On Shifting Sand (42 page)

“I mean, I wouldn’t have known it was such a loss. I might have thought it was—”

“Nothing?”

“Normal.”

I sit back against the pillows, sip my tea, ignore the toast. “I’m glad we didn’t tell the children after all. They wouldn’t understand.”

Russ looks away. “I’m not sure I do, either, but God has his reasons.”

I push the tray away, knowing I won’t eat a single bite. I am too full of the knowledge of God’s reason. I’ve done this, proving myself in one moment to be an unworthy vessel. It was my discontentment that choked the life out of me. Perhaps Ronnie was born so perfect and healthy because I was so happy to be out from under my father’s roof, and Ariel—so sweet and small—born at the height of our prosperity. Those lost in between? That was a time of longing, too, as the realization slowly settled that I would never become the woman I’d once envisioned myself to be. Educated, powerful. Independent. I wasn’t able to voice any of that to Russ at the time, nor can I now, as he seems determined to grieve this loss as we did the others.

Strangely enough, I don’t share his sadness. Maybe because, as a woman, I am more finely attuned to the inner workings of my body, and this doesn’t feel like a loss. Not like the others. More so the fact that I can’t imagine the idea of bringing a new little life to take its first, startled breath in such filth-ridden air.

“It’s this place,” I say at last, interrupting Russ’s silent prayer beside me. “Nothing can live here.”

I brace myself against what I know he will say next. Something else about God’s will. God’s reasons. God’s purpose, or plan, or time. I’m wrong, though. He lifts the tray of tea and toast up off the bed and, with a sag to his shoulders I’ve never seen before, sets it soundlessly on my dressing table. His back is to me, but I see his face in my mirror. Every muscle he’s ever employed to keep it smiling and strong has been let go, loose and lax. Defeated, for the first time. I know it isn’t this unrealized pregnancy that has dealt the final blow, but the ferocious slashing of my own sharp tongue.

“This is where we live, Nola.”

“No, Russ. It’s where
I
live. Alone.”

Strength returns to his shoulders first, and makes its way to the squaring of his jaw, set in place before he turns around. “That’s not true.”

“Of course it is.”

“It’s temporary.”

“It has to stop. It’s not safe.” My eyes dart toward the window, the shade pulled low, but the dull light of day hovers behind it, and I know he’ll take it as a portent of the dead-thick air. I alone know the real danger hovering, somewhere. Though of course I’ve neither seen nor heard even a shadow of him since the first hours after Christmas, his absence does nothing to bring me comfort. Any day he could be at the door, imposing on Russ’s sense of hospitality and obligation, insinuating his presence into my every waking moment. With a word he could take it all away, proving me to be the woman Russ refuses to acknowledge. Even worse—and even more possible—he could reincarnate the woman I’ve tried so hard to kill.

“If you could only take us with—”

I don’t even have the sentence out of my mouth before Russ raises his hand to swipe it out of the space between us.

“I’ve told you, there’s nowhere to bring you.”

“Then—” I reach out, wrapping my hands around the sturdiness of his forearm, exposed by the sleeve rolled up to his elbow, and pull him to sit beside me—“come home. Stay
home
. Here.”

“I have to work. God has blessed us with this opportunity.”

“And he’s blessed you with a wife, and children. You saw all the people here for Christmas. Some, no doubt, will come to church, now that they know you. And there’s food from the relief, and we own our home.” All of this I’ve said before, so often that I can re-create the conversations verbatim, his responses as well as mine. So, for good measure, I steal his very words, the Scripture he’s used against me time and time again. “Russ, you’ve told me that we need to wait on the Lord, that those who wait on the Lord will renew their strength.”

“We are waiting.”

“But I need for us to wait together. I’m not strong enough to wait on my own.”

“What are you afraid of?” He edges closer. The shifting of the mattress beneath his weight dislodges me, awaking a new grip of pain. “Nola, is there something I don’t know? Something you’re not telling me?”

I count to eleven. When I was a little girl, Mother always taught us that a good count to eleven was the surest way to speak only what was necessary. Only what was right. A silent promise threaded itself through the numbers.

If Russ says his name, I’ll tell him everything.

My confession sits on my lips, waiting for release, but Russ says nothing more. I shrug, feigning resignation, as if I’ve exhausted every plea.

“I need you here.”

“They need me there.”

“I need you more.”

He smiles, touches my face, and I know I’ve lost again.

“If you could see the pain I see every day, how much people are hurting, you’d never ask me to leave them.”

I laugh, even though it hurts to do so. “Do you think I haven’t seen pain? I was at my father’s side when this place took his final breath. I buried a dear friend, or at least finished the job after the storm tried to do it the first time. And I’ve watched every other friend I’ve ever had up and drive away, out of this place. You, too, now. Do you have any idea how much I hate standing at that window and watching you drive away?”

My voice stops short of shrill, the words squeezing out as my throat tightens around them. Russ lets silence hang for a moment while I look down to where our hands are listlessly entwined. The energy between us softens, becomes this vaporous cloud, as there is nothing new to say. Rather, Russ has nothing new. I, of course, sit on two unspoken truths. The first is that I have a very real reason to want to get away. The second, that I have the means to do so. The first gives little promise of resolution, but the second begs to be aired.

“Did you see the Christmas card Greg sent?”

Russ cocks his head, confused at the abrupt change in topic. “Yes?”

“He sent money, too. To buy something for the kids for Christmas, but—there’s nothing here to buy. And I didn’t have a chance to get to town, so . . .”

