Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Now,” Angie said, rubbing her hands together, “let’s check the workings.”

  She sent Casewell to fetch a sack of potatoes from the cellar, and he poured them into the potato bin while Angie tried all the doors and made sure the latch on the pie safe was to her satisfaction. She stepped back to stand beside Liza again and nodded once.

  “We are quite pleased,” she said. “Liza, fetch our purse.”

  Liza disappeared upstairs and soon returned with a well-worn black leather purse. Angie took it and unsnapped the clasp. She withdrew cash and carefully counted out the correct amount onto the kitchen table. She paused, looking torn, and then pulled out an additional five-dollar bill.

  “This is for you and John for your trouble in delivering the cupboard,” she said.

  “Why, thank you, Angie, but that isn’t necessary,” Casewell said.

  “I insist,” Angie said, tapping the stack of bills. “Your work is solid and you delivered on time. John, you raised a good boy.”

  Dad grunted and nodded at Casewell. “Take it. You surely earned it,” he said.

  The sisters offered coffee and molasses cookies, which the men accepted. Casewell’s father wasn’t one for socializing, but the twins’ cookies were legendary. They sat around the kitchen table while the women chattered on about how handsome the cabinet was, how it dressed up the room, and how nice it was not to have to go to the cellar for potatoes so often.

  The talk eventually turned to the barn dance Delilah was getting up. The sisters were trying to decide what they would bring.

  “Can’t go wrong with a batch of them cookies,” Dad said, making his first real contribution to the conversation.

  “Oh, I know,” Liza said. “But sometimes I get the urge to try something different. I just ordered the new Better Homes and Gardens cookbook, and oh my, there are some lovely things in there. So fancy.” She looked wistful.

  “Plain and good is better than fancy any day,” Angie said, brushing imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “A basket of fried chicken and a plate of cookies always get eaten up.”

  “I suppose so,” Liza said, looking disappointed.

  “I hear that Perla Long is a mighty good cook,” Angie said. “You’ve had her cooking, haven’t you, Casewell?”

  “Yes, I guess I have,” he said. “And it was right tasty.”

  “What did she make?” Liza asked, leaning forward.

  “Well, now, she made a fine mess of greens along with roast pork. Oh, and an angel cake for dessert.”

  Angie sniffed. “Angel cake only uses egg whites. It’s a waste of yolks. Extravagant.”

  “It was good, though,” Casewell said. “She sent some home with me, and I ate on it all week.”

  “Someone told me she always makes way more than is needed when she does the cooking,” Liza said. “They have more leftovers than they know what to do with over there at the Thorntons’.”

  “No gossiping, sister,” Angie said, then made a tsk-tsk sound. “Wasteful, wasteful.”

  “Time to go, son.”

  Casewell was surprised his father had tolerated sitting and visiting with the Talbot sisters this long. He was probably itching for a cigarette. Dad stood slowly, pushing himself upright from the edge of the table. It seemed to take him a moment to straighten his back.

  Once outside, Casewell said, “Hope that heavy furniture wasn’t too much for you, Dad. I’d hate to see you get down in the back.”

  He shot him a pointed look. “That’ll be the day when I can’t help my son deliver a few sticks of furniture.” He pulled out his makings and built a cigarette, blowing smoke out the truck window in lieu of conversation.

  Casewell pulled into his parents’ driveway and watched his father climb out, waving a hand in his son’s direction as he trudged toward the door. Casewell slid out of the truck and followed him in. Dad looked a little surprised but didn’t comment.

  “Thought I’d say hey to Mom,” Casewell explained.

  Once inside, Dad headed straight for the living room and settled onto the sofa with the newspaper. Emily was in the kitchen baking her homemade white bread.

  “I’m so glad you came in,” she said with a smile. “Let me get you something to eat.”

  Casewell laughed and stopped his mother from raiding the Frigidaire. “I had molasses cookies with the Talbot sisters,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, you can take one of these loaves home with you as soon as they come out of the oven,” she said, settling for feeding him later.

