"When she was quite young, Evie. She died when she was quite young."

Celia glances at Arthur. He is leaning against the doorframe with his head lowered and his arms crossed. Less than five months in Kansas, and it must seem to Evie that everyone disappears or dies. First Julianne Robison and now Aunt Eve. In Detroit, Celia knew how to care for her children. She shut off the news when they came down for breakfast, locked the front gate, walked them to school. But here in Kansas, she doesn't know what to lock. Now her fears walk through her very own kitchen, stand on her back steps, sneak up on her at church. In Kansas, she doesn't know how to care for her children.

Celia stands from her squatting position and takes a few steps toward Evie. "We all miss Aunt Eve very much. We should have told you sooner, but we didn't know when it would be right."

"Why?" Evie asks.

"What, honey? What do you mean, why?"

"Why did she die?"

"No good reason why," Arthur says. "Never a good reason."

"Daddy's right," Celia says, tilting her head and smiling. "And we don't need to talk about what happened right now. That'll be for another day, but you should know that she would have loved you very much."

"Is that why Aunt Eve didn't get married and wear the dresses?" Evie asks. "Because she was dead?"

Ruth presses a hand over her mouth.

"Evie, let's not talk about that," Celia says. "Let's just remember how much we loved Aunt Eve."

"That's why he hates Aunt Ruth," Evie says, pointing at Ruth. "Uncle Ray wanted to marry Aunt Eve, but she died. She died and he had to marry you."

Celia sucks in a quick breath, and Ruth closes her eyes.

"Evie Scott, that is a terrible thing to say," Celia says.

"I saw a picture. I saw Aunt Eve and Uncle Ray. Uncle Ray is happy. He is smiling in the picture and his eyes are almost normal. Aunt Eve is wearing a straw hat. I saw it."

Arthur steps into the kitchen and tosses his leather gloves on the table. "You will not say another word, young lady."

"Aunt Eve died and Uncle Ray had to marry Aunt Ruth. That's why he hates you."

"Stop it now," Arthur shouts, silencing the kitchen.

Evie pushes Celia's hands away and takes a step backward.

"Please, Evie," Ruth says. "I loved your Aunt Eve. I loved her so."

"You could have told me. I'm not a baby."

"No, honey," Celia says, reaching for Evie with one hand and for Ruth with the other. "We never thought you were a baby."

"Everyone thinks I'm too little."

"No, Evie," Elaine says, one arm still wrapped around Jonathon.

"No one thinks that, squirt," Jonathon says.

"I'm not a squirt either." Evie takes two more steps away. She is almost out of the kitchen. "I'm not too little. You could have told me she was dead. Dead, dead, dead. Dead like Julianne Robison." Two more steps and Evie stands where the living room meets the kitchen. "I don't even care. I don't even care about either one of them," and she runs across the wooden floors, into her bedroom, and slams the door.

Standing just inside the back porch and holding a box of Christmas ornaments, Daniel sees his reflection in the gun cabinet. Behind the gla.s.s, his .22-caliber rifle hangs next to Dad's shotgun. After Evie's door slams shut, he sets the box on the ground and bends to pull off his boots. Mama bought them at the St. Anthony's yard sale two weeks after they moved to Kansas. She said they were a good deal and would be plenty big enough to last a good long time. Now, a short five months later, Daniel's feet ache because the boots are too small. Small boots make crooked toes, G.o.d d.a.m.ned crooked toes that don't have room enough to grow. He sighs, thinking crooked toes are one more terrible thing about Kansas.

Dad and Mama never told Daniel that Aunt Eve was dead, just like they never told Evie. He never thought much about her, but if someone had asked, he would have said Aunt Eve moved away and was living somewhere else, probably with a husband and children of her own. Two probably, or maybe three. Had someone asked, he would have said Aunt Eve was like Mama. He would have said she wore ap.r.o.ns trimmed in white lace and had long blond hair. She probably smelled like Mama, too, and had soft, warm hands. But Aunt Eve is dead, and it makes Daniel feel the littlest bit like Mama is dead. Maybe that's why Mama and Dad never told Daniel and Evie.

