Casewell watched the box containing what was left of his father descend into the cool brown earth. He had no sense that his father was actually in there. It seemed only that he was honoring the temple that had housed the man he loved most in this world, tucking it away now that his father was done with it.
Once the casket was situated, Casewell drew his mother forward, and each of them took up a handful of dirt to rain down on the closed lid. The clods of dirt hit with hollow thuds. Traditionally, the family would leave before the grave was filled in, but Casewell took up a shovel, handed it to Robert, took another for himself, and began filling in the grave. Other men stepped forward to help. George began singing.
“Some glad morning when this life is o’er,
I’ll fly away. . . .”
His sweet tenor was punctuated by the sound of dirt hitting the casket and then, dirt hitting dirt lending a rhythmic sort of beat to the song. The rest of the group joined in until the whole crowd was singing verse after verse of “I’ll Fly Away.”
Casewell could hear Perla’s sweet soprano and his mother’s alto mingling. He imagined his father was flying about now. And it was good.
After the funeral, people went back to the Phillipses’ farm, bringing what food they had. Although the land was beginning to heal, they still didn’t have gardens or much left in their cellars. But Perla took over the kitchen, and Casewell knew there would be more than enough.
Neighbors and friends stayed all evening—eating, talking, laughing, even singing. The funeral had been better than any revival. Eventually Casewell eased away and closed himself in his parents’ bedroom for a moment of solitude.
He ran a hand over the woodwork on the headboard he’d made for them. Joy swelled his heart at the thought that his father had enjoyed his craftsmanship right up until the last moments of his life. He noticed that the window he opened at his father’s request just a few days earlier had not been adjusted since. The night air held an unexpected coolness. Autumn would come soon.
Casewell heard the door ease open and turned to see his mother slipping through. She gave him a tired smile and sat down in a rocking chair near the window.
“Some of those folks may stay the night,” she said. “I’ve never seen people linger over a funeral so long.”
“A lot has happened this week.” Casewell scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Probably they just want to be together right now.”
“Can’t say as I’m looking forward to being alone myself. It’s well and truly alone I’ll be now.”
“I’ve been thinking, Ma. What if you came to stay with me?” Casewell wasn’t entirely sure he wanted his mother to move in with him, but he’d been thinking it would be the right thing to do.
His mother reached out to take his hand where he stood looking out the window. “No, thank you, son. I’ll confess it’s tempting, but this is my home. This is where my memories are stacked up like kindling for the winter.” Her eyes twinkled, surprising Casewell. “And anyway, I’ve never cottoned to living in a house with another woman.”
“What are you talking about? It’s just me.”
“Today maybe, but I have high hopes for the future. You need a good woman who will fill your house to overflowing with love. Seems to me there’s more than one young lady in these parts who would be glad for a man like you.”
Casewell took a breath to speak, but Mom squeezed his hand and gave it a little tug. “No, hush now. This isn’t the time to discuss it one way or the other. It’s time you settled down. I think I’ve maybe held you a little too close, discouraged your marrying. Just know it won’t hurt my feelings if you find someone.” She released his hand. “Now go on out there and see if you can’t get at least half that crowd to go on home. I’m going to rest my eyes for a spell.” She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, letting her breath out slowly, as though reluctant to release it. She smiled and Casewell thought she might be asleep already.
He eased the door open and then shut it with a soft click. He wondered if his mother’s tune would change if she knew who haunted his dreams.
The living room had already thinned out a good bit without his having to ask anyone to leave. If the exodus had begun, surely the momentum would continue, and they would have the house to themselves again soon.
Casewell shook a few hands, suffered shoulder pats and squeezes, and finally saw the last guest off the front porch. Just Robert, Delilah, and Perla remained in the kitchen. Sadie lay curled on the sofa, sound asleep with her doll strangled in the crook of her arm. Casewell tugged the afghan his mother had crocheted off the back of the sofa and draped it over the child. The tenderness he had experienced in church on Sunday rose in him to a degree that he could hardly absorb. He confessed to himself that he wanted this child for his own, and he wanted her mother with her. The need for these two females to belong to him was almost overwhelming. Casewell dropped to his knees next to the sofa and began a whispered prayer.
