“There certainly aren’t.”
“Come on over if you find the time.”
I smile my assurance and turn for home, this time going against the wind, making it impossible to keep up any kind of surveillance. Head bent, I watch my feet, glancing up only occasionally to register my progress. When I reach the shop, there he is, standing flat against the wall behind the stairs leading up to the apartment.
“Nola—”
“No.” I don’t even pause. I march right past, and up the stairs, and through my front door, closing it behind me and collapsing against it. My fingers shake as I unbutton my coat, and I have to slide the scarf off my head to untie its knot before draping it and the coat over the arm of the sofa. In the kitchen, I pour myself a cup of coffee, take one sip, and set it down to cool, drumming my fingers on the counter, the sound echoing in the empty apartment.
Maybe I should have accepted Merrilou’s offer of coffee and cake. That would occupy an hour, at least. I picture her tiny body fighting the wind, being blown through her front door, the perfectly clean house infused with the rich smell of the cake.
I wish Russ could be here in this moment. Maybe we might have gone together to spend a moment with the Browns. Or maybe I would have been inspired to bake my own cake from what few ingredients I have on hand—something for the two of us to share at the empty table in the morning light as we spend an hour in devotion. So simple. So small.
I tell myself I’ve changed my mind. That I would, after all, like to sit with the Browns and chat about what changes this new year might hold. If I were being honest with myself, I would take my coat and scarf, for though the walk to their front door is a short one, the wind still blows bitter cold, and both are waiting on the arm of the sofa. But there’s no honesty, even in my thoughts. I’m telling myself a lie, as I lied to Russ, my children, and my Lord. I walk down the dark inner stairs to the empty shop, itself cavernous and nearly black, as Russ boarded up the windows the day after Christmas. I’ve maneuvered in this place often enough, though in total absence of light, sneaking out of bed for stolen cigarettes.
Through the storeroom and to the door, my hand finding the latch near the top and sliding it across. Cake and coffee with the neighbors—it’s where I will go if I open the door to find the loading platform empty, the alley deserted, Jim nowhere in sight.
The door is open only for a fraction of a second before he is inside, giving me no time to protest even if I want to. A mere mention of daylight, and then it is dark. Pure dark, like night, and we welcome it like lovers, wordless at first, and mostly silent, save for ragged breath and staccato whispers.
“You let me in.”
“I shouldn’t have.”
“But you did.”
In response, I press myself closer to him and reach above for the latch, sliding it into place lest someone has witnessed his intrusion and would come to my rescue.
Nothing that follows matches the recklessness of that first morning. Every moment of the days that follow is cool, calculated. I walk Ariel to school, chat with Merrilou Brown, and rush home to find him waiting in the shop, where I’ve left the storeroom door open. On the second day, I lead him upstairs, and here we linger, too terrified to touch, though I make a careful study of his arm, cupping my hand over the scars at its abrupt end. Asking him to tell me, again, of the battle, the explosion that took it. The details of the pain. It pleases me, somehow, to know that he’s suffered, assures me that I don’t care too much for him. He answers, relaying the details with an air somewhere between heroism and humility, as if it were the course of any ordinary day.
Once, while the dust outside rages in a nearly solid wall of wind, I ask him if he thinks he’d be the same person if he hadn’t been so wounded.
“We are what we are, sweet Nola,” he says. “Ain’t nothin’ but death can change us.”
At the morning’s end I sweep him away, back into the alley, and I commence cleaning, mopping every step he took, stripping the bed, washing the coffee cup he pressed against his lips. I scrub my skin of his touch, so each day Ronnie and Ariel come home to a pink-skinned mother and a gleaming house, no matter what threatens on the other side.
Where Jim goes—where he stays, where he sleeps—once he leaves me, I don’t know. I don’t ask, for fear he’ll take it as some veiled invitation to lurk in the shadows of our home day and night.
From the beginning I knew the time would come—Thursday night—when I would have to hear my husband’s voice pressed to my ear in the Browns’ telephone nook. I suffer through a meal of fried pork chops and gravy, slicing tiny, dry bites and moving my fork from the meat to the potatoes and back again.
