Bent Road (10 page)

“Hey, look,” Evie shouts, holding one mitten to her forehead to shade her eyes and pointing with the other toward the fields south of the house. “There’s Daniel. And that’s Ian with him.”

“Where do you suppose they’re going?” Celia asks, knowing that it’s Daniel not because she can see his face but because Ian’s limp gives them away.

“Out for a walk, I suppose,” Elaine says as the two silhouettes disappear over a rise in the pasture.

“Well,” Evie says, swiveling on one heel so she can march back down the hill. “I hope they’re not up to no good.”

Celia pats the small of Ruth’s back and gestures for everyone to follow Evie toward home. “I’ll tell you what,” Celia says. “No good will be had if we don’t all get warmed up soon.”

At the bottom of the hill, Evie stops, points toward the road straight ahead where a black sedan appears out of the glare of the late-day sun and shouts, “Look. It’s Father Flannery’s car.”

Celia stops midway down the hill and pulls her jacket closed. “We don’t have to go back, Ruth,” she says. The prairie chickens rise up again as the car passes, kicking up dust and gravel. “Arthur can see to him.”

Elaine nods. “Yes, we could stay out a while longer.”

“They’ll be waiting,” Ruth says, tugging on the edges of her stocking cap and continuing toward home. “Can’t hide from this forever.”

D
aniel stares down at Ian and thinks that even flat on his stomach, Ian is crooked. Not as crooked as when he has to swing one leg over the bench seats in the school cafeteria, but crooked all the same. He is wearing his new black boots and even though his mother said they were only for church and school, Ian wears them all the time because they make things almost normal for him. One of the boots, the right one, has a two-inch heel while the other has a normal, flat heel. The thick heel is almost thick enough, but not quite and black boots don’t do anything about a spine that looks like a stretched-out question mark. As Ian lifts up on his elbows, pressing his cheek to the stock of Daniel’s new .22-caliber rifle, his shoulders sink under the weight of his head. Black boots don’t do anything about Ian’s oversized head, either. None of Daniel’s Detroit friends had giant heads or lopsided legs. They were regular kids with regular-shaped bodies. Not knowing why but wanting to look somewhere else, anywhere else but at Ian, Daniel turns toward the road as a black sedan drives over the hill to the north.

“That Father Flannery?” Ian asks, lifting his head up out of his shoulders for a moment before letting it sink again.

“Yeah. How’d you know?”

“Everyone knows he’s coming today.” Ian rests his right cheek against the rifle.

Pulling his jacket closed, Daniel exhales and squats next to Ian.

“Not too close,” Ian says so Daniel scoots a few feet away, flipping up his collar and wrapping his arms around his waist. “Go there, behind the grass where they won’t see you.”

Daniel waddles a few more feet to the left where he’ll be hidden by a clump of brome grass. “Won’t my folks hear the shots?” he asks, still able to see the roof of his house. “I mean, we’re not so far away.”

“No one thinks anything about a gunshot this time of year. Hush and let me get the first one. The rest are easier.” Ian inhales and lifts his head again. “There,” he whispers. “Did you see it?”

Daniel stretches enough to see beyond the grass into the pasture on the other side of the barbed-wire fence. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“It’ll be back. Sit tight.”

“How does everyone know? About Father Flannery, I mean.”

“Everyone knows everything.” Ian props the gun in his right hand and breathes short puffs of warm air into his left fist. A clump of brown hair has fallen out of his hat and across his forehead. “Everyone knows everything about everybody,” Ian says, tucking the clump of hair back under his stocking cap with his warmed-up left hand.

In Detroit, nobody knew anything about anybody. They were too busy worrying about the Negroes who wanted to work side by side with the white people. They were too busy worrying about the color of their neighborhood and kids who couldn’t play outside anymore. Nobody had time to care about someone like Father Flannery or why he was visiting on a Saturday afternoon. People in Kansas have nothing but time. That’s what Mama says whenever Grandma Reesa shows up without an invitation.

“Know what else they say?” Ian says, crawling forward a few inches on his hips and elbows. The boot with the thick heel drags behind.

