Bent Road - Lori Roy [11]
“Good morning,” Ruth says, clasping her hands together and stepping back when Celia reaches the bottom stair. Her eyelashes cast a feathery shadow on her cheeks and the silver and gray in her hair shimmers in the sunlight. “Lovely service.”
“Yes,” Celia says. “A little warm though,” and she shields her eyes. No sign of Arthur, though she does spot Reesa standing with the three women who were whispering about the terrible news. She is shaking her head as the women talk. Feeling that she has spent the better part of her short time in Kansas swatting bugs, swallowing dust and searching for Arthur, Celia drops her hand and stops looking.
Ruth smiles with closed lips. “There he is,” she says, pointing up at Arthur, who is standing at the top of the stairs among a group of men wearing short-sleeve dress shirts and thick black belts.
Celia nods and gives a small wave when Arthur motions in her direction as if to point out his wife to his old friends. Elaine stands nearby at Jonathon’s side, both of them talking with the other young men who must, like Jonathon, work in the oil fields. Weeks of moaning and complaining and already Elaine is at home. Ray, who is also standing with Jonathon, seems to return Celia’s wave, which was meant for Elaine, but because of the way his left eye drifts off to the side, she’s not quite sure where he’s looking. She frowns anyway and after the group of men, all of whom have large ears and noses, turns away, she asks, “Is this where everyone meets?”
“Yes,” Ruth says. “The sheriff will talk from up there.” She motions toward the church’s double doors at the top of the stone staircase. “Except if it’s wintertime. Then we all gather in the church basement.”
“Does he come every Sunday?”
“No. Only when he has business, news to tell.”
Celia pulls the gold pins from her pillbox hat, drops them into her change pouch and tucks the hat under one arm. “News of what?”
Ruth lowers her head and glances over her shoulder in a way that Celia has come to recognize as common.
“A girl,” she says. “A local girl’s gone missing.”
Behind them, a car pulls up to the curb and parks. The congregation quiets as a small, narrow-shouldered man steps out of a black and white police car. He wears a dark blue uniform and a beige tie that has pulled loose at the knot and hangs crooked around his open collar. Passing them by, he tips his hat, seemingly at Ruth, and shakes a few hands as he makes his way to the top of the stairs, where he waits silently, hands on hips. The churchgoers gathering on the sidewalk push Celia and Ruth to the back.
“Some of you folks will already be knowing this,” the sheriff says, clearing his throat into a closed fist. The six-pointed silver star pinned to his shirt sparkles in the sunlight. “But I’ll tell you all now. Little Julianne Robison has turned up missing.” He pauses again. “Her folks called us in last evening. Now, chances are the child has just wandered off. Lost her way in the fields or maybe down by the river. Out playing is all she was doing.”
Shielding her eyes with one hand and holding her hair with the other, Celia steps away from the crowd so she can see Daniel and Evie. They both stand where last she saw them—in the steeple’s shadow this side of the whitewashed fence that wraps around the church’s small cemetery. Evie is bent down