Chapter 21.

The school bus hisses and slows near Daniel's house. Holding onto the back of the seat in front of him, he gathers his books and lunch-box, stands and waits until the bus has stopped before stepping into the aisle.

"Now, you're sure Evie wasn't meant to take the bus home today?" Mr. Slear, the bus driver, asks.

"No, sir. Guess my mama picked her up early."

The bus door slides open and Mr. Slear says, "She not feeling well?"

"Yes, sir. Not feeling well at all."

Daniel waits at the end of the gravel drive until Mr. Slear pops the bus into gear and drives away. Once it has disappeared over the hill, leaving behind a trail of gray exhaust, he walks up the drive. The tailgate of Dad's truck peeks out from behind the house. He has come home early. The only other time Dad came home early from work was when the first black boy in Detroit called Elaine. Now he's home because Evie wore Aunt Eve's dress to school.

After a few more steps, Daniel sees all of Dad's truck. It's parked in its normal spot. Mama's car is parked next to the truck and the spot where Jonathon normally parks is empty. Daniel smiles at the empty spot until he hears a low rumble. He takes a few more slow steps. There it is again. Almost a groan. Rounding the back of the house and seeing nothing, he stops and stomps his feet, trying to warm his toes. The cold air burns his lungs and the inside of his throat. Inching closer to the back of the house, he hears it again. He takes a few more steps. Aunt Ruth stands at the far end of the screened-in porch. She must hear it, too.

"What should I do, Arthur?" Aunt Ruth says. "What do you need?"

Aunt Ruth's voice is quiet as if she's trying not to scare something. Daniel shifts direction and walks toward the gap between the garage and the far side of the house. As he nears Aunt Ruth, she begins to sidestep toward the back door. She looks at Daniel. Her eyes are wide and she is shaking her head. She looks small, as small as Evie, as small as the day Uncle Ray came asking for pie and a jump for his truck. On his tiptoes now, so his feet don't crunch on the gravel drive, Daniel takes a few more steps.

Dad and Olivia are standing in the small alleyway between the house and garage, the s.p.a.ce that Daniel always forgets to mow. But the gra.s.s has died off with winter and the ground is hard and bare. With one hand, Dad pats Olivia on the hind end. With the other, he waves Aunt Ruth away. Olivia is too large to turn around in the narrow s.p.a.ce and she can't walk through and around the house because old Mr. Murray's rusted car blocks the far end. The only way out is for Dad to coax her to back up.

"There you go, girl," Dad says to Olivia in a quiet voice. He sounds like he's talking to Evie. "Get on back now, girl."

Step by step, Olivia backs out of the narrow pa.s.sageway.

"Dan," Dad says, seeing Daniel standing in the driveway. "Get Evie inside. Get her inside now and get me my gun."

Blood is splattered across Dad's white work shirt, the one with the Rooks County patch that Mama sewed on the left pocket before his first day of work. Both sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and his hands are shiny red like he dipped them in red paint. Olivia turns, leading with the top of her head, followed by her round, brown eyes.

Aunt Ruth said Olivia was a good mother to many calves, but she's too old now and she's apple-a.s.sed. No one wants her apple-a.s.sed calves anymore. Daniel gags into a closed fist and stumbles backward.

A gash runs the length of Olivia's neck and down into her dew-lap and her jowls hang like parted curtains. Most of her blood is gone, drained out on the ground, soaked up by the dirt. What is left is thick and dark, almost black. A shadow grows out of the wound and spreads up and across her neck, staining her chestnut coat. She staggers, moans, barely more than a whisper. Dad pats her right haunch. Coughing and choking, Daniel thinks of Evie. Dad thinks Evie came home on the bus. No, she's with Mama. Mama came to school for her, picked her up early. The nurse was going to call Mama because Evie wore Aunt Eve's dress. The nurse was supposed to call.

"Get my gun," Dad says, starting to back up again and coaxing Olivia with his quiet voice. "Get on back, girl. Get on back now."

Daniel's legs won't move. He sees the steps leading to the back porch. He'll go up them, two at time, unlock the cabinet, grab the gun. Evie's already inside, hiding her face in Mama's ap.r.o.n, probably crying because Olivia is going to die. The gun is inside, too. But Daniel's legs won't move.

"My gun, Dan," Dad says, wiping his forehead with his shirtsleeve and leaving a red smudge. "I need a gun."

