“That’s how God does us. He’ll forgive us anything—all we have to do is ask Him. I know I’ve had to ask Him for plenty of forgiveness here lately. He doesn’t hold it over me, He doesn’t carry a grudge, and I don’t think He even remembers what I needed forgiveness for. All He asks is that I forgive other people the same way He’s forgiven me.”
Casewell smiled and leaned into the pulpit. “I know. Easier said than done. Somehow other people’s sins seem to look worse than mine.” His eyes flicked past Perla. He was trying hard not to look at her. He didn’t want her to know that he’d ever judged her so harshly. “But in God’s eyes, sin is sin, whether it’s murder or telling a little white lie. We all need forgiveness just the same.
“And we all need to dish out forgiveness just as quick as we dish out judgment and condemnation. Jesus made it pretty clear that God’s forgiveness depends on our forgiving one another. In Luke, chapter six, He said, ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ I’ve seen people forgive things that I would want to hold on to. Cruelty, spite, mean-spiritedness. It takes a gentle spirit to turn loose of all that, but it’s no less than what God calls us to do.
“I don’t know about all of you.” Casewell really looked at the congregation for the first time. Did some people look uncomfortable? Maybe. Maybe they needed to. “But I don’t want to be judged or condemned by God. I know I’ll come up short. So I plan to try real hard to forgive when I need to. And I’m going to start by forgiving Pastor Longbourne for the trouble he stirred up. I reckon he’s got enough pain bottled up inside him that there’s no need for me to hold anything against him. And if there’s anyone else out there who wants my forgiveness, though I don’t think I have anything against even one of you, consider it given.”
Casewell moved out from behind the pulpit and stepped off the dais. He raised his hands into the air. “Go forth this morning and search your hearts to know if there’s anyone you need to forgive. Find them and give them the same gift God is so glad to give to you. Peace be with you.” He dropped his arms and walked toward the back door so he could shake hands. He hoped no one would notice his sweaty palms.
But before Casewell had taken more than two steps, he heard a rustling and then a voice—his father’s voice.
“Son, forgive me.”
Casewell stopped and turned as though afraid of what he might see. His father stood, hunched over and leaning against the pew in front of him. “I have not been the father”—he looked at Emily—“or husband I should have been. Forgive me.”
Mom leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his father’s hand where it gripped the pew. Tears washed over the worn knuckles. Casewell didn’t know what to do. Should he speak? Should he go to his father? And then it was as though he lost the ability to decide for himself, and he rushed to wrap his arms around his father’s frail shoulders. He thought he might hurt the sick man, he was squeezing so hard, but his father wrapped an arm around Casewell and squeezed back just as hard. Casewell could feel every bone beneath Dad’s taut skin. His father had the feel of a man who might break. Then again, maybe he was finally broken.
That afternoon Perla left Sadie playing quietly at Delilah’s feet so she could close herself alone in the room she shared with her daughter. Casewell’s sermon had touched her in ways she did not expect. “I must forgive him,” she whispered. “I must forgive them both.”
She fell to her knees on the braided rug and clasped her hands at her breast. She closed her eyes and began to pray aloud.
“Father, I came here to escape the censure of men, but that is not what I most wanted to escape. People will judge me, and it is, perhaps, no less than I deserve. I was trying to outrun your judgment, Father. I blamed . . . him . . . for loving me when he was not free to do so. But I loved him back, even when I knew it was wrong. And I turned my back on you as though that would prevent your seeing. You have forgiven me, Father, but I have not forgiven him. I have heaped blame on his shoulders, attempting to lessen my own load. I forgive him now. Please bless him.” Perla squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. “And bless his family.” She gave one tearless sob, then composed herself again.
“And, Father, I forgive Casewell, too. It wasn’t until this morning that I knew there was anything to forgive. I’ve carried anger toward him for judging me. He is a good man. I had hoped . . . well, you know my hopes and dreams, impossible, as I know they are. Amen.”
Perla remained kneeling, hands now limp. She felt lighter, easier. A breeze slipped in the window and caressed her face. She felt beloved by God, if by no one else.
17
CASEWELL ENJOYED SUNDAY DINNER with his parents. They ate leftovers from Perla’s last round of cooking.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad said.
Casewell felt a surge of joy that made the top of his head tingle. He grinned, something he doubted he’d done at the dinner table since he was in a high chair.
“It was the best sermon I ever heard,” his mother said.
“Ma, you’d say that no matter what.”
“Of course I would, and I’m allowed. The other mothers wish their sons could do half so well.”
“Don’t go and indulge in pride now,” Casewell teased. “If I’m going to be the preacher, I’ll have to hold you accountable.”
The three laughed together and finished off the meal with the most lively conversation Casewell ever remembered them having.
After dinner Mom helped Dad back to bed. Casewell realized that his father seemed to have trouble lifting his feet. He dragged into the bedroom, and Casewell helped his mother get him into a nightshirt. Then Mom excused herself to tidy up the kitchen.
