“I think you’re right, Celia,” Ruth says, smiling back at Evie again. “Julianne will be home by supper.”
But two months later, Julianne Robison is still not home.
Chapter 5
Standing at her own kitchen sink, Celia pushes aside the yellow gingham curtains and white sheers and takes in her first icy breath since moving to Kansas two months earlier. Outside the window, the waxy leaves of a silver maple filter quiet rain. The leaves flutter in the gentle breeze, their silvery white undersides sparkling beneath the gray sky. Even on the hottest August days, the tree had cast a cool, heavy shadow over the kitchen but the sprinkling of golden leaves among the green reminds Celia that soon the tree will be bare. Leaning on the counter, rinsing a colander of white beans that have soaked through the night, Celia misses her Detroit kitchen window. She misses the sound of Al Templeton pull starting his lawn mower, Sarah Jenkins beating her kitchen rugs with a broom handle, the garbage truck hissing in the back alley.
Feeling heavy footsteps coming toward her, Celia lifts her head. She straightens, wrings out her washcloth and hangs it over the faucet. The footsteps slow and stop directly behind her. She closes her eyes. Arthur leans against her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“Good morning,” he whispers.
His coarse voice, the voice she normally only hears when he lies on the pillow next to her, makes her smile.
“Coffee?” he asks. His breath is warm on her left ear.
Celia draws one hand across his rough cheek and nods toward the pot that is still steaming. “You need a shave,” she says, her smile fading when she looks back outside and sees the golden leaves.
Arthur pushes aside her loose hair and rubs his rough chin and jaw against her neck. “No razors on Saturday.”
In Detroit, Arthur ran a lathe, carving metal into ball bearings and shafts that were shipped to the automotive factories where they ended up in alternators and generators. The red and blue patch that Celia sewed on the front of each work shirt read MACHINIST. Spinning metal for ten hours a day made Arthur’s forearms strong and hard and he came home most nights smelling of motor oil and rubbing the back of his neck. Now, in Kansas, thanks to Gene Bucher, he drives a backhoe and a grader for the county and he comes home at night rubbing his lower back, sometimes hurting so badly from the vibration of the heavy equipment that his legs flare out at the knee and he walks with a rounded back. Grading the dry roads that ride like a washboard gives him the worst ache, and on those nights, Celia rubs Evie’s old baby oil between her palms to warm it and kneads it into his back and shoulders.
“Will you work today? What with the rain.” Celia stretches and relaxes into Arthur’s hold. He seems bigger here in Kansas and thicker through the chest.
“Later,” Arthur whispers. “I’ll drive around, check the outlying roads.” He leans closer, moving his hands over her stomach. “Better not take the car out until the ground drains. Don’t want to gut the driveway.” Pressing against her, he gathers two handfuls of her skirt and gently pulls until the hem lifts up over her knees. “The kids still sleeping?”
Celia tries to reach for a mug in the cupboard overhead, but Arthur keeps his hold on her.
“All except Elaine. She’s gone off fishing with Jonathon.”
Arthur rubs his jaw against her cheek.
“Ruth’s coming today,” Celia says, nodding toward the white beans she has rinsed and set aside. “She’ll be helping me with those ham and beans you were wanting.”
In Detroit, Celia had shopped daily at Ambrozy’s Deli where Mr. Ambrozy made the best kielbasa in the city. He added beef and veal to the finest cuts of pork and cooked it up with garlic and a touch of marjoram, his secret ingredient. Every Friday, she made Hunter’s Stew with Mr. Ambrozy’s kielbasa and sweet sauerkraut, and Arthur always liked her cooking just fine. But on the first morning in September, he had said that a good old-fashioned plate of ham and beans sure would be nice. Not knowing how to prepare such a thing, Celia had asked for Ruth’s help.
Arthur mumbles something about Ruth always running late. Then he drops Celia’s skirt and presses against the entire length of her body.
“Now stop that,” she says, smiling and trying to turn into his embrace, but he places his hands on the counter, trapping her so she can’t move. “Ruth will have food for the Robisons, too. Will probably want you to run it over straightaway.”
“What is that?” Arthur says, his tone suddenly clear and strong. His voice comes from over the top of Celia’s head instead of near her left ear. “What the hell is that?”
Studying the three sets of muddy footprints on her kitchen floor, Ruth takes a bottle of ammonia from under the sink and sets it on the counter so she won’t forget to clean them when the men leave. Next, she checks the timer she set for her banana bread. It’ll be ready in seven minutes and she hopes the men will be gone by then.
“Sorry to barge in like this,” Floyd says, pushing the creamer across the table to the other two men.
Ruth pours three cups of coffee.
“Mostly these two fellows are going to ask the same questions I have.”
One of the men, the larger of the two and the one who doesn’t bother to take off his hat, pulls out a small pad of paper. He taps a pencil on the edge of the kitchen table and tips his head to one side, giving Ruth a sideways glance. “Won’t take long, ma’am,” he says.
The other man, who is no bigger than Floyd, nods down at the floor. “Sorry about this mess.” Then he pours cream in his coffee and after checking the sole of each shoe, he glances up at Ruth and smiles with closed lips.
“More questions?” Ruth asks, standing at the kitchen sink where she can watch out the window for Ray’s truck. Floyd must have waited until Ray left for the day because not five minutes after he pulled away, Floyd drove up with these two men in his car.
“These fellows are from Wichita. Work for the Kansas Bureau of Investigation. They’ve been down here helping us search for Julianne seeing as how we haven’t gotten so far.”
“That’s good,” Ruth says. “That’s very good.”
“Where’s your husband off to this morning?” the larger man says. He knows Ray is gone without asking.
“Smells mighty good,” the smaller man says, nodding at the stove where two loaves of banana bread are baking.
“The Stockland Café,” Ruth says, answering the larger man’s question. “Always has breakfast there on Saturday mornings. And then to the farm.”
Their own land is too small to make a living from, so Ray has leased the Hathaway place since Mr. Hathaway died fifteen years earlier. It’s a twelve-mile drive toward town and usually, almost always, keeps Ray away until dusk.
The larger man studies his pad of paper. “That’s the Hathaway place you’re talking about?”
“Yes,” Ruth says, glancing out the window before letting her eyes settle on the center of the kitchen table. “Goes there every day.”
The larger man asks most of the questions. They are the same ones Floyd asked on his three other trips to the house. A few days after Floyd’s first visit, he came back with a black notebook and a ballpoint pen and said he hadn’t taken notes the first time, would Ruth and Ray mind going over the questions again. He said that most folks in town were getting the same visit. The third time he came, he asked how many acres Ray figured he had between the two farms and did he know of any place that might put a young girl in trouble. A fellow who lived over near Stockton found a soft spot on his land that must have been an old shaft or a dug-out foundation. Nothing in there but the fellow never would have found it if he hadn’t looked. Floyd offered to help Ray check over his land and the Hathaways’ since Mrs. Hathaway couldn’t be expected to do it. “Can look plenty good on my own,” Ray had said, so Floyd tipped his hat and didn’t come back again until today.