Bent Road (5 page)

“Yep, snatched her up,” Ian says. “Probably right out of her own front yard. ’Course, that means you didn’t hit him with your car. Would have been dead if you did. Couldn’t swipe Julianne Robison if he was dead.”

Evie brushes the rounded, fuzzy tip of another dandelion against her cheek and looks up at Ian, her pinched eyebrows making a crease above her nose.

“Maybe,” Daniel says, glancing down at Evie. “Or maybe she just wandered off.”

“Nobody wanders off for a whole night.” Ian gives a wave to the group of brothers across the street. “Hey,” he says. “I got to go. We’re going searching for her. Me and my brothers. Be out all day.” He takes a few steps, his left foot swinging out because it’s too long. Then he stops and looks back at Daniel. “You know,” he says, “your house is the first place those crazies come across when they escape. After the old Brewster place, that is. Just be sure you make a lot of noise when you get home. Bang around for a while. It’ll scare them off if they’re inside.”

“Sure thing,” Daniel says, crossing his arms over his chest and thinking he’ll let Dad go inside first. “We’ll do.”

 

A
fter the sheriff finishes his announcement, the crowd breaks up and Celia drifts back toward Ruth, all the while keeping Evie and Daniel in sight. From the top of the church steps, the sheriff points and gestures to the group of men who have gathered with him, his black pistol slapping against his thigh. Every so often, he pats the gun and scans the crowd as if one of these fine Christians is hiding Julianne Robison in an attic or under a porch. After all of the men have gone their separate ways, apparently following the direction of the sheriff, Arthur walks down the stairs toward Celia. With arms crossed and feet spread wide, the sheriff watches Arthur take the stairs two at a time and hand Celia his car keys and tie. The sheriff is listening and nodding to the men standing around him but he is watching Arthur.

“Why don’t you and the kids go on home?” Arthur says. “I’ll be along later. And take Ruth. No sense Mother driving her.”

When Arthur leans in to kiss Celia’s cheek, she grabs his upper arm and draws him to her. “Arthur, I don’t like this,” she says, still watching the sheriff. “I’d rather have you home.” She glances at Evie and Daniel and whispers, “This will scare the children.”

“Nothing to worry about,” Arthur says, laying one hand over Celia’s. “We’ll have her home in no time.” He kisses Celia’s cheek, peels open her fingers and gives her a wave as he walks away.

Still standing at the top of the stairs, the sheriff watches Arthur until he climbs into Jonathon’s truck. This seems to put him at ease because he lets both arms drop and walks toward his patrol car. As he passes by, he tips his hat in Celia’s direction. She exhales, only then realizing that she had been holding her breath.

“Guess it’s just us,” she says and waves at Daniel and Evie, motioning for them to come along.

“Poor Mary must be sick with worry,” Ruth says.

“How did you know?” Celia glances at Ruth across the top of the car. She pauses while the children run toward them. Daniel outpaces Evie, who struggles to keep up in black leather shoes that are too big and slip off her heels with every stride. A few car lengths ahead, where he stands at his truck waiting to follow the sheriff and the other men, Ray watches Evie, too. He removes his hat, wipes his forehead with a kerchief and when Evie finally reaches the car, her face red and her upper lip damp with perspiration, he slips into his truck. Once Daniel and Evie have crawled into the backseat, and while Elaine is too far away to hear, Celia says, “You already knew about the little girl, didn’t you?”

Ruth makes a small motion as if she is going to look over her shoulder but stops herself. “A person hears things.”

“Do you think it was that man everyone is on the lookout for?” Celia asks. “The one Daniel thinks we saw the other night?”

Ruth shakes her head. “Those fellows from Clark City are harmless. Never caused any trouble before.”

At the end of the block, where the street changes from concrete to dirt, Ray’s truck kicks up dust and then disappears. Celia opens her door and Elaine slips into the backseat alongside Evie and Daniel.

“They share a pew with us,” Ruth says once both women are inside the car. She unrolls her window after Celia starts the engine. “Orville and Mary Robison sit on the other end of our pew. Them with only one child. Me and Ray without any. We fit fine.”

Heading south out of town, Celia holds the steering wheel with two hands, her shoulders and forearms still sore from driving so much a few days earlier. “Do you know them well?” she says.

“As well as anyone, I suppose. And no better than most. We were friends, closer friends, when we were young. A long time ago.”