Ian and some of the kids at school said Aunt Eve was dead. They said Uncle Ray killed her twenty-five years ago and now he's killed Julianne Robison-either he or Jack Mayer did it. One of them's guilty for sure, that's what the kids at school said. Daniel never believed them about Aunt Eve. Even though he never knew her, he didn't like to think about someone killing her, but now he knows it's true. Now he knows that his parents didn't tell him about Aunt Eve because they think he's a baby like Evie.

Still staring at the gun cabinet, Daniel wonders about the shotgun, wonders if it will be heavier than his .22. Maybe too heavy. Maybe too heavy for someone who doesn't have many friends and everyone thinks is a baby. But Ian says he needs it for pheasant hunting. A rifle won't work. Not even Daniel is a good enough shot to use a rifle. Ian has enough ammunition, but Daniel has to bring his own gun. The Bucher brothers say that if Daniel is really a good shot, he'll handle a shotgun just fine. He will use the key on top of the cabinet, take the gun before Mr. Bucher picks him up next Sat.u.r.day afternoon, and hide it in his sleeping bag. Dad always takes a nap on Sat.u.r.day afternoons. Mama says the week wears him out and that Dad needs a little peace and quiet. He'll take the gun while Dad is sleeping. Ian says the plan will work, that the sleeping bag will hide the shotgun. But Ian, who walked too slowly before he got his black boots, has never been pheasant hunting either and he's never stolen a shotgun, so how does Ian know what will work and what won't?

"Daniel," Mama calls out from the kitchen. "Is that you?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"Come in here, sweetheart. We have something to tell you."

Daniel hangs his coat on the hook closest to the gun cabinet. If he drapes it carefully, it almost covers enough of the cabinet to hide Dad's shotgun. It'll hide an empty spot, too. He will remember this for next weekend.

"Coming, Mama," he says and picks up the box of ornaments.

Chapter 18.

Celia frowns across the table at Arthur as he drops a second sugar cube in his coffee. He is about to drop in a third but stops when Celia raises her chin and shakes her head. From the front of the cafe, the bell over the door rings, a blast of cold air floods their table, and Sheriff Bigler walks in. He pulls off his heavy blue jacket, which makes him shrink to half the size he was when he walked in, drapes it over a stool at the counter and sits. Arthur lifts a hand to greet him. Floyd nods in return.

"Wonder what brings Floyd out?" Arthur says.

"Having a little dessert like everyone else," Celia says, pulling off her coat and laying it over the seat back. "And I called him. Just in case."

Ever since the holidays ended, Father Flannery has been calling the house, saying he hoped the Scotts were a good Christian family who hadn't forgotten about forgiveness since they started attending St. Bart's. Tired of the phone calls and thinking that maybe they could get that annulment after all, Arthur finally agreed to meet with Ray. Ruth shook her head at the idea and Celia said an annulment would never happen once Father Flannery found out about the baby. Still, Arthur wanted to try. Celia said she would approve only if they met Ray in the cafe because he certainly wasn't setting foot inside her kitchen.

"Shouldn't have done that," Arthur says, taking a sip of coffee and making a sour face as if it isn't sweet enough. He taps his teaspoon on the white tablecloth, leaving a small, coffee-colored stain.

"Why on earth not?"

"Just gonna get Ray riled up."

"He won't know Floyd is here for us."

"Man's not a fool, Celia."

Celia brushes him away with a wave of her hand. "Are you doing all right?" she asks, turning to face Ruth, who is sitting next to her in the small booth. She takes Ruth's hand with both of hers. "Are you feeling okay?"

"I'm fine," Ruth says. "Please don't fuss."

At the front of the cafe, the door chime rings again. Orville and Mary Robison walk in, stamping their feet and pulling off their coats. Arthur tips his head toward them as if he's wearing his hat and slouches back down into the wooden bench.

"What do you suppose brings them out?" Celia asks.

"They come every night," Ruth says, picking at the frayed end of her jacket sleeve. "Have ever since they first got married. Dessert and coffee usually."