  “So, Ma,” Casewell said, hoping to sound casual, “everything all right with Dad? He seemed a little tired today.”

  “Did he?” Emily turned away to finish wiping down the counter where she’d kneaded her bread.

  “Yeah. I figure it’s nothing, but I wanted to check with you.”

  “Oh, I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “Probably didn’t sleep well last night, and he’s not as young as he once was. Scoot in there and read the paper with him. This bread will be out in ten minutes.”

  Casewell stuck his head in the living room and saw that his father was snoring softly with the paper open across his chest. Casewell stepped back into the kitchen.

  “He’s napping. Don’t worry about the bread. I’ll get some next time.”

  “Napping?” Casewell thought he heard a note of alarm in his mother’s voice, but she quickly smoothed it over. “Well, then, I’m sure he just had a restless night.” She nodded emphatically and Casewell wondered which of them she hoped to convince.

  Perla was grateful Sadie was such an easy child. The little girl rarely fussed and fit in with adults better than most children. She had an easygoing, cheerful way about her that somehow put grown-ups at ease. Perla noticed that people talked to Sadie without resorting to a high-pitched voice or silly questions. Sometimes Perla caught herself talking to Sadie about things the child had no business knowing—things about her father and their situation. Perla tried to remember that Sadie was five and needed protecting, but she had no one else to talk to. Sadie was a comfort, and Perla hoped that coming to Wise and removing them both from everything they knew hadn’t been a mistake.

  Robert and Delilah were lovely. They hadn’t asked a lot of questions when Perla wrote to ask if she and Sadie could come stay for a while. Delilah just called and said of course they should come and stay as long as they liked. Perla had offered to pay a little rent or help out in some way, but the Thorntons refused adamantly. Perla missed her mother, but the looks and the whispers had gotten to the point that Perla knew the only thing to do was to go where no one, except Robert and Delilah, knew her story. Perla’s mother, Charlotte, had protested but not very much. She came around much too quickly to the idea of her daughter and granddaughter leaving, and Perla thought maybe she sensed a certain level of relief.

  The sisters had always been close. Just thirteen months apart in age, they had been mistaken for twins a time or two, and it was a comfort for Perla to have someone so like her mother fussing over her and Sadie. And then again, there were times Aunt Delilah reminded her so much of her mother that Perla would have to find a quiet corner to cry over missing her mother and regretting what she had done to shame her. Mother always said the shame wasn’t on Perla, but the way the folks in Comstock acted, there was no doubt where they laid the blame.

  The one thing the Thorntons had allowed Perla to do was to take over almost all of the cooking. With Robert and Delilah at the store most days, it helped to have Perla bringing them lunch around noon and having supper ready when they came home in the evening. Delilah used to come home an hour early to start dinner, but now she could take her time and help Robert close up each evening. Perla hoped that she was truly a help to her aunt and uncle. And she did have a knack with food.

  Sometimes Perla’s way with food unnerved her a little. She would take a chicken or some potatoes into her hands, and it seemed as if she didn’t decide what to do with them—they decided for her. Almost befor
e she knew what she planned, she’d have enough chicken and dumplings to feed half the county, or so many potatoes au gratin she couldn’t find a pan big enough. And the food was good. People often told Perla she should write her recipes down, but she wasn’t sure she could even remember what she put in them half the time. When she cooked, it was almost like she went into a trance and the rest of the world didn’t matter; just transforming raw ingredients into something delicious and life sustaining was the closest Perla got to being happy.

  No, Perla realized, not happy. She was happy when Sadie laughed or cuddled close. What she felt when she cooked was a deep, abiding peace. She might have preferred to cook all the time just to retain that feeling, but sometimes when she put a meal on the table, she realized that she had lost a chunk of time. She knew she’d been in the kitchen preparing food, but she could no more recount her movements than she could fly. Serving dinner was like waking up from a deep and restful sleep. And Perla worried that she neglected Sadie at those times.

