On Shifting Sand (16 page)

She clasps her hands, pleading. “Can I, Mama?”

“Barn cats’ll scratch,” I say, more cautionary than disapproving.

“These are gentle. House cat took them outside. Think I was stirrin’ up too much dust in here.”

Ariel prances on her toes. “Please, please, please, please, please?”

“Go,” I say after mock consideration. “But be gentle.”

She races for the barn, as if she’s been here for regular visits all her life. I wish she could know the place as I remember, green and vibrant. Creating and sustaining life . . . outwardly, at least.

When she is out of view, I reach behind the seat and produce Jim’s bag. His expression changes so little at the sight, I wonder briefly if he recognizes it.

“I’ve brought your things.” I stand immobile next to the car, the satchel a weight at the end of my arm. “I assume you’ve been missing them?”

“Somewhat.”

Again, no definable expression and nothing in his voice to let me know if he is amused or annoyed at my gesture. His inscrutability works
against my plan to drop the bag and disappear. Instead, he draws me in, until I find myself climbing the porch steps, bag in hand.

When I ascend to his level, he asks, “Would you like to come inside?” as if this is his house to invite me into. “See what I’ve accomplished since you left me here like an unwelcome dog?”

His words hurt. “Don’t say that. You could have—”

He takes the bag from me, the touch of his hand bringing me to silence.

“Come on.” His words speak a welcome; his eyes, forgiveness. He opens the front screen door, its silence surprising. “Oiled it yesterday. Can’t imagine how he could stand to let it squeak on like that.”

“He didn’t have a lot of visitors.”

“Well, neither did I. Not a one, but the sound of my own comin’s and goin’s like to set my teeth on edge.”

He holds the door open, and I leave all of my plans for escape on the front porch as I walk through.

“My goodness,” I say, taking a deep breath and a look around, “haven’t you been hard at work?”

To say that the front room gleams would not be truthful, as its capacity for gleaming has long since passed. But it is clean—almost impeccably so—and given its state of destruction just a few days ago, what meets my eyes is a near miracle. The floor, stripped of the worn rugs that normally dotted its surface, is smooth and clean, with the texture of silk beneath my steps.

“Took out the rugs,” he says, “an’ fixed a strip of tire rubber to a push broom. Shoulda seen how much piled up. Hauled it out with a shovel.” As he speaks, his eyes travel up the length of my leg, starting with the point where my toe tests the unvarnished surface and not stopping until our eyes meet, at which time I shift my attention to the mantel.

“Mopped down the walls,” he continues, now taking a slow turn around the room, pointing out each accomplishment, “just with water over the stones. Didn’t look like that had been done in about twenty years, storms or not. Then linseed oil on the woodwork.”

“But how . . . ?” I pause, not really knowing what I wonder.

“You mean with this?” He holds up the arm with the sleeve pinned below his elbow. “You don’t think a one-armed man can push a broom?”

“I didn’t mean that. It’s just—it’s only been three days.”

“Well, let me tell you, Mrs. Merrill. I ain’t never been a man for sittin’ around bein’ idle. Not even when I find myself dumped off like so much trash.”

“That isn’t what we—”

“So, I admit. I waited around for the first hour or so, thinkin’ surely they’re going to come back. Can’t just leave a man with half a jug of water and nothin’ else. But then when it started to get dark, and I knew I was here for the night, I figured I best get myself comfortable.”

“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “We were just—I was so confused. You saw my father, and the state he was in. I didn’t think.”

“Didn’t pay too much attention to the clock. Just worked, slept when I couldn’t work no more. Lucky your pa has a few cans of soup, but they’re run out today, so I was figurin’ how I was goin’ to get into town.”

“You’re welcome to use his truck.”

“Figured that already. Spent the mornin’ tryin’ to dig it out.” He drops the bag on one of the upholstered chairs, and a faint puff of dust rises from beneath it. With a look of chagrin, he says, “Goin’ to have to take that out for another beatin’.”

“That’s the hardest to clean,” I commiserate. There’s a sheet draped over the narrow sofa.

“Been sleepin’ there,” he says. “Wind knocked out the windows in the other bedrooms, and didn’t want to take over your pa’s bed. I got these, though.” He picks up a bundle of mismatched papers. “Didn’t go through them all, for privacy. They was piled on top of a desk in his room, and I’m thinkin’ they might be important.”

“Thank you.” I, too, dislike the idea of airing all of my father’s affairs, so I stash the papers in my pocketbook.

“You wanna see the kitchen?”

The pride in his voice is infectious, and, forgetting that I have
accomplished my errand, I nod in agreement and follow. Here, too, evidence of the disaster that had been is gone. Wiped clean, to a degree even my mother would approve.

“Dishes, too,” he says.

At his prompting, I open the cabinets to reveal glasses, plates, bowls—all sparkling.

“How did you get all of this done?”

“Liquid soap and vinegar. I reckon I pumped more buckets of water these last few days than all my life combined.”

“Vinegar,” I muse. “How did you know to use vinegar?”

“You think this is my first time to clean a kitchen? Don’t forget, when your husband and his fancy friends were doin’ their studies, I was the one pushin’ the mop.”

“Don’t talk like that.” I inch a drawer open enough to see a glint of gleaming cutlery and immediately close it, keeping my fingers wrapped around the handle even as I turn to face him. “Makes you sound bitter.”

