway place you’re talking about?”

“Yes,” Ruth says, glancing out the window before letting her eyes settle on the center of the kitchen table. “Goes there every day.”

The larger man asks most of the questions. They are the same ones Floyd asked on his three other trips to the house. A few days after Floyd’s first visit, he came back with a black notebook and a ballpoint pen and said he hadn’t taken notes the first time, would Ruth and Ray mind going over the questions again. He said that most folks in town were getting the same visit. The third time he came, he asked how many acres Ray figured he had between the two farms and did he know of any place that might put a young girl in trouble. A fellow who lived over near Stockton found a soft spot on his land that must have been an old shaft or a dug-out foundation. Nothing in there but the fellow never would have found it if he hadn’t looked. Floyd offered to help Ray check over his land and the Hathaways’ since Mrs. Hathaway couldn’t be expected to do it. “Can look plenty good on my own,” Ray had said, so Floyd tipped his hat and didn’t come back again until today.

“Sure I can’t clean up for you, ma’am?” the smaller man says, waving a hand toward the muddy footprints.

He’s the kinder of the two and seems to believe Ruth when she tells her story about strawberry pie and a quiet evening at home. The larger man doesn’t believe so easily. He shakes his head when he scribbles in his book like he knows what he’s writing isn’t true. Floyd has surely told them about the past, about how Ray only married Ruth because Eve died. The men from Wichita, especially the larger one, look at Ruth like most of the people in town do, like anything bad she has to bear is her own doing so she shouldn’t complain.

The whole town, Floyd included, has always thought that Ray was the one who killed Eve because no other killer was ever found. Father told everyone a crazy man did it. Broke in the house, took his daughter, slaughtered her on a dirt floor. But the town never believed it. They have always figured that Ruth married the man who killed her sister. But Ray didn’t kill Eve. He loved her and no good will come from digging up the past. No good will come from speaking ill of the dead.

But these men sitting in Ruth’s kitchen don’t know how much Ray loved Eve. All three of them suspect Ray did something to little Julianne Robison because, even though she was just a child, she looked so much like Eve. Blond hair, blue eyes, pink satin skin. And Ray is a troublemaker, always has been because he drinks too much and Floyd is constantly throwing him out of Williamson’s bar.

Despite the twenty-five years that separate the lives of Julianne and Eve, Floyd and these two men think their looking alike means something, and Ruth will let them keep thinking that because then they will keep a close eye on Ray. If these men believe the past has something to do with what happened to Julianne Robison and that Julianne’s disappearance will turn out to be Palco’s first murder in twenty-five years, they won’t believe Ruth’s lie and they’ll keep digging. If Ray is the one who took Julianne Robison, they’ll figure it out as long as they keep looking. Because Ruth’s too afraid to tell Floyd the truth about that Saturday night, this is the best she can do.

 

W
ith Arthur still trapping her against the counter, Celia looks through the maple’s branches, makes a small humming sound and says, “I don’t see anything.”

Arthur stands straight, his sudden movement causing Celia to stumble.

“The paddock,” he says. “The God damned paddock is empty.” Celia looks again, this time leaning over the sink. The gate near the barn hangs open.

“I’ve told that boy to mind the latch,” Arthur says as he grabs his hat from the top of the refrigerator. “Dan. Get out here.”

“Arthur, please,” Celia says, following him toward the porch.

Ever since Julianne Robison went missing and stayed missing, Celia feels a rush of fear every time she or Arthur gets angry with the children. It’s the fear that anger will be the thing they are left with should one of them go missing, too. It’s silly, she knows, but even eight weeks later, even as the town seems to be forgetting, even as the search has ended for Julianne Robison, the fear is a reflex.

“Maybe she’s gone around the back of the barn,” Celia says. “You don’t know she got out. Please don’t overreact.”

“Well, that’s not the point, is it?”

