CHAPTER 20

THE DRIVE FROM BOISE CITY takes us through what once was lush, thriving farmland. The first time I took this drive with Russ, we’d gone into town to see a Gloria Swanson film. Not that we didn’t have a theater in Featherling. We did —still do —but had we gone there, we couldn’t have held hands in the darkness, or snuck kisses to coincide with those of the lovers on the screen. On the drive home, the car open to the stars and the cool spring air, we took a turn off the main road, found a grove of trees in the middle of an empty field, and gave way to the passions of our youth.

“You remember that night?” Russ has never failed to mention it, all throughout our marriage, anytime we have occasion to pass by the turn. My response is to say we’d just seen Shifting Sands, and from there we launch into a narrative reliving all but the most lurid of details. Once, when Ronnie was about five years old, we had to bring the story to an abrupt end, and he’d bounced on the seat all the way home, demanding to know why he couldn’t go see the trees too. Russ told him that was something he’d do when he was a little older, and I punched his arm —hard —unable to imagine our little boy in such a clutch.

“Of course I remember,” I say. “We’d just seen Shifting Sands, and . . .”

The boastful beauty of the farmland has been turned to desert, nothing but drifts and dunes of soil, punctuated by the occasional half-buried fence post. Our grove —once hidden from the road by other vegetation —now stands stark on the horizon, leafless and barren as November.

“You were so —” It is his line to say I was beautiful, but he stops short. “Alluring, I think is the word. More than beautiful; I knew plenty of beautiful girls in my time. But you —like one of those sirens we learned about in Greek mythology. Even though you were right beside me in the car, I felt like you were leading me away.”

“To your doom?” I make my voice light, but I know —always have known —that I’d never given Russ any reason to feel like he’d taken advantage of my youthful innocence. We’d been innocent together, he perhaps more than I, and I’d offered him everything with our first kiss.

“Maybe. My downfall, at the very least. I knew that night I’d marry you.”

“Even if you didn’t have to?”

“I had to. Not because of the baby, but because —sin or not —you made me feel like a man. Like I was fulfilling what God wanted me to be. Like Solomon, or David. But I never wanted any other woman. Not before you, not since. Not ever.”

I close my eyes, reducing my world to the feel of my arm entwined with his and the motion of the car around me. I know I should say something like-minded in return, but every layer of silence entombs my sin all the deeper. Instead, I mutter, “I love you, Russ,” and then something about being eager to see the kids. Then I feign sleep, and within a mile or so, fall true to my slumber.

Though I’ve been gone from Featherling only a matter of days, I feel as if I’m returning to a place already long forgotten. It used to be that the drive home from Boise City meant passing by one farm after another, with bits of conversation about the families who lived on them —their latest tragedies and triumphs. On this day, conversation is rendered unnecessary. Dirt fields, abandoned houses, fences choked with tumbleweeds. In town, too, it seems more storefronts are boarded up, windows dark, shades drawn. Like life itself has been scraped up and taken away.

But then, as we park the car in front of our own emptied store, my little Ariel comes running down the stairs, wild, untamed curls flying.

“You’re home! You’re home! You’re home!” She shouts it first, as if alerting the remnants of the neighborhood, and repeats it with hot tears on my shoulder. Russ’s warnings about being careful, gentle, because Mama had been very, very sick go unheeded. She clings to me, demanding promises that I will never, ever go away from her again, and I make those promises with kisses trailing every inch of her sweet, wet face.

Pa and Ronnie are less enthusiastic in their welcoming. Ronnie stands at the foot of the stairs and offers me a cautious hug. Pa waits at the top and says his first words after I climb up to him.

“Had us all worried sick, you know.”

“I’m sorry.” I wait for him to step aside and allow me entrance to my own home.

One step over the threshold, and I long for the stark, impeccable cleanliness of the hospital. In my absence, a fine layer of dust has been invited to coat every surface, and accumulated dirt cushions my steps. The air is close and hot, smells of grease and unwashed clothes.

“I’m glad you were here to take care of the kids, Pa.” They, at least, appear to be in the same state of being as they were when I left. “I know that couldn’t have been easy for you.”

“They’s good kids,” he says in the tone I’ve learned to classify as praise.

I spend the rest of the afternoon trying to convince Russ that I am resting, even as I surreptitiously swipe a cleaning rag over every piece of furniture within reach. Tomorrow I’ll have Ronnie beat the rugs while I sweep the floors, but I have to resign myself to sleeping in grit-ridden sheets for this first night home.

Merrilou Brown shows up at the door with a covered dish of red beans and rice, a ritual I can only assume has repeated itself throughout the duration of my stay in the hospital. The minute she sets the dish on the table, I take her hands and whisper a fervent thanks.

“It’s nothing.” She twitches her little arms, but I hold on. “It was nice having little ones to cook for again.”

“Not just for the suppers.” I dart my eyes above her head to ensure a moment’s privacy. “Russ told me what you said. About your worries . . .”

“Oh, that.” This time she does break away. “I tried to warn you myself, you know.”

