I remember going to Jesus, believing—knowing—he could make me clean. I’d pray a confession about a boy I’d kissed, or a man I’d flirted with. I’d close my eyes and pray, asking forgiveness whenever I winked at a ranch hand or let some schoolmate take liberties with me behind the bleachers. And I’d feel better, for a time. Then Pa would give me a look. He’d sneer and sniff, ask pestering questions about where I’d been so late at night, even if I was at the library. I’d learned in Sunday school that God is faithful and just to forgive our sins. I can still recite the verse, 1 John 1:9: “If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just to forgive us our sins, and to cleanse us from all unrighteousness.” But it was hard to feel clean whenever Pa looked at me like that. He always said nothing was a truth unless two people saw it. Even if I saw myself as clean, he never would, so I couldn’t believe it to be so. I always felt dirty, and Pa made me believe that I was. And here I am, bringing up all of those old, buried stains again.
Should’ve been me instead of poor Rosalie Harris, and Jim in the place of her boy. If God has to take two lives, if that’s the sacrifice it takes for him to lift the curse Pa claims this to be, why take such innocents? Why not the two of us, lashed back-to-back with sin?
Russ is a good man—a handsome man too, far more than moonfaced Ben. Every woman named as a candidate to be the next Mrs. Harris would likely jump at the chance to be the next Mrs. Merrill. And any woman alive would be a better mother. Seems like I’ve been going about it wrong since the beginning. There wasn’t any planning in the first child. Not even a marriage when Ronnie was at his tiniest. Then losing one baby, and the next, made me wonder if God ever meant for me to be a mother at all. Like he kept taking them away, hoping I’d leave the idea alone. Which I do, for stretches of time, until the instinct comes on in a rush. I look at my children sometimes and remind myself, These are mine, and I feel equal parts frightened and reassured.
I stand useless at the kitchen sink where I’ve had my hair shampooed countless times. The thought of it puts me in a familiar state of reverie, to be interrupted by the appearance of Merrilou Brown.
“You’re awfully quiet this afternoon, Denola. That little kitten got your tongue?”
My smile is tight-lipped at first, keeping guard over my mouth until I can conjure the perfect reply. “I don’t think anybody who’s been to my house would cherish my advice on how best to keep it.”
This seems to satisfy her, and she climbs back onto her stool to wipe down the shelving paper on the kitchen cabinets, leaving me to wonder how she knows we’ve acquired a kitten. Little Barney has never been allowed outside, and Mrs. Brown has never been invited upstairs. The thought gnaws at me so, I stand beside her, the two of us eye level for once.
“You’ve seen our kitten?”
“Oh, not exactly.” She hands me the damp cloth and, without being asked, I wipe the upper shelf. “But my little Luther has gotten to barkin’ when we walk past.”
“Smart dog.”
She smiles and touches the tip of her nose. “Between his nose and this one? Not much happens in this place that I don’t know about.”
I begin to hand Merrilou the newly washed dishes to place back in the cabinet, and she furrows her brow. “We’re going to need more plates. This poor woman didn’t have but six, and none of them matching.” She turns to me. “Seems like you’re always gathering them up at the tag sales.”
She’s right; I am. Though most of them have been handed off to my father after our Sunday suppers. For all I know they’re stacked two feet high under his kitchen sink, but the very thought of that sink, and the last time I was there, and Jim’s touch, his kiss—
“I’ll see what I have,” I say, thankful for an excuse to leave.
“Yes, go!” Merrilou is shooing me now, her entire face crinkled in concern. “You look like you need to get some air. The smell of Lysol gets to me that way too, sometimes.”
Muttering good-byes and apologies, I stumble from the overcrowded, overclean little house and out into what was once a neat, tidy, postage-stamp-size yard. I remember the sounds of Rosalie’s son playing outside while I waited for my curls to set. Like a vivid dream I can see him, a towheaded boy playing on a bright-green patch of grass under a perfect blue sky in front of his pristine white house. Now, looking up and down the street, everything is the same shade of dull brown. As if the entire neighborhood has been covered with a giant sheet of dirty canvas. Only the sky retains its hue, and I suppose that should be our sign of hope, except a clear sky means no rain, and we all are in desperate need of its cleansing.