“Maybe I am bitter.” He’s been leaning in the doorframe but begins a slow, purposeful walk toward me, his footfall silent on the clean floor. A panic rises in my throat as I remember the message I have to give him.

“I think it’s best you don’t come back.”

He stops, steps away, and tilts his head to one side. “Come back where? To your home?”

I stare him down, doubling the strength of my grip on the drawer’s handle.

“The town? Are you tryin’ to say I can’t come back to the
town
of Featherling, Oklahoma?” He seems amused, making no attempt to hide his smile. “That what Russ says?”

I shake my head. “No. He doesn’t even know—doesn’t even know that I’m here.”

Jim cocks one eyebrow and takes another advancing step. “Where does he think you are?”

“Nowhere. I mean, I didn’t tell him. Anything, about my coming out here, to bring your things. He doesn’t know.”

“Why’d you come out here alone, Nola?”

He is closer now, so close that if I put my arms out straight in front of me, my palms would brace themselves against him, creating a physical barrier. Still, I keep them at my sides, not wanting to admit the need for such a thing. My ears ring with the rushing of my blood, and I know my skin is a flush rising from my collarbone to my cheeks. I try to control my breathing—heavy, yet shallow, my body physically heaving with each exhalation. I determine to keep him at bay with my words alone.

“I came alone so I could tell you to stay away.”

“From Featherling?”

“From me.”

He stops. “It doesn’t seem to make a lot of sense for you to come out alone if’n you’re so afraid.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Do I?”

He is baiting me, close enough now that I can still ward him away with the palms of my hands, but doing so would put me halfway to an embrace. Instead, I press backward, the ridge of the countertop digging into my spine. “I saw it.”

“What did you see, Nola?”

“The picture.” No response. “My picture, when I was packing up your things.”

He closes his eyes, lashes resting against his cheeks, and when he opens them again, I can tell he means his gaze to be kind. Indulgent, even, and it churns a sickness in my stomach.

“That’s your weddin’ picture, Nola.”

“I know.” I wish I hadn’t said anything. Wish I hadn’t seen it in the first place.

“Russ sent that to me years ago.”

“It startled me, is all. That you had it.”

“What should I have done with it?” He angles his head toward me. “What did
you
do with it?”

He’s caught me, as sure as if he’d been with me that night, seeing
my younger face consumed by heat and turned to ash. I won’t admit to the destruction, though. Not now. Let him figure that out for himself. Later, as he riffles through his things, looking. I fancy myself holding the higher ground, knowing something he doesn’t. My own secret to keep.

“Don’t come any closer.” The words come from the back of my throat. Finally, I let go of the drawer handle and hold my hands up in what I hope conveys a message of threat rather than defense. “And don’t come back.”

He looks at my hands, then into my eyes. “Where do you think I ought to go?”

“I don’t care.”

“Where do you think you’re going to go?”

“I’m going home.” But immediately, from his smirk, I know I’ve misunderstood the question.

“You still don’t know?”

He takes a full step back, and the tension that stretches within our proximity goes slack. My exhalation starts at the base of my spine, taking all my breath, so when I repeat, “Don’t come back,” I sound weak, and already wounded.

“Talk to your husband.”

“Leave us alone.” And I am going to say something else—maybe something like an expression of gratitude for cleaning my father’s house, or an invitation to say good-bye to Russ before he leaves, or maybe even something akin to wishing him well. A benediction of sorts. But I say nothing because, at the same moment I take a breath, gathering my thoughts, he kisses me.

Not soft, not gentle, not with any hint of hesitation. I’ve been spared the torture of knowing what I would have done had I been given any warning. Would I have ducked aside? Turned my head? Uttered
no
in the spot of space before our mouths touched? Unlikely, as I had brought myself to this place. Orchestrated circumstances to allow secrecy and solitude. He keeps his hand at the small of my back, and though the other is invisible, it no less wields the power to lock me in this embrace.

In this moment, my identity strips away. His final words,
“Talk to your husband,”
hold no meaning. What husband? And my last words,
“Leave us alone,”
take on new life. A new us. This man becomes my counterpart, and we stand together in a place so pristine and clean—our soft sounds echoing in the dust-free air.

It is he who tears away, saying, “I’m sorry.”

I put my hand to my lips, surprised to find they feel much the same, and say nothing.

Something tugs at the remnant of the woman I used to be. A voice, high, sweet, and—thankfully—far off, calling, “Mama!”

Ariel.

I should chastise her for tracking in so much dirt and straw and who knows whatever filth from the barn, but I can only stare at this beautiful creature and try madly to remember exactly who she is, and what she means to me.

“I see you found a kitten,” Jim says.

She holds up the little thing in triumph. “Look at all the colors. Orange and black and brown and white and orange again and—”

“It’s called a calico,” I say, grateful for any sort of words.

“Can I keep it?”

I know instinctively that any protest on my part would only prolong our time here, and I long to clog myself with the dust that has been expelled from this place.

“Of course. Get some dry straw and put it on the floorboard in the car. I’ll be right there.”

She has a suspicious tinge to her surprise, but soon enough total joy engulfs her as she skips out of the kitchen, leaving a trail of small, dark footprints on the floor. I move to follow, but feel a strong arm catch me above my elbow.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, but when I turn to look into his eyes, he doesn’t seem sorry at all.

“You need to stay away.” I speak through gritted teeth.

I feel his thumb move in three strong circles before he lets me go. “So do you.”

  CHAPTER 11