On Shifting Sand

by Allison Pittman

  I’d leaned myself back against him, not only feeling safe, but somehow thinking that my safety would cover my father, too.

  This afternoon, as the dust rolls behind me on the drive to Pa’s house, I don’t feel safe at all. I sit ramrod straight in the seat, hands gripping the wheel, my head filled with a fuzzy image of my mission. The plates, at least two dozen of them, stacked and irregular. A noble mission, to feed our church family as they gather around these wounded souls. I don’t consider my actions as anything but innocent and noble. And if I encounter Jim, what better opportunity to let him know that what transpired between us the last time I visited must never happen again.

  If I encounter him.

  The deepest part of my mind wrestles with the possibility that he might have left. That’s what drifters do, isn’t it? Over and over since that afternoon, I’ve imagined the scenario wherein he delves into his belongings, looking for the photograph, only to find it missing. And he would know. The missing picture speaks of my intentions more powerfully than I could ever hope to.

  “Go away.”

  “You shouldn’t have come.”

  Still, in case there is any doubt, I want to give him that message myself. So he can look at me, straight in the eye, and know. I pray that God will give me the strength to tell him.

  The car barrels along, seemingly on its own power. No, not its own. Mine, but nothing of my feet or hands. Something at the core of me compels it forward. Like I could let go, close my eyes, and safely arrive at my father’s house.

  Slowing at the gate to his property, it seems like such a phenomenon has taken place. As I get out of the car to open the gate, a gust of wind comes on strong enough to nearly knock me off balance. But the sky is cloudless and clear in all directions. Once I’ve driven to the other side, I get out again to close and latch the gate behind me. No reason. Stalling, I suppose. Or forcing myself to carry through with my errand.

  On the slow drive up to the house, I rehearse everything I want to say. About the funeral and the supper and the plates. If I say only that and nothing more, I will escape.

  Pa’s truck is still there, though it looks like it has been moved. The sight of it brings a new knot to my stomach. He is here, unless he left without the truck. But the upstairs windows are open, as is the front door, and I wrestle with the conundrum of whether or not I will knock on what used to be my own screen door.

  Turns out I don’t have to worry about such a thing, because the sound of the car’s engine brings him out from behind the house. I go cold at this sight of him, the kind of burning cold that happens when you hold a piece of ice too long. He is shirtless, his skin burned browner than I would have imagined, testifying to the hours he must have spent out here in thankless toil. It is the first opportunity I have to get any kind of look at the true nature of his injury. I’ve not let myself dwell on the matter of his amputation, seeing as he never has. Never have I felt pity, or revulsion, or anything beyond curiosity. Now I see his forearm tapered, the mass of scarring at its end. The bicep above is as full and defined as that of his other arm, a testament to his strength, I suppose.

  The way he looks at me, almost in challenge, frightens me, and I look away. I stare at the hands in my lap—my hands, though I feel no connection to them.

  What am I doing here?

  And then, my father’s voice. “What are you doin’ here, girl?”

  A knock on the car window makes me jump clear out of my skin. Daring to look, I see that he has put on a shirt, and that it is mostly buttoned and tucked in. He backs away, allowing room for me to open the door. He leans against the car, as if his weight alone can keep me there. “I didn’t think I’d see you again.”

  “But you stayed.”

  “Nowhere else to go.”

  I notice little things. Touches of paint, a new screen on the door, clean windows. “And you’ve been working?”

  He shrugs. “Nothing else to do. Come inside.”

  “I can’t stay.”

  “Can’t stay?” He tilts his head back, a smile spreading on his face as if he’s preparing to laugh at what I’ll say next. “Why are you here if you can’t stay?”

  “I didn’t come to see you.” Even as I speak, my words sound weak. “I came to get something. Some things, actually. From the kitchen.”

  “From the kitchen?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then—” he stretches his arm toward the porch—“you’ll need to come inside.”

