Bent Road - Lori Roy [37]
“Arthur,” Reesa whispers.
Celia takes another few steps toward Arthur. “You will never call this baby an ‘it’ again. He or she will have everything. Love and a home and . . .”
Arthur leans forward, spitting his words in Celia’s face. “What home? Our home? Christ, this is why she won’t annul the marriage, isn’t it? He’ll be back, you know. You think this is how it’ll be? Well, it won’t. He’ll be back and he’ll want his wife and that baby.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe he’ll stay in Damar.”
Celia doesn’t believe it even as she says it. She wishes the rumors were true. She wishes Floyd Bigler had shipped Ray off to Clark City where he’d rot and die behind those block walls. Instead, Arthur and William Ellis, Ray’s other brother-in-law, threw Ray in the back of William’s pickup truck. William, having had his fill of Ray’s drinking over the years, agreed to keep him just long enough. When Arthur came home stinking of vomit and whiskey, Celia asked him what “long enough” meant. Arthur shrugged as he stripped off his clothes. “Let’s hope long enough is long enough,” he had said.
“He’ll be back, Celia,” Arthur says. “That’s for damn sure. You think any father is going to let his son grow up in another man’s house?”
“We don’t know it will be a boy.”
Arthur throws his gloves on the ground. He looks like he wants to kick something, but the only thing close enough is the dead bird. He seems to think about it but kicks the ground instead.
“God damn it, Celia. Boy or girl, it doesn’t matter. You think I’ll be able to keep Ray away? I have to work, you know. I can’t be here every God damned second. You think I’ll be able to keep Ruth and her baby safe?”
Celia closes her eyes but does not back away. She can smell the aftershave Arthur splashed on for Father Flannery, his worn leather gloves, his wool jacket. He is more of a man now that they are living in Kansas. She would never say it to him, imply that he was less before, doesn’t even like to think it. Waiting until Arthur has finished shouting and the night air has fallen silent again, Celia opens her eyes.
“Yes,” she says, hoping Arthur will protect them all, hoping he is stronger here in Kansas because he has to be. “Yes, I do.”
Ruth stands on the back porch. Father Flannery’s cologne hangs in the air, rich and spicy. She breathes it in, the same smell as Sunday morning mass. Waiting for her face to heal, she hasn’t been to St. Anthony’s for almost a month. Celia and Arthur were afraid of the things people might say if they saw the swollen eyes, blackened and bruised cheek and jaw, split lip. They wanted to protect Ruth. In the early years of her marriage, Ruth had been afraid, too. The first time Ray put a fist to her, she hid her cuts and bruises with powder and scarves, but then she realized that people knew the beatings were inevitable, and shouldn’t Ruth have known the same?
Through the screened door, she listens for Arthur and wishes he would come inside so they could deliver the food to the Robisons. Going there takes her close to church, a half block away, takes her close enough to feel like she’s still being a good Christian. Now that Ruth is living with Arthur and his family, she rides along on the deliveries to the Robisons and walks the food to Mary’s front door, even puts it in the refrigerator and cleans out the spoiled leftovers, mostly things Ruth brought the week before. She hopes Arthur will still take her, that he won’t be too angry.
Mary never asks why Ruth suddenly started coming along, but she knows. Everyone knows. And every week, as Ruth jots baking instructions on the notepad near the telephone, Mary Robison tells Ruth to stop troubling herself, that all this lovely food won’t bring Julianne home. Nothing, nothing, will bring Julianne home. Ruth always smiles as best she can and continues to bake the pies and mix up the casseroles, because once, when they were so much younger, she and Mary Robison were friends, and Eve, too. The three of them, when they were young, when they had long, shiny hair and bright,