On Shifting Sand

by Allison Pittman

  So many answers race through my mind. Yes, it’s over, my facade of being a good and worthy woman. Yes, it’s over, this dangerous journey, this trap. And it ended badly, and I should never have gone there alone, but it’s over. Never again. Not a moment. Just forgive me, please. Forgive me.

  I don’t know how long it takes me to realize he’s been talking during my unspoken revelation, but bits and pieces begin to make their way through. Two growing seasons without a crop. Anywhere. The last of his cattle sold for a dollar a head and killed. Even the babies. Nothing left in the land or in the barn. Nothing but walls, dirt, and taxes.

  A new, open door.

  “Wh—what are you saying?”

  “Your pa’s farm. He’s lost it, hasn’t he?”

  I’d dropped my handbag on the counter in my haste to unite with my husband, and without releasing myself from his touch, I reach for it. With shaking hands I pull out the gritty bundle of papers. “It’s all here.”

  Russ takes them from me, and I stand back to watch him set each document side by side on top of the already-cluttered counter. “Tax bills . . . extensions . . .” He wraps an arm around my waist and draws me close. “Looks like there’s nothing left to do. It’s gone, darling.”

  “That’s not possible. He owns that farm outright. No mortgage.” He’s always been so proud of that.

  “You know that’s not enough.”

  “But what is he going to do?”

  Russ leans in, kisses my temple. “He always has a place here.”

  “In a storeroom?”

  “We’ll see what more we can do. Knock down a wall, maybe. Put in a proper washroom. Make it something better.”

  I allow myself to get caught up in that vision. All of my family—save my brother—gathered under one roof. My father, dependent on me, humbled to a place where he would have to accept my husband. Perhaps the blowing sand will chip away the sharp edges, softening him to be the man I’ve always needed.

  “But then,” I say, as the vision becomes more clear and complete, “how could we possibly keep the store? It’s one thing to have our family upstairs, but we couldn’t very well conduct business . . .”

  As I speak, Russ looks away, and not even my most intentional maneuvering brings me back into his line of vision. This, my confirmation that he is hiding something too. Just like Jim said. A measure of my own burden lifts, and I take my first shaky step on an undeserved higher ground. In this moment lives a mutually acknowledged deceit, and I invite it into the light with a single word.

  “Russ?”

  “Honestly, Nola. How much business are we doing? Merrilou’s been our only customer all day.”

  “Times are hard for everybody.”

  “But we’re sinking, darling. Deeper than anyone should have to. People can’t afford to buy, and we can’t afford to give it away. Less stock to feed, no crops, no rain, and everybody picking off the bones of what others leave behind.”

  “It can’t be that bad. We’re still here.”

  “It’s that bad. We’re owed thousands of dollars.”

  “These are good people, Russ. They’ll pay when they can.”

  “Not if they’re gone. Every time someone comes in here and walks out with anything, it’s money walking out the door. And our creditors don’t care. It’s all blowing out from under us. We’re wise men who didn’t know we were building our house on shifting sand.” This he says with the sweet smile he gets whenever he can take a clever twist on Scripture.

  “So, wise man.” I touch his face with the backs of my fingers, hoping to send comfort and assurance, seeing he is consumed with nervousness at what he is about to say. There would, after all, come a time when I would be dependent on such grace. “On what rock are you going to build?”

  “No more building.” He gathers up the stack of my father’s papers and sets them aside, revealing to me a vast array of lists and numbers, and one particular clipped bundle of papers with neatly typed columns. “This is what Jim’s been working on, this whole time. A complete inventory of everything we have. Down to the number of nails.”

  “Minus one set of gardening shears?” I ask.

  “Exactly.”

  “And then what?”

  He closes his eyes, gathering his thoughts, and blows out one long breath before opening them again. “I haven’t been exactly honest with you, Nola.”

  I lean in, touch his arm, prepared to forgive whatever he will say.