Merrilou chatters on about how much everybody misses having Russ in the pulpit, casting sweet, apologetic glances toward her husband. “I must say, I’m sure you’ll be happier than any of us to have him back of a Sunday.”
I swallow a bit of gristle whole and wash it down with water. “I will.”
“The way Mr. Brown and I putter around each other all day, I can’t imagine what it would be like not to have him underfoot.”
“Russ was rarely underfoot. Even before, there was always someone out there to draw him away from home.” I didn’t intend for my words to come across quite so bitter, but Merrilou’s recoil begs an apology. “I’m sorry. Yes, of course, it’s difficult having him so far away.”
“Almost like you’re a widow.”
Now it is my turn to take offense. “No, because I know he’s coming home. Week from Sunday he’ll be here.” I look at Mr. Brown and point my fork in mock accusation. “And you, sir, best be ready to step away from the pulpit.”
“Gladly,” he says. “It is a grave responsibility, spiritual leadership. Hard enough within the home, but for the house of God—it’s why we all admire Pastor Russ so much. He bears it with grace.”
“He deserves better.” Merrilou’s comment draws my attention.
“Better than what?”
“Better than us.”
The rest of the conversation centers around Ariel and her school musical and Ronnie’s aspirations to play baseball when he gets to high school, leaving me to retreat into supportive silence while Merrilou asks all the right questions and responds with appropriate enthusiasm to the answers. As we clear the plates, the phone jangles right at the designated time, and Mr. Brown suggests—as he does every week—that I answer it, “just in case it’s for you.”
Merrilou’s words ring in my ears as I approach, and his voice—handsome itself—calls me “darling” and turns my knees to water. I fall into the slat-backed chair, throat closed, unable to utter a word in my defense.
“Nola?” Crackling silence. “Nola, sweetheart, can you hear me?”
“Yes. I’m sorry. I was lost for a moment.”
“Well, don’t go too far. We haven’t got a lot of time together here.”
“I know.” But then I can’t think of a single other thing to say. I catch a glimpse of Ariel out of the corner of my eye and, with my hand over the mouthpiece, summon her over. Just as Russ embarks on a story about some heroic patient or another, I exclaim, “Oh! Here’s Ariel. She wants so badly to tell you about her musical at school.”
Without waiting for any acknowledgment or reply, I move the telephone stick to the edge of the table and give Ariel both the earpiece and the encouragement to talk, to relate every detail about the props, and Mrs. Patty’s piano playing, and what a horrible singer Bobby Fisher is, and how she will need a new white dress for the snowflake song, and new black shoes if she can, but Mrs. Patty said if everybody can’t have shiny shoes, they can wear socks instead, but then they won’t be able to make the clackity-clackity noise when they dance.
I watch the sand fall through the glass as she speaks, matching the pace of her words. Now, when I gently take the phone away after she says, “I love you too, Papa,” I have some conversation to cling to.
“She seems excited,” Russ says, chuckling.
“She is, indeed. Ha
rd to believe the show is still six weeks away.” I pause long enough for a new thought to come to life. “It’s on a Wednesday. Will you be able to be here?”
Silence, and then a sigh. “I can’t promise you that.”
“This is your daughter.”
“Nola, please. Don’t make me feel worse than I already do.”
I huddle myself deeper into the alcove, bringing my lips to nearly touch the receiver. “I’m afraid, Russ.”
“Darling, you know you’re not alone.”
“I’m afraid we might start to forget you. What if I—what if we—start to fill in your place?” I want him to be so afraid of the same thing that he will disappear from the other end of the line only to appear in our home by day’s end and save me from the sin I might commit in the morning. Instead, he speaks so softly I have to bury the earpiece in my hair and shut out the noise from the other side.
“I am trusting you, my wife, to make sure that doesn’t happen.”
CHAPTER 28
THE NEXT MORNING, I stay in bed, giving Ronnie the responsibility of getting himself and his sister off to school.
