"We went to my mother's for breakfast, sir," Jonathon says, patting Olivia's jowl. "She enjoys the company."

"Good enough," Dad says. "Daniel, get this animal home."

"Yes, sir," Daniel says, wrapping both hands around the leather lead.

"Are you coming to Grandma's for lunch tomorrow?" Evie asks Jonathon. She twirls a braid around her finger, the same braid Jonathon tugged. "She makes fried chicken. Daddy says it's the best ever."

"Imagine so, squirt," Jonathon says, giving Evie a pat on the head and turning on one heel to leave.

"Don't forget to latch the gate, Dan," Elaine says, laughing and still hanging onto Jonathon's belt loop as they walk back to the truck.

While Dad directs Jonathon so his truck won't get stuck in one of the muddy ditches, Evie waves goodbye and Daniel pulls Olivia until her head turns toward home. Thinking he'll check for mail because Mama says his old friends are sure to write any day now, Daniel stops at the mailbox, tugs open the small door and looks inside. Empty. Not a single letter since they moved. Already, every Detroit friend has forgotten him. He shakes his head, gives Olivia's lead another yank to get her moving and looks up. There, at the top of the hill, he sees them.

"Hey, Dad," he says, squinting up the road. "Isn't that Aunt Ruth up there?"

At the top of the hill that separates Aunt Ruth and Uncle Ray's house from their house, Uncle Ray has parked his truck and is standing next to the pa.s.senger side door, which is open. At first, Daniel thinks Uncle Ray has come to help catch Olivia, too-that Dad has called out the whole county to run her down. But then he sees Aunt Ruth standing at the side of the road. Her shoulders are hunched forward as if she is carrying something and she looks no bigger than Evie from so far away. Uncle Ray motions for Aunt Ruth to get into the truck but instead she stares down the road where Daniel stands with Olivia. Daniel looks over at his cow. Her chestnut coat is slick and shiny, her breath comes in short, heavy snorts. She hangs her head, then looks up at Daniel with her brown eyes and bats her thick, black lashes.

When Daniel looks back, Aunt Ruth is gone. The truck door is closed. And Uncle Ray is walking back to the driver's side. He pauses as he pa.s.ses in front of the truck, waves down at Daniel and his family and slips inside the cab. Evie jumps up and down, waves her hands over her head. Dad watches as the truck rolls backward down the far side of the hill. He is looking for something, though Daniel isn't sure what.

Chapter 6.

Breathing in the cool morning air that ruffles her kitchen curtains and still smells of rain, Ruth crosses her legs, Indian style as Evie would say, and rearranges her skirt so it lies around her on the floor like a halo. Pieces of broken gla.s.s scatter as she settles into position. On the stove, a small saucepan sets inside a larger one that is filled with two inches of boiling water-a homemade double boiler. A cheesecloth draped over both traps the heavy, rising steam. On the counter, where it will stay cool, waits a small brown bottle.

From her spot on the floor, Ruth glances at the clock sitting on the stove and dips a teaspoon into a box of baking soda, levels it by dragging it under the box top and drops it into a small gla.s.s dish. Using a tight whipping motion, she stirs it into the water already in the bowl and, thinking the paste isn't thick enough yet, she adds another scoop of soda. She taps her spoon on the side of the gla.s.s bowl. Still not thick enough. As she adds a third spoonful, a truck pulls around the side of the house and parks near the garage. A door slams followed by footsteps that climb the outside stairs. Ruth pulls her knees to her chest, cups the small bowl in one hand and stirs the baking soda paste with the other.

The screened door rattles in its frame.

"Ruth. Ruth. You in there?"

Ruth lets her legs fall down into a crisscross position again and uses the back of her spoon to mash the paste against the side of the bowl.

"Ruth, it's Arthur. You home? I saw you out there on the road. You and Ray. Olivia got out again. Did you see? d.a.m.n cow. Everything okay in there?"

The screen creaks as it opens. Arthur knocks on the wooden door loud enough that Ruth feels it through the floorboards. She closes her eyes, actually only her left eye, and holds her breath, bracing herself. But the vibration beneath her is not enough to stir up the pain. She'll feel it tomorrow.

"Thought you might have something to eat in there," Arthur says, shaking the locked doork.n.o.b. "Eggs are cold at my house. You in there?"