“We saw that girl, Mama,” Evie says, leaning forward and draping her arms over the front seat. “We saw her on the way to Ian’s house.” She turns toward Daniel. “In the truck. You remember?”

Daniel shrugs.

“Is that right, Daniel?” Celia asks, keeping her eyes on the road. “Did you see her?”

“Don’t know. I wasn’t looking.”

“I saw her. I know I did,” Evie says. “Will I go missing, too?”

“No, Evie,” Celia says, not turning around because she’s afraid of losing her grip on the steering wheel. “Julianne will be home by dinner. The sheriff said so. No one is going missing. No one.”

 

R
uth smiles at Celia’s children sitting shoulder to shoulder across the backseat and rests her smile the longest on Evie so she’ll believe what her mama told her—that bad things don’t happen to nice girls. Except Ruth knows that’s not true. Sheriff Bigler must know it, too. He was full of hope up on those steps, shielding his eyes and looking at the Robisons’ house three doors down from the church as if Julianne might walk right up the sidewalk at any moment. But early this morning when he knocked on Ruth’s back door, he wasn’t so hopeful. Standing on her porch, his hat in hand, he must have known that if a hungry stomach was all it took to bring Julianne Robison home, she would have already eaten Mary Robison’s Saturday night roast and potatoes and been tucked in good and tight. Instead, at 7:00 on Sunday morning when the sheriff came knocking, Julianne Robison had been missing for well over twelve hours and a hungry stomach hadn’t done a thing to help her.

“It’s Floyd,” he had said when Ruth pulled open the curtain on the back door. “Floyd Bigler. Sorry for the early hour.”

Ruth tugged at her terrycloth belt and smoothed back her hair. “Ray’s sleeping,” she said, steaming the windowpane as she talked through the glass. Dark clouds in the east dampened the rising sun so Ruth flipped on the porch light. Floyd stepped back, the glare making him squint and bow his head.

“Yes, ma’am, I know it’s early. A quick word is all. Just a few questions.”

Over the backdrop of a percolating coffeepot, with Floyd sitting at her kitchen table, Ruth learned that Julianne Robison hadn’t come home to supper the day before. Mary Robison had walked the neighborhood searching for her, calling out the way mothers do when the kids wander too far. She was mad as a grizzly when she first called Floyd, but after he drove the town for two hours and darkness settled in, she wasn’t so mad. Just plain scared. A group of fellows from town were already looking for her, had been all night, and Floyd had been to see most folks living in the outlying areas, asking them to search their barns, abandoned wells, cellars, any place a young girl might get herself stuck. He’d been checking in with all the folks. Good old-fashioned questions. Maybe someone had seen the girl out walking one of the back roads or catching a ride. Ruth told him that she and Ray had spent Saturday helping her brother and his family settle in. Arthur was gone a good many years but he’s back now. Thank goodness. They all met at Mother’s, ate a heavy lunch and unloaded the truck at the new house. Ruth baked a strawberry pie—not so nice with brown sugar on top—and they unpacked boxes until late afternoon. Didn’t see a thing out of the ordinary. Not a thing.

“I’m real sorry to hear this,” Ruth said, hoping that Floyd would forget about his cup of coffee. “Real sorry indeed.”

When Floyd took another sip, Ruth pressed both hands into the pockets of her robe. In her right one were the two stones she had pulled from Ray’s pants pocket that morning. Both stones were smooth and together fit in the palm of her hand. Waiting for what Floyd would say next, Ruth rolled the stones between her fingers and rubbed her thumb over their smooth edges. Outside, the breeze that kicked up with the early-morning clouds had died out and the air was still. Maybe it wouldn’t rain after all.

“I’ll keep a good eye out. Any more questions? Is that all?”

“I suspect it is. For now, I’d say yes. Please ask Ray to have a look around the place. You, too, if you have a mind to.”

Watching behind Floyd, waiting for the bedroom door to open, Ruth wiped her top lip with a dish towel. She has known Julianne Robison since she was a bundle wrapped in a pink fleece blanket. “There’s still time for you,” Mary had said as she handed Julianne to Ruth on the first Sunday the Robisons brought their new baby to church. Mary Robison was Ruth’s age, even a few years older, and Orville Robison was a good bit older than Ray. Still, the Robisons had been blessed with a little girl. Now, the sweet baby that had smelled of talc and vanilla was gone.