“Lord, you know the depths of my heart. You know the desires of my soul. You know what is good and right and proper. Father, I beg you to grant me this. And if you choose not to, please take this longing from me. I can’t bear it much longer. Amen.”
When he raised his head, Sadie blinked at him sleepily. “Are you talking to God?” she asked.
“I am.”
“Tell Him ‘hey’ for me,” she said and closed her eyes again.
Casewell squeezed his eyes shut. “Your daughter says ‘hello,’” he whispered. “Please make her my daughter, too.”
Casewell stood and moved into the kitchen where Robert slouched in a chair at the table while Perla and Delilah finished drying and putting away the dishes. Perla slid a cake of gingerbread out of the oven.
“We pooled ingredients to make cakes,” she explained. “This is the last one. Would you like a piece?”
Casewell realized he was ravenous. He thought back to the day he met Perla, when his stomach growled in church. She’d been feeding him ever since. She’d been feeding them all.
“I’d be pleased if you’d help me some,” he said. Robert shot him a look, and he thought he saw Delilah smirk.
“Robert, I think it’s time you and I went and sat on the porch a spell,” she said to her husband.
“But I was going to have some of that cake,” Robert protested.
“You’ve had plenty. Get on out there and enjoy the cool of the evening with me.”
Robert grumbled but pulled himself to his feet and ambled out onto the porch. As he passed Casewell, he slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Reckon she wants me to romance her a little. Women.” He winked at his friend and grinned.
Perla cut out a hunk of the warm gingerbread and put it on a plate for Casewell. “Wish I had some lemon sauce to go with this, but lemons are scarce these days.” She set the plate in front of Casewell, and before she could bring him a fork, he picked up the cake and sank his teeth into its warm spiciness. He sighed and smiled.
“You are the finest cook I’ve ever met.”
Perla blushed and sat opposite him at the little kitchen table. Casewell realized that he was sitting in his father’s chair and Perla was in his mother’s.
“Seems like I’ve always been able to cook. I just wish my food didn’t . . . didn’t go on like it does. I don’t understand it and some people . . .” Perla trailed off.
“I know. But a lot of folks would have gone hungry this summer if not for you.” Casewell finished his cake in two huge bites. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seems to me you have a talent just like anybody else. I have a knack for making things out of wood. George can play the banjo like a miracle. Marvin somehow makes folks feel all right when somebody they love dies. Your knack is just a little less . . . common than most.”
Perla smiled. “Thank you for that. Once upon a time I wouldn’t have expected anything quite so philosophical from you.”
“Guess I’ve had a lot to make me thoughtful this year. And that’
s not all I’ve been thinking about.” The words popped out before Casewell could catch them. He felt cold sweat bead on his brow. Was he going to declare himself to Perla? Right here and now on the day they’d buried his father?
“Oh? What else have you been thinking about?”
Casewell’s mouth was suddenly drier than the creek had been a week ago. He coughed and Perla fetched him a glass of water. She handed it to him, worry in her eyes. Casewell realized her eyes were the color of the tiny blue dayflowers that bloomed in the yard every summer. He wanted to gaze into them all day, but he gave himself a shake. This wasn’t the time. He might admit to himself that he loved Perla Long, but he needed to do more than just tell her so. He needed to court her properly.
“I’ve been thinking it’s time we took Sadie on a picnic,” he said at last. We’ll get Delilah and Robert and take Ma along. It’ll cheer her up.”
“That sounds lovely. Just let me know when you’d like to go.”
