On Shifting Sand (19 page)

I run my dishrag along another plate, wanting to keep my friendship to myself for a little longer, but unable to resist a civil moment with my father. “We were friends, yes. She was a bit younger than me. Used to set my hair.” I have no idea what Pa could gain from these details, but they mean everything to me. She was still in high school when Russ and I married, and grew into her own not knowing enough to shun me.
“She always brought a macaroni salad to potluck suppers. Some of the women teased her about it once, and hurt her feelings, I guess. Maybe that’s all she knew to make.”

“And the boy?”

“Nice boy. In between Ariel and Ronnie. Eight, maybe? And there’s a baby girl, too.”

Pa stacks the clean plates carefully. “I like macaroni salad.”

“I’ll make it for you sometime.”

We continue until there are four clean plates, four clean glasses, and two pots ready for the stove. I open the cabinet to find two cans of lima beans, and I have some bacon in the icebox. With that, and some rice, I figure I can stretch the meal with just one can of beans. Save the other for a meal later in the week—long enough away so the kids won’t complain. Already I set my mind to not be hungry.

“They the first ones, then?”

“First ones, what?” I take the cloth off of the table and wipe the wood surface beneath.

“First killed by it.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” But I do know, and they aren’t. Maybe the first in our little town, first from our church family, but I’d read reports in the newspapers from all over. People lost, buried, electrocuted, burned to ashes in their own homes. “Now you can see, can’t you, Pa? Why we didn’t want you left alone out at your place. We need to stick together. Families, I mean. We need to keep track of one another, or it’s too easy to get . . . lost.”

“I reckon.” He picks up a glass and holds it up to the window. “This glass clean?”

I sigh but decide not to remind him that he himself has cleaned it. “Yes, Pa.”

He fills it with water from the tap, dumps the water out, refills it, then goes to sit at the table. “That man still at my house?”

I measure rice and water. A few pinches of salt, and light the burner. “I suppose so. Don’t know for sure.”

“Don’t think he’s out there robbin’ me blind, do ya?”

“I’m sure he’s not, Pa. He’s more of a drifter than a thief. I think he’ll keep a good eye on the place until we decide what to do.” I am talking fast, bustling between the stove and the sink and the icebox—a well-practiced habit, creating the illusion that our meal is somehow time-consuming and complicated. Most days I was just trying to make the meal itself seem
more
. But this evening, my shuffling serves as a shield, protecting me from the questions and thoughts I’ve done such a good job of hiding these past weeks.

“What’s to decide?”

I glance over my shoulder as I dice the bacon. “Oh, now, Pa. You know. It’s only a matter of time before—”

“Shoulda left me out there.” He takes a long swallow of his water and sets the glass down with a shaking hand. “Man oughta die on his land. With his land.”

I don’t know why the thought hasn’t occurred to me before, but suddenly I recall my father sitting—like he is now—at his own table, covered in dirt, dust drifted through open windows. He hadn’t been caught unaware. Not at all. He’d been burying himself, one breath at a time.

“You shouldn’t say such things.” I make no interruption in my task.

“Don’t get me wrong, girl. I’m grateful for what you done, bringin’ me here, takin’ me in. But I don’t belong in town. Never have. That was for my brother, and yours, I guess. I need to go back, pay for what I done.”

I am about to open up the drawer to paw through, looking for the key to open the can of beans, but I stop. Instead, I take Pa’s glass, refill it, and join him at the table.

“We talked about this, Pa. A few times. There’s no going back. No money to be made there now, not until this dryness breaks. And then it might take years.”

“My house still standin’?”

“Far as I know.”

“I know you been out there.”

“Just the once.” I wish I had kept to my supper preparations, because my father’s eyes bore into me—suspicious, steely gray drill bits.

“And not since?”

“No.” I speak too quickly, too loudly, to ease my father’s mind.

“You sure about that?”

“Pa, I’ve been
here
every day; you know that. Taking care of you, and the house, and the kids.”

“You been known to sneak off before, if I remember.”

“Oh, you remember. I was a kid, Pa.”

“Seems you thought you was woman enough.”

“Well, now I’ve had enough of this.” I back my chair away from the table and return to my stove top, lighting a second burner and slamming a pan on top of it, throwing in handfuls of the diced bacon.

“We need to be mindful of what our sin brings back to haunt us, Denola Grace.”

Pa only uses my full name in times of extreme anger, or extreme tenderness, and as far as I know, this moment calls for neither. Now his words come as a distinct, unprecedented omen, and they compel me to turn and face him.

“What are you talking about, Pa?”

“We sinned against this land, all of us. Just like your brother says. All that—what do they call it—the science? Mowin’ down the grasses. Harvestin’ too much. We got greedy, and God has humbled us. It’s his judgment.”

“I don’t think—”

“Just you listen.”