  “There’s been times, a few in the past weeks, when I haven’t exactly been gone on church business. Not the whole time, anyway. I went to the school and used their mimeograph to make some copies, then into the library in Boise City to look up addresses . . .”

  He speaks in snippets, making it hard for me to follow what he is confessing to, or how I should react.

  “Russ, what are you saying, exactly?”

  “I’ve been trying to find a buyer.”

  “For the store?” My resolve to forgive falters. “This is not your decision to make. Not alone. This belongs to us—my brother and me—left to us by our uncle. This belongs to my family.”

  “I am your family.”

  “Of course you are.” Another touch, this time with a reassuring squeeze, to make up for the fact that twice today, in so many hours, I’d abandoned such loyalty. “I’m thinking more along the lines of the names on the papers. This all still belongs to Greg, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t he be the one to decide to sell?”

  “It’s just the inventory. I’m trying to find someone who will buy us out. Everything in one purchase. A reasonable price, too. Enough to satisfy what’s owed to us by our neighbors, and give us a little left to live on.”

  “And then?” As idyllic as the fantasy of setting up house with my reformed father in an apartment downstairs might be, even better is the idea of leaving Featherling altogether, free from this millstone. Away from gossipy women and whatever fodder I might generate for them to gossip about.

  “And then, what?”

  “Where do we go?”

  “Go?” He looks genuinely confused. “Why, we don’t go anywhere. There’s still the church. I couldn’t just leave. Now when so many people are hurting.”

  “Doesn’t seem like anybody else is willing to do you the same courtesy.”

  “I’ll stay until I’m called by God to do otherwise. That’s what I signed up for when I became a minister. What if every preacher left his post because things got a little rough? These are my people. My family.”

  “I am your family.” I try to match his tone.

  “You’re my wife. If I stay, we stay.”

  We are distracted then by the appearance of little Barney, clawing her way up Russ’s pant leg. He winces at the digging of her tiny razorlike claws and plucks her off somewhere below his knee. “Care to explain this?”

  “Ariel wanted her.”

  “Ah.” It is enough. Our daughter rarely doesn’t get what she’s set her mind to, if it’s within our means to grant it.

  I pick up the typed list and run my fingers down the evidence of Jim’s handiwork. Perfect, precise entries. “This is everything?”

  “Everything.”

  “Have you found a buyer yet?”

  “Not yet.” He hesitates long enough for me to have my doubts.

  “Would you tell me if you did?”

  “Not yet.”

  I find the last shred of righteousness within me. “It isn’t right that you didn’t tell me. This place is more mine than yours.”

  “And when have you ever expressed the least interest in it?” His indulgent tone matches my petulance. “You resented having to mind the counter when you were in high school, remember? You hate this place. Always wanted to get away.”

  “Exactly.” I take the kitten from him, indulge myself for a moment in her purrs, then set her on the counter to bat her paw at the pages before I turn to Russ, grabbing his hands to bolster my plea. “Which is why we shouldn’t waste this opportunity to go. U
se whatever we get to start all over. Put this—all of this—behind us. Someplace exciting. Chicago, maybe? You’ve always wanted to study at the Moody Institute there. We could forget everything. Make a fresh start.”

  “Nola, darling. I don’t have anything I want to forget. We haven’t failed, and God hasn’t failed us. This is just—” he shrugs and looks up for the proper word—“not even a setback. More like a set-aside. Buying some time, and a little cash. You know, my church salary isn’t what it was, but I still need to be able to fully focus on those who remain here.”

  “How could you possibly do more than you are now? I already feel like I have to share you with every other family in town.”

  He tucks his knuckle under my chin and raises my face to look at him. “I told you that before we got married. When I first knew that I loved you, I said I was afraid there’d be a day when I would have to prioritize my loyalty. Divide my affection.”

  “And now?” I fight to keep my chin from quivering against his touch. “Have I lost?”

  “Ah, sweetheart.”

