Shifting in her chair to hear more clearly through the open kitchen window, Celia smiles as Ray’s truck finally quiets down. Next, one of the truck’s doors opens, followed by heavy boots landing on the gravel drive. Another door opens.
“Help your Aunt Ruth.” It’s Reesa, probably calling out to Elaine. “She’ll have a handful.”
At the sound of her mother-in-law’s voice, Celia presses her hands flat on the vinyl tablecloth, bracing herself, the smell of burnt chicken beginning to tug at her. Next to the chicken, which sizzles and pops, though quieter now because its juices have burned off, broth hisses as it splashes over the sides of Reesa’s iron pot onto the hot stovetop and disappears in a puff of steam. Celia presses her feet on the white linoleum and repositions herself on the vinyl seat cover, rooting her body so she won’t be tempted to stand. The God damned chicken can burn for all she cares.
Sundays were pleasant in Detroit. It was the day she wore white gloves and her favorite cocoa velour pillbox hat with the grosgrain ribbon trim. The children wore their finest clothes to church and never worried about dust ruining the shine on their patent leather shoes. Arthur always wore a tie. Sundays in Detroit were properly creased and always well kept until the riots started and everything began to smell like burnt rubber and the Negro boys started calling Elaine. Now Sundays are dusty, filthy, wrinkled and spent watching Arthur pat his belly as Reesa fries up a chicken. Celia shivers thinking of Reesa’s offer that next week she’ll teach Celia how to pick a good fryer from the brood and wring its neck with a few flicks of the wrist.
“Look up at me, Ruth,” Arthur says from outside the window.
Something about Arthur’s voice makes Celia stand. She slides her chair back and leans over the sink where she can see out the kitchen window. Ray and Ruth have both stepped out of the truck. Ray is standing on the far side, where only the top of his hat is visible, and Ruth is standing on the near side, her back to Celia, her arms dangling, her head lowered.
“This why you weren’t at church this morning?” Arthur says, his voice louder.
Ruth doesn’t move. Arthur takes two steps forward and Jonathon grabs his arm. Arthur yanks away, raises a fist in the air and slams it against the hood of Ray’s truck.
Celia startles, her hand slipping off the edge of the sink.
“Tell me, Ruth.”
Ruth lifts her face. Arthur closes his eyes and drops his head. A braid hangs down Ruth’s back, tied off by a bright pink band. After teaching Ruth how to braid her own hair, Celia had promised to wash and trim it when she came on Saturday and she even bought honey for their biscuits. But Ruth never came.
The thick braid moves up and down, no more than an inch as Ruth nods her head yes.
Arthur slams his fist on the truck again and holds up his other hand to Reesa, who has started to walk toward him. He turns to Ray.
“You lay your hands on her face?”
Ray doesn’t answer but instead backs toward the rear of the truck.
“Answer me. You lay a hand on her?”
“This is business between me and my wife, Arthur. No place for you.”
Arthur shoves Jonathon away when he tries again to take Arthur’s arm, and in four quick steps, he is standing face to face with Ray. Ray backs up a few more feet until they are clear of the truck and Celia can see them both. She pushes off the counter, ignoring the charred smell drifting up from Reesa’s best cast-iron skillet and runs from the kitchen.
Evie hangs from the window ledge with both hands, her face pressed to the screen. Daddy grabs Uncle Ray’s collar with one hand and hits him in the face with the other. Uncle Ray holds his fists up in front of his good eye, but Daddy pushes them away and hits him again. Uncle Ray tries to shove Daddy but Daddy won’t let go. He holds on, shaking Uncle Ray like a rag doll and hitting him again and again. Evie pushes away from the window, stumbles over her handkerchief hem and something rips as she pulls the dress off her shoulders, steps out of it and throws it on the floor under the other dresses. She slams the closet door and as she runs out of the room, she hears Mama shout, “Stop, Arthur. Stop.”
Daniel presses his face against the hole in the shed wall. Uncle Ray holds up both hands. His nose and mouth are red. Dad keeps hitting Uncle Ray even when his hat falls off, even when Uncle Ray’s head quits bouncing back, even when Mama cries out for him to quit. Finally, Dad stops, holding his right fist over his shoulder, cocked and ready to hit Uncle Ray again.
“You ask Ruth,” Uncle Ray says. “She’ll tell you why I did it.” Blood runs out of Uncle Ray’s nose. “Out there sneaking around on me. All these months, taking food to those God damned Robisons. God damned people say I took their girl.”
Dad lunges and hits Uncle Ray again, splattering blood across the gravel drive. Uncle Ray stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet and lands on his hind end. Dad stands still, watching and waiting while Uncle Ray props himself up on one elbow. Dad’s shoulders lift and lower each time he takes a breath. Uncle Ray starts to stand but stops when Dad reaches into the truck bed and pulls out a whiskey bottle, grabs it by its thin neck and flings it at the shed. The bottle shatters. Someone screams, maybe Mama, maybe Elaine. Daniel falls backward, shuffling like a crab until he is pressed flat against the shed’s far wall. Glass and warm bourbon splash up on the other side of the hole he had been looking through. The bits of glass sparkle in the cool sunlight for an instant before disappearing. The gravel driveway is silent.
Once the glass has settled, Celia turns to Arthur. He has not moved. Reesa reaches out to him but instead stops and walks inside. Ruth stands near the truck’s front bumper, her head lowered, her arms hanging at her side.
“Ruth,” Arthur says.
Ruth raises her head.
Celia gasps, covers her mouth again. Elaine and Jonathon lower their eyes.
“Oh, Ruth,” Celia whispers.
“Go on with Celia,” Arthur says, still staring at the shed, but Ruth doesn’t move. “Now,” he shouts.
Ruth’s shoulders jerk.
“Go with Celia, now.”
Celia wraps one arm around Elaine, both of them standing still, unable to move. Ray lies on the ground, blood smeared under his nose, down his chin, across his collar.
“Jonathon,” Arthur says in a quieter voice.
Jonathon lifts his chin, pulls down his hat over his eyes and takes a step toward Arthur.
“Get them inside.”
Jonathon nods, takes Ruth’s forearm and, with his head lowered so that the brim of his hat hides his face, he guides her toward Celia and Elaine. Celia passes Elaine to Jonathon but shakes her head when he motions her to follow. She watches until the three have gone into the house and the screened door has slammed shut behind them.
“Gather yourself and leave,” Arthur says to Ray. “Ruth isn’t your concern anymore.”
Ray pushes himself up, favoring his left side as if Arthur has broken a rib or two, picks up his hat, pulls it on so the front brim is cocked a little too high and limps toward his truck. “I don’t see how you have any business between me and my wife.”