The dinner crowd has cleared out and only the folks who, like the Robisons, have come for cherry pie and coffee are left. Half a dozen at most. At a table near the front counter, Orville Robison waits while Mary takes his coat and hangs it on the rack inside the door. She leaves on her own coat and as they sit, Floyd Bigler swivels around on his stool and walks over to them. He shakes Orville's hand and takes the seat that Mary offers him.

The two men begin to talk while Mary tips the white creamer, pouring milk into her coffee. The sleeves of her gray flannel jacket hide her hands, making it seem that she has shrunk in the months since Julianne disappeared, and the hair peeking out from under her tan hat is gray, almost white. How can she go on-standing, walking, sipping her coffee-now that no one is searching for Julianne anymore? There hasn't even been an article in the paper about the disappearance since before the holidays, and Father Flannery said a special prayer for Julianne at midnight ma.s.s on Christmas Eve, a prayer that sounded like good-bye. Maybe that's why folks stopped talking about it and writing about and searching for poor Julianne. They all thought good-bye meant Julianne would never come home.

The chime rings a third time, and Ray walks into the cafe. He takes off his hat, nods toward Isabelle Burris, who is folding napkins behind the counter, and lifts a finger in her direction.

"Cup of black coffee, Izzy," he says and, as he winks at her, he notices the Robisons and Floyd Bigler. He pauses for a moment, looks at them and at all the others in the cafe. Folks have laid down their forks, pushed aside their coffee and are watching. "Get back to it," Ray says to the room, glaring at them with his good eye while the cloudy eye goes off on its own, and without even a polite nod toward the Robisons, he walks past.

Isabelle follows Ray to the table with a pot of coffee and a white cup and saucer. She stays several feet behind him and only approaches the table after he has pulled a chair up to the booth and sat.

"I'll leave the pot for you folks," she says.

"How about a piece of your cherry pie, Izzy?" Ray says, scooting up to the table. "What about you all? Anyone else for pie?"

All around the cafe, folks pick up their silverware and go back to sipping their coffee.

"Nothing for us, Ray," Arthur says, sliding the creamer and sugar bowl to Ray's end of the table.

Ray takes off his hat and coat, fanning the table with a gust of the cold air he brought in from outside. It smells like campfire smoke and oil, but mostly whiskey. After draping his coat over the back of his chair and tossing his hat on the next table, he reaches for the coffeepot and, as he pours himself a cup, his hand shakes, causing a few drops to spill over the side and onto the white tablecloth. He fills the cup only halfway and glances at Ruth. Tiny red veins etch the yellow skin around his nose and mouth and his dark hair is matted against his forehead and temples. He is nearly the man he was twenty years ago-the strong square jaw, the heavy brow, the dark brown eyes. He still has these features, but they have wilted. He begins to drum one set of fingers and, under the table, where he occasionally brushes against Celia, his knees bob up and down.

"Arthur says things are going well for you at the county," Celia says, although this is not true. Ray has been showing up hours late and looking as if he hasn't slept. First, he said it was the flu, then trouble with the truck and finally food poisoning by that d.a.m.ned Izzy at the cafe.

"Things are good enough," Ray says, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing because his shaking hand spills too much into his mouth. He clears his throat and leans back when Isabelle sets his pie in front of him.

"Anything else, folks?" she asks.

"No," Ray says. "That's it." And he pushes the pie into the center of the table.

"Well," Arthur says, after Isabelle has walked away. "I guess you've been back about a month now." He pauses, taking a drink of coffee. "And things are working out. Working out fine the way they are."

"I think it's long about time Ruth comes home," Ray says, setting down his coffee and staring at Arthur, but not even his good eye can hold the gaze. "Time she gets back to church, too. Once on Christmas just isn't right."

"Ruth's been to church every Sunday. Hasn't missed a one." Arthur shakes his head. "Nope, can't have her living with you."

"I'm sober, Arthur. Have been since the day I left."

"Fist hurts all the same," Arthur says, glancing at Ruth.

With her eyes lowered, Ruth touches the edge of her jaw.

"You want to come home, Ruth?" Ray's knees stop shaking for a moment, but they begin to quiver again before Ruth can answer.