The walk from the Harris home to ours takes me past the church, where I know another team of women is wiping down the pews and sweeping the floors in preparation for tomorrow’s service. I would much rather have been a part of that contingent, but Russ told me long ago that it makes people uncomfortable to see the pastor’s wife thus employed.
“You should have higher responsibilities,” he’d said. Leading Bible study, or prayer circles, or teaching the children. But I’ve never done any of that. In our earliest married days, the women who were my elders would have burned the church to the ground before allowing me anywhere near such sacred endeavors, and in the years since, I’ve grown complacent with my diminished role. They love Russ; they tolerate me.
Behind the church is our small cemetery—one hundred or so markers surrounded by a short, iron fence. Often I wish we’d buried my mother here, if only to give me a slab of stone to talk to on those stretches of long, friendless days. When she died, of course, we had no idea my life would be in the little town of Featherling. I don’t even remember knowing about the town’s existence, it being one of those settlements that sprang up with the cost of wheat after the war.
Right inside the swinging gate, at the end of a winding stone path now obscured with dust, three stone benches and a trellis wall define the children’s corner. All of our infants, in tiny graves marked by simple crosses. I have two of them in there myself, each with its own tiny cross. There was a time when the trellises surrounding the children’s corner were sweet with roses and strong climbing vines. Before Ariel came along, I would leave Ronnie to the attentions of his father and come here to sit in the sweet-smelling shade and beg my babies’ forgiveness for denying them life. I prayed to God for one more chance, one more child, and I’d not ask for another—a promise I never shared with Russ. He wouldn’t approve.
“Faith is not a bargain,” he’d say. Or, “God wants our prayers, not our promises.”
But I’d given God both, and he gave me our daughter. I haven’t made a single promise since.
A canvas tent is pitched on the far north side, a sign that a fresh grave waits beneath, lest anyone accidentally stumble in. I shield my eyes against the brightness of the afternoon and notice a flurry of activity. My son is in the midst of it, along with a gaggle of boys from our congregation. What I witness, however, is not play. Instead, they move with an organized sense of purpose, an almost militaristic precision beyond their years.
Besides the relentless onslaught of dirt, the winds have brought legions of tumbleweeds into play. Dozens have ended their journey here, laying themselves to rest against the stone markers throughout the field, a perversion of the withered bouquets. A couple of the younger boys, probably the same age as the one who will be laid to rest here tomorrow, work to dislodge and carry them to where they’ve been aligned—piled up to make an unsightly, prickly wall along the far side of the cemetery fence. The boys, like Ronnie, wear their fathers’ oversize work gloves, and those too little to carry the bigger weeds roll them with all the solemn purpose of executioners. At the fence, a few work to contain the tumbleweeds in a somewhat-straight line. Others hack away at the dry ground, leaving a line of overturned earth between the weeds and the equally brown, dry grass.
I might not have recognized Ronnie right away if not for the way the sunlight brings out the peculiar tint of his hair. Dark like mine, but with the tint of Merrill ci
nnamon from his father. His face, like those of the other boys, is obscured by a white kerchief, and I can picture his eyes furrowed in concentration above it. My little man, the man Rosalie’s son will never grow to be. Never before have I felt such an intertwining of guilt and pride and fear.
The biggest boy, Clarence Wallis, I know only from following Russ’s disapproving glare nearly every Sunday morning. The undeniable leader in labor and mischief, his muffled voice carries as he orders the boys to drench the earth with water from the dozen buckets—carried from who knows where—waiting on the side. They obey, adjusting their sloshing at his intermittent instruction. Then, after the boys take a single, collective step away, my Ronnie strikes a match, touches it to a long-handled torch, and hands the torch to Clarence, who in turn ignites the first of the tumbleweeds along the fence.
