My eyes flit from one face to the next, reaching their eyes, acknowledging their presence, but making no communication with my own. One woman stares with such incredulity that I fear I’ll run her over unless I offer a wave, which she returns. Hers is a slow, full-palmed response to the mere flicker of my wrist before I turn yet another corner, onto our street, where the white steeple of the church beckons at the end.
I’ve arrived at our congregation’s agreed-upon time, about three hours after the storm’s end, at which point I expect to see the parishioners walking with a singular purpose to gather in the pews for rejoicing and accounting. They are there in dutiful clusters, but wandering in every direction. Embracing one another, their faces awash with worry. Then Kay Lindstrom sees me. Her face turns rapturous, her eyes search the clear sky now darkened only by dusk.
One by one they find me, and soon are racing—staggering—toward the car. I force a smile, as if merely returning a greeting, and keep a slow, even speed, fearful to stop lest they all converge like two-legged tumbleweeds. With each turn of my tires, I realize I’ll eventually have to bring my cocoon to a stop, emerge, and expose myself to their elation. Their joy over the lost being found. Their questions about just where she has wandered.
But of course, theirs aren’t the questions I fear. Somewhere their leader, my husband, must be playing a part in the search. I want to scan the streets, looking, but every moment I avoid his eyes is a moment he can still love the woman he kissed this morning.
I pull around into the alley behind the shop, cut the engine, and rest my head against the steering wheel. Every breath taken since leaving this very spot hours before builds up and finds release in the long, muffled scream I wail into my clenched fist. I suck it back in, then out again, my teeth bearing down on my knuckles.
We’ve heard stories of people being picked up by storms—not the kind of late, but tornadoes, great violent cones of wind that rip across the land, tearing people from their homes and depositing them miles away. Sometimes crushed like rag dolls, but other times mercifully intact, only confused and unsure as to which world was real—the one they left, or the one they landed in. I have only a matter of minutes to decide which world I will live in when I open this car door.
I grip the handle and breathe in and out, wishing I could pray for strength. By now a semicircle of neighbors surrounds me, ready, no doubt, to shower me with attention and praise—relief that I’ve come home at all. Door open, one foot out, and then the swarm.
“We’ve been searching everywhere!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Somebody go find the pastor!”
Nobody, it turns out, has to go anywhere to find Russ. Steps away from the car, the crowd—those wanting to lay their hands on the wayward lamb—parts, and he is revealed. His skin ashen with worry and dust, he strides to me, taking me up and crushing me against his chest in one swift, smooth motion. At once the ground disappears from my feet as his two strong arms hold me aloft. I bury my face in that warm space between his shirt collar and his neck.
“I’m sorry.” It is all I manage to say. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” My lips move against his skin, and I taste the grit of dirt with each repetition.
He hushes me, holds me tighter, and plants kisses in my hair. I recognize his words as prayer, thanking God for my safe return. Thanking God for preserving our family. I listen, concealing my betrayal in silence. If I cannot voice my own prayer, even one of silent confession, then I must be content to ride along on those of my husband. He will be my strength until I am strong enough on my own.
My feet touch the ground. Russ grips my shoulders and steps away, drinking in the sight of me. He searches the top of my head, my disheveled clothing, my bare legs. Then back up to my face.
“Nola, darling. Where did you go?”
“Out. Out to Pa’s.”
“But why in heaven’s name—? We were all . . . all of us worried sick about you.”
“Plates.” That truth rolls out, seeming strong enough to stand alone. “For the dinner tomorrow. Merrilou said we needed—”
“Plates.” Russ’s brow furrows in something I don’t recognize. Displeasure, at the very least. “Why didn’t you say something before you left? You can’t take off like that.”
“I’m sorry.” The phrase sounds so much smaller in this utterance. “I told Pa I had an errand.”
“You didn’t say—” He stops, seeming to notice the crowd for the first time. There is a stir, and my Ariel emerges, calling for me and launching herself into my embrace as I stoop to catch her.