While Celia tries to rein in her anger and frustration since Julianne disappeared, Arthur has unleashed his. His temper explodes without warning as if he thinks Julianne must have been careless, irresponsible, and that these two things led to her disappearance. He won’t have the same happen to his children.

“Dan,” Arthur shouts again. “Get out here.”

Pulling on a shirt, Daniel stumbles from his room. “What?” he says, blinking and forcing his eyes open. “What is it?”

“You latch Olivia’s gate last night?” Arthur says, pulling on his second boot.

“Sir?”

“The gate. You latch it?”

“Yes, sir.”

Giving his boot a final tug, Arthur stands straight. “You sure about that?”

“I’ll check, sir.”

“He’ll check,” Celia says, reaching for Arthur’s hand. “Let him check.”

Arthur yanks away. “I’ll give you your answer, son. You didn’t latch it. Now get your shoes on and see to it that cow hasn’t gotten out.”

Daniel walks into his room, his shoulders rounded, his arms hanging at his sides, while Arthur stands in the threshold leading onto the back porch. He crosses his arms, leans against the doorjamb and stares at Celia.

“Don’t be too hard on him,” she says. “He’s still learning.”

Standing straight so that his shoulders fill the doorway, Arthur says, “He’s had plenty of time for learning.”

“Please be patient. It’s only been a couple months.”

Arthur yanks on his hat. “Two months is long enough. That boy doesn’t give one damn thought to what he’s doing around here, and it’s high time that changes.”

 

A
t the end of the driveway, Ruth stands behind the cover of an evergreen. Cradling the two loaves of banana bread and a chicken and broccoli casserole, she leans forward, checking right and left and right again. Floyd and the men from Wichita left without finishing their coffee, and if Ruth hurries, she can get to Arthur’s house before anyone worries. From inside the tree, she straightens and listens. It is definitely a truck she hears, driving east to west. She takes two steps back, knowing just where to stand so that the tree’s branches will wrap around her, hide her.

Yes, it’s a truck, not a car. The wide tires, the heavy cab, the tailgate. She listens, holding her breath as she waits for the change in pitch of a truck slowing to turn. A tailgate rattles, metal slapping against metal. Just like Ray’s. Large tires kick up muddy gravel, almost close enough to spray it across Ruth’s face if she weren’t hidden inside the tree. She slowly exhales, listening but not hearing the change in pitch. The truck drives by, never slowing to turn. It’s blue with a white cab. Out-of-state tags. Nebraska. Not Ray.

Stepping out of the tree, a branch pulls the hood from Ruth’s head. The banana bread that she stirred up the night before and baked while Floyd and the men from Wichita drank their coffee is warm in her arms. Outside the evergreen, the rain has slowed to a mist and the road to Arthur’s house is empty except for the deep scars carved into it by the blue and white truck. Balancing the casserole dish and bread loaves on one hip, Ruth pulls the braid that hangs down her back from under her coat and lets it fall between her shoulder blades.

She goes to Arthur’s now every Saturday morning, each time taking food for Orville and Mary Robison. Most weekends she only manages a small batch of cookies or half dozen sweet rolls. Never too much. Ray might notice. She leaves the food with Celia, who always promises to take it straight to the Robisons and then they drink coffee and sometimes eat cookies or maybe a sweet roll if Ruth made extra. After a few weeks of these trips, Ruth has started to put on a little weight, filling out like she was when she was younger. Her hip bones are cushioned now and her shoulders softened. Even her hair is stronger and thicker since Arthur’s family moved home. This past week, as they sipped coffee in Celia’s kitchen, Celia had brushed Ruth’s hair, carefully so as not to tear the ends, and wove it into a thick braid that she tied off with one of Evie’s pink hair bands. “The apple cider vinegar is working,” Celia said as she brushed out Ruth’s hair. Thinking Ray might notice her new braid, Ruth had practiced and was ready to show him how she could braid her own hair, but she had no explanation for the pink band. Standing on the edge of the road, she smiles and tosses her head from side to side, the braid swinging softly across her back.