Bent Road - Lori Roy [111]
Soon it will be all the way dark. Setting the statue on the bed next to her, Evie stands and presses her nose to the cold glass. Out on the road, beyond the bare trees where the red truck is parked, the driver’s side door opens and a man steps out. He stands still, his hands on his hips, and looks up at the house for a good long minute. He wavers, like the tall wheat stalks on a windy day. He must be cold, even with his jacket. The brim of his hat rides high on his forehead. Tugging it down, Uncle Ray reaches inside the truck and pulls out a long, thin gun.
Chapter 33
Celia shuts off the hot water when the bubbles reach the top of the sink. Gathering her cardigan sweater closed and wrapping her arms around her waist, she stares out the dark window. The tree is there, holding out its bare branches, reminding her of the cold, harsh winter. In the dim light, its icy coating doesn’t sparkle. The tree looks nearly dead, standing in the dark, making Celia doubt it will come to life again in spring, making her wonder if spring will ever come.
“It’s been such a long few days,” she says to Arthur, who is sitting at the table. “You should have something more to eat.”
Arthur holds his head in his hands and nods, though to what, Celia isn’t sure.
“I could make you a sandwich for now. Then you could sleep.”
“I found her in the shed, you know,” Arthur says, his head lowered as if talking to the table. “I did. I found her.”
Celia slides into a chair without pulling it back or making any noise.
“I knew she was in there, even before I opened the door.” Arthur presses both hands around his coffee mug. “How does a person know something like that? Even before I opened the door. I could feel it, feel something on the other side.”
He looks up at Celia.
“How does a person know?”
Pressing a dish towel over her mouth, Celia shakes her head.
“She had Mother’s statue with her, holding it in one hand. Must have thought it would help her.” Arthur exhales, almost a laugh. “She was so tiny, lying there. More like she was sleeping, except for the blood.”
“It’s so long past, Arthur. It wasn’t your fault. Wasn’t anyone’s fault.”
“I dropped her, the statue. Broke both hands off. Mother lost them in the laundry. For days, Ruth searched for them. Long past the funeral. Through every sheet and sock and basket. Looked until she found them both.”
From behind the cover of her dish towel, Celia nods because that is so like Ruth, hunting and searching—probably the only helpful thing she could find to do. Because there is nothing she can say, Celia reaches for Arthur’s hand instead. He lets her touch his fingers. They sit this way, their fingertips intertwined, not speaking, until their coffee has gone cold. Celia wants to remind Arthur that he was a boy when Eve died. He did what his sister asked, thought he was helping. She wants to soothe him, but before she finds the proper words, a familiar sound outside the kitchen window distracts her. Olivia has gotten out again. Arthur will be so angry with Daniel. No, it’s not Olivia. Olivia is dead. Celia slowly pulls her hands away and turns toward the dark window.
Arthur hears it, too, because he lifts up a hand to silence her when she begins to speak. A rustling. A snapping. The wind. Or a coyote. It’s always a coyote. Whenever Celia is lying in bed late at night and hears something outside, Arthur wraps an arm around her, pulls her close and whispers that it is a coyote. Celia waits for him to say the same now, but instead, he holds up a hand to keep the silence and slides his chair away from the table. Celia mirrors his movement, pushing back her own chair, silently, slowly. Arthur steps up to the kitchen window, leans so he can see around the side of the house and