“We thought you were lost!” Her face, red and blotched with tears, presses hard against my cheek.
“Never lost,” I say, the words twisting up out of me. “Only away for a bit.”
“Don’t go away again. Promise me.”
I look up to see Russ with a new tightness in his jaw. Ronnie emerges from the crowd. My big boy with red-rimmed eyes has his hands plunged in his pockets and shoulders hunched. He goes to his father’s side, clearly angry with me for bringing him to the threshold of such emotion.
“I promise,” I say, relinquishing half of my grip to reach out to him. He takes my hand, uniting us. It is enough for now, and in affirmation, our neighbors and friends reward us with a smattering of applause, as if witnessing the final act in a staged melodrama. I stand upright, bringing my little girl up with me, and acknowledge them all with what I hope is a fitting smile of gratitude.
But then, in the center of the adulation, two faces refuse to smile back. One, of course, belongs to Ben Harris, who can only wait for such a blessed reunion with his wife on the other side of heaven. The other is my father’s.
Pa stands with his arms folded across his sunken chest, his narrowed gaze seeing straight through patches of my untold story. A certain chill runs down my neck, and I swallow against the soured bile in my throat.
“Come on,” Russ says, taking Ariel from me. “Let’s gather at the church.”
I take the first few steps, then reach for his sleeve, bringing him close.
“I can’t.” The mere thought of walking into the house of God, sitting on the pew where I hold my place as the wife of its leader, hearing my name echoed in prayers of thanksgiving fills me with a burden I can’t carry another step. Our gatherings are meant to hold an accounting of one another, to show that all are well, all restored. I am neither. I haven’t survived at all. The death of all I know to be good and faithful festers, threatening to burst and bleed in public confession.
“I understand.” The softness of Russ’s voice heaps salt. “Go home, clean up, and rest.”
All I can hear is the voice of Jesus, his words vocalized from the pulpit, saying to the adulterous woman at the well, “Go, and sin no more.” Release, if only for a short time. Sanctuary from prying, if well-meaning, eyes and potential inquisition.
I bow my head and manage to choke out a thank-you, followed by a final “I’m sorry,” before heading for the stairs leading up to the front door of our apartment. A tiny hand covers mine as I grip the railing before taking the first step.
“You’ll let us know if there’s anything we can do for you, won’t you, dearie?” Merrilou Brown’s sweet, smiling face, its creases highlighted with Oklahoma soil, sets a new fire to my steps.
I half worry that Pa will want to stay home with me, as he sometimes has to be cajoled into accompanying us to the after-storm meetings, but his heavy footstep does not follow. I slam the door behind me and push the latch. That moment, with my back against the door, the last of my strength leaves me, and I crumple to a heap. The very air within the walls pushes against me, restricting me to the few square feet of floor reserved for strangers and unwanted guests.
“Oh, God.” I bury the heels of my hands in my eyes, deep enough that the initial darkness turns into dancing bits of light. No other words come, so I simply plead his name over and over, waiting for some wash of mercy to take away the filth I’ve carried into my home. H
ow can I ask forgiveness for a sin so willingly committed? How do I claim repentance when, even now, were I to give half a breath to the memory, I’d long for his touch again? Still, I speak aloud to the empty room, “Forgive me, sweet Jesus,” and I wait for some sense of grace.
There is none.
Instead, I open my eyes to find the room has grown darker in these passing minutes, and I know it is a real possibility that Russ and the children might be home at any time, as he tries not to keep his people out much after dark. They mustn’t find me here, heaped upon the floor. I need time to think, time to compose my response to the inevitable questions. Where was I? How did I take shelter? Was I alone?
These, I know, might be the last minutes of my marriage.
