CHAPTER 24

FALL COMES, AND THEN WINTER, bringing no relief from the dust and wind. Still we have no rain, and the respite brought by cooler temperatures serves only to intensify the stinging sensation of dirt against skin. We walk from place to place assuming the posture of some primitive cripple, our backs bent, faces shielded. Our shoulders bear the weight of the earth as it moves against us, one minuscule grain at a time.

In the mornings when I walk Ariel to school, I hold tight to her hand, fearful that God might take her as he did my other children, using the brute force of nature to snatch her up from my side as punishment for my sin. On days when Ronnie walks her home at lunchtime, I insist he do the same, and at 12:04 every day I peer out the window to make sure he obeys. The sight of them together opens up a sadness that gnaws at me from my womb. Ariel, my tiny, knock-kneed girl, her beautiful hair confined to two tight plaits, her pinched little face obscured by the white mask, her eyes turned to the ground for their own protection, missing out on all the beauty the world might have to offer. Every step a struggle —to keep up with the impatient, strident pace of her brother, to keep upright against the wind. And yet, when she blows inside, I know I’ll see that sweet smile etched in the patch of clean skin the mask has protected, and her eyes will come to dancing life at the sight of Barney, who rises and stretches and arches herself at the sound of our girl’s arrival.

Ronnie worries me less, as he seems to be the only living thing that isn’t shriveling away before my eyes. He’s soon enough overcome his shame at accepting food from the crates delivered to the shop on a semiregular basis, especially when those deliveries begin to include entire hams and slabs of bacon. I cannot keep enough bread and butter in the house to fill him up. He might well be one of the locusts or the rabbits that God added to the plague of drought and dust, eating everything that dares poke its head out of the ground. I cook for the three of us and share a portion with Ariel, doling out the rest to Ronnie in feigned discovery that there is “just a bit left.” Overnight he grows to be as tall as me. In an afternoon, his shirtsleeves strain at his wrists. I blink, and his shoulders expand to such a breadth that I do not recognize him from the back. And I think, God will snatch him away too. But while I fight for and cling to my daughter, I would launch my son with every blessing within me. He and I share a silent desire to escape.

It becomes far too easy to live without a husband. We write each other letters, two a week, sometimes reuniting on the weekends before the letters are delivered. Mine consist of little moments throughout the day —silly things Ariel has said, Ronnie’s accomplishments at school, even Barney’s funny moments of destruction make their way onto my pages. Russ tells me what he can about the patients he visits. No details, of course, about their names or conditions, but tales of a woman who came in to have a baby and was surprised with triplets, or a man who was thrown through a second-story window by the sheer force of the static electricity when he touched his radiator. We sign every letter with love, and I keep them in a box on my dressing table, reading them out loud to my reflection during the long stretches of the day when I think I’ll lose my mind if I don’t hear some other voice above the wind.

He telephones the Browns’ home every Thursday evening, an indulgence the hospital grants in exchange for his working late into that night. I spend those evenings there, where it somehow has become an opportunity for Merrilou to host the children and me for supper. I contribute what I can —pies made from canned peaches or fresh, warm biscuits —but Merrilou makes no comment if I arrive empty-handed.

“God blesses us so that we might bless in return,” she says in response to my profuse thanks.

When the phone rings, she takes the children into the kitchen for additional cookies and milk, or meat scraps for Barney, leaving me alone at the lacquered telephone table for my ten-minute conversation with Russ.

Sometimes it feels a bit like being courted again. He’ll say soft, sweet things that nobody would attribute to a hospital chaplain, and I return in kind, depending on how sure I am that the children are engaged in something entertaining with the Browns. I hear Russ’s voice and think to myself, One more sleep, then one more sleep, and he’ll be home.

We are together two days each week —in reality, though, little more than twenty-four hours. He’ll be home midmorning Saturday, gone after dinner on Sunday, with some of the time in between spent preparing his sermon and visiting with those few souls still in town and in church.

“It won’t be forever,” he says, holding me in his arms each Saturday night. “I promise you. This drought will end. This Depression will end, and we’ll build our life together. Just as we always have.”

I sleep beside him, believing him, and wake up reassured. But Sunday morning, from behind the pulpit, I hear him say the same things, spoken above and around my head. Words swirling with promises, blown in from a distance, leaving a residue of hope. And then, after dinner, he’s gone.

Christmas looms, a more unwelcome holiday than I can remember. Along with his regular weekly letter, Greg sends a colorful card depicting two children —a brother and sister, roughly the ages of my own —careening on a sled down a field of snow dotted with bright-green firs. Their cheeks are plump and pink, mittened hands raised in glee. Inside, along with the cheerful greeting in manufactured red script, two lines written in his own hand:

Merry Christmas

Wish you were here.

Greg has come home for a Christmas visit on several occasions, when there was a new baby to celebrate or a lost one to mourn, but Pa never was one to make a big fuss over the holiday. Russ embraces it wholeheartedly, of course, secreting gifts throughout the year and clumsily wrapping them in the late hours after the children go to bed.