Her chastisement diminishes me. “I know.”

“And I’m afraid your nerves got the better of you.”

“You’re right.”

“But the good Lord has a way of bringing all of our darkness into light, doesn’t he?”

“He does.” My smile is no match for her sincerity, offering neither grace nor gratitude. “And you’re such a dear to bring supper, but I’m sure I’m up to the task after today.”

“It’ll be easier, I’m sure, once the surplus comes in.”

“Surplus?”

“Pastor Russ didn’t tell you? Well —” she gives my arm a quick, birdlike squeeze —“I’ll let him explain. I need to get back to Mr. Brown before he takes it upon himself to scorch the biscuits.”

She yodels a good-bye to Russ and the kids, and I fight back a tinge of jealousy at the warmth with which they —especially Ronnie —see her through the door. After a deep swallow of my pride, I summon everybody to the table, running a damp rag over each plate before setting it on the fresh cloth I spread down before Merrilou’s arrival.

“This glass clean?” Pa asks, inspecting it even as I hand it over. I wonder if he asked himself that same question during his years of living alone, or if he asked it of Merrilou Brown before sitting down to consume her supper, or if it is an inquiry reserved specially for me.

“Just rinsed it out, Pa.” The droplets still cling to the rim.

We gather and hold hands as Russ leads us in a blessing, thanking God for the restoration of health and family, while pleading for a restoration of our land. At his amen, I heap generous amounts of Merrilou’s food onto each plate, allotting a modest spoonful for myself.

“I’m still not quite up to solid food,” I say, answering Russ’s disapproving gaze. “I’ll have a glass of milk with it, though. And how about some canned peaches with cinnamon for dessert?”

Ariel wriggles delightedly in her chair at the idea, and I nibble two beans off my fork.

“What was Mrs. Brown saying about a surplus?” My question is directed to Russ, but it’s Pa who responds first with a disapproving snort and a muttered expletive directed at the government.

Russ ignores the emergent tirade. “Greg wrote to us about it a few months ago, remember?”

I shake my head. So much of what happened since that afternoon remains lost to a blur of survival and shame.

“The Agricultural Adjustment Administration —”

“Them ones what went and ruined good crops, took and slaughtered all for nothin’. Takin’ a man’s work and makin’ it straight into trash.”

Russ waits politely for Pa to finish before continuing. “Yes, there were some misguided decisions at the forefront. But now they’re bringing food to many of the towns hit hard.”

“Puttin’ good people on the dole, without them even wantin’ the charity.”

“Nobody has to take anything they don’t want,” Russ says, his patience now coming with noticeably more effort. “But I’m offering up the shop as a distribution center.” He turns to me. “I hope you don’t mind, Nola.”

None of his words make any sense, nor do Pa’s, and I feel myself on the verge of retreating into the familiar detached fuzziness of hunger and denial. “Why should I mind?” I fight my way back, hoping my questions will bring the missing clarity.

Pa undermines my effort. “Might be you’d mind turnin’ what used to be a thrivin’, self-made business into a breadline.”

“It’s not a breadline,” Russ says, speaking with the sharpness that only my father can provoke. He brings his voice to a place of gentle reason before continuing on. “I don’t know what they’ll have. It differs, I think, depending on what’s available and the greatness of need. I got a letter last week, asking if they could distribute from the church, but I know there’s a few who wouldn’t be comfortable going there, so I offered the shop. Put it to some good use.”

Pa keeps himself to mere noise, shoveling in a forkful of rice, his disapproval undaunted.

“I think it’s a fine idea,” I say, separating my own grains of rice on my plate. “And, Pa, you can stay upstairs if you’ve a mind to.” Then, to Russ, “What do we need to do?”

Before Russ can answer, Pa makes a show of cleaning the last of his plate and dropping his fork on the table. The suddenness of his action startles Ariel, who’s been following the conversation with her eyes held wide, but Ronnie seems not to notice anything at all.

“Been doin’ more’n any man should of dishes these last days.”

With that, he leaves, and nobody says a word until the sound of his footsteps down the stairs disappears. When it does, I lock eyes with Russ.

“When did you know about this?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and looks to Ronnie for confirmation. “A few weeks ago?”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Again, Ariel’s eyes are wide, in recognition of underlying conflict.

“You seemed so frail. I didn’t want to burden you.”

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“It’s not a secret, Nola.” He speaks with an infuriating mix of soothing compassion and subtle accusation, and I flinch at the thought of living with that tone for the rest of my life.

“Of course. It’ll be good to help our neighbors. We haven’t been able to be generous in such a long time.”

“It’s for our benefit too, darling.”

“No.” It is nearly the first Ronnie has spoken since his lukewarm welcome. “We ain’t going to take charity. Bad enough people’ve been bringing food over every day since you went.”

Ronnie stands as if to follow Pa’s example, but a sharp word from Russ brings him back to his seat.

“Son, I understand your bitterness. This has all been hard on us. But they’ll be setting up sometime this week, and you’re going to need to help your mother. And I’ll be expecting you to do so with an attitude of respect and obedience. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.” Ronnie stares deep into his plate.