That night Perla tucked Sadie into the bed they shared. As soon as she heard the child’s steady breathing, she slipped from under the coverlet and padded out onto the porch. She could have sworn Casewell meant to say something important to her that afternoon. Something far more important than a picnic.
Perla stared at the night sky. A shooting star streaked low on the horizon, and she gasped at how bright and distinct it was. But even so, it lasted only a moment. And that was how love seemed. Only God’s love shone on and on like the sun. Perla loved Casewell and she had forgiven him for judging her. This feeling she had that he might have changed his mind about her was frightening in a way she hadn’t expected. Especially now that she was determined to go home.
Perla sat on the porch steps and drew her knees up under her nightgown. She could see dew sparkling on the grass that was sprouting here and there. She was surrounded by miracles. Surely that was enough? She’d had the love of a man once, and it had been ephemeral. This time she would be risking not only her own heart, but Sadie’s, as well. No, although Casewell was a good man, she suspected she would do well to keep her distance. Let him find a fresh woman who had lived less. A woman who didn’t carry such burdens. A woman like Melody Simmons. Perla decided that the more she loved Casewell, the more she should be willing to let him find a wife worthy of him. Even to push him in that direction if necessary.
She gave a little nod, as though offering final approval of her plan. She stood, stretched, and went back in to sleep. For just a moment she hesitated and thought perhaps she should pray over this. But no, she knew without having to ask God that Casewell’s finding someone better to love was just good sense.
20
CASEWELL MET FRANK at the Talbot sisters’ house to help put in a late garden. Even though it was September, they hoped to get a few crops. He’d already plowed his mother’s plot and planted collards, spinach, broccoli, turnips, beets, and carrots. Thankfully, his mother never threw out a seed and always kept more from year to year than she needed. Even now, he had a pocketful of her leftovers to share with Liza and Angie.
“Oh, two strapping men to work the garden,” trilled Liza as they came up the front walk. “Angie, aren’t we the luckiest girls in the county?”
“Luck, I’ll grant you,” Angie said, “girls, is a stretch. Come on, fellers, we’ve got work to do.”
Casewell grinned. While Angie may have softened a bit once the sisters sorted out their romantic entanglement with Frank, she hadn’t changed all that much.
“Here you go.” Angie shoved a box of yellowed envelopes at Casewell. He lifted them out one by one and noted that the newest seeds looked to be several years old. “We planted all the new seed we had last spring, so this’ll have to do.” Angie looked like she was daring Casewell to criticize her supplies.
“This’ll do just fine.” Frank took the box from Casewell, winked, and headed out to the garden. In short order they had plowed under what was left of the old garden and were putting out Emily’s seeds along with Casewell’s and some Frank had scrounged up. The men tipped the good seed into the envelopes in Angie’s box so the sisters wouldn’t know.
“I don’t even half know what’s in there.” Liza squinted at the envelope in Casewell’s hand.
“Turnips. And this one here is radish,” Frank said.
“My, you are smart to know what a seed is by looking at it.”
Casewell grinned at the flirtatious tone Liza used. Angie harrumphed and said they ought to get busy filling buckets from the well. “Now that the well has something to offer other than dry leaves and worm carcasses.”
Once the women were busy cranking buckets of water up out of the well, Casewell turned to speak to Frank. The older man seemed to be having some sort of spasm. Casewell rushed to his side and took his arm. Frank slung him off and wrapped his arms around his belly.
“Are you ill? What can I do?”
Frank gasped and sputtered and then guffawed. “Lordy, those two women will be the death of me yet. I don’t think they even know they do it. Liza flirts and Angie disapproves. I suspect they wouldn’t know how to live otherwise.” He wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “Keeps me young.” He laughed a little more, then slapped his knees and stood upright. “Come on, boy, let’s tote water.”
Once the garden was planted and watered, Casewell sat under an oak tree with Frank. For a long time they sat in silence, taking in the green valley and the old farmhouse, where the voices of the two women carried across the yard on the occasional breeze.