Daniel shakes his head. “Got mud stuck in your shoes,” he says, pointing at the tread on the bottom of Ian’s boots. Ida Bucher will know he wore them in the field. She’ll whip him because money doesn’t grow on trees and neither do black boots with extra-thick heels. “You’ll need a nail to dig that out.”

“They say your Uncle Ray went crazy from drinking.”

Daniel stands and looks back at his house. Though he can’t see the driveway, he knows Father Flannery has parked his black car there. He will have gone inside and is probably sitting at the kitchen table. Mama will take his coat and serve him a piece of the apple pie that Aunt Ruth made after breakfast. Dad will drink a cup of coffee, cream and two sugars.

“He didn’t even get his crop planted.” Ian’s head pops up, his legs go rigid and he fires.

Daniel stumbles backward, crushing a few feet of the new winter wheat and presses his hands over his ears. Beside him, Ian lifts up on his knees and watches his target. Wondering who or what may have heard them, Daniel scans the horizon.

“Got him,” Ian says, flipping the safety and shifting the gun to the other side so he can pass it off to Daniel. “Now be real quiet. And get ready.”

Keeping low to the ground where he’ll stay out of sight, Daniel scoots toward Ian again and they switch places.

“Come on,” Ian says, pulling back the bolt action. An empty casing pops out and flies over his left shoulder and after a new bullet has dropped into place, he pushes the rifle at Daniel. “Hurry up or you’ll miss them.”

“Who didn’t plant his crop?”

“Your Uncle Ray,” Ian says, flipping off the safety and pressing Daniel’s right hand over the stock of the gun. “A lot of nice land going to waste. That’s what Dad says. My brother says Ray got sick from all the drinking and the sheriff took him to Clark City. Says it’s been coming for years. Says that’s where people go to dry out.”

“Dry out?” Daniel asks. Propping himself up on his elbows, he looks down the barrel of the gun and tries to balance it. The wooden stock is cold on his bare hands and against his cheek.

“Dry out. You know. Stop drinking. Your Uncle Ray is a drunk. Everyone says so. Says your Aunt Ruth is a married woman and belongs with her husband. Says he wouldn’t be such a drunk if she’d go home.”

With his lips pressed together, Daniel stares up at Ian.

“That’s what they say. Not me. Hey, there’s one.”

Daniel flattens out so he can see under the barbed-wire fence. A hundred feet away, surrounded by unplowed ground covered with dry stubble, is the mound that had been Ian’s target. One small head shaped like a giant walnut pops out of a hole in the center of the mound and then disappears. A few moments later, a prairie dog creeps out and lifts onto his hind legs. Its brown, furry body is plumper than the one Ian shot.

“Wait. Don’t be too quick,” Ian says.

“Who cares what they say about Aunt Ruth?” Daniel’s breath warms the gun where it’s pressed to his cheek. And then, remembering the words Dad used when he sent Uncle Ray away, Daniel says, “She’s not my concern.”

“Some people even say your Uncle Ray had something to do with taking Julianne Robison. Say that he is just that crazy. Even say he killed your Aunt Eve. But that was a long time ago.”

“That’s a lie,” Daniel says, thinking that he’d know for sure if his own aunt was dead. “A God damned lie.”

“I ain’t saying it,” Ian says. “ ’Course it’s Jack Mayer who took Julianne. But you ought to know that since you’re the only one who’s seen him.” Ian kneels behind the same clump of grass. “Watch what you’re doing. Careful.” Before the new boots, Ian didn’t squat or sit on the ground much because getting up was too hard. It’s easier now but he still groans on the way down. “Wait another second. We might see more.”

The prairie dog that Ian shot lies at the base of the mound, which, according to Ian, means he grazed it. A direct hit would blow the animal a foot in the air. Ian said it was best when that happened. Best for who, Daniel thinks, as the prairie dog starts to chirp—slow steady chirps as it drops down onto all fours. His stubby tail flicks in sets of three.

