Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “They’re lovely,” she said. “Probably the nicest toys Sadie has. Thank you.”

  “Oh, well, like I say, it’s nothing much, just fiddling about with wood.”

  Perla turned to her daughter. “Sadie, did you thank Mr. Phillips?”

  Sadie stood and flung her arms around Casewell’s legs, squeezing as tight as her little arms would let her. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Phillips, thank you!”

  Casewell felt an inexplicable lump rise in his throat. He lifted his hand and held it over the child’s head for a moment, hovering there like a hummingbird taking the measure of a flower. Then he patted Sadie awkwardly. “You’re welcome, Sadie,” he said. “Glad you like them.”

  He turned back to Perla. “I’d best be getting on. I brought your basket back.” He nodded toward it. “Sure have been enjoying that good food.”

  “I’m glad,” Perla said. “And thank you, again.” She stepped back inside and let the screen door shut with a small bang. Casewell stepped backward onto the top step and stumbled slightly. He turned and hurried away, throwing a hand up over his shoulder in farewell.

  Perla moved back inside the house, far enough to be out of sight while still having a view of the road and Casewell’s broad back as he strode away. She had been foolish to confide in him. She knew that now. He was a good man—too good, apparently, to make room for a woman who had such an obvious sin hanging around her like a five-year-old shadow.

  Once Casewell disappeared and Perla could see that her daughter would play with her new toys for a while, Perla drifted toward the kitchen. Robert and Delilah would be home from the store soon enough, and she’d have a fine meal waiting for them. One of Robert’s customers had traded a leg of lamb for some supplies, and a bushel of spring peas waited to be shelled. Perla pulled the basket over to a kitchen chair and sat with a metal bowl in her lap. She began stripping the shells, soothing herself with the music of peas chiming against the bowl.

  When the Thorntons arrived home that evening, Perla stood beside the table spread with a banquet. The roasted leg of lamb sat in the center of the table, herbs dark against the glistening browned flesh. Creamed peas cooked with torn lettuce sat alongside a bowl of roasted parsnips browned in butter. A basket of yeast rolls completed the feast.

  “Perla, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” Robert said almost reverently.

  Delilah eyed the table and then Perla, squinting a little into her face. “Perla,” she said, laying a hand on her arm. “Perla, are you all right?”

  Perla gave herself a shake and smiled. “Oh,” she said, “you’re home. I thought I’d better do something with that leg of lamb and the peas. They won’t keep forever, you know.” She looked confused for a moment. “Did you bring Sadie in with you?”

  “I did,” Delilah said. “She was asleep on the front porch with the most cunning little set of doll furniture scattered about her. Where did that come from?”

  “Casewell brought it by. For Sadie,” Perla explained. “It’s for Sadie.”

  “Of course it is.” Delilah smiled. “Casewell is so thoughtful.”

  “Yes,” Perla agreed. “Now, let’s eat this food before it gets cold.”

  6

  CASEWELL KEPT TO HIMSELF THAT WEEK. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, and considering some of the things folks were talking about lately, he didn’t care to listen, either. He worked in his shop during the day and spent his evenings reading the Bible or playing his mandolin. He could pick up his instrument, start strumming, and suddenly find that the day was gone and it was long past bedtime. Company was good, but sometimes being alone was better. And then the phone rang on Friday night.

  Casewell was on a party line with several housewives. They’d learned they could pick up the phone and talk to each other without even dialing. Most afternoons there was a steady conversation going on, with women jumping in and dropping out as families and chores allowed. As a result, Casewell didn’t much use the phone. Its ringing took him by surprise.

  “Hello?” he answered after the third ring.

  “Casewell, it’s your father.” His mother’s voice was tense and urgent.

  “What’s the matter?” Casewell hoped it was nothing, but knew his mother would only call in an emergency.

  “I’m not sure. He seems to be in terrible pain, but he keeps telling me it’s nothing. I want to take him to the hospital, but he says he won’t go. I don’t know what to do—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Casewell ran out into the yard and cranked his old truck. It wasn’t entirely reliable, but it would usually take him where he needed to go. Normally, he’d walk to his parents’ house, but tonight he wanted to get there as fast as possible. His father never admitted pain, and his mother never panicked. Something was wrong.