“It’s a good life,” Frank said.
“What is?”
“This.” Frank waved an arm to include all they could see. “Good land, good people, running water. I’ve traveled the world over, and I’d trade most everything I’ve seen for this right here. ’Course, I had to get sober to appreciate it.”
“You’d trade everything?”
“Well, there was that China girl . . .” Frank laughed. “Yes, son, everything. I suppose what I’m really talking about is the peace that comes when you’ve spent the day in good company doing good work. Satisfaction—real satisfaction—is hard to come by.”
“But what about marriage, children, a family?”
“Looks like I missed out on all that.” Frank ran a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. “Oh, looking back on it from this height, I can see that I would have done well to marry one of those gals in there. Probably would have had a mess of children to take care of me in my old age. But might-have-beens never appealed to me much. Sometimes I feel like there’s nothing but this moment right here we’re living in. No past, no future, just right now. And this right now suits me like lemonade on a hot day.”
Casewell felt somehow dissatisfied with Frank’s philosophy. “Even so . . .”
Frank turned to face Casewell head-on. There was a strange light to his eyes, and his wild hair reminded Casewell of how he used to look when he was drinking. It flashed through Casewell’s mind that angels weren’t lovely gossamer creatures, but fearsome messengers of God. He leaned back a little.
“Son, I think you have something—or maybe someone—specific on your mind. I’ve made it a habit to never regret anything. With the life I’ve lived, I won’t live long enough to get over my mistakes. I can’t change things now, and it surely doesn’t make me feel any better to moon over what might have been. But I will tell you this.” He took a deep breath, and fire lit the depths of his eyes. “If you find a woman you can love, a woman you can marry and rear children with and live out your days in abiding peace with, then for the love of God, do it.”
The old man seemed to subside against the trunk of the tree. He smoothed his hair and brushed some dirt off the left knee of his dungarees. “’Course, that’s just my opinion,” he said with one of his winks.
As Wise settled into a normal autumn cycle of rain and sun, gardens slowly began to offer a late October harvest. Cattle fattened and began giving milk again. Hens laid eggs, and while the people weren’t exactly feasting,
the sense of impending doom began to fade.
In the absence of a preacher, church became a weekly sing, with Bible readings and prayer. Occasionally, either Casewell or Robert gave a short homily. No one seemed to be in any hurry to find a new preacher. And although there was more to eat now, people still came to the store for Perla’s cooking a couple of times a week. But now folks rarely came empty-handed. They would bring a handful of turnip greens or some spinach. There were even a few root vegetables—small yet, but all the sweeter for it.
Perla welcomed the variety in her cooking. Robert promised a hog-killing after the first cold spell in November, and she caught herself planning ahead to make cracklings and roast pork and sausage, even though she assumed there wouldn’t be a need for her cooking anymore by then. Although she still felt a long way from welcome, the community seemed to have decided to take her ability in stride. No one marveled over it or commented on it, and no one asked Perla for miracles or accused her of witchcraft. Casewell took it as proof that people will get used to anything.
And then, one day no one came for food. Casewell was helping, as he often did. He noticed that there seemed to be less food than usual.
“Perla, why are you cooking less today?”
“Am I? I thought I was doing everything just the same.”
“Seems like a lot less to me.” Casewell looked over the bowls of cabbage sautéed with onions, spinach salad with hard-boiled eggs, and buttered carrots with honey. “It looks good. There just seems to be less of it.”
Perla came to stand beside Casewell and surveyed the food. “I think you’re right. But it’s always been enough, so I guess we should trust it still is.”
They waited for someone to come and eat, but no one did. Finally, they got Casewell’s mother and took all the food to the Thorntons’ house, where they ate their fill. Perla laughed as she cleared the table.
“What did I tell you?” she said, tipping a bowl toward Casewell to show him the little bit left in the bottom. “Enough and then some.”
Miracle in a Dry Season Page 18