“Headache,” I claim from the shadows, and he doesn’t ask any questions. Once the door is shut, I turn over in the half dark and listen to the ticking of the clock. Uncurling from my ball of warmth, I stretch a leg over to the empty side of the bed, chilled by the coolness there.
He will be here in an hour, waiting for me downstairs. Miles away, my husband trusts me not to let him in. All my life, studying Scripture, I’ve heard that Satan is to be seen as a thief in the night, seeking to kill and destroy. My foe, however, poses a far more insidious threat. He comes in the day, the freshest part of the morning. And he comes to love, to worship me. Even knowing his evil intent, I open myself to him.
I hate myself for the battle that rages within. No godly woman would even consider it a choice whether or not to give her body and bed over to another man. How cruel it is for God to make me to be the wife of a man so dedicated to holy pursuits.
“You’ve ruined me,” Russ said after our first time together. Not with condemnation, but with a mild surprise at my ability to overpower our shared virginity. Then, after a long, loving summer, and a visit to a doctor in Boise City, I told him I was pregnant. And I begged him to forgive me.
“How can I forgive?” We were in our favorite place—the backseat of his car—taking in the moonlight and wheat fields while drinking cold Coca-Colas. “You didn’t sin against me. We were equal participants if I recall.”
“But will God forgive? Even after all this time?”
“Have you not asked him?”
I had, of course. We had, hands clasped on my front porch, even huddled together in the empty church. Together we’d confessed the sin of our flesh and asked Jesus to forgive, knowing and believing the power of his blood to wash us clean. But then a new moment of weakness, and we would sin again.
“Of course, but I don’t feel forgiven.”
“Because you—we—have never given that forgiveness a chance to take hold. Not when we keep—” He shifted away, gathering his thoughts in the process. “Faith sometimes means accepting God’s forgiveness as a fact. But then, to really understand, we need to repent. Turn aside.” He held my gaze, touching me in no other way. “Stop.”
It sounded like a line from a sermon, and probably would be someday, but in that moment it was meant just for me.
“Pa won’t forgive me. Nor you, and I don’t think he ever will.”
“We don’t need to put our faith in him, Nola. Did we sin? Yes. And there’s no changing that. But we can do better from this moment.”
I ran a finger along the cool green bottle. “The damage has been done.”
“No.” Russ grabbed my arm, giving me a new taste of his strength. “A child is not damage. It’s a gift. Like grace—something we don’t deserve, but given freely. I don’t have to forgive you, Nola. Nobody does, and Jesus already has. Both of us the same, and we start fresh, and from this day I’ll treat you the way I should have all along.”
Which he did. We did, not touching each other again until we made our vows to each other. Now, though, my sin is against Russ, and I don’t have his faith to guide me to mercy. I remember his words. Did I sin? Yes. Did I confess? Yes. And I must accept God’s forgiveness as a fact. But I’ve never given it a chance to renew my spirit. I’ve been adulterous with my mind and my body, never letting Jim far from my thoughts since the night I met him, and taking advantage of every opportunity for his attention, his conversation, his touch, and all.
But I can do better. And it will start at this moment.
With my robe wrapped tight around me and my feet left bare, I brave the ice-cold of the kitchen, stairs, and shop floor, maneuvering expertly through the dark storeroom and finding the latch. I move it slowly so as not to make a sound. If he wants me, he’ll have to knock. If I want him, I’ll have to open, but the barrier of that small metal bolt will give me a chance to do the right thing. It will be my strength.
Back upstairs, I resist the urge to take back to my bed. Instead, I start a pot of coffee, dress, and run a comb through my hair. Unlike the other mornings, I refuse to enhance myself in any way. My skin remains dull and dry, my cheeks sallow, my lips their own natural dark. No powder, no perfume. The woman staring back at me is not one waiting for her lover. She is a trusted wife, locked inside her house, dedicated to her home, protecting it from the lion bent on devouring her.
She needs a task for her wayward hands.