Slowly, I rise to my feet. Leaving the door latched, I make my way through the parlor, running my finger over the surfaces covered with a fine layer of the afternoon’s onslaught. Tomorrow will be full to overflowing with Rosalie’s service. But the day after, I will take a rag and polish every piece of furniture, bringing it to a gleam bright enough to reflect the sun, should it choose to shine. Ariel will be charged with running a dry mop across the floors, Ronnie with beating the rugs. Russ can take Pa out for a drive—if the air seems safe—while I restore our home, the way I do after every storm. The never-ending battle of cleaning, reclaiming, restoring.
And then. Then. With everything in place, I will tell him. I will confess to my husband my weakness. I will tell him my sin, leaving no detail hidden, laying the blame solely on my head.
I went to him. To Jim, because I wanted to. And I was leaving. Really, truly, intending to leave, but then he got in the car, and the storm hit, and then, somehow, in the dark . . .
Even alone, I can’t bring myself to say the words. To think them. What we’d done in the dark. When I try, every sensation returns, bringing me back to that darkness. Reliving.
I need to hate him. More than that, I need to hate myself. Hate our sin. I need, somehow, to rid myself of it. A physical repentance, cleansing the memory of his touch. His kiss. Scraping away that layer so I can offer myself clean and whole to both my Lord and my husband.
I wander through the darkening house into our bathroom, where I instinctively reach for the switch that brings the bright, white light. Door closed, I slide the latch and begin to fill the tub with water hot enough to create an intimidating cloud of steam. I assemble necessities along the edge: nail brush, washcloth. A new bar of Ivory soap. My Drene shampoo, normally reserved for Saturday night.
I wipe the accumulating steam off the mirror and lean in close to study my face, certain there will be telling signs of betrayal. My lips still feel swollen from his kiss. My neck burns with the memory of his rough, unshaven face moving against it.
But nothing.
With shaking hands I untie my dress, letting it drop to a puddle on the floor. Undergarments follow. I dip one foot into the scalding water and watch the dirt float away from my skin. When I pull it out, a clear, clean line divides pink, scalded flesh from gritty brown. Already the bath is clouded, making it a fruitless endeavor to become truly clean from revisiting it. Still, I brave the pain and step over the edge, sitting down to bring the water level up above my waist. Dirt flees, turning the bath to the color of weak tea. My legs are bent, bringing my knees up like twin peaks of bony rock. I scoop water into my hair and feel something near to mud between my fingers.
Every inch of me burns. Fire and water combined, refining. Cleansing. Purging.
I remember what Greg said about the soil carrying the color of its home. I can’t say for sure what lands I wash away, but in the end my skin shines through, pure Oklahoma red.
When I stand, the water roils and laps above my ankles. I reach down and pull the metal stopper out of the drain and watch it swirl away, leaving a brown rim around the porcelain walls of the tub. I turn on the water again and pull the chain to bring it trickling from the showerhead.
Standing under the warm spring, I lather my hair with shampoo, trying to forget the feel of his fingers gripping the back of my head, pulling me into his kiss. I rub the bar of Ivory soap against the washcloth and scrub every inch of my skin, erasing his touch. And when I feel it still, I scrub again. Turning, I lift my face to the water, open my mouth, fill it. Spit, fill it again. Spit. By now the shower has turned cold, bringing with it a new sting more punishing than any heat.
I’ve been a fool.
I am an adulteress. I am nothing but a filthy, whorish wife. Everything my father suspected. Everything that lured my husband away from his original, sinless path. Rubbish. The ruination of this family, destroyed by my offense.
The shower, now nearly icy cold, threatens to take my breath, and with clumsy hands I twist the tap. The noises I make sound like the cries of some wounded animal as they echo off the walls of the tub. I never want to leave this hole. I cling to the sides wishing—only in the next breath—to die. To take my secrets straight to the seat of judgment. Spare Russ the necessity of passing his own.
But I cannot die. Not at this moment, anyway. Because somewhere, on the other side of the tub, on the other side of the bathroom door, I hear the voices of my family. My husband, my father, my children. They are still mine, and they are hungry.