Arthur holds up a finger to silence her. "Let's keep on like this for a short time more," he says. "Maybe consider whether staying married is the right thing for you two. Maybe you come for a few Sunday suppers so we can talk about it." Arthur nods at his own idea. "Yeah, maybe a dinner or two."

Ray presses both hands on the tabletop, steadying himself. He shifts in his seat, the cups and saucers rattling when his knees b.u.mp the table. "That's a d.a.m.n fool thing to consider." His good eye lifts to look at Ruth.

She shifts in her seat, pressing back into the corner where the wooden bench meets the wall.

"You considering not staying married?" he says. "This how you start thinking when you quit the church?"

Celia ignores Arthur's signal to keep quiet. "She has every right to think as she pleases, Ray. You hurt her very badly."

Ray looks at Celia as if noticing her at the table for the first time. He never quite meets her eyes but instead looks at the individual parts of her. Tonight he studies her neck, the dimple where the two halves of her collarbone meet. After a long silence, Ray pushes back from the table. He stands and stumbles a few steps, knocking over his chair. The loud clatter silences the cafe again.

"Ruth is coming home tonight," he says, dropping two dollars on the table. "I've been patient enough." He leans forward, resting his palms on the table. "We'll fetch your things tomorrow, Ruth. Come along now."

Arthur tries to stand, but Ray, who is already on his feet, shoves him back down, reaches across the table and grabs Ruth's forearm. He tries to yank her from the booth as if she's no more than one of Evie's ragdolls. She cries out. Celia presses her body against Ruth's, pinning her in the corner. With both hands wrapped around one of Ruth's small wrists, Ray pulls. Across the table, Arthur struggles to his feet, tipping over the coffee and creamer. He grabs Ray's collar and drags him up and away. The weight pressing down on Celia is suddenly lifted. As quickly as Ray attacked, he is gone. Celia takes in a deep breath. With her body still pressed against Ruth's, she turns. Both men have stumbled over Ray's fallen chair. Arthur is first to scramble to his feet. He dives at Ray again but finds Floyd Bigler instead.

Even though Floyd is a much smaller man than either Ray or Arthur, he grabs Ray by his upper arm, shakes him and pushes him from the table. With the other hand, he stiff-arms Arthur.

"What's going on here, gentlemen?"

"Taking my wife." Ray wipes his forearm across his nose. "High time she comes home." He rocks from one foot to the other and shifts his eyes from side to side. "Ain't got nothing to do with you, Floyd."

Floyd tugs at his belt. "I guess if Ruth wants to go with you, she'll go on and do it." He looks at Ruth.

She wraps one arm around her midsection and shakes her head.

"All right then, I guess you're leaving alone."

Celia slides away from Ruth, pushes aside the table that has wedged them both in the corner and begins mopping up the coffee and cream that has spilled. The men in the cafe, the ones who had been eating dessert, including Orville Robison, are standing. Ray waves them off, grabs his hat from the nearby table and stumbles toward the door.

"It's wrong, what you're doing, Arthur Scott," he says, once he has reached the front of the cafe.

Standing with one hand on the doork.n.o.b, he sways a bit and seems to notice Orville Robison standing nearby. Orville crosses his arms over his chest. Still sitting, Mary stares down at her hands folded on the table. Ray leans forward to get a good look at her.

"Don't know a man who doesn't have a say when it comes to his own wife." Then he pulls open the door, letting in another blast of cold air. "It sure enough is wrong. Sure enough."

Once Ray is gone, Floyd motions for all of the men to sit.

"Everyone all right?" he asks, picking up Ray's chair and sliding it back to its original spot at a nearby table.

"Ruth, honey," Celia says, laying a hand on Ruth's stomach. "Is everything okay?" Ruth sits with one hand clutching her stomach and the other lying motionless in her lap. Her face has gone white and when Celia touches Ruth's hand, it is cold.

"You folks are in a tough spot, I'd say," Floyd says, nodding at Ruth. "You should probably shoot on over to the hospital. Let the doctor have a look."

Celia and Arthur exchange a glance, but neither one speaks.

"He doesn't know, does he?" Floyd asks.

Arthur shakes his head.