In the quiet left behind, Casewell could hear his father’s breathing. It was raspy and seemed slow. He really looked at his father for the first time in a long while. The older man’s white hair had long been striking against his sun- and wind-darkened skin. But now his face was almost as pale as his hair, the ruddy flush of sun and hard work long gone. The lined skin seemed to have pulled tight against Dad’s skull, giving his flesh an almost translucent quality. Casewell noticed the throbbing of his father’s heartbeat in the fragile skin of his neck. He wished the beat were faster.
“Do you hear that, son?” Dad turned his head toward the window, which was closed in a futile effort to keep out the dust.
“Hear what?” Casewell moved to look outside.
“Open the window,” he commanded.
Casewell moved to obey the order even as he argued against it. “It’ll just let in more dust, Dad. There’s hardly a breeze to make it worthwhile.”
But as the window cleared the sash, a gust of cool air surged into the room, sending the lacy curtains billowing out over the bed. Casewell looked out the window and saw that the formerly barren sky was now scudding with great cottony clouds. It wasn’t just a breeze that had kicked up. It was wind.
“The rain sounds so good after all this time,” Dad sighed. “Thank God for the rain.”
“It’s not raining, Dad.” Casewell glanced at the window. “And even though there are clouds, I don’t hold out much hope. We’ve seen clouds before that didn’t amount to anything.”
“Oh, the sweet sound of rain on a tin roof.” He smiled. “Your mother and I hid out in a barn in a storm like this once. That’s when I kissed her the first time. Can’t help but think that sound is the purtiest I ever heard.”
Casewell glanced out the window again and looked back at his father. Going to church and having dinner must have been too much for him. He was hallucinating. Casewell wondered how to snap him out of it, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt it would be cruel to interrupt such a pleasant notion.
“It does sound good,” he said at last. “Been too long since we heard rain like that.”
“Ain’t it the truth,” Dad said, closing his eyes.
Casewell noted the rise and fall of his father’s chest.
It was slow, but it was there. And then, as he watched his father breathe, he did hear something. It sounded like thunder, distant thunder. Probably just heat lightning way off on the horizon. It happened like that in the evenings sometimes. And then he heard the unmistakable splat of water on a pane of glass.
Casewell whirled toward the open window and saw it was true. One fat drop after another splatted against the upper panes. Drops came through the open window and made a pattern in the dust on the sill. Casewell reached out a shaking hand and felt the cool water bless his skin. He turned to show his father, but the rise and fall of Dad’s chest had ceased. His father lay still, smiling, as Casewell stretched out wet fingers to anoint his brow.
The rain came like a petulant child given permission to play. It came in sheets with crashes of thunder and lightning, then eased down to a sprinkle—teasing—before revving up again for an hour of slow, steady blessing.
Casewell opened all the windows and doors in his parents’ house while his mother lay down next to his father and whispered he knew not what. After opening the house, Casewell slipped back into the bedroom and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder.
“I called the funeral home. They’ll come for him after the rain eases up. The roads are rivers with all the water trying to soak into the parched ground. Marvin said he’d just about need a boat to come right now.”
“I’m in no hurry.” She had cried but only a little. Now she lay curled on her side, stroking her husband’s hair. “I know he’s not in there,” she said. “But I’m going to miss touching him so very much. I always loved to feel his hair, though he didn’t like me to do it unless we were alone. I guess this is the first time I’ve run my fingers through his hair while someone else was in the room.” She gazed past her husband into nothingness. “I don’t suppose he minds.”
Casewell sat on the foot of the bed. He would have expected being in the bedroom with his dead father and living mother to be strange, but somehow it was friendly. His mother began humming “I’ll Fly Away,” and he wished he had his mandolin to play along. The patter of the rain, the warmth of the room, and the song conspired to make Casewell drowsy. He thought it was probably awful of him to think of sleep at a time like this.
Jerking upright, Casewell realized he’d dozed off. He felt disoriented and out of sorts. He sat up and realized his father still lay in the bed. His mother had straightened Dad’s shirt and arranged the covers so that they turned down under his arms. His hands were crossed on his chest. Casewell’s gaze traveled to his father’s face and he startled, not recognizing him for a moment. He knew his father was gone, but now that he studied his face, he realized just how long gone. Although the shape of the nose, the thick eyebrows, and the lips—surprisingly full for a man—were all the same, he no longer looked like John Phillips. That man had surely departed.
His mother bustled into the room. “Marvin called to say he’s on his way. I’m betting that’s what woke you. I was going to let you nap a little longer.”
“It’s just as well. The stories people would tell if Marvin caught me sleeping at my dead father’s feet.”
She kissed him on the forehead. “People will talk no matter what you do.” Turning to the window, she said, “The rain’s stopped. It surely is fresh outside. Come and see.”
Casewell walked out onto the front porch with his mother and inhaled deeply. The sky was the brilliant shade of blue that often came in October, and the air smelled like clean laundry. The yard, with its brittle, brown grass, was a maze of puddles that had yet to find a way into the hard-baked soil. The trees were still leafless, the earth was still brown, the garden was still a wasteland, but somehow the world looked brighter. It was certainly cleaner with the rime of dust rinsed off everything, including Casewell’s truck parked in the yard. The windows were down, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At this point water, anywhere, was welcome.