This year, though, we have nothing. Greg’s card, propped up in the center of our kitchen table, is the only decoration. In the evenings, the children and I listen to Christmas recordings on the radio, but other than that, the same malaise that grips our little apartment seems pervasive throughout the entire town. Even as the days grow closer to the holiday, few of us remark about it when we encounter each other on the streets. The dirt has cocooned us, and most days we walk about surrounded by an ever-shifting wall.

During our Thursday telephone call, Russ delivers the good news that he will be able to stay home for the entire week from Christmas to New Year’s Day.

“That itself is the perfect gift,” I tell him, thinking I will present it to the children in just that way. “I’m afraid I haven’t done anything in the way of decorating, but if you’re going to be here, I’ll see what I can do.”

“I’ll bring a tree,” he says, and I experience an instant lifting of my spirits at the thought of something green and fresh. “A big one, and we’ll set it up downstairs.”

“Downstairs? In the shop?”

“The idea came to me last night. We can all use some cheering up for the holiday. Christmas is about bringing family together, isn’t it? So I thought we could bring the whole family together for Christmas Eve.”

Already my image of a sweet family celebration slips away. “The whole, as in the church?”

“As in the town. Everyone invited.”

“But that’s just —” I calculate —“three days away. How in the world would we organize such a thing?”

“I’ll have to cut this conversation short, because I used part of my long-distance time to telephone the Weekly to get them to run an ad in Saturday’s paper. All invited, bring food to share and a gift to exchange. Nothing new, just something you’re willing to give away. They thought it was a fine idea.”

“How good of you to consult them.” I instantly regret the note of sarcasm in my voice.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart, to spring it on you like this. There hasn’t been time —”

“It’s all right.” I force a note of brightness into my voice. “It will give me and the kids something to do, getting the place cleaned up and ready.”

“Ask for help,” he cautions. “People will want to be a part of this.”

“Of course they will.” And then our time is up.

Merrilou Brown is at my elbow not long after I hang up, unusually attentive, even for her.

“Doesn’t that sound like a good idea?”

Not for the first time, I suspect she might have listened to our conversation on a second, hidden phone. “You know?”

“Mr. Bradley at the Weekly showed me the ad copy earlier today. I wanted to let Pastor Russ share it with you himself.”

I opt to echo her words. “That does sound like a good idea. We need some good cheer.”

“Mr. Brown and I are here to do whatever you need. I assume the place needs some sweeping up?”

“A little, yes. And the windows washed. I suppose I could clean out my father’s room for the coats and things.”

Mrs. Brown lays a tiny hand on my arm. “Like I said, you let us know what you need, and we’ll be there. How about first thing in the morning?”

She is at the door within an hour after I take Ariel to school, bucket and mop and broom in hand. We speak little, as she starts immediately on the large front window, standing on a stepladder to reach the top, while I go into the storeroom. It still looks like a spare bedroom, with sparse furniture and the very bed where Pa took his last laboring breath. I wish I could expedite this process as Greg had our father’s house, with nothing more than a douse of kerosene and a match. Since that is not an option, I decide to simply close the door and set about hammering a series of large nails in the wall on which people can hang their coats.

“If there are too many,” I say, nails perched in my lips, “they can take them upstairs.”

I take it upon myself to clean and oil the counter until it shines, and Merrilou takes to hanging garland from its top. The empty shelves that were once full of tools and seeds and sundry items are also given a hard-elbow clean to prepare them for displaying the gifts to be exchanged.

“Won’t that look nice?” Merrilou says. “A whole wall full of presents.”

We are nowhere near finished when Ariel comes home from school, so I set her to work cutting out paper snowflakes to hang in the windows. Hours later when Ronnie comes home, I send him right back out to go from door to door finding those who will contribute a chair to set against the wall. By Friday night, with a string of red and green lights running along the ceiling, the empty shop looks ready for a celebration. To maintain this pristine condition, we twist wet sheets and line every inch of the floor and windows, doubling them at the door.

“It looks nice,” I admit as Merrilou and I stand on the bottom step, preparing to go upstairs to my kitchen for a cup of coffee to celebrate.

“I think it will be a merry Christmas after all.” And in that moment, Merrilou Brown looks every bit a satisfied, jolly old elf.

The next afternoon, when Russ drives up with a Christmas tree lashed to the top of his car, he is greeted like a conquering hero. Word about the party only just appeared in this morning’s paper, but people come trickling by, peeking through the window to watch as we set the tree up in the corner. I think, at times, we should invite them inside, but then I feel like they are viewing our family the way they would look at a movie on a screen. There is Russ, so tall and handsome, laughing as the tree refuses to stand straight. I’ve dressed Ariel in something pretty, given over to us by a neighbor with an older girl, and Ronnie looks like such a young man, holding his own as he works with his father.

Russ has brought a few festive items, including a jug of apple cider, which I pour into clean glasses and serve with the gingerbread cookies from a tin given to him by one of the patients at the hospital. Not to be outdone by Ariel, I’ve donned a nice dress —nothing too fancy —and serve my family sweet treats, all while our community watches through the window. We acknowledge them with smiles and waves, and the excitement for the upcoming festivities grows. By the time we assemble in church on Sunday, there is a definite buzz, loud enough to make itself heard over the wind, and Russ faces the largest assembled congregation since the previous spring.