  He turns and I follow, wordlessly, up the porch steps. Inside the front room, I notice the windows lined with twisted towels along the sills, remnants of protection from the previous storm based on the traces of dirt I can see in their folds. Once we reach the middle of the room, he invites me to sit, but I keep my ground, repeating again, “I can’t stay.”

  “Why are you here, Nola?”

  He says my name as if he has a right to it. I watch his throat because I dare not look at his face. His mouth.

  “What happened last time,” I say, not able to give it a name, “it can’t happen again.”

  “Then you shouldn’t have come.”

  I drag my eyes to meet his. “I need something.”

  “What do you need, Nola?” His meaning is inescapable. More than teasing, his voice carries treacherous flirtation, and I feel myself mired as if in a dream, unable to speak back to it. The scrubbed floors hold my feet, the soles of my shoes melted to it. My legs too heavy to run, my arms too heavy to lift, and my own reply so lodged in tempestuous desire I cannot trust my mouth to open.

  “Plates.” I speak the word without loosening my tongue.

  His body relaxes in humor. “Plates?”

  I nod tersely and charge past him, feeling him follow. I go to the first cabinet and pull it open, saying, “Are these clean?”

  “Yep.” He is behind me. “Anything special you’re looking for? Because I washed so many dishes here I felt like I was back working in the university cafeteria.”

  “Plates,” I repeat, realizing how simpleminded I must sound. “Stacks of them, from when I sent Pa home with Sunday suppers.”

  “Ah. Those.” He moves to the butcher-block table on the other side of the icebox. A curtain has been affixed to its edge, creating a hidden space beneath. This he pushes aside and pulls forth a wooden crate packed with straw, a myriad of colors and patterns poking through. “I kept findin’ this stuff everywhere. Some was too far past cleanin’, so I had to toss ’em. But there’s near forty here.” With surprisingly little effort, he hoists the crate onto the table. “Want me to carry it out to your car?”

  “That would be fine.” I fiddle with the sash of my dress, surprised to find my errand so soon ended. I need only take one step. Instead, “And then I think it would be best if you go.”

  He leans his elbow on the crate and looks at me. “Go where?”

  “Wherever you want. You’re obviously strong. You can work. My brother’s been telling me about a new opportunity, a chance to help—”

  “I don’t care what your brother says, Nola.”

  He is coming closer, moving with as much of a stride as the limited space of the kitchen will allow. If I don’t move, I’ll be trapped. I don’t move. Not much, anyway, just one panicked step to the left, and he stops.

  “I shouldn’t have come here.”

  “But you did. For a bunch of mismatched dishes.” His gaze challenges me.

  “There’s a funeral tomorrow.”

  Instantly he softens, taking the final step to bring him close enough to touch. Yet he doesn’t. “It’s not your father, is it?”

  “Oh, no.” Nerves, and a dutiful sense of relief, bring a weird bit of laughter to my reply. “Horrible story. A young woman in our church and her son, killed. Lost out in the last storm. Rosalie Harris?”

  He thinks for a moment. “I remember her. She was a nice woman.”

  “A good woman.” My eyes well with tears.

  Then his touch. On my shoulder, first, then my
neck, his thumb braced against my jaw. “Were you close friends?”

  “No. It’s just that—” I look into his eyes and know I’ve come to the moment I’ve been waiting for since that first night. That first storm. “I’m alive.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “And I’m not a good woman.”

  “I don’t care.”

  No argument. No confirmation. It’s exactly what I need to hear. I turn my face to bring his calloused palm against my lips, heedless of the dirt of my father’s farm. The salt of my tears mixes with the taste of my kiss before one of us—both of us, maybe—move, and there is no place left to go. He brings my mouth to his and kisses me without restraint. No nuance of control. His arms wrap around me in an imperfect embrace.

  Were I ripped away at this moment, dragged out of that house with a long hook, the way they do sometimes in the comedy shows, I don’t think I would be able to answer a single question about who I am, or how I’ve come to be there. Certainly I’ve forgotten that I am a married woman, bound to a man of God, mother of two children. Four, counting those in the grave. Neither do I know anything about the man to whom I am prepared to give my body. Not his name, nor his people, nor his intentions. I don’t know. I don’t care. I can testify only to being a woman who’s stepped into a storm, just like Rosalie, looking for something elusive and lost. What does it matter that I might die? Better I should than to wander, choked but not killed by my sin.