CHAPTER 16
I SURVIVE THE REST OF THAT NIGHT by caring for my family—whipping up a late supper of eggs and biscuits before all of us collapse into stripped-down beds. I let Russ hold me, my cheek against his chest, rising and falling with his breath, until he falls asleep, and then I slip out and away. If Pa weren’t living in the storeroom, I might sneak out to the alley for a cigarette. A few are still stashed away under the cash register—a trick I learned from my uncle. Back in the good days, when the farmers were bringing in money like laundry in a rainstorm, he used to offer them a cigarette right before they paid for their purchases. A good smoke and conversation, and they might be persuaded to buy something else. Another ax blade, just in case. Or some new seeds for the wife’s garden. He kept the cigarettes in a long, flat box, laid out so the customers would know there was plenty to be had. More to smoke, more to buy.
Of course, by now they’d be stale. Like setting fire to paper and dust. And I’d made my promise.
I survive the next day only because we—meaning nearly everybody in town—gather for the Harris funeral. From the pulpit, Russ speaks of the strength it takes not to question God’s wisdom. His choices. I can feel eyes burning clear through me, turning my flesh to lace. Why did Rosalie drown in dirt while I sit here whole?
And her little boy.
“Always so hard to lose a child,” Russ says. “I’ve buried two of my own. And we look to God for answers, thinking such a thing will bring us peace. But his answer is always the same. . . .”
I don’t hear God’s answer. In truth, my mind drifts in and out through most of the service, and I have to be nudged by Ronnie when it’s time for us to rise and follow the procession to the graveside. Here, God shines down his mercy on that good woman and her little boy, granting us clear skies and a soft breeze.
Back at the Harris home, we feast on each other’s generosity. I pinch and nibble from Russ’s plate, and that only out of politeness to the women who have brought such bounty from their kitchens. Nobody can know how sickened I am to see the mismatched stack of plates at the head of the table, each having been carefully wiped down by a loving sister. I whisper in Ronnie’s ear to take double portions, giving to him what I cannot take. I keep a glass of water in my hand, making way to refill it whenever somebody seems intent on cornering me in conversation.
I endure their pitying looks. Their whispers about how she doesn’t look well at all. Too skinny, they say. And frightened because—poor thing—it could have been her.
More than once, Russ catches my eye from across the room and gives me an encouraging smile over the shoulder of one of his sheep. Any other time, I would have sidled up next to him, laid my hand on his arm, and made an excuse to go home. A headache. Or A
riel’s needing a nap. But this day, standing upright and alert, listening to a dozen distorted conversations, feeling my body turn into a knot within itself—all of it serves as a buffer between my sin of yesterday and the inevitable confession.
For the first time since our marriage, I don’t resent watching Russ minister to his people, healing their hurts while I nurse my own. Let them tell him of their troubles. The bills they can’t pay. The weakness they feel with every passing breath. Their hunger and hopelessness. Let them talk of a better life in California, or Texas. When I see him smile, I know he is listening to a story of the good old days, when the land was green, then gold, then moist and rich and brown. I watch women weep into his sleeve and more than one man poised to do the same. Others point dirty, gnarled fingers in his face. Accusing, almost, because our prayers aren’t enough. Our faith has faltered, somehow. These are the ones who still resent having a piano next to the pulpit.
Most, though—the women—stand calm and peaceful in the shadow of his strength.
They love him, and he loves them. Always before, that love left me off to the side, jealous of the time and attention it took from me. Today, though, it gives me comfort. Aren’t I a member of his flock as well as his wife? Don’t I deserve at least a measure of the grace he seems always ready to give to them?
After a time, my legs ready to give way, I spy poor Ben sitting alone on the threadbare sofa beneath the window. His precious little girl is in the arms of a well-meaning woman who cuddles and coos the poor thing in an effort to put in an early bid for mothering. Ben seems not to see or hear a thing, not of her nor me as I sit beside him, sliding in just ahead of another woman who approaches with a plate of food, probably in an effort to put in an early bid for marriage.
On Shifting Sand Page 16