He considers that for a moment. As he’s never had to answer to anyone since leaving home, I can understand his bluster.
“There’s something wrong, Nola. I can tell.”
“What can you tell? You haven’t laid eyes on me but half a dozen times since the wedding.”
“But I know you. You’ve always been so full of life. It’s the one thing Pa was always on you about. To calm down. Slow down. And I’m looking at you now—since I got here, actually. You look defeated.”
I glance pointedly at our father. “Looks like he won.”
“He’s not going to win. You can’t let him. I won’t let him. Nola, you’re stronger than that. You always have been, even though I’m not sure you can see it.”
I take another long, slow sip and rest my near-empty glass against my leg. “Can you keep a secret?”
“I work for the government,” he says, taking his turn to joke. “It’s what I do best.”
“I left him once.”
“Pa?”
I shake my head. “Russ. Just for a little while. For an afternoon.”
“Where’d you go?”
I stare at Pa, at the tiny stream of spittle coming from the corner of his mouth. “Nowhere.”
“Did you go alone?”
“No.” I barely say the word aloud, but the meaning rings clear between us, and Greg asks no more questions. “It’s taken a long time for me to come back. I almost didn’t—that’s why I had to go to the hospital. That’s why Russ has to work at the hospital: because I went away and took too long coming back. And sometimes, I have to wonder if I’m really here at all. The whole world, it seems, is blowing away around me. Nothing but dirt and wind. And Russ. And the kids, and Pa. And then, for a time—”
He takes my hand, his touch cold and clammy from the glass. “You’ve got me, too, Sis.”
“You’re too far away. You’re not a part of this.”
“I’m sorry about that, but I’m here now. Let me help.”
“How? And don’t tell me to pack up and leave, because that’s impossible. We have the store here, for whatever it’ll be. And the farm.”
“Sell it.”
His words come out with such finality, it seems the deed’s already done.
“We just paid the back taxes.”
He shrugs. “So? We’re going to buy farms all over the country.”
“But why? You won’t be able to grow anything. Land’s dead.”
“Land’s never dead. It’s just overworked. We can bring it back. Replant the grasslands, rotate the crops. It might take a while—years, maybe. Probably. But we can bring it back.”
“It’s not too late?”
“It’s never too late.”
“You know Pa’ll never go for that.”
“Then we won’t tell him. Not until we have to.”
We sit a little longer, until Barney’s appearance heralds Ariel’s arrival, her face pink from sleep and her hair askew. Pa chooses that moment, too, to open his eyes, and seems momentarily startled at his surroundings. I explain his change in venue after sending Ariel into the kitchen to fetch him the uneaten half of my sandwich and a fresh glass of tea, which she brings in, expertly balanced on a tray. Next, I’ve intended to send her out to call her brother home, but the sky has turned our view to a sepia tone, and I rely on Ronnie’s experience to get himself inside before the wind kicks itself into something dangerous. Sure enough, the bell downstairs sounds, followed by the familiar, healthy stomp of my son’s footsteps.
“Go wash up,” I order, without hardly giving him a glance.
“Yes, ma’am,” he complies without argument.
He’ll be hungry again, so I set about cooking a small pot of rice, to which I will add sugar and butter and cinnamon, and pour out the last of the cold milk into two clean cups. I offer Greg the same snack—like Mother used to make for us when we were children—but he declines. Pa, however, perks up at the mere mention of it, and I prepare a heaping cup for him, too.
As a special treat, I allow the children to eat in the front room with Pa, where they listen to the radio. Ariel takes full advantage of the privilege, allowing Barney to nibble bits of the warm rice off her spoon. When the comedy team on the radio tells a joke, she laughs along with her brother and grandfather, though it is clear she hasn’t understood. Greg and I laugh too, though I suspect more at the relief of seeing Pa so lucid and, possibly, happy.
“It’s a beautiful family,” Greg says.
“Thank you.” I go to the sink to rinse out the rice pot.
He follows. “I’m only going to ask you this one time.” His voice is so low, I barely hear it over the sound of running water. “What happened to him?”
Greg doesn’t need to know his name, let alone say it. Without a single glance away from my chore, I answer.
“You’d have to ask Pa. He took him away.”
I ask Pa too. Late at night, while the children sleep in their rooms—Uncle Greg in Ronnie’s bed, Ronnie on the floor. I lean in close, trying to catch him in the weakness of semisleep.
“Where is he, Pa? What did you do? Did you kill him?”
But I get only garbled sounds in response.
By Thursday it is clear that Pa is bad. Worse. His breathing labored, his fever rolling and breaking. We can hear his wheezing above the wind, throughout the house, and there is no way to describe what spews forth during his fits of coughing.
“We need to take him to the hospital, Greg. It’s time.”
“Nola . . .” And nothing else. No other words needed. There will be no drive to the hospital. There is nothing they can do.
Russ arrives in the wee hours of the next morning, bringing with him a small, brown paper bag from which he pulls a glass bottle that looks minuscule in his large, strong hand.
“Morphine,” he says, following with the doctor’s instructions for how many drops to administer. “To help him sleep.”
“I don’t want him to sleep. I need more time.”