Daniel takes a step toward the porch. Only one. Another low rumble drifts up from Olivia. Dad yells again for him to get moving. He takes the stairs two at a time. Inside the back door, Mama and Aunt Ruth already have the gun cabinet open. They stand back as Daniel reaches in and grabs the shotgun. Dad said it once belonged to Grandpa Robert, but he's dead so now it's Dad's gun. It's heavier than his rifle, the weight of it pulling him forward. With one hand on the stock and the other on the double barrel, he swings around, careful to not hit Mama or Aunt Ruth, and runs back outside.

"Careful, Dan," Mama calls out.

Olivia and Dad stand in the driveway now, clear of the small s.p.a.ce that had trapped Olivia. Dad has one hand on a leather lead that dangles from Olivia's neck strap. Evie left it on. d.a.m.n it all, she's always leaving on that lead. Olivia stomps her front feet, staggering from side to side as if she's frightened now that she is in the open. She starts to swing around, throwing her head to the left. Dad looks behind, measuring the distance between him and the garage because Olivia might crush him against it.

"There's a girl," he says, dropping the leather lead and coming at her from the front end where she can't hurt him. "There's a good girl."

Olivia staggers a few steps to the side and back toward Dad. Waiting until she staggers away again, he grabs at the strap and walks her in a half circle, coaxing her quietly until she is facing the opposite direction. Still talking to her, telling her she's a good girl, he backs toward the fence, and without taking his eyes off of hers, he wraps her lead around the nearest wooden post and ties it off. Olivia's blood is smeared across his face and his neck. Giving the lead a tug to test that it is good and tight, Dad sidesteps away from her.

"Go ahead on, son." He nods, and as he steps away, he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and wipes the blood from his hands.

Waiting until Dad is clear, Daniel lifts the heavy gun and walks toward Olivia. With the wooden stock pressed to his cheek, he wraps his finger around the stiff trigger and stares down the wide barrel until Olivia is lined up in the sight. She is a Brown Swiss with long thin legs and dark lashes that trim her brown eyes. Akin to a deer, Dad had said. She'll be a jumper, quick and light on her feet. She'll be a good girl, a good cow. But a quick one. You'll have to take good care. She throws her head again, stumbling left and right, the lead pulling tight against her weight. Daniel's finger is numb on the trigger.

"Go on with it, son," Dad says. He stands with his back to Daniel and Olivia. "No need letting her suffer."

Daniel stares down the barrel at Olivia. She flicks one round ear and swats her long black tail.

Dad turns back to face Daniel. He exhales loud enough for Daniel to hear and reaches out as if wanting Daniel to hand off the gun. Instead, Daniel lines it up again and begins to pull the heavy trigger.

"Hold on there, Dan," Dad says. "Wait. Dan, no."

Daniel pulls. He thinks he pulls. And jumps when a shot fires.

It catches Olivia square between the ears, and the sound of her exploding skull seems to surprise her. She tosses her head, shaking away the echo, but the lead holds firm. Another shot. She drops her snout, nuzzles the ground, stumbles, her front feet crossing one over the other. Her back feet are rooted. The lead holds firm. A third shot. She falls. Daniel lowers the shotgun and turns. There, standing in front of his truck, ready to take another shot, Jonathon holds his position, but Olivia is already down. He had perfect aim with all three. He lowers his gun and leans against the hood of his truck. He's parked in his usual spot.

"Got herself caught up back there," Dad says. "Tangled up in her lead." He takes another deep breath and shakes his head. "Couldn't find her way out. Threw her head through the garage window."

Jonathon nods and wipes his brow with the palm of his hand like Dad always does. In the pa.s.senger side of his truck, Elaine sits, her face hidden in her hands.

Daniel looks down at his gun and back at Dad.

"Wouldn't want a shotgun for a job like this, son," Dad says.

Jonathon lays his rifle in the back of his truck. "Shotgun'll do the trick if something's coming at you," he says. "Good for protection and hunting. But if you have time to take aim, you want a rifle."

"Should have told you to get your rifle," Dad says. "Man'll always do right with his own gun."

Jonathon nods and Daniel wants to lunge at him and beat him in the face for always being Dad's extra set of hands. Instead, he nods like he understands about shotguns and rifles.

"Hustle on in and get me some clean clothes," Dad says, noticing the blood smeared across his shirt and arms.

Unable to say anything, Daniel nods again, lays down Grandpa's shotgun and steps around it. At the top of the porch stairs, he turns. Dad has picked up the gun and he and Jonathon are looking at it, studying it. They stare at each other for a good long moment, like they are saying something without having to speak, and then propping the gun over one shoulder, Dad walks into the garage.