  At the Phillipses’ farm, Casewell found his father doubled over in his recliner, moaning softly. Mom stood beside him, a hand on his back, tears slipping down her cheeks.

  “C’mon, Dad, we need to get you to the hospital,” Casewell said.

  “I won’t go,” his father gritted out, not raising his head or moving.

  “Pa, either you’re getting into that truck, or I’m carrying you. Now, what’ll it be?”

  His father shuddered and seemed to slump even lower. “Help me, son,” he said. And Casewell did—half supporting, half carrying his father, who seemed not to weigh nearly as much as he should.

  The three of them jammed onto the bench seat of Casewell’s truck. Dad sat in the middle, grunting softly each time they hit a pothole or rough patch of road. Casewell drove, trying to focus on the road and the hour-long trip to the nearest hospital. He thought if he stared at the center line of the winding two-lane road hard enough, he might keep the fear at bay.

  St. Joseph’s was a Catholic hospital, and a nun met them at the door. She ushered them in as Casewell helped his father hobble toward a chair. A nurse in a crisp white uniform with a perfect white cap perched on her perfect brown hair came to them and asked some questions. Dad was taken into an examination room, and Casewell helped his mother fill out forms.

  Sitting on a weirdly modern chair in the waiting room, Casewell felt like he’d just woken up from a terrible dream, only to discover that it wasn’t a dream at all. His mother leaned hard into his right arm and seemed to be breathing heavily—as if she’d been running.

  “You okay, Ma?” he asked.

  “Oh, I don’t know.” She looked surprised by the question. “He’s all right, isn’t he? They would have told us if he weren’t all right?”

  “Yes,” Casewell said, not at all certain that they would. “Probably something he ate. They’ll have him right as rain in no time.”

  “Yes, of course.” Mom straightened a little. “Right as rain.”

  “Cancer,” said the kind-faced doctor with shaggy gray hair and faded blue eyes. Casewell thought there were tears in the doctor’s eyes, but maybe it was just the effects of age and long hours. There were definitely tears in his mother’s eyes, though. Tears that spilled over and streaked her cheeks.

  “We’ll need to do some more testing, but I’d say he’s pretty far advanced. Has he been complaining about pain? Feeling tired?”

  Mom said no immediately, but Casewell thought about the times his dad had seemed tired or weak and the day he fell asleep after helping him move furniture. He started to contradict his mother, but instead he caught the doctor’s eye and nodded his head once.

  “I’m betting John’s not a complainer,” the doctor said. He’d introduced himself, but Casewell had immediately lost his name. Now he saw it embroidered on his white jacket—Dr. McNeil.

  “No,” agreed Casewell. “He pretty much keeps his feelings to himself.”

  Casewell thought he should be asking some questions, learning what the prognosis was, but he couldn’t formulate the words. He was impressed that he’d thought of the word prognosis. He turned pleading eyes on Dr. McNeil, hoping he would somehow understand.
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  The doctor must have, because he began speaking. “I know the two of you have some questions and want to know about the treatment and possible outcomes, but I’d like to wait to get into all of that. When those other tests come back, I’ll be able to give you better answers. I don’t want to scare you unnecessarily,” he paused. “Or give you false hope.”

  “Can we see him?” Mom asked in a small but steady voice.

  “Absolutely,” the doctor said. “Follow Sister Agatha. She’ll show you his room. We’ll want to keep him at least until the tests are back, and then we’ll plan accordingly. I gave him something for the pain, so he may be a little groggy.”

  “To be in so much pain,” Casewell started, “that means . . .”

  “We’ll figure out what that means,” Dr. McNeil said. “Just go on in there and see him.”

  They turned and followed a plump nun through the stark halls to room 218.

  “Get me outta here,” Dad growled as soon as he saw Casewell. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Take me home.” He struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed and began tugging at the IV in his arm. Sister Agatha swooped in to push him back.