  4

  AT CHURCH THAT SUNDAY it soon became obvious that Delilah had succeeded in stirring up interest in a barn dance. Within a week or so farmers would have their spring planting done, and barns were mostly empty with the past winter’s hay having been fed out by now. After some lively discussion, it was decided that George Brower’s barn would be the best spot. His barn had a large open room with the cowshed on the upper side where the hill behind offered some protection. Well into his fifties and never married, George kept the barn neater than his house. His being the banjo player clinched the deal, although there had been some muttering that George kept his place a little too “dry” for some of the men who liked a nip now and again.

  They set the next Saturday as the date. The way the ladies buzzed around the churchyard after the service sent most of the men scurrying to bring cars around in hopes of getting Sunday dinner sooner rather than later. Even so, quite a few meals were late that day.

  Casewell made arrangements with George and Steve to hold practice that week so they’d be up to snuff for the dance. Robert caught wind and said he’d join them with his harmonica but not to count on him to play the whole time.

  “Got to dance with my wife and that pretty niece of mine,” he said with a wink.

  The week flew by for Casewell. He wouldn’t admit it, but he got lost in his music, and nothing satisfied his soul so much as sharing the sweet sounds he could draw from his mandolin with anyone inclined to listen. He not only played with the other members of their impromptu band that week, but also found himself pulling out his mandolin each evening and thinking over all the music he wanted to play on Saturday.

  When Casewell rehearsed with the rest of the group, they mostly played lively dance tunes, but left to his own devices Casewell tended toward sweet, sorrowful music. He played “The Long Black Veil” almost every evening that week. Something about that song resonated deep in his soul. Sad, sinful song that it was, about a woman committing adultery with her husband’s best friend, she deserved to walk those hills crying. Even so, Casewell’s heart went out to the adulteress. He couldn’t explain it and didn’t care to try; he just lived in the music while he played.

  By Saturday evening, the community was in an uproar. Women baked all day or fussed over what they would wear. The men hurried through farmwork or chores—more often at the behest of the women in their lives than of their own accord. By six that evening George’s barn glowed from manger to hayloft. The main floor was clear for dancing, with plywood laid over some bales at the far end of the room to make a stage for the musicians. Two long trestle tables were set up to the side and filled with hams, biscuits, loaf bread, sliced beef, deviled eggs, pickles, cakes, pies, and cookies. Icy pitchers filled with sweet tea, lemonade, and punch sat at one end. Some of the men would almost certainly have a little something stronger in the trunks of their cars, but it was early yet, and the only thing anyone was drunk on was anticipation.

  Casewell, George, and Steve had the crowd flat-footing across the floor in no time. Most folks had grown up doing the traditional Appalachian dance that was a cross between Irish step and tap dancing. The cacophony created by all those feet tapping and shuffling in time to mountain tunes made a music of its own, and an hour passed before Casewell knew it. Steve called a break for refreshments with a waggle of his eyebrows, which meant he had a little something stashed out back to perk him up. Casewell set his mandolin aside with the care a mother would use placing a baby in its cradle. He stretched and headed for the refreshment table.

  “You boys are in fine form,” Robert said, shaking Casewell’s hand.

  “Thought you were going to join us,” Casewell said, grinning.

  “Oh, I may yet—once I’ve wore myself out with eating and dancing,” the older man said with a wink. “Now step right up here and fill you a plate. That’s Delilah’s hummingbird cake over there, but you’d better have a ham biscuit or two first. Perla brought that basket of biscuits over there, and although I’ve seen at least a dozen people reach into it, seems like they’ve hardly made a dent. Better fall to so you can keep your strength up. This crowd looks like it could dance all night.”

  Casewell let Robert talk on while he filled a plate with food. He made his way down the length of the table to where the drinks left wet rings on the tablecloth. Perla stood behind the table with a cup in her hand.

  “Can I pour you a drink?” she asked.

