Celia and Arthur stand facing each other, not moving and not speaking. The floor creaks as the two girls pass, and when they have closed the bedroom door behind them, the house falls silent. Ruth slips into the small space between the side of the stove and wall, puts her hands in her apron pockets, and lowers her head. Outside, Father Flannery’s engine starts up. Arthur straightens to his full height and unfolds his arms.
“Put a pot of water on to boil. The big pot,” he says and follows his mother outside.
Celia, thinking Ruth is no bigger than Evie tucked between the wall and the stove, turns toward her and smiles. When they moved into the house, the stove sat square in the corner, but Reesa moved it because she said a person would want to get a mop in there. She said Mrs. Murray wasn’t much of a housekeeper, God rest her soul, so it wasn’t any wonder the stove was pushed to the wall.
“I’ll speak to him,” Celia says, wrapping her arms around her own waist. “You don’t have to go back, Ruth. We want you here. With us. It will work out. It will.”
Ruth nods. “I have to tell him. Waiting won’t solve anything.”
“No,” Celia says, as gently as she can, as gently as if she were talking to a sick child. “Let me.”
Ruth nods again. She starts to slip back into her corner until Celia pulls out a chair from the kitchen table and motions for her to sit. In the months since they moved to Kansas, Ruth’s skin isn’t as pale as it once was and she lifts her eyes when she talks to a person. Now, after sitting for a few minutes with Father Flannery, she is back again, to the frail woman, carrying a cold strawberry pie, who stepped so carefully out of the truck on the Scotts’ first day in Kansas.
“Thank you,” Ruth says. “I’ll put on Arthur’s water and start supper.”
Celia smiles, and walking onto the back porch, she grabs her blue sweater from the row of hooks near the door. She breathes in dry, cool air and presses the sweater to her face, smelling her own perfume. It reminds her of Detroit because she doesn’t bother with perfume here in Kansas. Taking a few more deep breaths, as if the cold air will fortify her, she pulls on the sweater, straightens the seam of each sleeve and steps outside.
The sun has moved low in the sky, hanging barely above the western horizon. Soon the chilly afternoon will be a cold evening. She would have said it smelled like snow had she still lived in Detroit, but she doesn’t know if Kansas snow smells the same. Pulling her sweater closed, she walks down the three steps toward Arthur, who is standing just beyond the garage.
“What do you need the hot water for?” she calls out when she thinks she’s close enough to be heard. Crossing in front of the garage where she can see around the far corner, she stops and drops her arms to her side. Arthur and Reesa stand at the edge of the light thrown from the back porch. “What are you doing?”
“Ma brought it for supper,” Arthur says, without looking up.
“I have soup and sandwiches,” Celia says. “Ruth is laying it out.”
“Now we have chicken.”
Standing next to Arthur, Reesa tugs on a rope tied off to a beam jutting out a few feet from the garage’s roofline. On the other end of the rope, a chicken hangs, suspended by its wiry, yellow legs. The bird is nearly motionless, seemingly confused by its upside-down perspective. Arthur grabs its head and Reesa steps back.
“I need to talk to you, Arthur,” Celia says, buttoning her sweater’s bottom two buttons and squinting at the bird. “Reesa and I both need to talk to you.”
Gripping the chicken’s head in his left hand, Arthur raises his eyebrows at his mother. Reesa dabs the folds on her neck with the corner of the yellow and white checked apron tied around her waist.
“Whatever it is can wait,” Arthur says. He lifts the knife in his right hand as if inspecting the sharpness of the blade and rotates it slowly. It would have sparkled if there had been any sunlight.
“No,” Celia says, glancing at Reesa. “It really can’t.”
In one seamless motion, Arthur rolls the bird’s head slightly to the left and pulls the knife across its neck. He doesn’t cut so deeply that the head comes loose in his hand. Instead, it dangles as if hanging by a hinge. Blood shoots out, a bright red, perfectly shaped arch. Celia lets out a squeaking noise and stumbles backward. After the initial gush, the blood slows and begins to flow in a smooth steam that lands in a bucket that Arthur kicks a few times until it is in the right spot. Then, with the knife still in his hand, he says to Celia, “Okay, what is it?”
Celia watches the bird, both of them motionless. Steam rises up where Arthur made his cut.
“Well,” Arthur says. “Tell me. We’ve only got a few minutes. That water ready?”
“No, I, well… Ruth is putting it on.”
Reesa tugs at the knot tied around the bird’s legs, testing that it’s strong enough and then walks to the house. “We need the water for scalding, Celia.”
It is the kindest tone she has ever used with her daughter-in-law.
“Ruth is pregnant,” Celia says before Reesa can disappear into the house.
Arthur drops both hands to his sides and his chin to his chest. The porch light shines on the threesome, throwing a long thin shadow that falls at Celia’s feet. Reesa stops at the bottom step leading to the back door. The bird, hanging upside down, its neck slit open, its blood slowing to a trickle, begins to beat its wings in the air. Celia jumps backward, Arthur doesn’t move and Reesa dabs her neck again with her apron. The bird wildly flaps its wings one final time before hanging lifeless. Its heavy body sways on the end of the rope, but eventually, even that motion slows and stops. The only movement, tiny feathers, floating, spinning, drifting on the cold night air.
“What is it doing?” Celia asks, backing out of the yellow light.
“Dying,” Arthur says. “What do you mean, pregnant?”
Celia glances at Reesa, who has taken her foot off the first step, and says, “Just that. She’s pregnant.”
“You knew?” Arthur asks Reesa.
She nods.
“How is she pregnant for God’s sake? She’s forty years old.”
Celia takes two steps forward, back into the light, and cocks one hip to the side. “Forty is not so old.”
“God damn it, Celia, this is not funny.”
Reesa steps closer. “It’s not meant to be funny, son. Ruth has carried three other babies over the years, but never more than a few months.” She lowers her eyes and shakes her head. Her shoulders droop and roll forward, and her chin rests in the rolls of her neck. When she exhales, her breath shudders.
“Then why now?” Arthur asks. A dark shadow covers his lower jaw and his eyelids are heavy. He pulls off his leather gloves, and holding them in one hand, he shoves his knife in his back pocket and rubs his forehead.
“What do you mean, why now?” Celia says, holding up a hand to silence Reesa. “Why, it’s not so hard to figure out. Look at her, after these months since we came back. She’s happy. She’s healthy. Thank God, she’s healthy again. This baby has a chance.”
“What chance does it have with a father like Ray?”
“Arthur,” Reesa whispers.
Celia takes another few steps toward Arthur. “You will never call this baby an ‘it’ again. He or she will have everything. Love and a home and…”
Arthur leans forward, spitting his words in Celia’s face. “What home? Our home? Christ, this is why she won’t annul the marriage, isn’t it? He’ll be back, you know. You think this is how it’ll be? Well, it won’t. He’ll be back and he’ll want his wife and that baby.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe he’ll stay in Damar.”
Celia doesn’t believe it even as she says it. She wishes the rumors were true. She wishes Floyd Bigler had shipped Ray off to Clark City where he’d rot and die behind those block walls. Instead, Arthur and William Ellis, Ray’s other brother-in-law, threw Ray in the back of William’s pickup truck. William, having had his fill of Ray’s drinking over the years, agreed to keep him just long enough. When Arthur came home stinking of vomit and whiskey, Celia asked him what “long enough” meant. Arthur shrugged as he stripped off his clothes. “Let’s hope long enough is long enough,” he had said.