On Shifting Sand

by Allison Pittman

  “Your brother doesn’t need to buy Christmas gifts for our children.” I can tell the mere suggestion wounds Russ’s pride. There were, after all, a few gifts. A new paper doll book for Ariel, and a stack of Life magazines for Ronnie. Plus socks, and candy, and oranges.

  “And he said,” I continue, doling out the conversation the way we had the few trinkets on Christmas morning, “if I’d rather, I could set it aside. For whatever I want.”

  He draws up, sitting straight, and then inches away to see me in a better light. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

  “When we had a moment alone, I guess. There was so much excitement with the party, and then this . . .” I gesture vaguely at the space between us. “And I didn’t know how you’d feel about accepting money from him. From me, really. But it could change everything for us.”

  His brow furrows in confusion. “How much is it?”

  “One hundred dollars.”

  Russ appears to try to understand the amount one dollar at a time. “How is that possible?”

  “He’s a bachelor. He works for the government. All I know is he wants what’s best for us, and this money can make it happen. The children and I, we can load up in the car with you in a few days, find a little house, and just—start over.”

  I am clutching at him again, but he’s gone so hard and cold on me that I can’t grasp his flesh. His face has turned to stone, and his words crumble out of it.

  “I can provide for my family.”

  “Of course you can,” I say, trying hard not to let it sound like another lie.

  “He sent the money to you, not to me. Do whatever you want with it.”

  Russ stands up, and I think would shove me aside if we were on equal footing, or if he were a man to shove anything at all. He strides to the door, opens it, but I call out before he can leave.

  “What if I decide I want to spend it securing a little house in Boise City?”

  In response, he slams it, forceful enough to capture the children’s attention should they wonder if anything is amiss. Taking half the number of strides to return, he is back at my bedside and bent, his hands grasping my arms and pulling me toward him, impervious to my involuntary whimper of pain.

  “I am your husband.” His words come out in a storm of pain equal to my own.

  “I know.”

  “And for as long as you’ve been my wife, I’ve never been able to put the roof over your head.”

  “We have a roof.”

  “I didn’t earn it. It was given to me. Well, given to you.”

  “Inherited.” Even as I say as much, though, I see him slipping into another place. Pent-up resentments I thought were long past. A home in a place that was never supposed to be more than a refuge. An income based on the giving of others. Now, a job grown from an act of charity. All of this in a country determined to waste itself away beneath him.

  “I am tired,” he says, easing his grip, but not letting me go. “Tired of letting other men do what I should do myself.”

  And there it is, the oldest wound of all. His choice to be a man of God kept him from going to a war where men—friends—fought on foreign soil, taking their places where he would never stand. Killed there, or brought home maimed, like Jim. Others, though, like my brother, returned strong, resilient. In this moment, I don’t know which soldier Russ finds most offensive.

  “Greg only meant to help,” I whisper, hoping the softness of my voice will reach through and bring back my gentle, loving husband.

  “I know.” Now he is only touching me, but I do not move away. “Forgive me, won’t you?” Then he drops his head in prayer. “And forgive me, Father, for my anger. For my pride, and most of all, for not trusting you or acknowledging the blessings you have given to our family.”

  He opens his eyes to find me staring, in awe at his ability to so effortlessly confess and repent. Upon his amen we are restored, as he is restored to his Savior. I’ve never before felt such envy.

  “So what do you want us to do?”

  Russ leans forward and kisses me as softly as my question. “We’ll leave that up to God. Until then, tuck it away. Someplace safe. And pray that he makes his answer plain.”

  I put on the bravest smile I can and manage to hold it until he walks—slowly this time, sweetly—out the door after telling me to get some rest.

  There was talk about having a New Year’s Eve party much like the one we’d hosted at Christmas, but even though my body has restored itself to health, my spirit isn’t strong enough for a celebration. We sit around our radio and lift glasses of orange juice in a toast to the New Year before sending the children off to bed. Later, I lie in the crook of my husband’s arm, listening to some of the revelry outside. It is a cold but clear night, and he asks more than once if I wouldn’t like to put on my coat and muffler and join them, even for a moment.