I hear the crackle of the fire before I see the flame. On either side, two boys stand holding between them a blanket, heavy and dark with water, meant to be a deterrent should the flames decide to jump the muddy path and devour the dry grasses that protect our dead.
My throat burns with warning. He is but a child, after all. They all are. And my eyes burn with tears—not from the acrid tendrils of smoke beginning to drift my way, but from the thought of our children being given over to such a task.
A slight shift in the wind lifts the corner of my skirt, and I bat it down, mindful of how such a little thing could pick up the smallest spark. I know the fire is louder at its source, and my words will never carry. Still, I cup my hands around my mouth to shout, “Be careful, boys!”
It captures Ronnie’s attention, and he lifts his arm to wave.
I wave back, shouting again, “Be careful!”
He sends back a gesture of assurance before returning his attention to the growing fire, and I know I’ve been dismissed.
Back home, Russ has a sign in the shop window: CLOSED DUE TO DEATH IN THE FAMILY. I know that’s how he feels. Every soul who ever sat in our pews is as important to him as his own people. Perhaps because he has no more than a few cousins scattered around the panhandle to call his own, and I haven’t given him much more.
Wearily, I climb the steps up to our apartment and open the door. A thin wall of music greets me, followed by Ariel, wild curls flying, bounding into my arms.
“Paw-Paw made a toy for Barney!” She brandishes a long, thin twig with a length of string tied at one end. From it dangles a jumble of frayed scraps of cloth. “Watch!” She whips it like a wagon master, bringing the kitten to perform all manner of acrobatics in an attempt to capture the elusive prey. “Paw-Paw says this is how she’ll learn to hunt.”
“Indeed.” I look around the room. “Where is your paw-paw?”
She remains absorbed in the kitten’s antics. “Downstairs. He says that’s where he lives now. And that’s where he’s a-stayin’.”
“And he left you up here all alone?”
“No. I was playing in the store and saw you through the window. Didn’t you see me? I waved.” Her words hold no hurt or accusation, and I accept my shortcoming and move on.
“Did he fix you any lunch?”
“No.”
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes.”
“Run downstairs and ask if he’s hungry too.”
“But I’m playing.”
“Take Barney with you.”
Satisfied, she picks up the kitten and tucks it against her side. I search the cabinets and icebox for something small and suitable. We have a few slices of baloney, and in the bread box, half a dozen of Merrilou Brown’s yeast rolls. Both would be best saved for supper, especially if I fry up the baloney with eggs. For lunch, a can of soup—cream of celery, Pa’s favorite—and a stack of buttered crackers. I open the can, dump the contents in my smaller saucepan, add water, and stir, nibbling on a single cracker throughout each step.
I suppose the thought has been niggling at the corner of my mind since Merrilou voiced it, but when I open my cabinet to take out two shallow bowls, it hits me again.
“Plates.” I speak the word aloud, giving it legitimacy.
I bring a spoonful of soup to touch my bottom lip, testing its warmth. Satisfied, I add a bit of precious cream and a dash of black pepper before pouring it, steaming, into the bowls and calling Pa and Ariel up for lunch. They appear together, a most unlikely pairing, but her presence at his side softens my heart. It is the first my father and I have seen of each other since yesterday’s ugliness, and if nothing else, my baby girl serves as a buffer against any repeat of the conversation.
“Lunch is on.” I accompany my announcement with a grand gesture.
“You eating?” Pa seems almost concerned.
“I’ve already had mine. You two eat up, I have a short errand to run.”
Before there can be any questions, I go back into our bedroom and shut the door. No, I change my plan and dash across the hall into the bathroom. Bending over the sink, I ruthlessly run a brush through my hair, attacking it from all angles, and shake my head for good measure, hoping to dislodge any particle of dirt that might be clinging there. The resulting dust proves my efforts fruitful, and when I stand straight again, the wild mass of dark waves makes me look every bit the savage my father claims me to be. Running warm water in the sink, I wash my face, rinse it, and wash again, scrubbing until I’ve coaxed a bit of pink into my cheeks. Instead of drying my hands, I run them damp through my hair, smoothing it into a gentler version of itself. The calm visage of the woman in the mirror does not match the woman whose hands clutch at the basin.