“We only have the time that God gives us.” These words, I am sure, have been uttered at the bedside of countless people in Featherling—old and young. In this moment, he is not my husband, not the son-in-law of this dying man, but a pastor. A man of God, versed in the gift of mercy.
He brings a chair out from the kitchen and positions it at Pa’s side. Folding one of the old man’s hands between his own, Russ bows in prayer. “Father God, we are here in your presence, ready to do your will.”
Pa’s eyelids flutter in the soft light of the lamp. In a voice thick with death he says, “You took my girl. Took her away.”
“Denola’s right here,” Russ replies, his voice gentle. He stretches out his other arm, beckoning me to his side. “I didn’t take her anywhere.”
“And we’re all of us payin’ for that sin.”
“Jesus paid the price for our sins, Lee. I know you believe that.”
“Jesus,” Pa says, his eyes tracking along the ceiling. Then he looks at Russ. “He tried to take her, you know. Wanted to take everything. He told me. Everything.”
I stand, breathless as my father, listening to him confess my sins.
“Nobody took her.” Russ has looped his arm around my hip and drawn me closer.
“I ain’t a good man,” Pa says.
“Of course you are.” I go to my knees, laying my brow on the sheet next to his arm. “Everything you’ve ever done, it was all to protect me. And I’m here.”
Pa pulls his hand free of Russ’s grip and touches my face. “You look like your ma.”
I press his hand closer, turn my face to kiss his palm. “You’ve always said so.”
“I loved your mother.”
After that, there’s no need to administer drops to help him sleep. There are seven more shuddering breaths, and my father’s spirit is swept away.
CHAPTER 23
IN HIS OBITUARY, Pa is described as a successful Oklahoma rancher, survived by a son, a daughter, and two grandchildren.
It runs five lines in a narrow column and is wired to every newspaper within a hundred miles. Greg and I both know only of the existence of distant cousins, practically nameless, from scattered comments throughout our childhood. Where they live—if they live—is as much a mystery as the details of their connection to our family. Neither of us have any reason to think long-lost kin will show up for Pa’s funeral. Still, Greg says, we need to post the notice of his passing, lest anyone wants to lay claim to what is left of Pa’s estate. Any legitimate heirs, and we won’t be able to sell the land for whatever pittance the government is willing to give.
Greg explains all of this to me while I work an iron over Pa’s best shirt. Russ is out taking care of the burial arrangements, and the children are downstairs in the shop helping Mrs. Brown prepare it for tomorrow’s reception.
“None of this would be necessary if Pa had left a decent will,” Greg says. “We could sell it tomorrow.”
“I don’t know that he ever intended to die.”
“You don’t think he might have one out at the house?”
I sprinkle starch along the sleeve. “Could be.”
“We need to go out there to look.”
The iron hisses against the fabric. “You don’t want to go out there, Greg.”
“Sounds more like you don’t want to.”
“You’re right. I don’t.” I drape the shirt over the back of the chair, a towel underneath and over to protect it from the dust.
“I understand if there are painful memories for you there,” Greg says. He’s taken on the task of shining Pa’s good shoes, and it occurs to me that the only people in this town with clean shoes are the ones in their graves.
“Do you?” I set the iron on its cooling plate and fold the board. “Because you were never around much after you got out.”
“I know. I should have been. I knew you had it rough there, but I couldn’t just take you, even if I wanted to. Remember, I was pretty young myself, and once I’d gotten away—”
“I understand. I wouldn’t have come back either.”
“I fought a war, Nola.”
“So did I. Against him.”
“And you survived. You got out. Maybe just not the way we planned.”
I brace my hands on my hips and look around the tiny room dominated by the bed, now stripped of its soiled linens. “And look how far I’ve come. I could have gone to college, you know.”
“Of course you could have.” No hint of condescension in my brother’s voice. “You’re brilliant.”
“That’s what I tried to tell him. Not that I was brilliant, but that I was smart. As smart as any boy. As smart as you.”
Greg gives a final buff of a shoe, then carries the pair over to where the rest of Pa’s burial clothes are laid out.
“That was your mistake, comparing yourself to me. He never forgave me for leaving.”
“No, he never forgave you for not coming back.”
“Look, I’m sorry.” He hugs me, and I let the weight of days fall against him. “I shouldn’t have stayed away. At least not from you. I should have done something. Fetched you myself if I had to, but Russ beat me to it.”
“Fetched,” I repeat, mimicking him. For the first moment since his arrival he sounds like his Oklahoma roots—something I’m sure he’s worked hard to erase.
He laughs, gives me a squeeze, and kisses the top of my head. “I always thought you were happy. Love, marriage, kids, home.”
“I am happy,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. “And there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a family of your own.”
“Someday.” His wistfulness matches mine. “But not here. I could never live here again.”
To say that Pa’s funeral is sparsely attended would do the occasion a kindness. As expected, no distant relatives make the journey, though they’d hardly have had time to do so, since we bury him a scant two days after his passing. With summer turning into fall, the frequency and violence of the winds is increasing, so we dare not waste a window of stillness to gather at the cemetery.