  “Sure,” he said. “How about some of that sweet tea?”

  Perla poured and Casewell had to confess that she looked like an angel standing there. A straw hat that was little more than a headband held her honey-wheat hair back from her brow and sent it cascading down her back. Her pink dress was cinched in at her waist, with a full skirt falling to below her knees. There was nothing suggestive about her clothes, but somehow she looked more womanly than any other female in the room. Casewell swallowed hard.

  “Have you been enjoying the dance?” he asked.

  “I’ve enjoyed watching it,” Perla said. “I don’t really know these dances. I guess I haven’t had much of a chance to learn.” She ducked her head and smoothed the cloth at the edge of the table with gloved hands.

  “We’ll do some square dancing here before long. It’s easy to jump in on that. George will call the steps, and even if you don’t understand, all you have to do is watch the other folks in your square.”

  “Maybe I’ll try,” Perla said, still pressing the tablecloth with her fingers.

  Casewell felt the urge to protect her—from what he wasn’t sure. “If I didn’t have to play, I’d show you,” he said, sounding like an eager schoolboy. He blushed and saw that Perla did, too. “Guess I’d better eat this.” He rushed to fill the space between them with words. “They’ll want to dance some more before long.” He nodded once and went to sit on a corner of the stage to eat, wondering what in the world had just come over him.

  Steve sauntered over, breath slightly boozy. “Fine-lookin’ woman, that,” he said, nodding toward Perla. “And from what I hear, might be she’s easy to get on with.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Casewell asked, spine stiffening.

  “Well, she’s got that young’un and no man to speak of. Ain’t but one way for a woman to get a child of her own.” Steve winked and leered across the barn at an oblivious Perla.

  Casewell felt a surge of anger, although he’d made some of the same sorts of assumptions without speaking them aloud. He wanted to defend Perla, but he couldn’t think what to say. He really didn’t know the woman, and Steve might be right. Casewell looked across the room, where Perla was helping some of the children to slices of cake. No, he didn’t know how Perla came to be in Wise with a child and no husband, but he would do his best to give her the benefit of the doubt.

  “I wouldn’t know about that,” Casewell said, “since I don’t go around gossiping with the women much.”

  Steve flushed, then grinned and slapped Casewell on the back. “Reckon you don’t,
” he said. “Now eat up so we can get these folks back to dancin’ afore they get bored and go home.”

  The band did several square dance sets and then started taking requests for favorites, which had folks stomping up and down the barn floor. Certain members of the group were definitely better lubricated than they had been at the beginning of the evening. Limbs were looser, attitudes more relaxed, and the dancing was spectacular. Soon some of the older folks and the families with children began drifting home.

  Casewell’s parents were long gone, and he saw Robert and Delilah headed out carrying a sleeping Sadie. He’d lost track of Perla some time back and assumed she’d left as well. As the party wound down, George and Steve laid down their instruments so they could eat, drink, and visit with friends—some of whom were good-looking women, including Melody Simmons, who kept sending smiles Casewell’s way. He could easily have joined them, but as long as folks would listen, he was happy to keep playing. Anyway, this was when he could play the songs he liked best—melancholy ballads and old songs from Ireland and Scotland. He was enjoying himself so much that he didn’t notice Perla until she spoke as he finished a mournful tune.

  “That was lovely,” she said.

  Casewell turned and saw her standing near the stage, hands clasped in front of her. “I thought you were gone,” he said.

  “I stayed to help clean up the food. There’s still plenty and it’d be a shame to waste it. As a matter of fact, Delilah suggested I send some home with you.”

  “That’d be fine,” Casewell said, still caught in the mood of the music. “You look pretty tonight,” he said, before he even knew his mouth had shaped the words.

  Perla blushed. “Thank you,” she said. “I wasn’t too sure about coming, but I guess I’m glad I did. I even square danced once.” Her blush deepened. “Well, I don’t mean to talk your ear off. Let me get you a basket of food for when you go.”