“Your brother doesn’t need to buy Christmas gifts for our children.” I can tell the mere suggestion wounds Russ’s pride. There were, after all, a few gifts. A new paper doll book for Ariel, and a stack of
Life
magazines for Ronnie. Plus socks, and candy, and oranges.

“And he said,” I continue, doling out the conversation the way we had the few trinkets on Christmas morning, “if I’d rather, I could set it aside. For whatever I want.”

He draws up, sitting straight, and then inches away to see me in a better light. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

“When we had a moment alone, I guess. There was so much excitement with the party, and then this . . .” I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “And I didn’t know how you’d feel about accepting money from him. From me, really. But it could change everything for us.”

His brow furrows in confusion. “How much is it?”

“One hundred dollars.”

Russ appears to try to understand the amount one dollar at a time. “How is that possible?”

“He’s a bachelor. He works for the government. All I know is he wants what’s best for us, and this money can make it happen. The children and I, we can load up in the car with you in a few days, find a little house, and just—start over.”

I am clutching at him again, but he’s gone so hard and cold on me that I can’t grasp his flesh. His face has turned to stone, and his words crumble out of it.

“I can provide for my family.”

“Of course you can,” I say, trying hard not to let it sound like another lie.

“He sent the money to you, not to me. Do whatever you want with it.”

Russ stands up, and I think would shove me aside if we were on equal footing, or if he were a man to shove anything at all. He strides to the door, opens it, but I call out before he can leave.

“What if I decide I want to spend it securing a little house in Boise City?”

In response, he slams it, forceful enough to capture the children’s attention should they wonder if anything is amiss. Taking half the number of strides to return, he is back at my bedside and bent, his hands grasping my arms and pulling me toward him, impervious to my involuntary whimper of pain.

“I am your husband.” His words come out in a storm of pain equal to my own.

“I know.”

“And for as long as you’ve been my wife, I’ve never been able to put the roof over your head.”

“We have a roof.”

“I didn’t earn it. It was given to me. Well, given to you.”

“Inherited.”
Even as I say as much, though, I see him slipping into another place. Pent-up resentments I thought were long past. A home in a place that was never supposed to be more than a refuge. An income based on the giving of others. Now, a job grown from an act of charity. All of this in a country determined to waste itself away beneath him.

“I am tired,” he says, easing his grip, but not letting me go. “Tired of letting other men do what I should do myself.”

And there it is, the oldest wound of all. His choice to be a man of God kept him from going to a war where men—friends—fought on foreign soil, taking their places where he would never stand. Killed there, or brought home maimed, like Jim. Others, though, like my brother, returned strong, resilient. In this moment, I don’t know which soldier Russ finds most offensive.

“Greg only meant to help,” I whisper, hoping the softness of my voice will reach through and bring back my gentle, loving husband.

“I know.” Now he is only touching me, but I do not move away. “Forgive me, won’t you?” Then he drops his head in prayer. “And forgive me, Father, for my anger. For my pride, and most of all, for not trusting you or acknowledging the blessings you have given to our family.”

He opens his eyes to find me staring, in awe at his ability to so effortlessly confess and repent. Upon his amen we are restored, as he is restored to his Savior. I’ve never before felt such envy.

“So what do you want us to do?”

Russ leans forward and kisses me as softly as my question. “We’ll leave that up to God. Until then, tuck it away. Someplace safe. And pray that he makes his answer plain.”

I put on the bravest smile I can and manage to hold it until he walks—slowly this time, sweetly—out the door after telling me to get some rest.

There was talk about having a New Year’s Eve party much like the one we’d hosted at Christmas, but even though my body has restored itself to health, my spirit isn’t strong enough for a celebration. We sit around our radio and lift glasses of orange juice in a toast to the New Year before sending the children off to bed. Later, I lie in the crook of my husband’s arm, listening to some of the revelry outside. It is a cold but clear night, and he asks more than once if I wouldn’t like to put on my coat and muffler and join them, even for a moment.

“Now, why should I want to do that when I have so few nights with this handsome man in my bed?”

He holds me closer, which I like best, because it gives my mind a chance to wander. I haven’t seen a glimpse of Jim since Christmas Eve. Not that I’ve ventured much out of the house other than the obligatory visit to the Browns. But I have spent a good amount of time at the
window, looking out into the street, even down into the alley. I even crept downstairs once to poke my nose into the storeroom, wondering if he hadn’t snuck into his old haunt as a means of escaping the cold.

The old battle seizes me—hoping that he’s gone away for good, fear that he hasn’t, and something darker that wishes for one more sight. A glimpse, a touch, to definitively have a door to close at my own bidding.

Despite our physical closeness in the waning hours of the year, there has been a decided distance between my husband and me since our conversation about the money Greg sent. We haven’t spoken of it much; indeed, what little conversation we did have was chilly, if kind and cordial. I’d be too ashamed to admit it in the moment, but a certain relief hovers as he packs his suitcase for his return to Boise City. The feeling is short-lived, however, when he informs me that he will be staying through the next four weekends in order to make up for the time he spent celebrating the holiday at home.

“You didn’t tell me that,” I say, handing him a freshly ironed shirt.

“I thought it was understood.”

“So I’m trading a week with you for an entire month alone?”

“It’ll pass.” He stuffs in the shirt along with the rest of his things and closes the suitcase lid. “I already wrote you a letter—left it on the kitchen table. And I’ll see if I can swing an extra phone call on Sunday afternoon.”

“Speaking of, what about church?”

“Mr. Brown’s going to fill in for me while I’m gone.”

I hide my displeasure at the prospect by bending to work the latches his fingers tend to fumble. When I stand, he is there, and I kiss him, touching his face, now clean-shaven after a week’s worth of scruff. “We’ll miss you.”