  I feel a tug, and the detached sensation of fabric being stretched against itself. My dress, wrapped around me, secured with a belt tied at my waist, and the knot’s been opened, my very dress threatening to open with it, and my senses return.

  “No.”

  But we both sense the weakness of the word, and neither heeds its portent. He responds with my name, and I stay silent. I’ve no right to refuse. I brought myself here. I chose this dress. If I’m to be true to myself, everything happening in this moment is a culmination of my design. Now my shoulder is bare, his hand at the hem of my slip, and all at once his intentions ring clear. The time has passed for weak denial.

  “Stop.” I speak the command to both of us, as I’m on the verge of my own explorations. Jim drops his touch and steps back, far enough to allow me to breathe. His eyes are trained on the floor.

  “I’ll carry them plates out to your car for you.” He never looks up. In two swift steps, he’s swept the crate up on one shoulder and leaves me to rewrap my dress, securing the knot much tighter than I did when I stood in front of my dressing mirror back home. My hat’s been knocked to the floor, and though I pick it up, I choose not to put it back on. It seems silly now. Formal and pretentious. Something I would wear to church.

  There’s nothing left in the day that would allow me a dignified exit, so I smooth my dress, ready to settle for a brisk walk through the front room, not stopping until I’m at the property gate. The host of my father’s house, however, waits at the front door.

  “I ain’t goin’ to apologize.” He says it with the finality of a farewell.

  “You don’t need to. I should have known better.”

  “An’ I think it’s best you don’t come out here again. Least not alone.”

  I bristle. “This was my home.”

  “Ain’t your home no more. Not goin’ to be nobody’s, once the bank takes it. I just been bidin’ my time, cleanin’ it up like it is.”

  He moves to the side, leaving enough room for me to pass by. I can see that he’s started the car for me; it rumbles in anticipation of escape.

  “Don’t come out here again. At least not alone.”

  I’m on the porch now, a strong wind pushing me to leave. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” I say—or at least, I start to say, because when I reach out to give him the smallest touch of gratitude, a shock of electricity explodes between us, sending my arm to ring with numbness up to the elbow.

  Together, we look to the west and see a wall of dust—dark, but distant.

  “Come back inside.” He risks another touch, but I pull away.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  I run down the steps and throw myself into the car, thankful for Jim’s foresight to have started the engine. Behind me, he is shouting, but I don’t look back. I’ll drive as far as I can—safely—then pull off the road if need be. But I cannot go back into that house.

  Already, bits of dirt are plinking against the windows, a sound teasingly similar to rain. I’ve come to the gate, faced with no choice but to get out of the car to open it. The hot gust makes me stumble in the effort, and another electric charge tickles the soles of my feet. Before driving through the gate, I struggle to open the trunk of the car where the lengths of heavy chain are waiting. Remembering Russ’s example, I pull them out so that the chains will drag along the road, grounding the vehicle against further shock.

  The dirt coats my bare legs like paint; the sound of my flapping skirt joins the wind. I hold my arm across my face, protecting my eyes and mouth from the sting. Mustering the last of this measure of strength, I manage to pull the car door open enough to wedge myself in, but midway through I hear my name.

  “Nola!”

  Jim’s followed me, clear out to the gate.

  “Get back to the house!”

  Turning, I see his form, imbalanced and incomplete. In a cruel reversal of time and space, he diminishes with each advancing step. Soon he is little more than a struggling shadow within darkness, and before I become the same, I’m folded into relative safety and shut the door. Even without the benefit of sight, I know an open road waits before me, and sometime after, a turn to the left, and with faith in God’s guidance, safe passage home. I find myself unable to release the brake to make the first, inching progress.

  There’s a jolt against the car. A grappling of a handle, a burst of air, and I’m not alone.

