“How many times, Ray?” Arthur says, picking up his hat and pulling it on. “How many times you lay a hand on her?”
Ray wipes the corner of his mouth, smearing the blood that drips down his chin. He spits red. A cut above his left brow drips blood into his bad eye.
Arthur throws open the truck door. “Not your wife anymore.”
“Arthur,” Celia says, grabbing his arm and pulling him toward the house and away from Ray. “Please, let him be on his way.”
Arthur pulls away and without looking at Celia, says, “Get inside.”
“You’re a man, Arthur. Same as me,” Ray says, though he is looking at Celia when he says it, not in her eyes, but lower. “You wouldn’t have me telling you about your wife, would you? Wouldn’t want me telling you when you could or couldn’t have her.”
“Well, I’m telling you now,” Arthur says, taking one step to the left so he blocks Ray’s view of Celia. “Ruth is no longer your concern.”
With his forearm, Ray wipes the blood from under his nose and steps up to Arthur. The brims of their hats nearly touch.
“You wait until they come looking for you,” Ray says, “thinking maybe you’re the one took that girl. You ought to know, people think it’s strange, you all moving back right when that girl goes missing. People think it’s strange, all right.”
Arthur nods. “Folks’ll think what they think,” he says and Ray slips inside the truck.
Evie stops on the last step, holds onto the banister and leans forward. The downstairs room is full of gray smoky air. Trying to see into the kitchen and beyond to the back porch, she listens for Daddy and Uncle Ray and wonders if they’re still fighting. Mama shouted for them to stop but maybe Daddy and Uncle Ray won’t listen to Mama. She blinks, clearing her tears. Not seeing anyone, she squeezes her nose closed with two fingers and steps down, touching the wooden floors with one toe. She holds that pose, trying not to breathe any of the smoky air and listens.
“Good Lord in heaven.”
A crash follows Grandma Reesa’s shout.
Evie presses her tiptoe foot flat on the floor and steps down with the other. Still pinching her nose, she walks through the living room and as she nears the front of the house, she covers her mouth and coughs. The gray smoke is thicker and swirls overhead. Waving it away, she steps into the kitchen. Grandma Reesa stands at the stove, her back to Evie, a silver potholder on one hand.
“Fine food charred to no good,” Grandma Reesa says and, sliding the large iron skillet off the hot burner, she reaches into the sink, pulls out the cast-iron lid with the potholder, lifts it overhead and slams it back into the sink.
“What got burnt, Grandma?” Evie asks, her hands pressed to her ears in case Grandma throws anything else. She bites down on her lower lip when her chin wrinkles.
“Burned every last piece of chicken,” Grandma Reesa says, holding the skillet up by its long thin handle. Black clumps of chicken stick to the bottom, even when she shakes it. “Help me, child. Get the bucket from the mudroom. We’ll be scrubbing these walls for days.”
Pulling a fan from under the sink, Grandma Reesa sets it in the kitchen window. “The mudroom, Eve. Get the bucket from the mudroom. My green bucket.”
Evie runs into the large closet where everyone leaves their muddy boots on a rainy day, grabs the green bucket and hurries back to the kitchen. Grandma Reesa has begun pulling the white curtains off their rod. The fan drawing cool, outside air into the kitchen ruffles her gray hair and blows it across her blue eyes-the same color as Evie’s, except older.
“Run the bathroom sink full of hot water and soak these,” she says, brushing the hair from her eyes and handing the curtains to Evie. “Go on now. This mess will keep us busy all day if we let it.”
“Daddy is fighting with Uncle Ray,” Evie says, wrapping her arms around the bundle of curtains.
Grandma Reesa puts the green bucket in the sink and begins to fill it.
“I saw them,” Evie says. “Outside. Fighting.”
“Drop a bar of hand soap in the water.” Grandma Reesa pulls a long-handled spoon from a drawer and points it at Evie. “No bleach. It will yellow the cotton.”
“Daddy was hitting Uncle Ray in the face. Knocked him down and everything. I saw them from upstairs. I was in Aunt Eve’s room, cleaning it for you. I dusted her dresser and fluffed her pillows. It’ll be ready for her when she comes home.”
Grandma Reesa stabs the spoon into a bowl. “Go on now,” she says, yanking it out and jamming it back in. “This smoke will ruin my curtains. Go on now.”
“Where’s my daddy?” Evie feels her chin wrinkle again. She blinks as the air blown in by the fan parts her bangs. “He’s hitting Uncle Ray.”
“Run the water until it’s good and hot. Get on with it.”
“I saw them from Aunt Eve’s room. I saw Daddy fighting.” Evie stands in the middle of the kitchen, still hugging the curtains. “I wanted Aunt Eve’s room to be nice for her. I wanted…”
Grandma Reesa lifts her white mixing bowl with both hands and slams it down on the counter. “Don’t you speak to me about Eve, child. Don’t you do it. Now get that hot water running. Get those curtains soaked.”
Evie presses her face into the bundle of curtains. She lifts her eyes enough to see Grandma Reesa standing at the sink, her back to Evie, her right elbow jutting in and out as she scrubs the black skillet with a scouring pad. Evie nods her head, walks into the bathroom, breathing in the smell of the lemon-scented curtains, and closes the door behind her.
The devil’s claws are waist high. Walking toward Mother’s back porch, Jonathon guiding her by the elbow, Ruth brushes a hand over the pink, funnel-shaped blooms. The flowers are blurry through her one good eye. It still waters, as if she’s been crying, but she never does. The tears will pool for a few more days. She licks her top lip, which is silky smooth where it has swelled to twice its normal size. Even though it hurts, she can’t stop licking it. Sometime during the night, the shaking stopped. It always stops during the night. Ruth blinks her good eye and sees that some of the blossoms have died off, the tender petals shriveling and turning brown. The rest will follow and Arthur will mow them down soon. They won’t bloom again until spring. Before walking inside, Ruth touches one of the woody claws that has dropped its seeds, and she knows she’s pregnant.
Chapter 8
At the top of the hill, their warm breath turning to a frosty cloud that settles in around them, Celia and Elaine stop and wait for Ruth and Evie to catch up. The wind is quiet today and the sun is bright, almost blinding through the cold, dry air. In the surrounding fields below, perfectly spaced rows of green seedlings curve and roll with the flow of the land-the first stages of winter wheat. Their own land isn’t fit for wheat because it’s too hilly. Arthur says that someday they’ll have a few more cows and put the pasture to good use.
Celia knows this land well. She knows that the hollowed-out spot used to be a pond, that two fence posts need mending a quarter mile up the road and that there’s a patch of quicksand over the first ridge to the south. She knows these things because all of them, the whole Scott family, walked these grounds many times searching for Julianne Robison. In the early weeks when she was first missing, they walked them almost every day, and then once a week and eventually in passing. Celia gasped the first time Arthur showed her the small patch of quicksand, thinking it had sucked poor Julianne to the bottom, but then Arthur stuck a stick in it and showed her it was only a few inches deep. As Evie and Ruth near the top of the hill, three olive, round-winged birds rise out of the thick bluestem growing along the road, glide across the red-tipped grass and settle in the ditch.