On Shifting Sand (20 page)

“She’s with the Lord now. She and her boy, clean and white as snow.”

“Wouldn’t that be nice?” I sit up, first propped on my elbows, then fully, bringing myself close enough to put my head on his shoulder. Looking down, I see a familiar shadow on the pillowcase where I’d been resting. It happens about every night, no matter how clean the linens or
how carefully I wash my hair. Embarrassed to have Russ notice, I flip the pillow over and lean against it on my elbow. “What time is it, anyway?”

“Almost ten.”

Disgruntled, I push against him. “Move, and let me up. Pa’ll be having a fit for his breakfast.”

“Already took care of that.” Russ stands, and that’s when I notice he is wearing his nicest suit pants. “Mrs. Brown brought over some rolls and sausage. Said to ask you if you’d be up to helping the women get the Harrises’ house in order. Cleaned up, for after the service tomorrow.”

“I suppose.” Though nothing could be more unpleasant. “Is there any breakfast left?”

“Only because I saved some for you.” He indicates a napkin-covered plate while tying his tie. “Now—” he bends to plant another kiss on top of my head; I remember the stain on my pillow, and fight to keep myself still beneath it—“I’ll leave you to your breakfast, m’lady. And I shall strive to be home by supper.”

“I should see to Pa and the kids.”

“They’re fine. Listening to the radio and wiping down dishes.”

“Even Pa?”

“I think—I
know
—he said some hurtful things to you last night.”

“Nothing more than usual.”

“But I think he wants peace. He’s more frightened than anything. Everything he’s ever known about life is coming to an end—blowing away—and he doesn’t know his place anymore. Let’s be patient. Humbling is a painful process.”

Even as he speaks, I feel some of my own pain smooth away. Russ has always been quick to forgive my father for his cutting remarks and hateful spirit. He makes grace sound so easy, almost painless, and it gives me hope that he will extend the same to me. When it’s time. When the heat of my father’s accusations has once again cooled. When we don’t have to think about burying a young mother killed by God’s wrath upon our land.

“Remember this,” he says, taking my hand. “I love you. I have since the moment I saw you, and nothing he’s said has ever been able to touch that.”

“But he’s right. He knows—”

“Your father has never seen the girl I fell in love with.”

I smile weakly. “Maybe you’ve never seen the girl
he
knows.”

Russ kisses my fingers. “Maybe not, but I’m glad for it. If I have to suffer a kind of blindness, I’d rather suffer with the one God gave me. I know this might be hard for you, but as long as he is here, try to see yourself through my eyes instead of his. Love yourself the way I love you, the way
God
loves you.”

He can’t imagine how hard that is for me to do. I’ve always taken Russ’s love for me as fact, like knowing the ground will be beneath my feet when I stand. It is knowledge that has thrived without faith, never tested. And now, with threats coming from two directions, I wonder if it is strong enough. Complete enough. It’s always been around me, keeping me safe, but I don’t know if I’ve let it infuse me—as if I’ve kept myself too full of shame to feel anything else.

“I’ll try,” I say, hoping to appease him.

He kisses my fingers, and I offer a delicate wave as he leaves. For a full minute, at least, I stare at the door that has shut behind him. Then, slowly, like a woman three times my age, I bring myself out of bed and take the few steps over to where my breakfast waits. I reach for the coffee, hoping the first sip will help alleviate the pain in my head. It is warm, but not steaming, and I end up gulping half the cup before setting it down. I pinch a bite of the sausage, realizing long before I taste it that it has gone cold. But it is good, and palatable, especially when wrapped in a piece of the sweet yeast roll. Still, after less than half of it, my stomach cramps, refusing any more.

Later that afternoon, I work with a small army of women doing service for the Lord by cleaning Rosalie’s house. Our sacrifice is to scrub every surface, making it cleaner than our own homes. Buckets of mud-dark water are dumped into the street, and rather than wash the curtains and
cloths that Rosalie had so carefully draped over her furniture, we contribute our own—those that languish in hampers and trunks, as well as others taken and laundered from homes long abandoned.