  “Get this penguin off of me. I feel fine,” Dad yelled as he pushed at Agatha. The nun kept her hold with a tenacity that surprised and impressed Casewell. Or maybe his father really was weakening. Casewell stepped forward to help, placing a soothing hand on his father’s shoulder.

  “Dad, just settle back there and let’s talk for a minute. We can sort all this out.”

  “You’d better believe we can. You’ve got five minutes to get me situated and on my way out of here.”

  Casewell took a deep breath and waited for his dad to settle back against his pillow. Maybe he was imagining it, but Casewell could have sworn his father was relieved to rest for a moment. “You feel better because the doctor gave you something for the pain. If the medication wears off, I doubt you’ll feel so spry.”

  “Don’t need drugs. No one asked me if I wanted ’em. I could probably have that fraud’s license for slipping me something without asking if I wanted it.” John crossed his arms across his chest, batting at the IV as he did so.

  “Dad, looks like you may be sick, after all,” Casewell said, wondering how much the doctor had told him and hating the idea of being the one to speak the word.

  “Cancer,” snorted Dad, relieving his son of that responsibility, at least. “What’s that fool know about me having cancer? Pokes at me, asks a few questions, hooks this contraption up to me.” John tugged at the IV line again. Sister Agatha grabbed the stand and then checked the connections. “Don’t make no difference to me. Just get me on home.”

  Casewell had no idea what to say to convince his father to stay in the hospital. Reason, threats, pleading—none of them seemed the way to go. Then Mom stepped forward.

  “John,” she said, her eyes soft and her hand gentle on her husband’s arm. “I’m asking you to do what the doctor says. You’re a strong man, and I don’t have a doubt that if you do have cancer, you’ll get over it. But until we know just what it is we’re dealing with, I’d be grateful to you if you’d stay right here where the doctor can get at you.”

  The fire seemed to go right out of Dad, and he sagged back against his pillow. He laid one hand over his wife’s and closed his eyes, squeezing them shut for just a moment. “All right,” he said. “But just until tomorrow.”

  “Yes,” Mom agreed. “Until tomorrow.”

  Three days later Dr. McNeil informed Casewell and his mother that John Phillips had lung cancer as well as black lung. The cancer was likely caused by cigarettes, and the black lung was from coal mining. Mom protested that John had given up mining years ago and that he didn’t smoke that much, not really.

  “Black lung can only be caused by inhaling coal dust,” the doctor explained. “There are various causes of lung cancer, but smoking is the likeliest culprit.” Dr. McNeil rubbed his hands on his pant legs. “Unfortunately, the cancer has spread to John’s bones—that’s what caused the extreme pain he was experiencing.”

  Mom stuffed a knuckle between her teeth and seemed to gnaw at it. Casewell opened his mouth, trying to find his voice, but the doctor understood his question before he found it.

  “I’m afraid the prognosis isn’t good. Actually, there’s not a whole lot we can do other than keep him comfortable. Surgery isn’t an option at this point. We can try chemical therapy—what they call chemotherapy—but I don’t want to get your hopes up.” The doctor looked from Casewell to his mother and back. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  Casewell was surprised to hear himself speak. “How long?”

  “No one but God knows that, son. But I’ve not seen anyone last much more than”—he hesitated—“than six months.”

  Mom gasped and gulped as if she couldn’t get any air into her lungs. Casewell put his arms around his mother and held her steady until she began breathing normally. Her gasps turned to pants and then to a soft crying that seemed to bore into Casewell’s skull. It was impossible. He wouldn’t accept it. Not now, not today. His father could not be dying of cancer. No.

  “Does Dad know?” he whispered.

  “He knows he has cancer,” Dr. McNeil said. “I’m not sure he understands what that means.”

  His mother’s hand tightened around Casewell’s wrist, the nails digging into his flesh. “Go to him,” she said. “I’ll be along.”

  Casewell started to protest.

  “Go,” she said. “Now.”

  Casewell walked into his father’s room. Dad sat up in bed smoking a cigarette.

