On Shifting Sand (18 page)

“I think I will. Should I lock the door? Close up the shop?”

“No.” I swat his arm like a schoolgirl. “When the time comes—if the
time comes—when you have to choose. Not between the church and me, but if you ever have to decide if you love me enough.”

“Enough for what? Nola, what’s happened?”

“Nothing.” I answer too quickly and back away, disturbing the papers on the counter and startling the kitten straight up into the air. “Nothing’s happened, except you’re here, with me. And the time might come when you’ll have to wonder,
Do I love her? Really, truly love her?
Think about this moment and remember that you do.”

The last of my words are guttural, salt-ridden, and wet with tears.

“My sweet Denola. I will remember this moment. I remember every single one.”

I have sinned;

what shall I do unto thee,

O thou preserver of men?

why hast thou set me as a

mark against thee,

so that I am a burden to myself?

And why dost thou not pardon my transgression,

and take away my iniquity?

for now shall I sleep

in the dust;

and thou shalt seek me in the morning,

but I shall not be.

JOB 7:20-21

  CHAPTER 12
  

I
T IS MORE THAN A WEEK
before my father returns to the land of the living. In those days between, he was a lost-looking shadow of the man I knew, spending long hours in the rocker in the front room. Familiar, I suppose, because he has a chair like it back in his own home. We keep the radio on almost continuously, as it seems to soothe him. He joins us at the table for meals, eating a little more each day. And he drinks water, glass after glass, as he claws his way out of his own drought. This, more than anything, brings him back to us.

As Pa recovers upstairs, I make a home for him downstairs. I briefly consider getting him a small radio of his own, but I don’t want him to feel like he’s been imprisoned in some basement room. As he floats closer and closer to the surface of himself, he emerges a softer man than I’ve ever known. I credit my Ariel with much of this reincarnation. She is constantly at his side, bringing him sips of water in her tiny teacups, singing him songs she’s learned in Sunday school, and whispering in his ear how happy she is to see her paw-paw every day.

In the early days, he was confused, calling her Denola more often than not, but with a gentleness I’d never heard directed toward me.
“Denola, darlin’ . . . ,”
at which my sweet girl would correct him, calling him
“silly Paw-Paw,”
and I would hush her, just so I could hear him say my name that way again.

Summer has descended, hot and dry. So much so there is no need to bring it up in conversation. We walk with our eyes averted, mostly in defense against the glaring sun, but also because it hurts to witness the despair in the faces of friends and neighbors. No need to ask, “How are you doing today?” because we know. We are hungry. We are thirsty. Every surface of our homes is lined with dust. The dirt wedges itself in our collars, forcing us to walk about the streets with dirty necks. We feel the grit against our gums and swallow mud with water.

On bad days—which are more common than not—children romp through the street with dampened handkerchiefs tied around their noses and mouths, looking like filthy little bandits in their games of tag and chase.

Five more families leave our fold, meaning one entire side of our church could be empty if we didn’t choose to scatter ourselves about. The board on the wall to the left of the pulpit shows a decreasing number week after week, both in number of attendees and offering collected. Often the latter is half the former, and a mere percentage of Russ’s former salary. I look at that display, white numbers on black cards, dutifully slid into place by a faithful deacon, and wonder how we are going to feed our family for the week.

Still, every Sunday morning, Russ looks out among us, now greeting each family—each
member
of each family—by name.

“So glad you’re here, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”

“Good morning, Ralphie! I see you’ve brought your parents with you this morning.”

“Wonderful to see you, Mrs. Whitford. Is Mr. Whitford feeling any better this morning?”

I bother him about it at first, saying it robs him of the time he
could spend delivering his sermon, but he counters that people want to feel welcomed. Needed. Loved. Nobody seems to mind that we release late—there is no place else to go. Nothing else to do. Moreover, the first Sunday after the personalized greetings, the offering went up $1.37 from the previous week.

We continue to gather after the storms too. No matter the time or duration, even though that means assembling for six days in a row at one point. At those times, Russ doesn’t preach, really. We sing, though the onslaught of dust keeps our piano from being in perfect tune. Sometimes one of our few remaining choir members, Kay Lindstrom, stands alone and sings with a clear soprano voice that shines through, beautiful and sweet and clean.