"d.a.m.n shame," Jonathon says, walking toward Olivia.

Daniel says nothing while he waits for Dad to come back out of the garage. When he does, he is empty-handed.

"Dad," Daniel says before opening the screened door. "Evie's home, right? Evie's already here."

Finding Mrs. Robison's house was easy. From school, Evie had only to follow the church steeple, and even though it wasn't a long walk, Evie's toes are cold and the tops of her ears burn. She knocks again, this time with the palm of her hand because knocking with her knuckles makes them sting. Mama will be angry if she knows Evie left the house without gloves and a hat. She forgot them because she was so worried about the hem of Aunt Eve's dress sticking out from under her winter coat where Mama might see it.

Standing at the front door, Evie pulls her coat closed so Mrs. Robison won't see the torn part of the dress before Evie can explain. It's Daddy's fault it tore some more. He hit Uncle Ray, and Evie tripped over the dress and the collar ripped. Maybe that's why Uncle Ray's red truck is parked down at the church. Maybe he is talking to Father Flannery about how Daddy hit him and how Aunt Ruth has his baby inside of her. That's Uncle Ray's truck for sure. It's parked in the same spot he and Aunt Ruth parked in every Sunday before Aunt Ruth came to live with Evie. As soon as Mrs. Robison answers the door, Evie will show her that Uncle Ray is at church because Daddy and he had a fight and made Evie tear her dress. Surely Mrs. Robison will fix it. She'll have the needles and thread and she'll sew it up tight, and maybe she'll fix the trim, too. Mrs. Robison might even be able to make the dress a little smaller so it will fit Evie better next time.

Knocking on Mrs. Robison's door again and hearing nothing, Evie walks to the picture window, cups her hands around her eyes, and tries to see inside, but the curtains are closed and the house is dark. She taps on the gla.s.s and presses her ear to it. Still nothing. Back at the door, she knocks again. The sun is starting to fall lower in the sky. The air is colder now than when Evie first left school, and soon, Mama will be thinking about supper. Mrs. Robison doesn't live far from school but Evie does. Her house is a long way away. Her house is so far from school that Mr. Slear drives them in the bus every day.

Not knowing why, except that the cold air and the gray sky make her think that she might never find home again, Evie starts to cry. She tries to stop by holding her breath and knocking with her knuckles so the sting will make her forget about how far away her house is, but the harder she knocks, the harder she cries. Mrs. Robison isn't home and she can't fix Aunt Eve's dress. Evie will have to go home with the torn collar and Mama will scold her for wearing Aunt Eve's dress and for ruining it. Laying one hand flat on Mrs. Robison's door, Evie drops her head, pulls her collar up and over her mouth and nose and walks away from the house.

At the end of the Robisons' sidewalk, with her face buried in her coat, Evie turns toward St. Anthony's. She knows to take Bent Road straight out of town. It will change from concrete to gravel, twist and bend, exactly like the name says, and after a good long way, it will break in two. One branch will lead to Grandma Reesa's house and the other will switch its name to Back Route 1 and lead toward home.

Crossing the street to the church, Evie sees that Uncle Ray isn't visiting Father Flannery. He is standing inside the white wooden fence that wraps around the graveyard, staring down on one of the graves. The new graves, like the one dug for Mrs. Minken who died because she was 102, are way in the back of the cemetery, so Uncle Ray must be visiting an older grave, one for someone who died a long time ago. Three large pine trees stand over the grave Uncle Ray is looking at as if they are guarding it. He stands with those trees, his arms crossed, his feet spread wide like he's standing guard, too. In one hand, he holds his hat and his dark hair blows off his forehead. Evie calls out, good and loud so Uncle Ray will hear her over the wind.

"h.e.l.lo," she says, and then is sorry for it. People are supposed to whisper in cemeteries.

Uncle Ray turns toward Evie. He watches her for a good long time, then pulls on his hat and looks back down on the grave.

The wind is colder once Evie steps onto the sidewalk and walks toward home. She pulls her sleeves over her hands, dips her head and tries to take long steps that will get her home quicker. Beyond the shelter of the church, the wind kicks up and dies down again when she pa.s.ses Mr. Brewster's house. A light switches on. Mr. Brewster, carrying a plate, walks past the window. Mama says he's a widower because his wife died and that he doesn't get out much. Even Mr. Brewster, who is all by himself, is sitting down to supper. That's what Mama and the others are doing by now. Mama likes an early supper because going to bed on a full stomach never does anyone any good. Evie closes her eyes as she pa.s.ses Mr. Brewster's house. He must be lonely in there all by himself and that makes Evie feel like she may never see home again.

