“He wasn’t home that night, Floyd,” she says.
Celia starts to speak but Floyd holds up a finger to silence her.
“Ray, he wasn’t home like I said.” And then facing Mary Robison, she says, “I don’t know that he did anything, Mary. I don’t know. But he wasn’t home like he told Floyd. He wasn’t home like I said.”
Floyd nods as if he’s always known.
“I’m so sorry, Mary,” Ruth says. “I’m just so sorry.”
Evie slowly opens her closet door so that it doesn’t make any sound. Then she squats and crawls under the coats and dresses that Aunt Ruth brought when she first moved into Evie’s room. The clothes smell like Aunt Ruth and, for a moment, Evie thinks Mama and Daddy and Aunt Ruth are home. She wiggles backward out of the closet and listens. They don’t usually go out on a school night. Mama said they wouldn’t be late and that Evie should mind Daniel and Elaine. Evie frowns to think she has to mind Daniel. Waiting until she is sure the house is quiet, she crawls back under the low-hanging hemlines, coughs as she reaches for the extra blankets that Mama stores in the closet, and so that they don’t come unfolded, she pulls them out slowly, one hand on the bottom, the other on top. Next she drags out the box of photo albums that can’t be stored in the basement because they might mildew and there, behind it all, she finds her hatbox. She pulls it from the dark corner, sits crisscross in front of it and, after checking the door one last time, she lifts off the lid.
“This is my favorite,” Evie whispers, taking the perfume bottle from the box with two fingers.
The creamy white bottle has a short belly and a tall, thin stopper decorated with tiny red roses. Evie pulls out the stopper, and even though the bottle is empty, she smells Aunt Eve.
“I’m always afraid I’ll break it,” she says, and setting the stopper back in the bottle, she places it on top of the stack of blankets.
Dragging the box farther out of the corner and wrapping her legs around it, Evie takes out the picture of Aunt Eve and Uncle Ray and props it up on the closet floor. Next, she pulls out a compact, a brush and a hand mirror-all decorated with the same red roses-and lays them on top of the blankets. She took all four from Aunt Eve’s room on the same day, but the pink heart-shaped brooch and purple scarf with gold stitching that she removes next, she took one at a time on separate days. Last, she slips one hand into the box and slides it under a carefully folded blue dress. She wiggles her fingers in the soft ruffles and rests her other hand on top of the dress, the silk sash feeling cool and smooth. Lifting the dress from the box, she takes it by each shoulder, holds it to her neck and lets it drape down her front as she stands.
“It’s too long,” Evie whispers, slipping the dress over her head and threading her arms through each sleeve.
The blue silky skirt flutters against her bare toes and the waist falls past her hips. At the neckline, six inches of blue piping left unstitched hang from the dress and the shoulder seam is torn because she tripped over the dress when Daddy and Uncle Ray were fighting. Evie gathers up the low hanging waist and ties it off in the proper place with the silk sash. The feathery sleeves tickle her elbows. Looking down, she thinks the dress is short enough, but without Mama’s help, Evie can’t do anything about the wide, torn neckline that slips off her shoulders or the dangling trim. Mama would pin it all up with safety pins, like she does the Halloween costumes that are too big, but Evie can’t ask Mama for help.
“It’ll be fine,” she says. “Just fine.”
Sitting in the backseat of Arthur’s car, Ruth recognizes the throb in her shoulder and the lopsided way her coat hangs. It’s probably dislocated, has happened before. She lets her bad arm lie at her side and, sliding down in the backseat of the station wagon, she slips her good hand inside her jacket so she can feel her little girl. She hasn’t told anyone that she can feel Elisabeth kicking or that she has named her baby. She deserved a name. From the moment Ruth felt she was a girl, Elisabeth deserved a name. A name would give the tiny new baby something to hold on to, a little more courage, or maybe it was Ruth who needed the courage. She smiles at the tiny flutter that stirs her insides and, laying back her head, she closes her eyes as the car rambles over the gravel road.
Up in the front seat, Celia and Arthur are silent. No one has spoken since Ruth told Floyd the truth about Ray. Not a word since they walked out of the café into a strong north wind, not as Arthur pulled away, the café’s lights dwindling behind them, not now as they drive down Bent Road on their way to the hospital. Celia is no more than a shadow, occasionally checking on Ruth, reaching over the seat to pat her knee. Next to her, Arthur sits tall, stiffening and bracing his arms each time a truck passes and he has to ease the car toward the ditch. Celia is the first to speak.
“Will Floyd arrest him now?” she asks, her shadow turning toward Arthur.
“Don’t suppose he has reason to.”
“But he’ll look into it, right?”
“Don’t really know.” Arthur rubs his palm against his forehead. Father used to do the same thing. “I suppose he’ll ask Ruth some more questions, pay Ray another visit.”
Celia reaches back and pats Ruth’s knee again and probably smiles though Ruth can’t see.
“Well, he’s not coming to dinner. I can’t imagine why you invited him.”
“I didn’t invite him, not for certain. Just suggested. Tried to ease my way in. Maybe buy a little time.”
“Well, I don’t want him around the kids. He did something to that girl. I just know it.”
“I’m handling him the best I can for now,” Arthur says.
Ruth closes her eyes again when another truck, driving in the opposite direction, flies past. The friction between the two automobiles and the heavy north wind rock Ruth from side to side. She closes her eyes and tries to hold her arm still.
“He’s waiting him out,” Ruth says into the dark car.
Celia’s shadow turns, stretching one arm across the back of her seat. “Waiting him out? What do you mean?”
“He thinks Ray will die soon. That he’s drunk himself nearly dead.”
A set of oncoming headlights outlines Celia with a yellow frame. “Is that true?”
Once the other truck has passed and its headlights have faded, Arthur shrugs. “Can’t help what a man does to himself.”
“I don’t even know what to say about that,” Celia says. “Besides being a horrible thought, what are the chances?”
“Pretty good from the looks of him.” Fending off the wind and the rough gravel roads, Arthur’s hands and arms shake on the steering wheel.
“I’m sorry, Ruth. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking.”
“He’s thinking he’s seen a man nearly dead from drinking before and that Ray looks about the same.”
Celia glances between the two of them.
“Papa,” Ruth says. “Papa drank himself dead. But Ray’s not that close yet, Arthur. Not like Papa. Not as bad as Papa was in the end.”
Another car approaches. Ruth sits up. The more she talks, the more numb she feels inside. She didn’t realize it in the café, or the night Ray came back from Damar, or the day Arthur asked Gene Bucher to give Ray a job, but sitting in the car, blinking against another set of approaching headlights, she knows that Arthur is counting on time because he doesn’t know any other way.
“Arthur,” Celia shouts. “Look out.”
Arthur jerks the steering wheel, his shadow falling to the right. The car slides across the gravel road, throwing Ruth against the doorframe. Her head bounces off the window. Something jabs her side. Pressing her one good arm straight out, she braces herself against the front seat. The car grinds to a stop. Heavy tires spinning on the hard dry gravel fade in the distance. Outside the front window, a dust cloud settles like dwindling smoke in the headlights and a long winding tail and arched back appear-tumbleweeds caught up along the fence line on Bent Road. Someone had better clear them away soon, Ruth thinks, or they’ll pull down the fence, and she closes her eyes.