This morning, my brother, my husband, my children, the Browns, and a handful of the faithful from the church stand with us, including Ben Harris, who came to offer his condolences, having seen the notice in the scrap of a town where he and the baby now live with his parents.
Afterward, we set up the luncheon along the gleaming store counter, which seems almost disrespectful, as Pa always scorned the foodstuffs distributed from this place. There are sandwiches made from the government’s ham, pickles, a macaroni salad, and pie. A modest spread by any estimation, more so than I ever remember for a funeral. I know, however, that if it weren’t for these people’s loyalty to Russ, I would have buried my father alone. In that light, I attribute the frugality to the shortness of notice and the limitations of time.
As we all know one another, there is no need to stand in a formal receiving line, but I do meander throughout the room, reacquainting our church family with my brother. When they learn of his position in Washington, the room rings with questions: What’s to be done? Is there any relief in sight?
Greg, for his part, speaks reassuringly.
“They know,” he says over and over again. “They are watching, and they are listening. The best we can hope for is that God will send rain. But until that time, believe me, Congress is working to send ideas. And help, where they can. You pray; they’ll work.”
At every conversation, Russ is at my brother’s side, lending his particularly comforting presence, thereby endorsing Greg’s promises. Together, they make the same demand. Faith.
Under Russ’s watchful eye, I nibble at the corner of a sandwich throughout the afternoon, insisting that I want our guests to have their fill before I indulge in more. By the time everybody leaves, the trays are largely empty. I allow Ariel to take scraps of ham upstairs to feed Barney, and tell Ronnie he can listen to as much of the radio tonight as he wishes, leaving Russ, Greg, and me in the empty store, picking at the rest of the feast’s remains.
“Good people here,” Greg says, glancing around the room, admiring the ghosts.
“The best,” Russ says. “I wish you could have seen this place five, six years ago. It was a thriving place.”
“I remember working here sometimes when I was a kid. You remember that, Nola?”
I pick at the crust of my sandwich. “I do. And I hated it. But I think back to how forward-thinking Uncle Glen was, letting a girl work here at all. If I recall, he never even wanted us to have the vote.”
There is a brief moment of levity before Russ clears his throat. “I haven’t had the chance yet, Greg, to tell you how sorry I am that this place—”
Greg holds up his hand, deflecting any further apology. “Look around you, Russ. Can’t even keep a chicken alive here, let alone a business. Now, I’ve been telling Nola, and I’ll tell you, too. You all have got to pull up stakes and get out of here.”
“Greg, please,” I interject. “This isn’t the time.”
“It’s the perfect time. You’ve got nothing holding you here. It’s time to save your family.”
Russ’s face remains a placid field. He will not take umbrage with what Greg said, but I know my brother is sowing his protests in rocky soil.
“My church is holding me here. And now, my work at the hospital.”
“Nola says that’s temporary.”
“It was,” Russ says. And now he looks away.
“Was?”
“Darling, I didn’t think this was the right time to tell you, but since it’s come up . . .” He casts a meaningful gaze—almost a glare—at Greg, then turns his body to block him out. “Earlier this week, before we knew about your father, the director called me in. They want to hire me on full-time. I’ll start drawing a paycheck after the hospital bill is paid off.”
I give myself a moment to recover from the feeling of betrayal at having to learn the news in this fashion, not to mention that Russ has obviously accepted the position without
even consulting me. A job. In the city. Maybe not a city, exactly, but a town. With schools and a library and a movie theater.
“Oh, Russ!” I wrap my arms around him, unashamed of such a display in front of my brother. “I’ll need a few days to pack up some things from Pa’s place, and maybe we can store them here, depending on how large a house we can find.”
“Nola—”
“Oh, I know it won’t be anything grand at first. We can find something small for now. I don’t mind. But think—a salary.” I glance at Greg and notice immediately that he does not share my enthusiasm.
“I’ll leave the two of you to hash this out,” he says, grabbing one more sandwich. “Think I’ll go upstairs and see if either of your children are interested in beating their uncle at a game of checkers.”
Russ waits until he leaves before speaking. “We can’t do anything right away, Nola. Right now things are the same as they’ve always been. I won’t draw a salary for a while yet, and even then, it won’t be enough to start up a new household.”
“So what will we do?”
“Exactly what we’ve been doing. For a while longer.”
“How much longer?”
He breaks a little then and rubs his hand across his face, the way he does when we find ourselves venturing into a conversation he never intended to have. “Until God tells me, clearly, that it’s time to leave this place. To leave this church.”
“It’s not enough that you hear me?” My question rages thick with accusation, but he does not back down in the face of it.
“No, of course not. We can’t rely on our own wisdom; you know that. We are to trust in the Lord with all our hearts, and lean not on our own understanding.”
Now he accuses me, even if unknowingly, and I wither. “I do trust God.”
“Do you? You didn’t rest five seconds with this possibility before launching into plans. No prayer, no consideration, just a leap into what you desire.”
“You make it sound as if I haven’t been desiring this all my life, Russ. Have you thought that maybe God took my father away right at this time to free both of us up from our obligations here? And to give us somewhere to go?”
On Shifting Sand Page 25