Isabelle follows Ray to the table with a pot of coffee and a white cup and saucer. She stays several feet behind him and only approaches the table after he has pulled a chair up to the booth and sat.
“I’ll leave the pot for you folks,” she says.
“How about a piece of your cherry pie, Izzy?” Ray says, scooting up to the table. “What about you all? Anyone else for pie?”
All around the café, folks pick up their silverware and go back to sipping their coffee.
“Nothing for us, Ray,” Arthur says, sliding the creamer and sugar bowl to Ray’s end of the table.
Ray takes off his hat and coat, fanning the table with a gust of the cold air he brought in from outside. It smells like campfire smoke and oil, but mostly whiskey. After draping his coat over the back of his chair and tossing his hat on the next table, he reaches for the coffeepot and, as he pours himself a cup, his hand shakes, causing a few drops to spill over the side and onto the white tablecloth. He fills the cup only halfway and glances at Ruth. Tiny red veins etch the yellow skin around his nose and mouth and his dark hair is matted against his forehead and temples. He is nearly the man he was twenty years ago-the strong square jaw, the heavy brow, the dark brown eyes. He still has these features, but they have wilted. He begins to drum one set of fingers and, under the table, where he occasionally brushes against Celia, his knees bob up and down.
“Arthur says things are going well for you at the county,” Celia says, although this is not true. Ray has been showing up hours late and looking as if he hasn’t slept. First, he said it was the flu, then trouble with the truck and finally food poisoning by that damned Izzy at the café.
“Things are good enough,” Ray says, taking a sip of his coffee and wincing because his shaking hand spills too much into his mouth. He clears his throat and leans back when Isabelle sets his pie in front of him.
“Anything else, folks?” she asks.
“No,” Ray says. “That’s it.” And he pushes the pie into the center of the table.
“Well,” Arthur says, after Isabelle has walked away. “I guess you’ve been back about a month now.” He pauses, taking a drink of coffee. “And things are working out. Working out fine the way they are.”
“I think it’s long about time Ruth comes home,” Ray says, setting down his coffee and staring at Arthur, but not even his good eye can hold the gaze. “Time she gets back to church, too. Once on Christmas just isn’t right.”
“Ruth’s been to church every Sunday. Hasn’t missed a one.” Arthur shakes his head. “Nope, can’t have her living with you.”
“I’m sober, Arthur. Have been since the day I left.”
“Fist hurts all the same,” Arthur says, glancing at Ruth.
With her eyes lowered, Ruth touches the edge of her jaw.
“You want to come home, Ruth?” Ray’s knees stop shaking for a moment, but they begin to quiver again before Ruth can answer.
Arthur holds up a finger to silence her. “Let’s keep on like this for a short time more,” he says. “Maybe consider whether staying married is the right thing for you two. Maybe you come for a few Sunday suppers so we can talk about it.” Arthur nods at his own idea. “Yeah, maybe a dinner or two.”
Ray presses both hands on the tabletop, steadying himself. He shifts in his seat, the cups and saucers rattling when his knees bump the table. “That’s a damn fool thing to consider.” His good eye lifts to look at Ruth.
She shifts in her seat, pressing back into the corner where the wooden bench meets the wall.
“You considering not staying married?” he says. “This how you start thinking when you quit the church?”
Celia ignores Arthur’s signal to keep quiet. “She has every right to think as she pleases, Ray. You hurt her very badly.”
Ray looks at Celia as if noticing her at the table for the first time. He never quite meets her eyes but instead looks at the individual parts of her. Tonight he studies her neck, the dimple where the two halves of her collarbone meet. After a long silence, Ray pushes back from the table. He stands and stumbles a few steps, knocking over his chair. The loud clatter silences the café again.
“Ruth is coming home tonight,” he says, dropping two dollars on the table. “I’ve been patient enough.” He leans forward, resting his palms on the table. “We’ll fetch your things tomorrow, Ruth. Come along now.”
Arthur tries to stand, but Ray, who is already on his feet, shoves him back down, reaches across the table and grabs Ruth’s forearm. He tries to yank her from the booth as if she’s no more than one of Evie’s ragdolls. She cries out. Celia presses her body against Ruth’s, pinning her in the corner. With both hands wrapped around one of Ruth’s small wrists, Ray pulls. Across the table, Arthur struggles to his feet, tipping over the coffee and creamer. He grabs Ray’s collar and drags him up and away. The weight pressing down on Celia is suddenly lifted. As quickly as Ray attacked, he is gone. Celia takes in a deep breath. With her body still pressed against Ruth’s, she turns. Both men have stumbled over Ray’s fallen chair. Arthur is first to scramble to his feet. He dives at Ray again but finds Floyd Bigler instead.
Even though Floyd is a much smaller man than either Ray or Arthur, he grabs Ray by his upper arm, shakes him and pushes him from the table. With the other hand, he stiff-arms Arthur.
“What’s going on here, gentlemen?”
“Taking my wife.” Ray wipes his forearm across his nose. “High time she comes home.” He rocks from one foot to the other and shifts his eyes from side to side. “Ain’t got nothing to do with you, Floyd.”
Floyd tugs at his belt. “I guess if Ruth wants to go with you, she’ll go on and do it.” He looks at Ruth.
She wraps one arm around her midsection and shakes her head.
“All right then, I guess you’re leaving alone.”
Celia slides away from Ruth, pushes aside the table that has wedged them both in the corner and begins mopping up the coffee and cream that has spilled. The men in the café, the ones who had been eating dessert, including Orville Robison, are standing. Ray waves them off, grabs his hat from the nearby table and stumbles toward the door.
“It’s wrong, what you’re doing, Arthur Scott,” he says, once he has reached the front of the café.
Standing with one hand on the doorknob, he sways a bit and seems to notice Orville Robison standing nearby. Orville crosses his arms over his chest. Still sitting, Mary stares down at her hands folded on the table. Ray leans forward to get a good look at her.
“Don’t know a man who doesn’t have a say when it comes to his own wife.” Then he pulls open the door, letting in another blast of cold air. “It sure enough is wrong. Sure enough.”
Once Ray is gone, Floyd motions for all of the men to sit.
“Everyone all right?” he asks, picking up Ray’s chair and sliding it back to its original spot at a nearby table.
“Ruth, honey,” Celia says, laying a hand on Ruth’s stomach. “Is everything okay?” Ruth sits with one hand clutching her stomach and the other lying motionless in her lap. Her face has gone white and when Celia touches Ruth’s hand, it is cold.
“You folks are in a tough spot, I’d say,” Floyd says, nodding at Ruth. “You should probably shoot on over to the hospital. Let the doctor have a look.”
Celia and Arthur exchange a glance, but neither one speaks.
“He doesn’t know, does he?” Floyd asks.
Arthur shakes his head.
“Yep, that’s a good enough mess, all right.”
“Floyd’s right,” Celia says. Obviously, Floyd has figured out that Ruth is pregnant, and if he figured it out, so will others. “We need to get Ruth to the hospital. I think he hurt her arm.”
Ruth slides across the seat. Arthur helps her to stand while Celia helps her on with her coat, pulls it closed and buttons it. With Arthur on one side, Celia on the other and Floyd following behind, telling folks to get back to Izzy’s pies, Ruth shuffles toward the front of the café. Near the door, she stops and turns, her one bad arm dangling at her side.