Free Bent Road by Lori Roy

and scanned the pews. Ruth never misses a Sunday. Never, he whispered as the congregation began its first hymn. Perhaps she’s under the weather or Ray overslept. Arthur only nodded and hung his arm over the back of the pew so he could watch the heavy wooden doors at the rear of the church.
    “Mind that chicken doesn’t burn,” Reesa says, nodding toward the chicken frying in a cast-iron skillet and then she pushes back from the table, the legs of her chair grinding across the linoleum floor. “I’ll go see to helping Ruth with her dessert. And get those dumplings going. We’ll be all day waiting if you don’t get started.”
    When Reesa has left the kitchen and Celia is alone, she looks back outside. Ruth’s head is still lowered as if she’s looking down at folded hands and Ray is beating on the steering wheel, seemingly because the truck’s engine won’t stop running. He is still ranting when Arthur walks up to the truck, followed by Elaine, Jonathon and Reesa. Celia steps back from the sink, pokes at the one giant dumpling that has floated to the top of the broth and, as the rolling bubbles grow into a heavy boil, she thinks she’ll serve this one to Reesa. Reaching for the second burner, where the fried chicken sizzles and pops, Celia smiles as she turns up the heat.
     
    D aniel, startled by a loud pop, ducks and presses against the wall, the wooden slats rough and wet against his back. Inside the small shed, it’s dark and the air smells like Grandma Reesa’s basement—moldy and stale. He tries to breathe through his mouth, thinking the air won’t feel so heavy if he does.
    For six weeks, Ian has asked Daniel to look inside the shed at Grandma Reesa’s place. Ian’s oldest brothers thought for sure Julianne Robison was rotting away inside, but Daniel said that was stupid because Grandma Reesa would have smelled her. Ian said to check anyway because his brothers were smart and a fellow could never be sure until he saw it with his own eyes.
    Daniel readjusts his feet, careful not to break through one of the floorboards that creak every time he moves. Hearing another pop, he recognizes the sound as Uncle Ray’s truck and, squinting with one eye, he looks through a small hole where part of a plank has rotted away. Dad walks out of the house, smiling, almost laughing. He turns to say something to Jonathon. Elaine laughs, latches onto Jonathon’s side and dips her head into his shoulder. The back door swings open again and Grandma Reesa walks out, rocking from side to side with each step. Daniel thinks of Ian, how he walks with a staggered stride, too, but for a different reason. Tomorrow at school, Daniel will tell Ian that Julianne Robison is definitely not rotting in the shed.
    As Grandma Reesa nears the truck where the others are standing and watching Uncle Ray curse the engine that won’t stop rattling, she turns toward the shed and stops, her feet spread wide to support her weight, her hands on her hips. Daniel drops down and presses his head between his knees. He sits motionless, waiting, listening.
    Every Sunday after church services, Daniel changes into his work clothes when they get to Grandma Reesa’s so he can cut her lawn. Sometimes, Dad gives him other chores to do, too—clean the gutters, spray down the screens, tighten the banisters—but at least until the first hard frost, he mows every Sunday. And every week, as Dad pulls the reel mower from the garage, he says, “Don’t bother around the shed. That’s for later.” But later has never come. “I could take a weed whip to it,” Daniel said one Sunday, remembering Ian’s brothers and the kitten in the hole. He was glad when Dad shook his head and said, “Not today, son.” Since they moved to Kansas, Dad and Jonathon have used a truck and cables to straighten Grandma’s garage and have hammered in new support beams on the porch. They have replaced her rotted windowpanes and reshingled her chimney but Dad hasn’t lifted a