  “Now, why should I want to do that when I have so few nights with this handsome man in my bed?”

  He holds me closer, which I like best, because it gives my mind a chance to wander. I haven’t seen a glimpse of Jim since Christmas Eve. Not that I’ve ventured much out of the house other than the obligatory visit to the Browns. But I have spent a good amount of time at the window, looking out into the street, even down into the alley. I even crept downstairs once to poke my nose into the storeroom, wondering if he hadn’t snuck into his old haunt as a means of escaping the cold.

  The old battle seizes me—hoping that he’s gone away for good, fear that he hasn’t, and something darker that wishes for one more sight. A glimpse, a touch, to definitively have a door to close at my own bidding.

  Despite our physical closeness in the waning hours of the year, there has been a decided distance between my husband and me since our conversation about the money Greg sent. We haven’t spoken of it much; indeed, what little conversation we did have was chilly, if kind and cordial. I’d be too ashamed to admit it in the moment, but a certain relief hovers as he packs his suitcase for his return to Boise City. The feeling is short-lived, however, when he informs me that he will be staying through the next four weekends in order to make up for the time he spent celebrating the holiday at home.

  “You didn’t tell me that,” I say, handing him a freshly ironed shirt.

  “I thought it was understood.”

  “So I’m trading a week with you for an entire month alone?”

  “It’ll pass.” He stuffs in the shirt along with the rest of his things and closes the suitcase lid. “I already wrote you a letter—left it on the kitchen table. And I’ll see if I can swing an extra phone call on Sunday afternoon.”

  “Speaking of, what about church?”

  “Mr. Brown’s going to fill in for me while I’m gone.”

  I hide my displeasure at the prospect by bending to work the latches his fingers tend to fumble. When I stand, he is there, and I kiss him, touching his face, now clean-shaven after a week’s worth of scruff. “We’ll miss you.”

  “Me, too.” He kisses me back. “But I think it might be good, this time apart. For me, anyway.”

  “How so?”

  “To think. And pray, of course. And see what the Lord would have us do.”

  Ariel comes barreling through the doorway, the ever-patient Barney clutched in her arms, but drops the cat in exchange for the bear hug offered by her father. He whispers what I know is a prayer over her mass of soft, red curls, and promises he will send letters written just to her, getting a promise in return that she will do the same. Ronnie comes in too, and it is an odd feeling to have the entire family gathered in our bedroom. I can’t remember the last time that happened. Even when I was sick in bed, Russ insisted the children come to visit one at a time, in order not to tire me.

  Russ disengages himself gently from Ariel and shakes Ronnie’s hand, eliciting the same promise he does every week, to take care of his mother and sister. In this moment, Ronnie needs only the slightest tilt of his head to meet his father’s eye. Someday, Russ wil
l return to find his son his equal.

  It is a particularly dirt-filled day, so we say our good-byes in the kitchen, watching him go from behind the shelter of the window. I linger long after Ariel and Ronnie drop away, willing my eyes to search up and down the street, but God himself has woven a curtain to block my view, keeping him out, keeping me in. I close my eyes and press my forehead against the glass, for once giving thanks for every driven grain of dust.

  CHAPTER 27

  BY THE THIRD MR. BROWN SUNDAY, the children are back in school, and Ariel is a permanent fixture in my bed. She sleeps restlessly beside me, and is usually up before the dawn, pestering me to make a double batch of Cream of Wheat for breakfast. Ronnie, on the other hand, is much less eager, and shows up to the table with his hair half-combed and his eyes half-open.

  This is one of the mornings when my temperament matches that of my son. I plait Ariel’s hair and tie the braids with wide, wine-colored ribbons, a Christmas gift from Merrilou Brown, but I myself am still not dressed. I convince Ronnie to walk her to school with the promise of mashed potatoes for lunch when he brings her home at noon.

