“Sure I can’t clean up for you, ma’am?” the smaller man says, waving a hand toward the muddy footprints.
He’s the kinder of the two and seems to believe Ruth when she tells her story about strawberry pie and a quiet evening at home. The larger man doesn’t believe so easily. He shakes his head when he scribbles in his book like he knows what he’s writing isn’t true. Floyd has surely told them about the past, about how Ray only married Ruth because Eve died. The men from Wichita, especially the larger one, look at Ruth like most of the people in town do, like anything bad she has to bear is her own doing so she shouldn’t complain.
The whole town, Floyd included, has always thought that Ray was the one who killed Eve because no other killer was ever found. Father told everyone a crazy man did it. Broke in the house, took his daughter, slaughtered her on a dirt floor. But the town never believed it. They have always figured that Ruth married the man who killed her sister. But Ray didn’t kill Eve. He loved her and no good will come from digging up the past. No good will come from speaking ill of the dead.
But these men sitting in Ruth’s kitchen don’t know how much Ray loved Eve. All three of them suspect Ray did something to little Julianne Robison because, even though she was just a child, she looked so much like Eve. Blond hair, blue eyes, pink satin skin. And Ray is a troublemaker, always has been because he drinks too much and Floyd is constantly throwing him out of Williamson’s bar.
Despite the twenty-five years that separate the lives of Julianne and Eve, Floyd and these two men think their looking alike means something, and Ruth will let them keep thinking that because then they will keep a close eye on Ray. If these men believe the past has something to do with what happened to Julianne Robison and that Julianne’s disappearance will turn out to be Palco’s first murder in twenty-five years, they won’t believe Ruth’s lie and they’ll keep digging. If Ray is the one who took Julianne Robison, they’ll figure it out as long as they keep looking. Because Ruth’s too afraid to tell Floyd the truth about that Saturday night, this is the best she can do.
With Arthur still trapping her against the counter, Celia looks through the maple’s branches, makes a small humming sound and says, “I don’t see anything.”
Arthur stands straight, his sudden movement causing Celia to stumble.
“The paddock,” he says. “The God damned paddock is empty.” Celia looks again, this time leaning over the sink. The gate near the barn hangs open.
“I’ve told that boy to mind the latch,” Arthur says as he grabs his hat from the top of the refrigerator. “Dan. Get out here.”
“Arthur, please,” Celia says, following him toward the porch.
Ever since Julianne Robison went missing and stayed missing, Celia feels a rush of fear every time she or Arthur gets angry with the children. It’s the fear that anger will be the thing they are left with should one of them go missing, too. It’s silly, she knows, but even eight weeks later, even as the town seems to be forgetting, even as the search has ended for Julianne Robison, the fear is a reflex.
“Maybe she’s gone around the back of the barn,” Celia says. “You don’t know she got out. Please don’t overreact.”
“Well, that’s not the point, is it?”
While Celia tries to rein in her anger and frustration since Julianne disappeared, Arthur has unleashed his. His temper explodes without warning as if he thinks Julianne must have been careless, irresponsible, and that these two things led to her disappearance. He won’t have the same happen to his children.
“Dan,” Arthur shouts again. “Get out here.”
Pulling on a shirt, Daniel stumbles from his room. “What?” he says, blinking and forcing his eyes open. “What is it?”
“You latch Olivia’s gate last night?” Arthur says, pulling on his second boot.
“Sir?”
“The gate. You latch it?”
“Yes, sir.”
Giving his boot a final tug, Arthur stands straight. “You sure about that?”
“I’ll check, sir.”
“He’ll check,” Celia says, reaching for Arthur’s hand. “Let him check.”
Arthur yanks away. “I’ll give you your answer, son. You didn’t latch it. Now get your shoes on and see to it that cow hasn’t gotten out.”
Daniel walks into his room, his shoulders rounded, his arms hanging at his sides, while Arthur stands in the threshold leading onto the back porch. He crosses his arms, leans against the doorjamb and stares at Celia.
“Don’t be too hard on him,” she says. “He’s still learning.”
Standing straight so that his shoulders fill the doorway, Arthur says, “He’s had plenty of time for learning.”
“Please be patient. It’s only been a couple months.”
Arthur yanks on his hat. “Two months is long enough. That boy doesn’t give one damn thought to what he’s doing around here, and it’s high time that changes.”
At the end of the driveway, Ruth stands behind the cover of an evergreen. Cradling the two loaves of banana bread and a chicken and broccoli casserole, she leans forward, checking right and left and right again. Floyd and the men from Wichita left without finishing their coffee, and if Ruth hurries, she can get to Arthur’s house before anyone worries. From inside the tree, she straightens and listens. It is definitely a truck she hears, driving east to west. She takes two steps back, knowing just where to stand so that the tree’s branches will wrap around her, hide her.
Yes, it’s a truck, not a car. The wide tires, the heavy cab, the tailgate. She listens, holding her breath as she waits for the change in pitch of a truck slowing to turn. A tailgate rattles, metal slapping against metal. Just like Ray’s. Large tires kick up muddy gravel, almost close enough to spray it across Ruth’s face if she weren’t hidden inside the tree. She slowly exhales, listening but not hearing the change in pitch. The truck drives by, never slowing to turn. It’s blue with a white cab. Out-of-state tags. Nebraska. Not Ray.
Stepping out of the tree, a branch pulls the hood from Ruth’s head. The banana bread that she stirred up the night before and baked while Floyd and the men from Wichita drank their coffee is warm in her arms. Outside the evergreen, the rain has slowed to a mist and the road to Arthur’s house is empty except for the deep scars carved into it by the blue and white truck. Balancing the casserole dish and bread loaves on one hip, Ruth pulls the braid that hangs down her back from under her coat and lets it fall between her shoulder blades.
She goes to Arthur’s now every Saturday morning, each time taking food for Orville and Mary Robison. Most weekends she only manages a small batch of cookies or half dozen sweet rolls. Never too much. Ray might notice. She leaves the food with Celia, who always promises to take it straight to the Robisons and then they drink coffee and sometimes eat cookies or maybe a sweet roll if Ruth made extra. After a few weeks of these trips, Ruth has started to put on a little weight, filling out like she was when she was younger. Her hip bones are cushioned now and her shoulders softened. Even her hair is stronger and thicker since Arthur’s family moved home. This past week, as they sipped coffee in Celia’s kitchen, Celia had brushed Ruth’s hair, carefully so as not to tear the ends, and wove it into a thick braid that she tied off with one of Evie’s pink hair bands. “The apple cider vinegar is working,” Celia said as she brushed out Ruth’s hair. Thinking Ray might notice her new braid, Ruth had practiced and was ready to show him how she could braid her own hair, but she had no explanation for the pink band. Standing on the edge of the road, she smiles and tosses her head from side to side, the braid swinging softly across her back.