Standing just inside the back porch and holding a box of Christmas ornaments, Daniel sees his reflection in the gun cabinet. Behind the glass, his.22-caliber rifle hangs next to Dad’s shotgun. After Evie’s door slams shut, he sets the box on the ground and bends to pull off his boots. Mama bought them at the St. Anthony’s yard sale two weeks after they moved to Kansas. She said they were a good deal and would be plenty big enough to last a good long time. Now, a short five months later, Daniel’s feet ache because the boots are too small. Small boots make crooked toes, God damned crooked toes that don’t have room enough to grow. He sighs, thinking crooked toes are one more terrible thing about Kansas.
Dad and Mama never told Daniel that Aunt Eve was dead, just like they never told Evie. He never thought much about her, but if someone had asked, he would have said Aunt Eve moved away and was living somewhere else, probably with a husband and children of her own. Two probably, or maybe three. Had someone asked, he would have said Aunt Eve was like Mama. He would have said she wore aprons trimmed in white lace and had long blond hair. She probably smelled like Mama, too, and had soft, warm hands. But Aunt Eve is dead, and it makes Daniel feel the littlest bit like Mama is dead. Maybe that’s why Mama and Dad never told Daniel and Evie.
Ian and some of the kids at school said Aunt Eve was dead. They said Uncle Ray killed her twenty-five years ago and now he’s killed Julianne Robison-either he or Jack Mayer did it. One of them’s guilty for sure, that’s what the kids at school said. Daniel never believed them about Aunt Eve. Even though he never knew her, he didn’t like to think about someone killing her, but now he knows it’s true. Now he knows that his parents didn’t tell him about Aunt Eve because they think he’s a baby like Evie.
Still staring at the gun cabinet, Daniel wonders about the shotgun, wonders if it will be heavier than his.22. Maybe too heavy. Maybe too heavy for someone who doesn’t have many friends and everyone thinks is a baby. But Ian says he needs it for pheasant hunting. A rifle won’t work. Not even Daniel is a good enough shot to use a rifle. Ian has enough ammunition, but Daniel has to bring his own gun. The Bucher brothers say that if Daniel is really a good shot, he’ll handle a shotgun just fine. He will use the key on top of the cabinet, take the gun before Mr. Bucher picks him up next Saturday afternoon, and hide it in his sleeping bag. Dad always takes a nap on Saturday afternoons. Mama says the week wears him out and that Dad needs a little peace and quiet. He’ll take the gun while Dad is sleeping. Ian says the plan will work, that the sleeping bag will hide the shotgun. But Ian, who walked too slowly before he got his black boots, has never been pheasant hunting either and he’s never stolen a shotgun, so how does Ian know what will work and what won’t?
“Daniel,” Mama calls out from the kitchen. “Is that you?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come in here, sweetheart. We have something to tell you.”
Daniel hangs his coat on the hook closest to the gun cabinet. If he drapes it carefully, it almost covers enough of the cabinet to hide Dad’s shotgun. It’ll hide an empty spot, too. He will remember this for next weekend.
“Coming, Mama,” he says and picks up the box of ornaments.
Chapter 18
Celia frowns across the table at Arthur as he drops a second sugar cube in his coffee. He is about to drop in a third but stops when Celia raises her chin and shakes her head. From the front of the café, the bell over the door rings, a blast of cold air floods their table, and Sheriff Bigler walks in. He pulls off his heavy blue jacket, which makes him shrink to half the size he was when he walked in, drapes it over a stool at the counter and sits. Arthur lifts a hand to greet him. Floyd nods in return.
“Wonder what brings Floyd out?” Arthur says.
“Having a little dessert like everyone else,” Celia says, pulling off her coat and laying it over the seat back. “And I called him. Just in case.”
Ever since the holidays ended, Father Flannery has been calling the house, saying he hoped the Scotts were a good Christian family who hadn’t forgotten about forgiveness since they started attending St. Bart’s. Tired of the phone calls and thinking that maybe they could get that annulment after all, Arthur finally agreed to meet with Ray. Ruth shook her head at the idea and Celia said an annulment would never happen once Father Flannery found out about the baby. Still, Arthur wanted to try. Celia said she would approve only if they met Ray in the café because he certainly wasn’t setting foot inside her kitchen.
“Shouldn’t have done that,” Arthur says, taking a sip of coffee and making a sour face as if it isn’t sweet enough. He taps his teaspoon on the white tablecloth, leaving a small, coffee-colored stain.
“Why on earth not?”
“Just gonna get Ray riled up.”
“He won’t know Floyd is here for us.”
“Man’s not a fool, Celia.”
Celia brushes him away with a wave of her hand. “Are you doing all right?” she asks, turning to face Ruth, who is sitting next to her in the small booth. She takes Ruth’s hand with both of hers. “Are you feeling okay?”
“I’m fine,” Ruth says. “Please don’t fuss.”
At the front of the café, the door chime rings again. Orville and Mary Robison walk in, stamping their feet and pulling off their coats. Arthur tips his head toward them as if he’s wearing his hat and slouches back down into the wooden bench.
“What do you suppose brings them out?” Celia asks.
“They come every night,” Ruth says, picking at the frayed end of her jacket sleeve. “Have ever since they first got married. Dessert and coffee usually.”
The dinner crowd has cleared out and only the folks who, like the Robisons, have come for cherry pie and coffee are left. Half a dozen at most. At a table near the front counter, Orville Robison waits while Mary takes his coat and hangs it on the rack inside the door. She leaves on her own coat and as they sit, Floyd Bigler swivels around on his stool and walks over to them. He shakes Orville’s hand and takes the seat that Mary offers him.
The two men begin to talk while Mary tips the white creamer, pouring milk into her coffee. The sleeves of her gray flannel jacket hide her hands, making it seem that she has shrunk in the months since Julianne disappeared, and the hair peeking out from under her tan hat is gray, almost white. How can she go on-standing, walking, sipping her coffee-now that no one is searching for Julianne anymore? There hasn’t even been an article in the paper about the disappearance since before the holidays, and Father Flannery said a special prayer for Julianne at midnight mass on Christmas Eve, a prayer that sounded like good-bye. Maybe that’s why folks stopped talking about it and writing about and searching for poor Julianne. They all thought good-bye meant Julianne would never come home.
The chime rings a third time, and Ray walks into the café. He takes off his hat, nods toward Isabelle Burris, who is folding napkins behind the counter, and lifts a finger in her direction.
“Cup of black coffee, Izzy,” he says and, as he winks at her, he notices the Robisons and Floyd Bigler. He pauses for a moment, looks at them and at all the others in the café. Folks have laid down their forks, pushed aside their coffee and are watching. “Get back to it,” Ray says to the room, glaring at them with his good eye while the cloudy eye goes off on its own, and without even a polite nod toward the Robisons, he walks past.