  He kisses me soft, then deep as I cling to him, pulling him closer, wanting to meld ourselves together. Because I know, as much as I know anything, this could be our last kiss. He will taste my betrayal, pull away, and never touch me again. I move my body against his, diverting his attention, banking his passion in my favor. Finally, with ragged breath, and against my whimpering protest, he pulls away. His eyes are hooded with desire—a look I’ve come to know well after thirteen years of marriage. He loves me. With his body and his soul and his heart. He loves me, as I do him. Never more so than this moment. We regard each other, our breath in sync, each wishing we were somewhere—anywhere—else. He, upstairs in our bedroom. Me, back in my father’s kitchen, so I could have a chance to walk away unscathed.

  “Remember this moment,” I say at last, punctuating my command with a soft kiss. When I draw back, he is smiling.

  “I think I will. Should I lock the door? Close up the shop?”

  “No.” I swat his arm like a schoolgirl. “When the time comes—if the time comes—when you have to choose. Not between the church and me, but if you ever have to decide if you love me enough.”

  “Enough for what? Nola, what’s happened?”

  “Nothing.” I answer too quickly and back away, disturbing the papers on the counter and startling the kitten straight up into the air. “Nothing’s happened, except you’re here, with me. And the time might come when you’ll have to wonder, Do I love her? Really, truly love her? Think about this moment and remember that you do.”

  The last of my words are guttural, salt-ridden, and wet with tears.

  “My sweet Denola. I will remember this moment. I remember every single one.”

  I have sinned;

  what shall I do unto thee,

  O thou preserver of men?

  why hast thou set me as a

  mark against thee,

  so that I am a burden to myself?

  And why dost thou not pardon my transgression,

  and take away my iniquity?

  for now shall I sleep

  in the dust;

  and thou shalt seek me in the morning,

  but I shall not be.

  JOB 7:20-21

  CHAPTER 12

  IT IS MORE THAN A WEEK before my father returns to the land of the living. In those days between, he was a lost-looking shadow of the man I knew, spending long hours in the rocker in the front room. Familiar, I suppose, because he has a chair like it back in his own home. We keep the radio on almost continuously, as it seems to soothe him. He joins us at the table for meals, eating a little more each day. And he drinks water, glass after glass, as he claws his way out of his own drought. This, more than anything, brings him back to us.

  As Pa recovers upstairs, I make a home for him downstairs. I briefly consider getting him a small radio of his own, but I don’t want him to feel like he’s been imprisoned in some basement room. As he floats closer and closer to the surface of himself, he emerges a softer man than I’ve ever known. I credit my Ariel with much of this reincarnation. She is constantly at his side, bringing him sips of water in her tiny teacups, singing him songs she’s learned in Sunday school, and whispering in his ear how happy she is to see her paw-paw every day.

  In the early days, he was confused, calling her Denola more often than not, but with a gentleness I’d never heard directed toward me. “Denola, darlin’ . . . ,” at which my sweet girl would correct him, calling him “silly Paw-Paw,” and I would hush her, just so I could hear him say my name that way again.

  Summer has descended, hot and dry. So much so there is no need to bring it up in conversation. We walk with our eyes averted, mostly in defense against the glaring sun, but also because it hurts to witness the despair in the faces of friends and neighbors. No need to ask, “How are you doing today?” because we know. We are hungry. We are thirsty. Every surface of our homes is lined with dust. The dirt wedges itself in our collars, forcing us to walk about the streets with dirty necks. We feel the grit against our gums and swallow mud with water.

  On bad days—which are more common than not—children romp through the street with dampened handkerchiefs tied around their noses and mouths, looking like filthy little bandits in their games of tag and chase.

  Five more families leave our fold, meaning one entire side of our church could be empty if we didn’t choose to scatter ourselves about. The board on the wall to the left of the pulpit shows a decreasing number week after week, both in number of attendees and offering collected. Often the latter is half the former, and a mere percentage of Russ’s former salary. I look at that display, white numbers on black cards, dutifully slid into place by a faithful deacon, and wonder how we are going to feed our family for the week.

