Bent Road by Lori Roy Read Free Book Online Page A

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?”
     
    S tudying the three sets of muddy