“It’s a miracle,” Mom said. “How many times has rain spoiled some plan of mine, and now I see that it’s a miracle. Not just after a drought, but every time it rains.” Emily linked her arm through Casewell’s. “Your father knew the rain was coming. I think he knew because he was standing next to Jesus, and you can see everything from there.”
Marvin Tomlyn pulled his makeshift hearse into the yard and backed up to the porch. Casewell opened the rear door and tried not to think too much about what would happen to his father’s body after this. Marvin hopped out and strode around the vehicle to shake Casewell’s hand. The undertaker stood maybe five feet four and was built like a bull, with a broad chest and bandy legs. He looked tough as a mule, but everyone who knew him had experienced his softhearted kindness.
“How you holding up, son?” he asked.
“I’m doing all right. Ma’s taking it pretty well, too. He’d been sick for so long . . .”
“I understand. Just let me tell you one thing. Right now you can’t quite take all of this in, and thinking things like ‘he’s in a better place,’ and ‘he’s not suffering anymore’ might seem like a comfort. But trust me when I tell you that two days from now some well-meaning folks will say those exact same words to you, and you’ll want to shove their teeth down their necks. The best advice I can give you or anyone else who’s just seen someone they love die is to take it one day at a time. Don’t go beating yourself up for all the different ways you’ll feel between now and next week. It’s all normal, son.”
Casewell felt like he couldn’t get a breath. Then his lungs filled all at once, and he smiled. “I guess I’ve been feeling six or seven of ’em just today,” he said.
Marvin slapped him on the back. “There you go. You’ll be all right. Now let’s get this business taken care of. We’ll go just as fast or slow as you and your mama want.”
As it turned out, Mom had finished saying her good-byes, and Casewell felt oddly detached from the body that was once his father. It was easier than he expected to help Marvin load the body into the hearse and slam the door. Marvin sat with mother and son as they sorted out the arrangements. There would be a viewing Thursday afternoon with the service at five o’clock. In the absence of a preacher to do the burying, Casewell would speak, along with one or two of the other elders. Dad had never been one to build close friendships with other men, but he’d won the respect of most everyone. Casewell didn’t think it would be hard to get some folks to read Scripture or to say a few words. Mom suggested Casewell play his mandolin at the service, which surprised him.
“I don’t know if Dad would think that was appropriate,” he said. “Even if I play a hymn, it’s a little jaunty for a funeral.”
“Oh, Casewell, I don’t suppose he ever told you, but he was so proud of your playing. He told me more than once that you’d been blessed with a gift, and he was so proud of how you used it to bring joy to people. He would want you to play.”
Casewell blushed at the unexpected praise and agreed. He felt inordinately pleased, as if his father himself had asked for the music.
Finally, with everything sorted out, Marvin headed for the car, hoping aloud that he wouldn’t get bogged down in the rain-wet yard. Then he turned, as if just remembering something. “You’uns probably don’t feel much like getting out, but word is going ’round that folks are gathering at the church this evening to give thanks for the rain. I can pass on word about John, if you’d rather.”
Casewell thought about it for only a moment. Something prodded him to go to the church and share this news himself. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “We’ll tell the news.”
Marvin raised one meaty hand and dropped it to his side. Then he climbed into the car and eased out of the yard, spinning his tires only a little. Casewell thought about how his father would not have liked the ruts left behind. He smiled to himself. He’d fix them tomorrow.
Casewell called Robert and Delilah to let them know about his father’s passing and asked Delilah to come sit with Emily. She preferred to stay home from the church celebration, and though she s
aid she’d be fine by herself, Casewell hated the idea of her sitting in the lonely house. Delilah said of course she would come, and Robert offered to read from the Psalms at the service on Thursday.
As Casewell hung up the phone and washed his hands and face before driving over to the church, he felt a weight lift. Someone else knew his father was gone. Somehow it seemed it would be easier to tell the next person and then the next. By the end of the week he thought he might have gotten used to the news himself.
Casewell heard Robert and Delilah come in and speak to his mother. Their tones were low and soothing. He heard his mother laugh softly and marveled that she could do that with her husband so recently gone. He was grateful she could.
“Casewell, come on,” Robert called.
“I’m right behind you.” Casewell stepped out of the bathroom, running his fingers through damp hair.
“Why don’t you ride with me? I’ll have to come back here and get Delilah after we finish whooping it up over the rain.”
“Well, my windows were down when the rain started, so I guess I’d appreciate a ride.” Casewell walked over and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I’ll see you shortly,” he said. “Thought I’d spend the night.”
“You don’t need to do that, son,” she protested. Then she put her own hand over Casewell’s where it gripped her shoulder. “But I guess I’d be more than glad to have you.”
Casewell gave her a final squeeze and trailed out after Robert.
After dark now, light poured from the windows of the church. Drops of water suspended from leafless trees sparkled. Casewell felt a lump rise in his throat. He supposed it was the loss of his father combined with the blessing of the rain. As Robert parked, Casewell felt a shyness wash over him. He didn’t know how to tell these people about his father’s passing in the midst of their celebration. He wished he could find Perla and tell her first.
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