“You need the plates,” I say to her, and she speaks back to me. “You need the plates.”
In my bedroom I strip off my apron, only to discover my housedress bears the telltale scorchings of my ineptitude. With shaking fingers, I unbutton it, let it drop to the floor, and toss it into the hamper with the apron. From experience I know I have a ring of dirt around the back of my neck, as well as at that place where my collar meets my throat, so it’s back across to the bathroom, back to the sink. More water, more soap. This time, something with a sweeter scent, and a dusting of powder to follow.
Ariel calls out as I am midstep in the hallway. “Are you all right, Mama?”
“Yes, baby.” I step through my bedroom door. “Just washing up.”
From my closet I pull a clean, pressed dress. Just a housedress, its fabric soft and thin from years of laundering. It wraps around my body with a sash that ties at the waist. A dab of cream from my pretty pink jar brings life to the dullness of my skin, and after a moment’s hesitation, I sit at my mirror to apply color to my lips, then my cheeks. For balance, I lick the tip of my pencil and trace it lightly around my eyes.
I grab a handbag, pull a hat on—low—take a deep breath, and attempt a sprint past the kitchen and out the door, breezing a promise to be back soon.
“Where you goin’?” Pa’s question reins me back.
I don’t turn around. “An errand. Something we need for tomorrow.”
“What do you need, ’xactly?”
My hand grips the door in defiance. How can he possibly know? “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Pa.”
“Take the girl with you. I didn’t sign on to be a nanny here.”
Now I do turn around, and Ariel’s face lights up. “You look pretty, Mama.”
Pa’s eyes narrow. “Maybe she should get herself dolled up too.”
“I won’t be long. If you don’t mind, wash up the dishes? Then Ariel can lie down for a rest. No problem at all. I should be back—” I glance at the clock, but the face blurs, senseless. “I will be back. Probably not more than an hour.”
That would serve as my promise to return, even if the timing is a gross exaggeration. If I told Pa the truth, he’d guess my destination. For now I can fool myself into thinking I’ve fooled him.
Outside, I run down our steps, fearing somehow the force of my father’s suspicions might yank me back like the wobbling mass at the end of the string on Barne
y’s toy. Truth be told, I almost wish he would. I even slow my steps near the bottom, but nothing arises to impede my journey. Even Russ grants silent permission, having driven Ben’s car into Boise City, leaving ours parked in the alley at my disposal.
At the first turn, I see Ronnie walking away from a smoldering train of ashes. His face is black with smoke and half covered with the mask. He might be fresh from doing a man’s job, but he looks like a tired, hungry little boy—one who is about to track insurmountable dirt and soot on my floor.
I should stop the car, turn around, and go home. Make him strip in the shop and come upstairs straight to the shower while I make him a baloney sandwich on one of Merrilou’s fresh yeast rolls. It’s what Rosalie would have done—what any mother would do. At the corner I slow down, lower the window, and raise my hand to beckon him to me. The breeze fills the car with the scent of my perfume, mingling with the pungent odor of the burning weeds, and one desire trumps another.
With a wave, I shout the ingredients for lunch and orders for bathing. Then, with my window once again sealed against the smoke, I drive on.
CHAPTER 14
ONCE, MONTHS BEFORE, when we all lived with a lingering hope of rain and life, Pa showed up for Sunday dinner thirty minutes earlier than usual. He left at the same time. Drove at the same speed, but said it was the darndest thing. He couldn’t remember a bit of the drive. Said he set his mind to get where he was going, and just went. Didn’t recall a lick of the road.
I remember worrying, then. Sending him home with his plate of leftover food, watching his every step from the front window like I was the mother rather than the child.
“He’s getting old,” I told Russ. “It’s dangerous, having him out on the roads like that.”
Russ put a comforting arm across my shoulder as we watched. “He’s fine. It happens. Used to happen to me all the time driving back and forth from school to visit you.”
On Shifting Sand Page 14