  “With gravy?” He presents it as a nonnegotiable, but I’m forced to disappoint.

  “Sorry, Son. Don’t have the meat for that.”

  He makes a silly show of disappointment, but dutifully takes his sister’s hand and secures her mask before heading out the door.

  And then, total, utter quiet. This, I know, is the time Russ would expect me to pray, to listen for God’s voice. His direction. Were Russ here, we would be praying together, sitting at the table, our Bibles open, our hands joined. He would read and I would listen, passive in my understanding. Other than dutifully carrying it to Sunday service, I’ve rarely touched my Bible since coming home from the hospital. The words, it seems, fade in and out of my understanding, like a radio station just off the dial, and I imagine my prayers do much the same. I’ve learned it’s best to keep my head as empty as possible while busying my body with chores—cooking and cleaning—anything to keep me away from the windows. Off the street. Actively imprisoned to avoid temptation.

  I pour myself a second cup of coffee, promising to be less indulgent tomorrow, now that Russ is no longer here to share the pot with me, and carry it back to my bedroom—our bedroom—where my Bible waits on the nightstand beside the bed. I thumb the pages listlessly. I open it, run my hand across the words, wishing I could simply absorb the truth within.

  The light coming through the window is not sufficient for reading, and though it is half past nine, the room takes on the hue of some predawn hour. I move my Bible to rest on Russ’s pillow and crawl back between the covers.

  I awake to a room full of light, a cold cup of coffee, and a clock that reminds me the children will be home within minutes, expecting a meal I haven’t yet prepared. The Bible lies forgotten on Russ’s pillow as I scramble out of bed and run to the front of the house. A peek out the window reveals an empty street underneath what is turning into a clear, crisp day. The children haven’t been released from school yet, so I slice a potato thin and set a pot of water to boiling, hoping to fulfill my promise. I light the second burner for a can of tomato soup. The last of the bread is a hard, dry heel, which I cut into chunks to float in and soak up the soup.

  At each stage of the preparation, I go to the window, gauging my time not by the clock but by the sight of Featherling’s few children released for the walk home. The potatoes are fork-tender when they first appear, a dozen or so of varying ages and sizes. Most days, Ronnie likes to stay to have lunch with the farm kids, so I send him with a sack of butter sandwiches and an apple. Other times, when the relief food fills our pantry, I make a big meal and invite the boys into our home for slices of ham and green beans, Jell-O and molasses cookies. I’ve watched three days’ worth of food disappear into their eager, grateful mouths, ignoring their dirt-crusted hands and allowing Ariel to eat in her room so they have one less gaze to avoid.

  I see them, joined together in the midst of all the other children whose heads are bent low against the wind. Ronnie walks tall, his cap shoved so low that its bill nearly touches his nose. How he’s managed to keep it all this time I’ll never understand, except it is one of God’s small blessings I take a minute to acknowledge. He holds his sister’s hand, lending his weight to hers, and even from this distance I see that she is in animated conversation, her free hand gesticulating wildly as she grips a soon-to-be tattered school paper.

  Then I realize, with familiar frustration, neither wear their masks as I—along with every other mother—insist. Still dressed in my housecoat and with bare feet, I step through the front door and lean over the railing. Wind whips my hair into my eyes, and I feel the tiny pricks of grit against my face as I cup my hand around my mouth and shout, “Ariel! Ronnie! Your masks!”

  In their defense, none of the other kids seem to be wearing them either, and with the almost-clearness in the air, my admonition could be seen as a good-natured joke. In response, Ariel clamps her school paper across her mouth and nose, and Ronnie does the same with his cap, covering his face entirely, and casts his little sister’s arm in the role of a blind man’s cane, tapping out a pattern of steps.