He stands and comes closer, lowering his voice at the sound of Ronnie and Ariel clomping up the stairs. They burst in holding the kitten, with Ariel asking if she can give her a bath in the sink since she is so dusty. I tell her no, that kittens have a way of cleaning themselves, but when Ronnie promises he’ll help his sister be gentle, I send them off to try. I hoped the interruption would derail my father’s thoughts, but no. He only leans closer, so close I can smell the dust that still clings
to his breath. That’s when I realize Pa hasn’t lost a mite of his anger. It’s been shifted, is all. Gathered and honed and sharpened to slice me with new precision.

“Your head ain’t here, girl. You never been a-one to own up to your sin. So pretty and proud marryin’ that man, all that shame you was carryin’. And you been takin’ everything. Pilin’ it up. That store, most of all. Our family store, down to nothin’.”

“Haven’t you noticed, Pa? The whole country’s down to nothing.”

“The judgment, I say. For our sin. But yours’ll hit closer, girl. I knew when you started runnin’ around with that boy, what you wanted was to run away. Didn’t want none of this.”

“Why would I? I was smart, Pa. I
am
smart, and I could’ve done anything I wanted. Greg said so. Said there were lots of girls at college, but you wouldn’t have any of it. Had to beg you to let me finish high school.”

“You almost ruined that yourself with that baby.”

“Don’t,” I warn.

“You thought that preacher boy would take you away, didn’t you? Run off with you somewheres to spare his name? And when he didn’t . . .” He contorts his bone-thin frame, forcing me to look at him. “You got that cagey look. Like you do right now, and since I come here. Like you want to get away.”

“It’s because I want to get away from
you
.”

“Git on then.” A drop of spittle flies from his mouth, and I regret every drink I ever gave him.

It is a short, silent dinner. The few grains of rice I manage to swallow stick like glue in my throat. Later, in bed, I ask Russ how much he heard.

“Just that you want to get away.”

I prop up on my elbow and study his profile in shadow. “It’s not true, you know. At least not away from you.”

“Well, there’s some comfort, at least.”

“It was a mistake. Bringing him here. I thought it would be fine. That he’d changed, gone softer. But now it’s almost worse, because he’ll be sweet enough one moment, and a snake the next, and there’s no knowing which is going to come out.”

“What choice did we have?” He shifts too, and we are parallel. “And when you look at what happened today. Dear, sweet Rosalie, and the boy. I’m so sorry about your friend.” He reaches out and grasps my arm. “But don’t you see? That could have happened to him.”

“I think that might be what he wanted all along.”

“Well then—” he gives me a familiar, perfunctory kiss—“all the more reason to make this his home now.”

He lies back, preparing to sleep, but I stay awake long into the night. Thinking about Rosalie. Not reliving memories of our friendship or mourning on behalf of her husband and little girl. I don’t even think about the boy, whose name and age escapes me. When I think about Rosalie, all I can picture is a woman leaving. Away from her house, only for a moment, and never making it back again.

  CHAPTER 13
  

I
AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING
to a gentle nudging of my shoulder. A glimpse toward the window tells me the sun is high—higher than it should be for newly waking. When my eyes finally, fully open, I see Russ sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me, bemused.

“You were talking up a storm.” He traces a finger along my jaw as if to recapture my words.

“Was I?” My mind searches frantically for the dream that dissipated upon awaking. I am usually much more careful with unguarded moments. More than once—nearly every day, in fact—I find myself standing at some abandoned task. I’ve scorched three shirts, letting the iron burn through cotton. I get light-headed, dizzy, and Russ pesters me to eat something. Only once before can I remember Jim entering my dream, and that morning I woke up entwined in Russ’s compliant arms. My silence has been my protection, wrapping itself around the details of my sin. But unguarded? From the depths of sleep? Perhaps this is how my soul will unburden itself.

“What was I saying?”

“Gibberish, mostly. But kind of moanful. You sounded sad.”

While I may not be able to recall my dreams, I do remember every moment of wakefulness, and those hours in the dark haunt me more than any nightmare could.

“It was a sad night.”

“True.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. The smell of his shaving soap fills my senses, and as I touch my cheek to his soft-shaven face, fragments of the dream return.

“I was dreaming about her.” My mouth is dry, my words thick. Already a slow-spreading ache manifests itself beneath my scalp.

“Rosalie?”

“Yes.”

His face takes on a cool, careful expression, and he shifts his weight away from me to slip his foot into a boot. “I’m taking Ben in to Boise City to break the news to her parents.”

“They don’t know?”

“He wanted to tell them in person. We’re going to have the funeral tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

“There’s no other family to bring in besides them. If we get a dust-free day, best not to waste it.”

“I suppose.” But I hate the thought of her being so quickly buried again. “I don’t remember much, but I dreamed they found her. No,
you
found her. And cleaned her up. And she was alive.”

“Well, that doesn’t sound like a sad dream at all.” His boots are on, and he is mine again.

“I guess it’s sad because it isn’t so.”