“The birth of our Savior is no small event,” he says, standing taller than he has in quite some time. His orator’s voice has returned, speaking to reach every ear. We will gather this evening, six thirty. Bring what food you can contribute and a gift, so that none will arrive or leave with empty hands. All are welcome to fellowship in the name of our Lord.”

And they come.

My little girl, a Christmas delight in a green velvet dress and bouncing red curls, unlocks the door to usher in a sea of well-wishers promptly at six. Thirty minutes earlier than we intended, but even then people are lined up outside on this bitterly cold night. We’ve brought the radio downstairs and set it in a large galvanized tub to amplify its sound above the crowd. The counter, most recently crowded with foodstuffs distributed on behalf of the government, is now laden with all manner of roasted meats, pickled vegetables, macaroni salads, pies, cookies, cheeses, and bread. Ronnie and his cohorts look on the spread the way some young men would ogle a girlie magazine, and we as a crowd consent to give them the first place in line.

Never in my life have I been surrounded by so much warmth. Pa was not one to entertain, and church gatherings always carried excruciating pastoral responsibility. This is a party. Nothing but jovial conversation, music, laughter, and children. The tree, festooned with tinsel and bright glass ornaments, brings out conversations of other trees in other times, and for a while the sadness that has drifted into our town melts away.

The bell above the shop door rings throughout the evening with newcomers arriving late, including those who have been scooped up out of their homes and brought on the arms of neighbors. At some point, Russ orders the radio turned off and lifts his voice above the din. Inwardly I cringe, fearing he might mistake the occasion of our gathering for an excuse to launch into a sermon. Instead, he requests that we bow our heads in a brief time of prayer, asking God to bring comfort to those who are too far away to celebrate with us, and to bring us a sense of peace about those who celebrate this day in the very presence of our Savior, Christ the Lord. Then, with an almost-imperceptible nod to someone in the crowd, a pitch pipe sounds, and he leads us in singing.

Silent night, holy night,

All is calm, all is bright.

The words and tune are so familiar, we sing at a lusty, heartfelt volume. When the last note dies away, someone launches into a new song:

On the first day of Christmas, my true love gave to me —

With this, we threaten to drown out the raging wind outside, even when the lyrics become so fuddled with laughter we lose collective count of the days.

Though our duties as host and hostess keep us buried in the crowd, Russ’s eyes rarely leave me, and I seek him above the heads and conversations of our guests. One of Ronnie’s friends has rigged a fishing pole with a sprig of mistletoe and wanders through the crowd, collecting what kisses he can. At one point, Russ grabs him by the shoulder, and while the boy —and the crowd —think surely the pastor is about to eject him for such salacious behavior, Russ’s true intentions are made clear as he drags the boy through the sea of people, heading straight for me. There, he takes me in his arms and brings me in for a kiss deeper than any we’ve ever shared this side of our bedroom door. My ears throb with rushing blood, muffling the sound of the cheers rising around us.

When we finally break away, Russ lingers, his nose a whisper away from mine, and says, “Merry Christmas, darling.”

“Merry Christmas.”

And around us the crowd erupts into song.

The rest of the night is buzz and blur. By ten o’clock there isn’t a Christmas mouse’s crumb’s worth of food left on the counter, and all of the proffered gifts have been claimed. Folks linger, chatting, coats half-on and half-off. I don’t mean to rush anybody, but the fatigue of the day is wearing. I send Russ upstairs with the children, as it is long past Ariel’s bedtime, and they still have stockings to hang for Santa’s visit. Ronnie, of course, participates in the ritual only out of consideration for his little sister, but Ariel believes with her whole sweet heart.

When the last guest is gone, I remain in the room, relishing the silence —a contented sound after so much joy. This is what I needed to feel whole, and in this moment I can forgive Russ for leaving us here for the present time. Or, perhaps, we can rebuild. Sow the seeds of fellowship we enjoyed this evening and grow a whole new community.

When I turn off the switch for the string of colored lights around the window, a flash of red catches my eye, then disappears. I lock the door, then go to the back of the room to turn off the overhead lighting. The flash of red reappears. A cigarette, of course, glowing in the darkness outside. By now it is close to midnight, and I know. I don’t need to go to the window. I won’t open the door, lest the ringing of the bell above it call the attention of my husband.

Heart pounding, I move the chairs I’ve stacked against the storeroom door, and with a shaking hand, unlock it. No need to turn on a light, as I know the dimensions of this room as well as any other in my home. We kept the door to the alley latched as long as Pa stayed here. I reach up and draw it aside, carefully, silently.

A punishing blast of cold air hits me, tearing through the fabric of the dress that grew too warm during the festivities. And yet I do not shiver, for I’ve turned to ice myself. I grip the railing of the loading platform and watch as he comes around the corner. He wears a thick workman’s jacket and a cap pulled low over his face, and I do not need the illumination of the cigarette to know the identity of my midnight visitor.