on him,” she says. “He’s still learning.”
Standing straight so that his shoulders fill the doorway, Arthur says, “He’s had plenty of time for learning.”
“Please be patient. It’s only been a couple months.”
Arthur yanks on his hat. “Two months is long enough. That boy doesn’t give one damn thought to what he’s doing around here, and it’s high time that changes.”
A t the end of the driveway, Ruth stands behind the cover of an evergreen. Cradling the two loaves of banana bread and a chicken and broccoli casserole, she leans forward, checking right and left and right again. Floyd and the men from Wichita left without finishing their coffee, and if Ruth hurries, she can get to Arthur’s house before anyone worries. From inside the tree, she straightens and listens. It is definitely a truck she hears, driving east to west. She takes two steps back, knowing just where to stand so that the tree’s branches will wrap around her, hide her.
Yes, it’s a truck, not a car. The wide tires, the heavy cab, the tailgate. She listens, holding her breath as she waits for the change in pitch of a truck slowing to turn. A tailgate rattles, metal slapping against metal. Just like Ray’s. Large tires kick up muddy gravel, almost close enough to spray it across Ruth’s face if she weren’t hidden inside the tree. She slowly exhales, listening but not hearing the change in pitch. The truck drives by, never slowing to turn. It’s blue with a white cab. Out-of-state tags. Nebraska. Not Ray.
Stepping out of the tree, a branch pulls the hood from Ruth’s head. The banana bread that she stirred up the night before and baked while Floyd and the men from Wichita drank their coffee is warm in her arms. Outside the evergreen, the rain has slowed to a mist and the road to Arthur’s house is empty except for the deep scars carved into it by the blue and white truck. Balancing the casserole dish and bread loaves on one hip, Ruth pulls the braid that hangs down her back from under her coat and lets it fall between her shoulder blades.
She goes to Arthur’s now every Saturday morning, each time taking food for Orville and Mary Robison. Most weekends she only manages a small batch of cookies or half dozen sweet rolls. Never too much. Ray might notice. She leaves the food with Celia, who always promises to take it straight to the Robisons and then they drink coffee and sometimes eat cookies or maybe a sweet roll if Ruth made extra. After a few weeks of these trips, Ruth has started to put on a little weight, filling out like she was when she was younger. Her hip bones are cushioned now and her shoulders softened. Even her hair is stronger and thicker since Arthur’s family moved home. This past week, as they sipped coffee in Celia’s kitchen, Celia had brushed Ruth’s hair, carefully so as not to tear the ends, and wove it into a thick braid that she tied off with one of Evie’s pink hair bands. “The apple cider vinegar is working,” Celia said as she brushed out Ruth’s hair. Thinking Ray might notice her new braid, Ruth had practiced and was ready to show him how she could braid her own hair, but she had no explanation for the pink band. Standing on the edge of the road, she smiles and tosses her head from side to side, the braid swinging softly across her back.
Arthur’s home is a half mile away. At the top of the hill that separates their two houses, Ruth slows. This is where she stops every Saturday morning and scans the tightly knit rows of winter wheat sprouts that etch the fields, hoping for a glimpse of Julianne Robison. Tattered yellow ribbons tied to a dozen fence posts along the road by the high school kids in the early days following Julianne’s disappearance remind Ruth how long the child has been gone. Too long. But still Ruth watches for her from the top of the hill.
There are other reminders besides the yellow ribbons. The flyers with Julianne’s black and white picture, wrinkled and
Standing straight so that his shoulders fill the doorway, Arthur says, “He’s had plenty of time for learning.”
“Please be patient. It’s only been a couple months.”
Arthur yanks on his hat. “Two months is long enough. That boy doesn’t give one damn thought to what he’s doing around here, and it’s high time that changes.”
A t the end of the driveway, Ruth stands behind the cover of an evergreen. Cradling the two loaves of banana bread and a chicken and broccoli casserole, she leans forward, checking right and left and right again. Floyd and the men from Wichita left without finishing their coffee, and if Ruth hurries, she can get to Arthur’s house before anyone worries. From inside the tree, she straightens and listens. It is definitely a truck she hears, driving east to west. She takes two steps back, knowing just where to stand so that the tree’s branches will wrap around her, hide her.
Yes, it’s a truck, not a car. The wide tires, the heavy cab, the tailgate. She listens, holding her breath as she waits for the change in pitch of a truck slowing to turn. A tailgate rattles, metal slapping against metal. Just like Ray’s. Large tires kick up muddy gravel, almost close enough to spray it across Ruth’s face if she weren’t hidden inside the tree. She slowly exhales, listening but not hearing the change in pitch. The truck drives by, never slowing to turn. It’s blue with a white cab. Out-of-state tags. Nebraska. Not Ray.
Stepping out of the tree, a branch pulls the hood from Ruth’s head. The banana bread that she stirred up the night before and baked while Floyd and the men from Wichita drank their coffee is warm in her arms. Outside the evergreen, the rain has slowed to a mist and the road to Arthur’s house is empty except for the deep scars carved into it by the blue and white truck. Balancing the casserole dish and bread loaves on one hip, Ruth pulls the braid that hangs down her back from under her coat and lets it fall between her shoulder blades.
She goes to Arthur’s now every Saturday morning, each time taking food for Orville and Mary Robison. Most weekends she only manages a small batch of cookies or half dozen sweet rolls. Never too much. Ray might notice. She leaves the food with Celia, who always promises to take it straight to the Robisons and then they drink coffee and sometimes eat cookies or maybe a sweet roll if Ruth made extra. After a few weeks of these trips, Ruth has started to put on a little weight, filling out like she was when she was younger. Her hip bones are cushioned now and her shoulders softened. Even her hair is stronger and thicker since Arthur’s family moved home. This past week, as they sipped coffee in Celia’s kitchen, Celia had brushed Ruth’s hair, carefully so as not to tear the ends, and wove it into a thick braid that she tied off with one of Evie’s pink hair bands. “The apple cider vinegar is working,” Celia said as she brushed out Ruth’s hair. Thinking Ray might notice her new braid, Ruth had practiced and was ready to show him how she could braid her own hair, but she had no explanation for the pink band. Standing on the edge of the road, she smiles and tosses her head from side to side, the braid swinging softly across her back.
Arthur’s home is a half mile away. At the top of the hill that separates their two houses, Ruth slows. This is where she stops every Saturday morning and scans the tightly knit rows of winter wheat sprouts that etch the fields, hoping for a glimpse of Julianne Robison. Tattered yellow ribbons tied to a dozen fence posts along the road by the high school kids in the early days following Julianne’s disappearance remind Ruth how long the child has been gone. Too long. But still Ruth watches for her from the top of the hill.
There are other reminders besides the yellow ribbons. The flyers with Julianne’s black and white picture, wrinkled and
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