All around me, women chatter the way women will, about how the poor man will manage all alone with the baby, and that it might be best if he remarries quickly, so the littl’un will grow up knowing a mother. Soon follows a listing of suitable candidates to be the next Mrs. Harris. These musings come with the same authority and confidence as how to best scrub the stain from the porcelain sink, and the benefits of an electric sweeper over beating a rug on a clothesline outside.

I hear little of it and contribute even less. My mind is miles away from the tragic young widower and his motherless child. I resent the fact that my own house is filthy, and I walked out of it this morning to the sound of my father’s complaint. Every inch of me is covered by the filth of his hateful words. Always has been.

I remember going to Jesus, believing—
knowing
—he could make me clean. I’d pray a confession about a boy I’d kissed, or a man I’d flirted with. I’d close my eyes and pray, asking forgiveness whenever I winked at a ranch hand or let some schoolmate take liberties with me behind the bleachers. And I’d feel better, for a time. Then Pa would give me a look. He’d sneer and sniff, ask pestering questions about where I’d been so late at night, even if I was at the library. I’d learned in Sunday school that God is faithful and just to forgive our sins. I can still recite the verse, 1 John 1:9: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” But it was hard to feel clean whenever Pa looked at me like that. He always said nothing was a truth unless two people saw it. Even if I saw myself as clean, he never would, so I couldn’t believe it to be so. I always felt dirty, and Pa made me believe that I was. And here I am, bringing up all of those old, buried stains again.

Should’ve been me instead of poor Rosalie Harris, and Jim in the place of her boy. If God has to take two lives, if that’s the sacrifice it takes for him to lift the curse Pa claims this to be, why take such innocents? Why not the two of us, lashed back-to-back with sin?

Russ is a good man—a handsome man too, far more than moonfaced Ben. Every woman named as a candidate to be the next Mrs. Harris would likely jump at the chance to be the next Mrs. Merrill. And any woman alive would be a better mother. Seems like I’ve been going about it wrong since the beginning. There wasn’t any planning in the first child. Not even a marriage when Ronnie was at his tiniest. Then losing one baby, and the next, made me wonder if God ever meant for me to be a mother at all. Like he kept taking them away, hoping I’d leave the idea alone. Which I do, for stretches of time, until the instinct comes on in a rush. I look at my children sometimes and remind myself,
These are mine,
and I feel equal parts frightened and reassured.

I stand useless at the kitchen sink where I’ve had my hair shampooed countless times. The thought of it puts me in a familiar state of reverie, to be interrupted by the appearance of Merrilou Brown.

“You’re awfully quiet this afternoon, Denola. That little kitten got your tongue?”

My smile is tight-lipped at first, keeping guard over my mouth until I can conjure the perfect reply. “I don’t think anybody who’s been to my house would cherish my advice on how best to keep it.”

This seems to satisfy her, and she climbs back onto her stool to wipe down the shelving paper on the kitchen cabinets, leaving me to wonder how she knows we’ve acquired a kitten. Little Barney has never been allowed outside, and Mrs. Brown has never been invited upstairs. The thought gnaws at me so, I stand beside her, the two of us eye level for once.

“You’ve seen our kitten?”

“Oh, not exactly.” She hands me the damp cloth and, without being asked, I wipe the upper shelf. “But my little Luther has gotten to barkin’ when we walk past.”

“Smart dog.”

She smiles and touches the tip of her nose. “Between his nose and this one? Not much happens in this place that I don’t know about.”

I begin to hand Merrilou the newly washed dishes to place back
in the cabinet, and she furrows her brow. “We’re going to need more plates. This poor woman didn’t have but six, and none of them matching.” She turns to me. “Seems like you’re always gathering them up at the tag sales.”

