Bent Road - Lori Roy [77]
“Is Evie here with you?” Arthur says.
At this, Celia lifts her eyes.
“She’s not outside,” Jonathon says, walking up behind Arthur. Elaine stands next to him. She nods. “We checked the barn, the road. Elaine looked downstairs.”
“She came on the bus,” Celia says, looking Daniel in the eye. “With you. She came home on the bus. Like always.”
“The nurse said she was going to call,” Daniel says. “Because Evie wore the dress. I thought you came for her.”
Ruth steps forward and takes the stack of clothes from Celia.
“The dress?” Celia says. “What dress? No one called.”
“The school nurse.” Daniel clears his throat the same way Celia does when she’s trying not to cry. “She was going to call. She said maybe Evie should go home for the day.”
Daniel looks up at Arthur. There’s not so much difference anymore. They’re almost the same height.
“Evie wore one of those dresses to school. One of Aunt Eve’s dresses. From Grandma’s house. I thought you picked her up.” Daniel takes a deep breath. His chest lifts and lowers. “She didn’t come home on the bus, Mama.”
“Well, then she’s still at school,” Celia says, nodding. “Right. She’s still at school.”
“We’ll go, Mama,” Elaine says, pulling Jonathon toward the back door. “We’ll check the school.”
“I’ll give them a call,” Ruth says, setting the clothes on the table and taking care that they don’t spill over and come unfolded. “I’m sure she’s fine. Probably got caught up after class. Nothing to worry about.”
“I thought you came, Mama,” Daniel says. “I wouldn’t leave her. I wouldn’t.”
Staring again at Daniel’s boots, Celia thinks how much he’s grown in the short time they’ve been in Kansas. And other things have changed, as well. His brow is starting to push out, the bridge of his nose is taking the same curve as Arthur’s, his neck has thickened ever so slightly where it drapes into his shoulders. Celia cocks her head to the left and says, “Today at work, Arthur. Was Ray with you today at work?”
“Hasn’t been in all week. Not since we saw him at the café. Not since Tuesday.”
Chapter 22
The truck smells like a coyote wagon. That’s what Mama would have said. Whenever Mama rode in Daddy’s truck, she said it was becoming nothing more than a coyote wagon. After that, Daddy would take a leftover grocery bag and clean out the wadded-up newspapers, the half-eaten apples, which were half-eaten because Daddy only likes the bites that have red skin with them, and the cigarette butts that make Mama especially mad because she hates that he sometimes smokes in Kansas. Uncle Ray is a smoker, too, but he doesn’t have anyone to tell him to clean out his butts so they spill over the small tray and some of them lie on the floor. Uncle Ray is an apple eater, too, but he eats his down to the core.
Wrinkling her nose and clearing her throat, Evie steps off the sidewalk and reaches for the inside door handle. It’s cold in her bare hand. An old red and blue flannel sheet is draped over the spot where Evie is supposed to sit, probably because Aunt Ruth used to sit there and without the thin cover, the seats would be cold and hard. The sheet is tucked in tight where the back and the bottom of the seat meet. Aunt Ruth did that. She is always tucking and straightening. This makes Evie feel better, makes her feel that it is okay to get into Uncle Ray’s truck. Bracing one hand against the doorframe and pulling on the inside handle with the other, Evie steps up into the truck, careful not to look at Uncle Ray’s face because she can’t help but stare straight into the bad eye and Mama says that’s not polite. So instead, she keeps her head lowered, drops down on the flannel cover and swings her legs into the truck. Propping both feet on the toolbox that sits on the floorboard, she pulls the truck door closed.
“You call the school?” Arthur says, walking out of the bedroom and grabbing his keys from the table on his way outside. He has washed up and is wearing clean clothes. “She there?”
Ruth shakes her head and starts to speak, but Celia cuts her off. “No, she’s not there. No one’s there.