At the last stop sign before the road changes to dirt, a car pulls up next to Evie. It rattles to a stop and exhaust swirls up, clouding the gray air around her. She unwraps her hands, lowers her collar and looks into the side of a big, red truck.

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Celia clears her throat, and taking a deep breath to calm herself, she pulls a fresh shirt from the top drawer and a clean pair of pants from the closet. Out in the kitchen, Ruth is busying herself by setting the table and skinning the chicken for dinner. She's seen things like this before, probably much worse. If Arthur hadn't been able to come home in the middle of the day when Celia called to tell him that Olivia was out again and was apparently stuck between the house and garage, even with one bad arm, Ruth probably would have coaxed the cow out herself. Right this moment, she is probably planning how to best slaughter Olivia and where they will freeze so much meat. No, that's not true. Ruth wouldn't think those things. Reesa would, but not Ruth. Ruth will be thinking how to help the children understand that this is part of life on the farm. She would never tell them that Olivia will soon be wrapped in white butcher paper and stacked in the freezer.

Folding the blue and gray plaid flannel shirt for no reason other than to stall, Celia wonders if Arthur knew things would be this way when they moved from Detroit. Did he know that sometimes the eggs wouldn't be eggs when Celia cracked them into her skillet but that sometimes they would be the beginnings of a tiny, b.l.o.o.d.y chick? Did he know Daniel wouldn't have many friends and that Evie still wouldn't grow? Did he know Ray was beating Ruth all those years, beating the life out of her, and did he still stay away? Not wanting the answer to the last thought, Celia clears her throat again and walks from the bedroom with the clothes stacked neatly in both hands.

Standing at the kitchen table, one hand holding the back of a chair, Ruth doesn't look the way Celia thought she would. Her face is pale, her neck flushed. For a moment, Celia is relieved because Ruth is as upset as she by what has happened to Olivia. For a moment, Celia doesn't feel alone. Thank goodness for Ruth. Celia holds the clothes out to Daniel, who stands in the hallway leading to the back porch, but he doesn't reach for them.

"For your dad," Celia says, taking another step forward.

Daniel's arms hang limp and he steps aside when Arthur walks up from behind. Celia takes two quick steps backward and pulls the clothes to her chest, hugging them.

"Arthur, take this outside," she says, shoving his clothes at him. "You're an awful mess."

Reddish brown smudges that end with feathered edges travel from Arthur's right hip up to his left shoulder, as if Olivia threw her head against him, and dried blood is caked on his hands and forearms.

"Your shoes," Celia says. "Take those off. Outside."

Muddy tracks have followed Arthur into the house, b.l.o.o.d.y mud. Celia looks at Daniel's feet instead. He keeps telling her he needs new boots, that his toes are going to end up crooked if he doesn't get some bigger shoes.

"Please, take those off outside."

"Is Evie here with you?" Arthur says.

At this, Celia lifts her eyes.

"She's not outside," Jonathon says, walking up behind Arthur. Elaine stands next to him. She nods. "We checked the barn, the road. Elaine looked downstairs."

"She came on the bus," Celia says, looking Daniel in the eye. "With you. She came home on the bus. Like always."

"The nurse said she was going to call," Daniel says. "Because Evie wore the dress. I thought you came for her."

Ruth steps forward and takes the stack of clothes from Celia.

"The dress?" Celia says. "What dress? No one called."

"The school nurse." Daniel clears his throat the same way Celia does when she's trying not to cry. "She was going to call. She said maybe Evie should go home for the day."

Daniel looks up at Arthur. There's not so much difference anymore. They're almost the same height.

"Evie wore one of those dresses to school. One of Aunt Eve's dresses. From Grandma's house. I thought you picked her up." Daniel takes a deep breath. His chest lifts and lowers. "She didn't come home on the bus, Mama."

"Well, then she's still at school," Celia says, nodding. "Right. She's still at school."

"We'll go, Mama," Elaine says, pulling Jonathon toward the back door. "We'll check the school."

"I'll give them a call," Ruth says, setting the clothes on the table and taking care that they don't spill over and come unfolded. "I'm sure she's fine. Probably got caught up after cla.s.s. Nothing to worry about."

"I thought you came, Mama," Daniel says. "I wouldn't leave her. I wouldn't."