One evening, after a storm that blew particularly thick and black, we gather—all of us dusty and worn, greeting one another with this strange sense of shame that plagues us. As is his habit, Russ greets each family at the door with a prayer of thanks for their deliverance. We look around, counting. I have Ariel and Ronnie by my side, and Pa, too, by this time, though only because Ariel insisted. As I hoped, his dependence upon us has brought forth a gentler man, as if he’s forgotten a measure of his former anger.

A murmur comes up around us.

“The Harris family? Have you seen them? Aren’t you neighbors?”

“Must be running late,” I say, reassuring Merrilou Brown, who seems particularly concerned. “Rosalie has that baby, sometimes makes it tougher to get out of the house.”

Cutting through the chatter, Kay walks silently to the front of the church, sending Russ back to sit with me, and she sings.

“Come, thou fount of every blessing,

tune my heart to sing thy grace;

streams of mercy, never ceasing,

call for songs of loudest praise.”

It is a hymn that has become our favorite of late, Rosalie’s especially, and the melody takes on a certain haunting quality that brings new urgency to my prayers.

On the third verse, Ben Harris walks in. Without Rosalie, without his son, both of whom, he says, were out looking for the family dog that had jumped their fence before the storm hit.

We all leap to our feet in one accord, poised to go find them, but he holds up his hand. They’ve been found already. By him, their mouths and lungs filled with dust. Drowned in it. And he’s brought them home, carrying each the mere fifty yards from their back door.

The news strikes me dry. I tell myself to weep; my eyes sting with salt and grit, but there’s nothing left to pour down my face. I’ve been slowly evaporating for weeks now, since Jim siphoned the first bit of my essence through his kiss. I picture my very blood as something grainy, pouring through my veins like sand in an elongated hourglass. And this moment stretches long enough for a lifetime.

Others, too, are similarly afflicted. Ben Harris, the man who has been alongside all of us in times of worship and praise and pain, stands in the doorway of our church, hat in hand, hair caked with Oklahoma soil, telling us of the discovery of his wife and child buried alive in the open air, and not a single tear is shed. Not on his part nor ours. We shuffle, we cough, until finally Merrilou Brown rises from her pew and goes to him. She, not much bigger than the boy he lost, opens her arms, and Ben Harris—a looming bear of a man—collapses within them, heaving great, dry sobs.

Pa catches my eye above Ariel’s curls and motions for us to leave.

“We can’t,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand the display. “Russ is the
pastor
.”

“Well, the kids don’t need to see this.” Pa stands and scoops Ariel up with him. I look to Russ for his blessing, which he gives, silently, and usher Ronnie out of the pew.

Others are leaving too, offering raspy condolences as they pass by. I stop long enough to put one hand on Merrilou Brown’s shoulder, the
other on Ben’s, and whisper a brief “May Jesus grant you peace” before joining my father and my children on the church house steps.

Once we are back home, I tell Ronnie to help his sister strip down the beds and put on fresh sheets. Even ours and Pa’s downstairs. These days the clean linens are wrapped tight in oilcloth in a trunk wedged into the bathroom closet. Sometimes, I think, I can put up with all matter of dirt and dust as long as I have the promise of a clean bed at night. It soothes my conscience, almost, to think I can give Russ at least that much.

And there’ll have to be some supper too. Our regular mealtimes have been disrupted by both the unpredictability of the storms and the constant struggle to find food for the table. The local grocer has become more of a general store, with sparse dry goods and erratic stock. Rice, canned fruit, crackers, coffee. Flour and sugar, too, but all at a price that would have been unimaginably high only a few years ago. We still have a bakery, and can depend on good, fresh bread every day, but no longer are there tall cakes with swirled icing in the front window to tempt the passerby.

With the children occupied, I set about putting a meal together, the first step being to run a sink of soapy water to wash whatever dishes we’ll use. To my utter surprise, Pa comes to stand beside me, and as I pass the first clean plate out of the rinse water, he takes it from me to dry.

“Well, thank you,” I say, not wanting to ruin the miracle of this moment with unnecessary commentary. I’ve watched him grow in appreciation for running water, but this is the first I’ve seen him use it for any practical chore.

“Did you know that woman? The one that died.”