She’s right; I am. Though most of them have been handed off to my father after our Sunday suppers. For all I know they’re stacked two feet high under his kitchen sink, but the very thought of that sink, and the last time I was there, and Jim’s touch, his kiss—

“I’ll see what I have,” I say, thankful for an excuse to leave.

“Yes, go!” Merrilou is shooing me now, her entire face crinkled in concern. “You look like you need to get some air. The smell of Lysol gets to me that way too, sometimes.”

Muttering good-byes and apologies, I stumble from the overcrowded, overclean little house and out into what was once a neat, tidy, postage-stamp-size yard. I remember the sounds of Rosalie’s son playing outside while I waited for my curls to set. Like a vivid dream I can see him, a towheaded boy playing on a bright-green patch of grass under a perfect blue sky in front of his pristine white house. Now, looking up and down the street, everything is the same shade of dull brown. As if the entire neighborhood has been covered with a giant sheet of dirty canvas. Only the sky retains its hue, and I suppose that should be our sign of hope, except a clear sky means no rain, and we all are in desperate need of its cleansing.

The walk from the Harris home to ours takes me past the church, where I know another team of women is wiping down the pews and sweeping the floors in preparation for tomorrow’s service. I would much rather have been a part of that contingent, but Russ told me long ago that it makes people uncomfortable to see the pastor’s wife thus employed.

“You should have higher responsibilities,” he’d said. Leading Bible study, or prayer circles, or teaching the children. But I’ve never done any of that. In our earliest married days, the women who were my elders would have burned the church to the ground before allowing me
anywhere near such sacred endeavors, and in the years since, I’ve grown complacent with my diminished role. They love Russ; they tolerate me.

Behind the church is our small cemetery—one hundred or so markers surrounded by a short, iron fence. Often I wish we’d buried my mother here, if only to give me a slab of stone to talk to on those stretches of long, friendless days. When she died, of course, we had no idea my life would be in the little town of Featherling. I don’t even remember knowing about the town’s existence, it being one of those settlements that sprang up with the cost of wheat after the war.

Right inside the swinging gate, at the end of a winding stone path now obscured with dust, three stone benches and a trellis wall define the children’s corner. All of our infants, in tiny graves marked by simple crosses. I have two of them in there myself, each with its own tiny cross. There was a time when the trellises surrounding the children’s corner were sweet with roses and strong climbing vines. Before Ariel came along, I would leave Ronnie to the attentions of his father and come here to sit in the sweet-smelling shade and beg my babies’ forgiveness for denying them life. I prayed to God for one more chance, one more child, and I’d not ask for another—a promise I never shared with Russ. He wouldn’t approve.

“Faith is not a bargain,”
he’d say. Or,
“God wants our prayers, not our promises.”

But I’d given God both, and he gave me our daughter. I haven’t made a single promise since.

A canvas tent is pitched on the far north side, a sign that a fresh grave waits beneath, lest anyone accidentally stumble in. I shield my eyes against the brightness of the afternoon and notice a flurry of activity. My son is in the midst of it, along with a gaggle of boys from our congregation. What I witness, however, is not play. Instead, they move with an organized sense of purpose, an almost militaristic precision beyond their years.

Besides the relentless onslaught of dirt, the winds have brought legions of tumbleweeds into play. Dozens have ended their journey here,
laying themselves to rest against the stone markers throughout the field, a perversion of the withered bouquets. A couple of the younger boys, probably the same age as the one who will be laid to rest here tomorrow, work to dislodge and carry them to where they’ve been aligned—piled up to make an unsightly, prickly wall along the far side of the cemetery fence. The boys, like Ronnie, wear their fathers’ oversize work gloves, and those too little to carry the bigger weeds roll them with all the solemn purpose of executioners. At the fence, a few work to contain the tumbleweeds in a somewhat-straight line. Others hack away at the dry ground, leaving a line of overturned earth between the weeds and the equally brown, dry grass.