“Will you come again?” Ruth said. “Ask any more questions?”

Floyd twisted his lips up the same way he did when they were kids figuring multiplication facts in Mrs. Franklin’s class. “Might be more. Can’t tell. I’ll come along if there are.”

Ruth leaned against the kitchen counter, shifting a little to the right so she could see the knob on the bedroom door. “I’m real sorry,” she said. “Mary must be beside herself from worry. You tell her I’ll bring her a casserole. A real nice one.”

Taking his hat from the table and tucking it under his arm, Floyd stood and pushed in his chair. “Sorry to bother you so early, Ruth. I’ll see myself out.”

Ruth tightened her robe. “No bother.”

“One more quick question.” Floyd slapped his beige hat against his left thigh a few times. “You say you were busy at your brother’s all afternoon.”

Ruth nodded, swallowed and continued to watch the bedroom door.

“And you folks came home around five o’clock?”

Again, Ruth nodded.

“Didn’t stay for supper?”

“Arthur’s family had such a long day and Mother made a late lunch. Didn’t bother with eating again. Left them alone to a quiet evening.”

“So, you and Ray were home here all night?”

Behind Floyd, the bedroom door opened.

Floyd turned. “Morning, Ray,” he said. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”

Ray ran one hand through his dark hair, pushing it off his face. “First thing home, ate some of Ruth’s meat loaf,” he said. Both eyes, even the gray overcast one, settled directly on Floyd. “Leftover pie for dessert.”

“She does make a fine pie,” Floyd said and at the same time studied Ruth as if waiting for her to confirm Ray’s story.

Ruth cleared her throat and nodded again. “Pie wasn’t so nice. Strawberries were tart.”

Lowering her eyes to avoid Floyd’s stare, Ruth tried to remember the last time she had seen little Julianne. Church, probably. Most likely, last Sunday. Julianne, with silky blond hair that hung to her waist, always wore a pink dress to services. She’d wear it until she outgrew it or until the weather turned too cold.

“Guess you heard, then,” Floyd said because it seemed that Ray had listened to their conversation. “You know the girl? Know what she looks like?”

“Sure do,” Ray said, nodding once.

“Good enough.” Floyd pulled on his hat. “If you don’t mind, give things a good going over. I suspect someone’ll show up with her at church this morning. Probably found her out wandering, gave her a bed to sleep in and a warm breakfast. But in case that doesn’t happen, Father’s going to cut the service short and I’ll be gathering up some more fellows. Continue the search. Suppose you can give a hand if it comes to that?”

“Will do,” Ray had said. “Won’t leave a stone unturned.”

 

R
uth smiles one last time at Evie, who is chewing on her lower lip as if she is still worried about disappearing like Julianne, and then lifting her face into the hot, dry wind that blows through her open car window, Ruth tightens the knot on her scarf so it won’t slip from under her chin. It’s been a long time since she’s bothered with one, but she doesn’t want Arthur and Celia to see her bruises. All through church, she wore the scarf. Most of the other ladies slip theirs off once inside and tie them on again as services end. Ruth’s scarf, however, draped over her head and tied under her chin, covers the red spot on her lower jaw where Ray struck her with the back of his hand when Floyd left the house that morning. Without the hangover that Ruth could smell on Ray even after his shower, he might have ignored Floyd’s visit. But wherever Ray had been the night before, which was not at home eating strawberry pie, he had drunk plenty.

“I think you’re right, Celia,” Ruth says, smiling back at Evie again. “Julianne will be home by supper.”

But two months later, Julianne Robison is still not home.

Standing at her own kitchen sink, Celia pushes aside the yellow gingham curtains and white sheers and takes in her first icy breath since moving to Kansas two months earlier. Outside the window, the waxy leaves of a silver maple filter quiet rain. The leaves flutter in the gentle breeze, their silvery white undersides sparkling beneath the gray sky. Even on the hottest August days, the tree had cast a cool, heavy shadow over the kitchen but the sprinkling of golden leaves among the green reminds Celia that soon the tree will be bare. Leaning on the counter, rinsing a colander of white beans that have soaked through the night, Celia misses her Detroit kitchen window. She misses the sound of Al Templeton pull starting his lawn mower, Sarah Jenkins beating her kitchen rugs with a broom handle, the garbage truck hissing in the back alley.