  “Don’t be a fool,” he says, without benefit of any pretense. “Change places with me and let me drive you back to the house while we still can.”

  But already, three blinks, and we’re encased in darkness. The sight of him, so covered in dust he looks to be made of sand, already a memory.

  “Too late now!” He’s shouting. “Turn off the car.”

  I still have said nothing, but I obey. At least I think I do, as there’s no diminishment in noise to indicate that the car’s engine has shut off. We are sealed in an imperfect shelter, bits of sand blowing in through minuscule cracks around the framing of the doors, polluting the necessary air.

  “Do you have water?” His voice is closer, so I know he’s leaning close.

  “Yes!” I turn and lean over into the backseat, trying to ignore the feel of my hip brushing against him, and blindly reach for the canteens I know await. Bringing them both to the front, I unscrew the cap off one and take a modest drink, relieved to dislodge the dirt accumulated in my mouth, even if it means swallowing it. I hold it out in Jim’s direction. “Drink?”

  It’s taken from me, but I keep my hands outstretched for its return.

  “Do you have any clean rags?” His question is sketchy and intermittent with the wind, and I don’t fully understand until he’s repeated it a second time. I know why he asks: we need to soak them in water and cover our mouths and noses, to keep hydrated and protected from breathing in the dust. For certain, I know I didn’t put any in the car at the start of this journey, and if there are scraps of anything lying around, I can’t vouch for their whereabouts or cleanliness.

  “No.” I keep my response simple and loud.

  His is the same. “My shirt!” The canteen is given over, and a new motion added to the car seat. Then, “Here!” and the garment is in my hand.

  Without any further instruction, I know what I am to do. I feel for the place where the sleeve attaches at the shoulder and tear, separating the two completely before ripping along the length of the sleeve, creating one long strip. Fumbling in the dark, I take the lid off the canteen once more and, careful not to spill any more than necessary, soak the
cloth before recapping it.

  “Here.” I hold out the wet cotton strip, and am preparing to rip off the second sleeve when he speaks. Too soft to be heard, and I ask him to say it again.

  “You’ll have to help me tie it. I can’t . . .”

  Of course. Never mind that he could shovel half of a farm out of a house, or upright a fence, or fix a door, or carry a crate on his shoulder. This he cannot do.

  I set the canteen down and inch toward him. The storm has stolen all our senses. I am blind to anything but darkness, hear nothing but the raging wind, smell only iron, taste only dryness. Touch is all that remains intact. Unable to see my hand, I reach it toward his face, and feel a sensorial flood when I find it. Nothing of the world around me, only him.

  A new wind buffets the car, and I am thrown toward him. He catches me as if I’ve fallen a great distance, pulls me closer without risk of protest. All I can think is that God has blocked the sun, denied me even the tiniest sliver of light. Turned his back, leaving me to cloak myself in sin. And like my dear friend, a wife and mother whose grave awaits, I bury myself. Alive.

  CHAPTER 15

  EVERY KISS, EVERY TOUCH—all of it utterly wordless. My mind releases its memories into my skin, and I relive each moment on the drive home. The storm left the roads miraculously clear, and I keep my eyes trained straight ahead. If there are stranded motorists, abandoned cars, or wandering souls, I see none. In fact, I have no recollection of the intervening miles between my father’s gate and the battered, hand-painted sign welcoming me to Featherling.

  An odd sight greets me as I creep up on the early outskirts of our town. Actually, starting about a mile outside of what we consider our territory, two or three cars are scattered beside the road. Not stranded, nor weighted down with chains, but parked. And now, beyond them, half a dozen people, marching straight out in a line. Searching. My heart leaps to my throat. Someone else is missing, and without rolling down my car’s window to hear their shouting, I know they are looking for me. None, however, bother to turn around to observe the dust-covered car driving straight between their ranks. I’m not so fortunate, however, to be ignored once I arrive in the town proper. Turning onto the first street, a scattering of familiar faces see me, registering what I take to be anything from relief to elation. They point and shout—to me and to each other. Men and women run out from alleys and storefronts, clutching the hands of their children.