Outside, the wind blows hard, but clean. Perfect for washing, so I set about gathering linens and towels. In Ronnie’s room, I pick his clothes up carefully, so as not to shake them and send clouds of dirt into the room, already in need of a good swabbing. I drop the clothing in the tub to soak and take the linens to the kitchen, where I drag the Maytag from its place in the corner and attach the hose to the sink to watch it fill as I sip my coffee.
I glance at the clock—9:15. He should be here by now, waiting. Standing across the street, perhaps, watching for my return, wondering if I’ve been held up at the school, or in some conversation with Merrilou Brown at the crosswalk. More likely, he stands on our loading dock, gingerly trying to open the door, turning the knob and giving it a hesitant push, curious at the resistance.
The water rises in the white tub, and I pray for deliverance and strength. I flip the switch and watch the agitators spring to life, their sound filling the kitchen. Our bedsheet disappears beneath the water and I think, There. I cannot take a lover on a bare mattress. But I could, and I would, were I to open the door and find him on the other side. So I must not open the door.
Then Ariel’s sheet. Then Ronnie’s, and a cup of pure white soap flakes that dissolve the minute they hit the water. This is Ariel’s favorite part, and I’ll be sure to save some of the washing until the afternoon so she can share the excitement.
My stomach churns with the same intensity as the washer. Jim has lain within those very sheets with me. Now our mingled sin sloshes along beside the innocence of my children. How could I have brought him into our home? Not like Russ, with the welcoming arms of a friend and the heart of a Samaritan offering shelter to the wounded.
“God, forgive me,” I say, knowing my words are swallowed up by the overwhelming rhythm of the washer. “Protect me, and send him away. Keep him away, Lord.” I can make no promises on my own behalf, having no strength of my own and little evidence of God’s strength working through me. But if his hand can keep Russ at a distance, surely he can do the same with Jim? Pick him up and put him down. Let him ride the winds of a storm to some other place. Let him find another woman—
My heart clenches at the thought of his sharing another woman’s bed, but there is a reason I’ve never asked where he spends his afternoons. Or his nights. Or why he always smells of reliable Ivory soap and has clean clothes. Or why he is never hungry. All of these are the works of a woman. Not a squatter, not a hobo. A woman close by, maybe a woma
n I know.
“Oh, God—what a fool.” The same realization I came to after that first afternoon, and here I am no wiser than before.
A tiny sound rings out above the clangor of the washer, distinguished by its high, metallic tone, something I haven’t heard in weeks. The bell above the shop door downstairs. For all my confidence in the tiny metal bolt on the storeroom door, I forgot that he has a key to the shop.
No, no, no. Lord, please. No.
I measure his steps in my mind, crossing the store, up the stairs, his footfall muffled by the washer. Plunging my hands into the soapy water, I grab one of the sheets, occupying myself against his touch, feeding the fabric through the slow-turning wringer. I sense, rather than hear, the kitchen door open behind me, and my skin feels the weight of his steps ripple across the linoleum. Already, weakness threatens to overtake me, and when I feel his hand cupped against my waist, drawing me back toward him, I can only whimper, “You shouldn’t be here.”
He blows a hush against my neck, igniting my flesh, pulls me closer, and brings his other hand—
My heart stops. Russ.
And everything goes black.
“Not exactly the welcome home I was expecting.” I recognize the lightheartedness in his voice, though his eyes hold nothing but grave concern as he dabs at my forehead with a cool, damp cloth.
“You startled me is all.” I reach up to catch his hand and kiss that place on his wrist where his pulse runs warm. “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Who were you expecting?”
I can’t tell if he is joking or not, so I dodge the question entirely. “Why are you here?”
He helps me sit up against the arm of the couch, making sure I feel strong enough to do so, and comes to sit beside me.
“Last night, after I hung up the telephone, I kept hearing Ariel’s voice.”
I chuckle. “Believe me, I always hear Ariel’s voice.”
“Afterward, I was consumed with this longing to be home. Everything you’ve said to me came flooding back, and then it was your voice, not Ariel’s. I could hear you as clearly as if you were right next to me.”
On Shifting Sand Page 30