Staring again at Daniel's boots, Celia thinks how much he's grown in the short time they've been in Kansas. And other things have changed, as well. His brow is starting to push out, the bridge of his nose is taking the same curve as Arthur's, his neck has thickened ever so slightly where it drapes into his shoulders. Celia c.o.c.ks her head to the left and says, "Today at work, Arthur. Was Ray with you today at work?"

"Hasn't been in all week. Not since we saw him at the cafe. Not since Tuesday."

Chapter 22.

The truck smells like a coyote wagon. That's what Mama would have said. Whenever Mama rode in Daddy's truck, she said it was becoming nothing more than a coyote wagon. After that, Daddy would take a leftover grocery bag and clean out the wadded-up newspapers, the half-eaten apples, which were half-eaten because Daddy only likes the bites that have red skin with them, and the cigarette b.u.t.ts that make Mama especially mad because she hates that he sometimes smokes in Kansas. Uncle Ray is a smoker, too, but he doesn't have anyone to tell him to clean out his b.u.t.ts so they spill over the small tray and some of them lie on the floor. Uncle Ray is an apple eater, too, but he eats his down to the core.

Wrinkling her nose and clearing her throat, Evie steps off the sidewalk and reaches for the inside door handle. It's cold in her bare hand. An old red and blue flannel sheet is draped over the spot where Evie is supposed to sit, probably because Aunt Ruth used to sit there and without the thin cover, the seats would be cold and hard. The sheet is tucked in tight where the back and the bottom of the seat meet. Aunt Ruth did that. She is always tucking and straightening. This makes Evie feel better, makes her feel that it is okay to get into Uncle Ray's truck. Bracing one hand against the doorframe and pulling on the inside handle with the other, Evie steps up into the truck, careful not to look at Uncle Ray's face because she can't help but stare straight into the bad eye and Mama says that's not polite. So instead, she keeps her head lowered, drops down on the flannel cover and swings her legs into the truck. Propping both feet on the toolbox that sits on the floorboard, she pulls the truck door closed.

"You call the school?" Arthur says, walking out of the bedroom and grabbing his keys from the table on his way outside. He has washed up and is wearing clean clothes. "She there?"

Ruth shakes her head and starts to speak, but Celia cuts her off. "No, she's not there. No one's there. No one to even answer the phone."

Standing face to face with Arthur, her hands on her hips, Celia suddenly hates him. She hates the way his hair curls when it is damp. She hates that he doesn't shave every day like he did in Detroit and that he can't be bothered with a tie on Sundays. She hates that he stretches and groans when he eats Reesa's fried chicken and doesn't use a napkin until he's eaten his fill. And most of all, she hates him for yelling at Daniel because he's not enough of a man yet. Arthur is the one who isn't man enough, and now, because of that, because he did nothing, because he isn't the man he is supposed to be, Evie is gone. Gone like Mother and Father. Gone like Julianne Robison. Gone.

"What about Jonathon and Elaine?" Arthur hops on one foot, pulling on a boot that has Olivia's blood caked in the tread. "They back yet?"

"No," Celia says, taking her own boots from the closet and reaching past Arthur for her coat. "Why would they be back?" She pushes him in the chest so he'll look her in the face. "It's a full thirty minutes there and home again. Thirty minutes at best. That's how far it is."

Cupping Celia's arms with both of his hands, Arthur says, "Take it easy. I'm sure she's fine. We'll find her. You stay here. You and Ruth. In case she comes home, you should . . ."

Celia shoves his hand away and yanks on her jacket. "This is your fault," she says, quietly at first, but then it feels so good, like beating on something with both fists, that she says it louder and louder until she is shouting. "I've been telling you, begging you to do something. I knew it. I knew it. He's angry. Angry that we kept the baby from him. First Julianne and now." But she can't say it. She can't say he has taken her Evie. "You brought us here. To this G.o.dforsaken place. This is your fault. All your fault."

It must be Ruth, laying a warm hand on Celia's back, and that must be Arthur, wrapping both arms around her, holding her to his chest. Someone is saying, don't panic. No need to panic. Won't do us any good. All these months that Julianne has been gone, Celia has thought of her every day, made herself think of the little girl she never met. If ever she found her day slipping away without a thought of Julianne, she stopped her scrubbing or ironing or weeding and looked up. If inside, she looked out a window. If outside, she looked to the horizon, always remembering, always searching, always hoping. Out of respect for the fear of losing her own children, she did these things every day, without fail. But no one ever found Julianne, and now Evie is gone and Celia is facing the same life Mary Robison must live.