  I laugh and turn to go inside, catching a glimpse of something familiar as I do. I should ignore it, go straight back to the kitchen to prepare lunch for my children, but even from across the street, in broad daylight, he—Jim—compels me. The distance does nothing to lessen my feeling of vulnerability. I clutch my robe, shift my feet against the grit, and take hold of my wayward hair, forcing it behind my ear. I hear Ronnie yell something about mashed potatoes, and I holler a response, all the while praying that Jim will step back, far enough to disappear from the street’s point of view. If Ronnie sees him, we’ll have a fourth at lunch, for he shares his father’s warm, innocent, inviting spirit.

  Locking my eyes with his, I give a shake of my head. No. Any neighbor peering out a window might have missed the communication, but I know he sees me in a more concentrated form than does any other person, and I trust my full message to come clear. Nowhere near my family.

  The day goes on as expected: Ariel’s down for a nap after her brother returns to school for his afternoon classes. I use that hour of solitude to clean the house in a way I haven’t since before Christmas, wiping away days’ worth of accumulated dust, enough to turn my wash water into brownish slush.

  Fruitless, endless, mindless labor. Wiping the insides of the windows with vinegar and water, knowing the other sides will retain their hardened film of dirt. Running a damp mop head over the floors, knowing the first body through the front door will not only leave tracks of soil, but particles will shake loose from their clothing, leaving a dusting like dry, tainted snow. We’ve all but given up on trying to protect our dishes, though Pa’s lingering spirit prompts me to take extra care with our drinking glasses.

  At some point, minutes before Ariel awakes, I consider sitting down, propping up my feet, maybe reading one of Ronnie’s Life magazines. But if I allow my body even a moment’s respite, I know exactly what I will do. The window again, face pressed against the newly clean glass. Looking, watching, assuring myself he wasn’t a vision.

  That night, I wash and set my hair. I’ve become quite adept since Rosalie’s passing, though it’s something I usually reserve for later in the week. For Russ. I don’t allow myself to acknowledge my motivation for doing so this evening. I twist and pin, refusing to look at myself in the process. Rising early in the morning, I coax it into shining waves and powder my face. My hand shakes as I apply a touch of lipstick, and later, too, when I add warm milk to the morning cereal, hoping to distract the children with this extra step of maternal care.

  Ronnie offers to walk Ariel to school, and I shoo him out to meet his friends for a round of catch before their first class. After buttoning Ariel into her coat, I button myself into mine and tie a bright silk scarf over my hair—an item I received from the Christmas party gift exchange.
/>   “You look beautiful, Mama,” Ariel says, beckoning me to bow low so she can touch the fabric.

  I give her chin a soft pinch. “So do you.”

  “Do I have to wear my mask?”

  “Tell you what. Wear your mittens, and while we’re walking outside, bring your hand up over your mouth. Like this.” I demonstrate, inhaling the scene of my hand cream. Ariel follows my example, prompting a “Good girl!” from me, and we proceed outside.

  Ariel chatters, her words muffled by her mitten, and I chime in with appropriate sounds at the slightest break in the stream. All the while, I keep my head in a constant arcing motion, looking between buildings, behind deadened trees, amid the silent parked cars.

  “Mama? Are you listening?”

  “Of course I am, dear. But tell me that last part again. What did Barney do?”

  “She poked her head up through the hole in the blanket and it looked like she was in the ocean!”

  I laugh because she does, agreeing that it must have been a silly sight indeed. By then we are at the corner where she’ll have to cross the street to go to school, and Merrilou Brown dutifully waits.

  “Why, Denola!” she exclaims, holding up her hand to stop the single farm truck lumbering toward the intersection. “Don’t you look spiffy today?”

  She says it without a hint of suspicion, and I resist the urge to be defensive.

  “I was feeling a little under the weather last week. I suppose I wanted to embrace my return to health.”

  She gestures for Ariel to walk—walk!—across the street as I wave good-bye.

  “Well, I’m glad you’re feeling better. Feel free to pop by for coffee later this morning. I have a sour cream cake in the oven now.”

  “Thank you, but I have some catching up to do on my housework.”

  “Not enough hours in the day for that, are there?”