Bent Road - Lori Roy [62]
Isabelle follows Ray to the table with a pot of coffee and a white cup and saucer. She stays several feet behind him and only approaches the table after he has pulled a chair up to the booth and sat.
“I’ll leave the pot for you folks,” she says.
“How about a piece of your cherry pie, Izzy?” Ray says, scooting up to the table. “What about you all? Anyone else for pie?”
All around the café, folks pick up their silverware and go back to sipping their coffee.
“Nothing for us, Ray,” Arthur says, sliding the creamer and sugar bowl to Ray’s end of the table.
Ray takes off his hat and coat, fanning the table with a gust of the cold air he brought in from outside. It smells like campfire smoke and oil, but mostly whiskey. After draping his coat over the back of his chair and tossing his hat on the next table, he reaches for the coffeepot and, as he pours himself a cup, his hand shakes, causing a few drops to spill over the side and onto the white tablecloth. He fills the cup only halfway and glances at Ruth. Tiny red veins etch the yellow skin around his nose and mouth and his dark hair is matted against his forehead and temples. He is nearly the man he was twenty years ago—the strong square jaw, the heavy brow, the dark brown eyes. He still has these features, but they have wilted. He begins to drum one set of fingers and, under the table, where he occasionally brushes against Celia, his knees bob up and down.
“Arthur says things are going well for you at the county,” Celia says, although this is not true. Ray has been showing up hours late and looking as if he hasn’t slept. First, he said it was the flu, then trouble with the truck and finally food poisoning by that damned Izzy at the café.
“Things are good enough,” Ray says, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing because his shaking hand spills too much into his mouth. He clears his throat and leans back when Isabelle sets his pie in front of him.
“Anything else, folks?” she asks.
“No,” Ray says. “That’s it.” And he pushes the pie into the center of the table.
“Well,” Arthur says, after Isabelle has walked away. “I guess you’ve been back about a month now.” He pauses, taking a drink of coffee. “And things are working out. Working out fine the way they are.”
“I think it’s long about time Ruth comes home,” Ray says, setting down his coffee and staring at Arthur, but not even his good eye can hold the gaze. “Time she gets back to church, too. Once on Christmas just isn’t right.”
“Ruth’s been to church every Sunday. Hasn’t missed a one.” Arthur shakes his head. “Nope, can’t have her living with you.”
“I’m sober, Arthur. Have been since the day I left.”
“Fist hurts all the same,” Arthur says, glancing at Ruth.
With her eyes lowered, Ruth touches the edge of her jaw.
“You want to come home, Ruth?” Ray’s knees stop shaking for a moment, but they begin to quiver again before Ruth can answer.
Arthur holds up a finger to silence her. “Let’s keep on like this for a short time more,” he says. “Maybe consider whether staying married is the right thing for you two. Maybe you come for a few Sunday suppers so we can talk about it.” Arthur nods at his own idea. “Yeah, maybe a dinner or two.”
Ray presses both hands on the tabletop, steadying himself. He shifts in his seat, the cups and saucers rattling when his knees bump the table. “That’s a damn fool thing to consider.” His good eye lifts to look at Ruth.
She shifts in her seat, pressing back into the corner where the wooden bench meets the wall.
“You considering not staying married?” he says. “This how you start thinking when you quit the church?”
Celia ignores Arthur’s signal to keep quiet. “She has every right to think as she pleases, Ray. You hurt her very badly.”
Ray looks at Celia as if noticing her at the table for the first time. He never quite meets her eyes but instead looks at the individual parts of her. Tonight he studies her neck,