  “Dad, you aren’t supposed to have that,” Casewell said, feeling weariness well up in him like a black tumor, pressing against his stomach, his lungs, even his heart.

  “What the devil does it matter?” Dad snapped. Casewell had rarely heard his father speak so harshly. He supposed if there was a time to do it, this was that time.

  “Right,” he said, waving smoke away as he sat on a chair next to the bed. “So you’ve talked to Dr. McNeil.”

  “That quack told Walt Farmer he was dying eight years ago, and Walt feels better today than he ever did. Bunch of crap.” Dad coughed so hard tears came to his eyes. When he got his breath back he inhaled deeply on his cigarette, burning it down to his fingertips. He ground out the butt in a kidney-shaped pan on his bedside table.

  Casewell watched his father’s yellowed fingers and thought about how rarely his father had touched him. He’d gotten a few good-boy pats as a child and slaps on the back once his father deemed him an adult. There had been spankings, of course, but even then his father was more likely to use a switch than his bare hand. He racked his brain trying to remember a hug—something his mother handed out daily—but the best he could come up with was the time his dad had put an arm around his shoulders after he graduated from high school. He also remembered that Dad had quickly removed the arm, as if afraid someone would see.

  “When are you taking me home?” he growled. His now empty hand lay on top of the cover, and he kept pinching the sheet between his thumb and forefinger and then smoothing it down again.

  “They want to try a treatment out on you—some kind of chemical therapy. Dr. McNeil thinks it might help,” Casewell said. “I figure—”

  His father cut him off. “You can figure all day long if you want to. They’re not trying some sort of experimental whatever on me. Let someone else be their guinea pig. Now get out there and find somebody to unhook me from this contraption.” He shook his arm so violently, he nearly dislodged the IV on his own. “Now.”

  Casewell went out into the hall and leaned against the wall, trying to breathe deeply in and out, trying to find a pocket of calm in the midst of the whirlwind. Neither of his parents seemed to be taking this news well. He wasn’t taking the news well, either, but that could be because he hadn’t been given even a moment to take it all in.

  My father is dying, he thought. He felt he barely knew the man, but he loved h
im fiercely and unreasonably. He had no better reason for loving his father than that he was his father. It shouldn’t have been enough, but it was. Casewell didn’t mean to slide down the wall, but he found himself sitting, his knees at eye level. He placed one hand on each knee and waited for the tears running down his face to subside.

  Casewell didn’t see Sister Agatha approach, but he felt her settle next to him like a pigeon fluttering to the ground. She handed Casewell a plain white handkerchief. “I thought I’d come pray with you,” she said. “Would you prefer I did so aloud or silently?”

  “Silently.” Casewell knew there were no words for this situation, but as long as Agatha prayed silently, he could imagine that there were. She bowed her head, and he felt peace radiating out from her. But like a kerosene lamp on an icy morning, it could not reach his core.

  After a few minutes, he placed his hands on the floor and pushed himself to standing. He reached down and helped Sister Agatha to her feet. She kissed the rosary around her neck and made the sign of the cross. Casewell thanked her. He looked into her eyes and thought maybe she understood that while she had not reached him with her prayers, she had been a sort of help after all. He went back into his father’s room.

  His mother had slipped into the room while Casewell was in the hall. She had to have seen him hunkered there, but she didn’t mention it. She barely looked at him at all. Her focus was entirely upon her husband, who was holding her hand and staring at the ceiling.

  Casewell cleared his throat. “I think you should stay and try this treatment,” he said. He thought he saw his mother squeeze his father’s hand harder. He knew she closed her eyes and bowed her head.

  His father took a deep breath that sent him into a brief coughing fit. When he had composed himself again, he looked his son in the eye. “I appreciate that you want me to fight this thing. And I’ve always been one to fight for what I want.” His face convulsed slightly and he cupped his empty left hand over his wife’s and his own. “But what I’m after now is the right to go home and . . .” He coughed again. “To go home and let be what will be. You don’t have to understand it, son. Just go along with it.”