Bent Road by Lori Roy Page A

and passes it to Arthur. Without even tasting it, Celia knows the coffee is strong, too strong, because that’s how Reesa makes it.
    “That sounds like just what we need,” Arthur says. “Inadequacy of judgment.”
    Father Flannery holds his mug out to Arthur and presses his glasses back onto the bridge of his nose. He sniffs as he does it, as if this will cement them into place. “That doesn’t seem to apply, Arthur. Not after twenty years.”
    Reesa nods, closes her eyes and pats her forehead with a yellow handkerchief while pushing her mug across the table toward Celia to be refilled. Giving the pot a little shake to show that it’s empty, Celia mouths the word “sorry” and steps to the counter to brew up some more.
    “Sure it applies,” Arthur says. “Inadequacy of judgment. We all had it.”
    He turns to Celia for help.
    “They were very young when they married, right?” Celia says. “Young people don’t always make good decisions.” Then, dropping one spoonful of coffee into the percolator, shorting the batch by two scoops of grounds, she checks inside the stove. Still no pie.
    “They were both adults,” Father Flannery says, sipping his coffee. “Young, but adults. Both of sound mind. No undue force, I presume. How’s that pie coming, Mrs. Scott?”
    “Won’t be but a moment, Father.” Celia stands at the head of the table, her hands still on her hips. “I can’t imagine what I’ve done with it.”
    Father Flannery leans back in his chair, his large stomach pushing against the edge of the table. “Did you try on top of the refrigerator? Some of the ladies like to keep their pies on top of the refrigerator.”
    “Father, there has to be something.” Arthur rubs the heel of both hands into his eye sockets. “Undue force. There was undue force. You know what happened. We were all under undue force. That was a terrible time. For everyone.”
    Slipping behind Arthur, Celia grabs onto the top of the refrigerator and stands on her tiptoes. Nothing.
    “I know. I know,” Evie says, clapping her hands together. “The Clark City men took your pie.”
    “Please stop talking about Clark City,” Celia says.
    “But the kids at school say they escape all the time. Ian’s brother says they catch rides on the backs of pickup trucks and jump off when they see the lights of the first house. Everyone knows that our house is the first house after the Brewster place. They take food. Like pie. They take food because they’re hungry. Ian says a Clark City man cooked up old Mrs. Murray on the radiator, that radiator right over there in the corner. And Ian says a Clark City man stole Julianne Robison right out of her very own house.”
    “Good Lord in heaven,” Reesa says. “Hush, child. No one took that pie. I put it on the front porch to cool.”
    Celia spins on her heel to face Reesa. “Reesa, why didn’t you . . .” but Arthur gives her a look that tells her he’s heard quite enough about the pie.
    “So what about that undue force, Father?” Arthur says.
    Father Flannery stands, staring at Ruth so hard that she can’t lift her head. “I think we owe it to Ray to include him in these discussions. An annulment is no small matter.”
    “It damn sure isn’t,” Arthur says, also standing.
    He is taller than Father Flannery by a good four inches but not nearly as round. Both men rest their fingertips on the edge of the table—Father Flannery on one end, Arthur on the other.
    “Ray will not set foot in this house,” Arthur says. “I’ll make that perfectly clear.”
    “Understood,” Father Flannery says. “We’ll meet in the church, then. Or perhaps down at the café. When Ray returns, he’ll have his thoughts heard.” Father Flannery shakes his head as Elaine walks through the front door carrying the pie. “Thank you anyway, Mrs. Scott, but I’ll need to be getting along.”
    “Twenty years this has been going on, Father. Where has the church been for twenty years?”
    “And you,