  Still, every Sunday morning, Russ looks out among us, now greeting each family—each member of each family—by name.

  “So glad you’re here, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson.”

  “Good morning, Ralphie! I see you’ve brought your parents with you this morning.”

  “Wonderful to see you, Mrs. Whitford. Is Mr. Whitford feeling any better this morning?”

  I bother him about it at first, saying it robs him of the time he could spend delivering his sermon, but he counters that people want to feel welcomed. Needed. Loved. Nobody seems to mind that we release late—there is no place else to go. Nothing else to do. Moreover, the first Sunday after the personalized greetings, the offering went up $1.37 from the previous week.

  We continue to gather after the storms too. No matter the time or duration, even though that means assembling for six days in a row at one point. At those times, Russ doesn’t preach, really. We sing, though the onslaught of dust keeps our piano from being in perfect tune. Sometimes one of our few remaining choir members, Kay Lindstrom, stands alone and sings with a clear soprano voice that shines through, beautiful and sweet and clean.

  One evening, after a storm that blew particularly thick and black, we gather—all of us dusty and worn, greeting one another with this strange sense of shame that plagues us. As is his habit, Russ greets each family at the door with a prayer of thanks for their deliverance. We look around, counting. I have Ariel and Ronnie by my side, and Pa, too, by this time, though only because Ariel insisted. As I hoped, his dependence upon us has brought forth a gentler man, as if he’s forgotten a measure of his former anger.

  A murmur comes up around us.

  “The Harris family? Have you seen them? Aren’t you neighbors?”

  “Must be running late,” I say, reassuring Merrilou Brown, who seems particularly concerned. “Rosalie has that baby, sometimes makes it tougher to get out of the house.”

  Cutting through the chatter, Kay walks silently to the front of the church, sending Russ back to sit with me, and she sings.

  “Come, thou fount of every blessing,

  tune my heart to sing thy grace;

  streams of mercy, never ceasing,

 
call for songs of loudest praise.”

  It is a hymn that has become our favorite of late, Rosalie’s especially, and the melody takes on a certain haunting quality that brings new urgency to my prayers.

  On the third verse, Ben Harris walks in. Without Rosalie, without his son, both of whom, he says, were out looking for the family dog that had jumped their fence before the storm hit.

  We all leap to our feet in one accord, poised to go find them, but he holds up his hand. They’ve been found already. By him, their mouths and lungs filled with dust. Drowned in it. And he’s brought them home, carrying each the mere fifty yards from their back door.

  The news strikes me dry. I tell myself to weep; my eyes sting with salt and grit, but there’s nothing left to pour down my face. I’ve been slowly evaporating for weeks now, since Jim siphoned the first bit of my essence through his kiss. I picture my very blood as something grainy, pouring through my veins like sand in an elongated hourglass. And this moment stretches long enough for a lifetime.

  Others, too, are similarly afflicted. Ben Harris, the man who has been alongside all of us in times of worship and praise and pain, stands in the doorway of our church, hat in hand, hair caked with Oklahoma soil, telling us of the discovery of his wife and child buried alive in the open air, and not a single tear is shed. Not on his part nor ours. We shuffle, we cough, until finally Merrilou Brown rises from her pew and goes to him. She, not much bigger than the boy he lost, opens her arms, and Ben Harris—a looming bear of a man—collapses within them, heaving great, dry sobs.

  Pa catches my eye above Ariel’s curls and motions for us to leave.

  “We can’t,” I whisper, though I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand the display. “Russ is the pastor.”

  “Well, the kids don’t need to see this.” Pa stands and scoops Ariel up with him. I look to Russ for his blessing, which he gives, silently, and usher Ronnie out of the pew.

  Others are leaving too, offering raspy condolences as they pass by. I stop long enough to put one hand on Merrilou Brown’s shoulder, the other on Ben’s, and whisper a brief “May Jesus grant you peace” before joining my father and my children on the church house steps.