“Ready.” Ian waddles a few feet closer, close enough that Daniel smells his moldy clothes and new leather boots, but the prairie dog won’t smell him because Ian made sure they were downwind.

“Whoever said that about Ray, you tell them I don’t care,” Daniel says, pressing his cheek against the gun until it digs into his cheekbone and his eyes water. “I don’t give one good God damn.” Then he jabs his elbows into ground that is recently plowed and soft. Squinting through his right eye, he bites the inside of his cheek and tilts the barrel until the tip lines up in the sight.

“Don’t talk. Take a deep breath, hold it, then fire.”

The prairie dog crawls down the mound and begins to drag the injured one toward the hole.

“Not one good God damn bit,” Daniel whispers.

“You got to be quick,” Ian says, close enough that Daniel smells his breath. Slowly, Ian lifts his hands and covers both ears. “Now.”

Daniel tightens his index finger, the trigger softening under the pressure. He inhales and squeezes his shoulder blades until his neck muscles ache and his lungs burn. The trigger collapses, and the gun fires. The prairie dog shoots up into the air and lands a few feet away. The chirping is gone.

“Got him,” Ian shouts. He stumbles as he tries to stand, so stays put instead. “Now we have to wait. They’ll be back. Be back for sure.”

Peering through the rifle’s sight, Daniel scans the field until he sees the dead prairie dog lying in the grass. Ian says prairie dogs are bad for the fields. He says they’re rodents and that there will be lots more in the spring. Baby ones by June. They’re the hardest to get. They don’t come out like the others. Daniel drops the barrel of the rifle, flips the safety and pushes up on his knees.

“I’m not waiting around for another stupid prairie dog.”

Being careful to step over the winter wheat, Daniel stands and walks toward home. Behind him, Ian stumbles with his old rhythm, the one he had before he got his new boots. God damn, Daniel hates that sound.

“Slow down,” Ian calls out.

Holding the rifle at his side instead of over his shoulder, Daniel takes long steps toward home and doesn’t look back.

Trying to outrun the cold air that follows them onto the porch, Celia hustles everyone through the back door. Evie darts left, squeezes between Elaine and the doorframe and slips in front of Ruth.

“Sorry,” she says, tripping over Ruth, and the two of them stumble into the kitchen.

“Evie.” Celia grabs Evie’s collar before she falls face-first on the kitchen floor. In a quieter voice, she says, “You be careful of Aunt Ruth. And mind yourself. We have company.”

Celia pulls off her coat and tips her forehead toward Father Flannery, who sits at the head of the table. Arthur sits at the other end, and Reesa has taken a seat in between.

“So sorry to keep you waiting, Father,” Celia says. “We lost track of time.”

Evie steps up to Father Flannery, extends her hand the way she and Celia practiced in the living room the night before and says, “Hello, Father Flannery.”

Father Flannery pushes back from the table, his knees falling open to make room for the belly that hangs between them. He takes the tips of Evie’s fingers in both hands. “Fine day to see you, Miss Eve.”

“I’m Evie in our house, Father. Eve is only for Grandma Reesa’s house. And church.”

Father Flannery studies Evie over the top of his glasses. The tip of his nose and chin are still red from the cold. He finally nods and drops Evie’s hands. “Your hair is cut,” he says to Ruth.

“Yes.” Ruth touches the ends of her new shorter hair and smiles up at Elaine. When she looks back at the Father, he isn’t smiling. Ruth drops her eyes to the floor.

“Elaine cut it, Father,” Evie says. “She’s going to color it, too. Red maybe.”

Reesa, who has made herself at home in Celia’s kitchen, having already brewed the coffee and set out the cream and sugar, shakes her head and squeezes her eyes shut. “Good gracious,” she says.

Arthur scoots up to the table, the squeal of his chair legs silencing Evie and Reesa.

To break the sudden silence, Celia opens the refrigerator and says, “Has Reesa offered you pie, Father?”

Reesa frowns, causing deep creases to cave in at the top of her nose, and shakes her head at Celia. “Didn’t seem the time for pie yet.”