Bent Road - Lori Roy [36]
“I have soup and sandwiches,” Celia says. “Ruth is laying it out.”
“Now we have chicken.”
Standing next to Arthur, Reesa tugs on a rope tied off to a beam jutting out a few feet from the garage’s roofline. On the other end of the rope, a chicken hangs, suspended by its wiry, yellow legs. The bird is nearly motionless, seemingly confused by its upside-down perspective. Arthur grabs its head and Reesa steps back.
“I need to talk to you, Arthur,” Celia says, buttoning her sweater’s bottom two buttons and squinting at the bird. “Reesa and I both need to talk to you.”
Gripping the chicken’s head in his left hand, Arthur raises his eyebrows at his mother. Reesa dabs the folds on her neck with the corner of the yellow and white checked apron tied around her waist.
“Whatever it is can wait,” Arthur says. He lifts the knife in his right hand as if inspecting the sharpness of the blade and rotates it slowly. It would have sparkled if there had been any sunlight.
“No,” Celia says, glancing at Reesa. “It really can’t.”
In one seamless motion, Arthur rolls the bird’s head slightly to the left and pulls the knife across its neck. He doesn’t cut so deeply that the head comes loose in his hand. Instead, it dangles as if hanging by a hinge. Blood shoots out, a bright red, perfectly shaped arch. Celia lets out a squeaking noise and stumbles backward. After the initial gush, the blood slows and begins to flow in a smooth steam that lands in a bucket that Arthur kicks a few times until it is in the right spot. Then, with the knife still in his hand, he says to Celia, “Okay, what is it?”
Celia watches the bird, both of them motionless. Steam rises up where Arthur made his cut.
“Well,” Arthur says. “Tell me. We’ve only got a few minutes. That water ready?”
“No, I, well . . . Ruth is putting it on.”
Reesa tugs at the knot tied around the bird’s legs, testing that it’s strong enough and then walks to the house. “We need the water for scalding, Celia.”
It is the kindest tone she has ever used with her daughter-in-law.
“Ruth is pregnant,” Celia says before Reesa can disappear into the house.
Arthur drops both hands to his sides and his chin to his chest. The porch light shines on the threesome, throwing a long thin shadow that falls at Celia’s feet. Reesa stops at the bottom step leading to the back door. The bird, hanging upside down, its neck slit open, its blood slowing to a trickle, begins to beat its wings in the air. Celia jumps backward, Arthur doesn’t move and Reesa dabs her neck again with her apron. The bird wildly flaps its wings one final time before hanging lifeless. Its heavy body sways on the end of the rope, but eventually, even that motion slows and stops. The only movement, tiny feathers, floating, spinning, drifting on the cold night air.
“What is it doing?” Celia asks, backing out of the yellow light.
“Dying,” Arthur says. “What do you mean, pregnant?”
Celia glances at Reesa, who has taken her foot off the first step, and says, “Just that. She’s pregnant.”
“You knew?” Arthur asks Reesa.
She nods.
“How is she pregnant for God’s sake? She’s forty years old.”
Celia takes two steps forward, back into the light, and cocks one hip to the side. “Forty is not so old.”
“God damn it, Celia, this is not funny.”
Reesa steps closer. “It’s not meant to be funny, son. Ruth has carried three other babies over the years, but never more than a few months.” She lowers her eyes and shakes her head. Her shoulders droop and roll forward, and her chin rests in the rolls of her neck. When she exhales, her breath shudders.
“Then why now?” Arthur asks. A dark shadow covers his lower jaw and his eyelids are heavy. He pulls off his leather gloves, and holding them in one hand, he shoves his knife in his back pocket and rubs his forehead.
“What do you mean, why now?” Celia says, holding up a hand to silence Reesa. “Why, it’s not so hard to figure out. Look at her, after these months since we came back. She’s happy. She’s healthy. Thank God, she’s healthy again. This baby has a chance.”
“What chance does