“I’ll help too, Papa,” Ariel says, laying a small hand on Russ’s sleeve.

“That’s a good girl,” Russ says, and I might join him in his proud, parental smile, if one lingering question weren’t niggling at the corner of my mind.

“Why am I going to need all this help, Russ? Where will you be?”

“I’d rather we talk about it later.” He speaks with our understood emphasis when something needs to be discussed outside the earshot of the children.

“All right.”

I offer second servings, but everybody declines, meaning there will be enough left over for the next day. Once the pot is safely put away in the icebox, I open a tin of peaches, dish out the servings, sprinkling sugar and cinnamon on each, and thrill the children with promises of Jell-O at all of our meals in the foreseeable future.

“And look at this,” Russ says with a glance out the darkening window. “A whole day without a storm. Without much wind, even.”

“And Mama’s home,” Ariel chimes in.

I ask the children to take their dishes to the sink, and then give each permission to listen to the radio while the other takes a bath. Ronnie volunteers to go first, so he can listen to Amos ’n’ Andy, but Ariel declares she’s listened to enough of the radio while Paw-Paw was taking care of them and opts to spend her time making Barney chase after a knotted length of yarn. Our home fills with sounds of happiness and health, and I pray the same will soon be true for Ladonna’s home.

Russ comes up behind me as I stand at the sink. I know he means for me to lean back into him, but I don’t. Despite the emerging contentment around me, I know there is something he is holding back, and I have to keep my guard until I know exactly what that is. Instead, I toss a comment over my shoulder, something about the quicker this chore is finished, the quicker I can spend this first night in my own bed.

I dawdle bathing Ariel, noting that the water is surprisingly clean even after giving her hair a good shampooing. I let her float her rubber boats and play pretend that the washcloth is a giant sea monster while I work a comb through her tangles. When she is ready to get out, I lift her over the side of the tub, staggering a bit under her weight, and wrap her in the cleanest towel I can find.

“Can I have some of your pretty dust?” she asks, her nose to my nose.

“Well, I suppose that would be all right.” By pretty dust, she means my talcum powder, and I walk her across the hall to my bedroom, where the tin sits on my dressing table. I dab the soft, white puff into the powder and dust her from top to bottom. When I finish, I give her the puff and let her dab it along my neck and shoulders.

“Now we’re the same,” Ariel says. “And I’ll be able to smell you on my pillow all night. And I won’t have to miss you again. Ever.”

I take her in my arms and hold her so tight, I fear one of us will crack. “That’s right, my baby girl. I’m never going away again. I promise you that.”

Later, in the dark stillness of our bedroom, I lie in bed, staring at the light streaming from the kitchen. I know Russ is sitting at the table, preparing his sermon, a glass of water and a short stack of saltine crackers at his elbow —a ritual he’s kept for as long as I’ve known him. I hear the kitchen door open, and Pa’s muffled voice. Brusque, Spartan, masculine conversation, before Pa goes into the bathroom to wash up. When he’s finished, his shadow stands at my door, and a soft knock opens it wide.

“You awake, girl?”

“Yes, Pa.” I clutch the blanket closer to me.

“Glad you’re home. Think you can set things straight now?”

“I think so.”

He grunts something like an approval.

Alone again, I wait with quiet, still dread. I try to ease my mind with prayer, thanking God for delivering me safely home, for my restored health. I pray for Ladonna, that she’ll be home among her children soon. And for Jim to stay away. I think maybe I should get out of bed, down on my knees, because it feels like my prayers are hitting up against the ceiling and sprinkling down all around me. I picture myself getting out of bed and seeing my silhouette on the mattress, outlined by the residue of all I’ve offered to God.

It seems a full hour passes before Russ comes in, all washed and clean, sliding in beside me. I remain still and stiff at his side, intending to feign sleep, with the exhaustion of the day serving as a viable excuse. But then he turns, props up on his elbow, looks at me. With my eyes long adjusted to the darkness, I turn too and reach my hand up to touch his face. Two days’ worth of growth, and only the slightest bit of fuzz on his jaw.

“‘Baby face,’” I sing. “‘You’ve got the cutest little baby face.’”

I feel him smile, then pull him toward me for a kiss that deepens immediately, and each embrace that follows carries with it the urgency of separation. I respond as one resurrected, burying the woman who would give herself so callously to another man, and emerging from a body rescued from the brink of death. Russ, I can tell, is as starved for my flesh as I’ve been starved for food, and I give myself to him. I keep my eyes open, filling my vision with bits and pieces of my husband, fearing the images that might come with the dark. Whispers of his name fill the silence, spoken as promises. Through sheer, passionate will, I bring his wife into our bed. The wife who didn’t know the heartache of buried children. The wife who didn’t know the touch of another man. The wife who didn’t know the loss of her very life.

Russ loves that woman, and with each passing moment, I roll myself into her. Disappearing, hiding. Like a skin-fitting costume. Later, as he sleeps beside me, I fight back my tears, terrified I’ll wash it all away.