Ruth sets aside the gla.s.s bowl and, supporting herself with one hand, she stretches toward a silver frame that lies barely within reach. She hooks the frame with one finger, pulls it toward her and sits straight again. Because the gla.s.s is broken, she slips off the cardboard backing, removes the picture and sets it on the floor next to her. A spot of blood drips off the palm that braced her when she reached for the frame. The blood lands on the center of the picture just below Eve's right eye. First one drop and then another. Eve was fifteen when the picture was taken, maybe sixteen. A few years before she died. Ruth pulls a small shard of gla.s.s from her palm and presses her hand against her skirt to stop the bleeding.

"Ruth, hey, Ruth." Arthur knocks again. "Celia says to come on over for coffee. She's got those white beans ready to go. Thought you'd like a ride."

Heavy footsteps cross the porch, pause and walk back. The door rattles in its frame as Arthur tries it again.

"You in there?"

Once the bleeding has stopped, Ruth dips a corner of her skirt into the baking soda paste and begins to polish the silver frame. She starts at the top, scrubbing in tiny circles, a white haze marking her path. The frame had been a wedding present. She polishes it every month, sometimes with baking soda, sometimes with toothpaste. The tarnish is quick to gather in the scalloped edges. Cheap silver, Ray always says.

Having finished the top, Ruth adjusts her grip, folding her hand over the jagged edges of gla.s.s clinging to the frame. The pointed shards p.r.i.c.k her fingers. She changes position, shifting her weight from side to side, her back beginning to ache where he kicked her. Something cuts into her hip. Another piece of gla.s.s, she thinks. All around her, gla.s.s lays shattered. Crescent-shaped pieces of wine-gla.s.ses never used, cleared out of the china hutch with one swipe of Ray's right hand. The frame had been an accident. It bounced across the wooden floor and came to rest at Ray's feet. From inside the silver frame, Eve's shattered face, her eyes bright, smiled up at him from under the brim of her best Sunday hat.

He had stood for a moment, staring at the photo, his clenched fists at his side and without bothering to look at her, he called Ruth a wh.o.r.e, a G.o.d d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.e with no business sneaking off like she did. A G.o.d d.a.m.ned wh.o.r.e wearing a pink band in her hair who had no business feeding the folks who thought he stole their girl. He had seen those Wichita men down at Izzy's cafe. Thought he'd have himself a decent G.o.d d.a.m.ned breakfast for once but then he sees those men with Floyd. Those G.o.d d.a.m.ned Wichita men tipped their hats at him, told him what a pleasant wife he had and what good coffee Ruth brewed up for them. Whole d.a.m.n town is talking about it now. Everyone talking about how much that girl looked like Eve, talking about it like it means something. Ruth couldn't lie when Ray asked if they'd been to talk to her but promised him that she only told those men the truth-that Ray'd been home all night, eating meat loaf and strawberry pie. The truth is all. Ray had stood for a long time, his good eye staring at Ruth before he kicked the silver frame across the floor into the kitchen. As Ruth crawled after it, gla.s.s crackling under her knees, he lifted the same boot and kicked her in the back and again in the left side of the head. When Ruth woke, he was gone.

A door slams and Arthur's truck fires up. Gravel crunches beneath his tires as he slowly backs up and starts down the driveway. The truck stops when it pa.s.ses the front of the house, idles there for a moment, and the sound of the engine fades as he drives away.

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 ap.r.o.n 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 ma.s.s 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 pa.s.senger 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 bas.e.m.e.nt-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 ch.o.r.es 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 m.u.f.fles 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 b.u.mper, 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.

[image]

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 cla.s.sroom, 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 Sat.u.r.day 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.

[image]

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 G.o.d d.a.m.ned 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 Sat.u.r.day 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. .h.i.tting 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, c.o.c.ked 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 G.o.d d.a.m.ned Robisons. G.o.d d.a.m.ned 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. Gla.s.s and warm bourbon splash up on the other side of the hole he had been looking through. The bits of gla.s.s sparkle in the cool sunlight for an instant before disappearing. The gravel driveway is silent.

Once the gla.s.s 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 b.u.mper, 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 pa.s.ses 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 c.o.c.ked 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.