CHAPTER 31

FOR THE FIRST WEEK, Russ seems not to know what to do with his time, or his hands, or his mind. We go together to enroll the children in their separate schools, and then return to the house for the remainder of the day. After Greg leaves to catch his train into Washington, the two of us are left to rattle around the unfamiliar space. My husband, who has always filled whatever room he entered, appears small and uneasy. He sits on the edges of the chairs, treads lightly on the floor, and sleeps in motionless silence beside me each night.

I sense how hard this is for him, the toll it takes on his idea of what it means to provide for our family. We’ve walked into a home he did not purchase, in a city he does not know, and with no perceivable means to support ourselves. All the money we have in the world came from the sale of the one thing he could claim as his own —the car —and it is dwindling fast.

A hundred times each day, I stop myself from asking, “Are you all right? Do you think you’ll be happy here?” because I dread what his answer might be. So I become a woman consumed with feeding my children and lavishing all the affection I can on my husband.

“We can make it like a honeymoon,” I say one morning, returning from walking Ariel to school. I have a white paper sack full of pastries from a bakery I passed by on the route. “Nice, long, empty days. However shall we fill our time?”

My attempt at flirtation is rewarded, and as we lie in bed like a couple of jazz-fed hooligans in the middle of the morning, I have the chance to study him in sleep. He is as beautiful a man as he has ever been, and with his lips formed into a slight smile and his face relaxed around it, he looks much as he did on one of our first dates, dozing next to an uneaten picnic in the middle of a field ripe with wheat.

“I’m so sorry,” I whisper, bringing my hand close to his face, but pulling back before our skin touches.

Almost overnight it seems, Ariel’s cheeks become round, her eyes bright, and her dresses begin to strain across a healthy little-girl belly. Ronnie, given almost unlimited access to food, takes on the heft of a young man, besides growing at least half an inch taller.

It only takes one visit to my brother’s church for Russ to stand and show signs of the same rebirth that has already taken root within our children. At Greg’s insistence, we arrive early and spend half an hour shaking hands and verifying that, yes, we are the family from Oklahoma, and yes, things there really are as dire as the newspaper reports, and yes, we are looking forward to making a new home here. Not until I hear our voices intertwined with theirs do I realize the extremity of our accents. After years of working so hard to pronounce my g’s at the end of verbs and to keep my words sharp and clipped the way actresses do in the movies, I still hear traces of dust between my syllables. So I fall silent, content to let Russ’s garrulous conversation speak for both of us. As always happens, he holds people enthralled with the images of what we’ve left behind, so much so that the crowd that eventually gathers around him has to be reminded, with nudges and tugs, when the service is about to begin.

We all get new clothes for Easter Sunday, an expense justified by my careful shopping at a secondhand shop filled with clothing of better quality than I’ve ever seen in anything from the Sears and Roebuck, or in any of the stores back home. Besides wanting our finest for the special Sunday service, both Ariel and Ronnie are badly in need of new things, as both barely fit into anything we brought from Oklahoma.

The most pressing need for new clothes this Easter Sunday is the fact that Russ will stand behind the pulpit of the church we’ve only attended twice before. It is April 1, and Reverend Sheldon, a man of wry wit, attempts to fool his congregation into thinking he was bullied out of his position by the sheer force of the Oklahoma wind, leaving a smattering of laughter still in play as Russ ascends the steps. I watch from a seat less assuming than the front and center. The children and I are near the back with Greg, and we stand briefly to be acknowledged at Russ’s insistence.

Then he begins to speak, telling of the new life in Jesus Christ, celebrated with the resurrection. He tells our story, the story of our home state —the vibrant life destroyed by greed, the desolation of the empty fields, the constant battle against the endless wind and dirt. He tells of all we’ve left behind, including the babies in their graves, and a church once filled with people just like them.

“And we are here,” he says, “seeing the new life that pushes through the snow.”

Greg leans over in the pew and whispers, “He’s a good preacher, isn’t he?”

“The first time we saw each other was like this. He fell in love with me from behind the pulpit.”

“So it’s like you’re starting all over?”

A woman in front of us with an impressive sprig of silk flowers on her hat turns to give us a disapproving hush, and I respond with a respectfully sober expression, glowing inwardly with a feeling I can best describe as victory.

I listen to him, and I listen to them. The scattered laughter when he tells about the massive jolts of electricity that could send a man flying across the room; the women’s sounds of empathy when he describes my plight in trying to keep the house clean. They shudder at his description of darkness and clutch at their throats as if they are choking on the dust of his words. They lift their feet when he describes the sensation of walking on carpets of locusts and tut-tut at the thought of thousands of rabbits rounded up for slaughter. As far as they know, our little family is the reincarnation of the children of Israel, delivered from a new plague to this Promised Land, where times are hard but the air is clean. We’ve been brought from death to life, as are all sinners in Christ.

Already, I can tell, they are in love. After the service, they will take him over, build a wall between us with questions and compliments and offers to bake lemon cakes. If they accept me, it will be because they accept him. If they love me, it will be because they love him. Our afternoons are soon to be invaded by invitations to tea, or to speak at the ladies’ Bible study, or to pray over a loved one. Other churches will want to hear, other Bible studies, other charity circles, other Christians. Russ hasn’t been reborn upon our move to Baltimore, not like the children have. He has simply resumed, like he’s been blown in and dropped down on a higher, cleaner plane.

In the midst of all my predictions coming true, Greg comes home with an invitation that far exceeds anything we could have imagined.

“A series of hearings,” Greg says at supper, “as Congress debates a soil conservation bill.”

“I’m not a politician,” Russ says. “Nor a farmer. What could I possibly have to say?”

“Everything you said in church on Easter. People from my department will be talking about the science and the economics, neither of which are going to be embraced by the farmers. They’re not going to be happy when we tell them not to plant, or that we need to sow grass where they used to grow wheat. And if the farmers aren’t happy, the politicians won’t be either, but we need this to pass.”

“So he’d go to the Capitol?” Ronnie’s voice beams with pride. “Can we go too?”

“Sorry,” Greg says in consolation. “However, I do think it would be a fine idea for you to go with him, Sis. Make it a day. See the sights, go out to lunch.”

“Oh, yes, Russ.” My enthusiasm serves as a complement to Greg’s exhortation. “We haven’t had a chance to be tourists yet. Ronnie can see to Ariel in the afternoon, and we’ll make plans for all of us to go back once school is out.”

“Now wait a minute.” Russ holds up his hand to halt the explosion of conversation, which includes a dissenting opinion from Ariel, who wants desperately to go too, though she doesn’t know exactly where. “I’m still not clear about my purpose here.”

“Quite simply,” Greg says, “I’d like you to represent the spiritual toll the drought and the storms have taken on the people. You’ve worked with the sick, and you’ve buried the dead, and you’ve watched your whole community disappear. Tell them that. You make people believe in God, don’t you? I need you to make some men believe in the power of God’s destruction, not just in dollars, but in lives.”

“When is it?” Russ takes a small leather-bound calendar from his breast pocket and opens it, displaying his new commitments in little square boxes.

“Coming up in a couple of weeks. I can’t be sure of the exact date.”

“We’ll be ready,” Russ says, reaching for my hand, inviting me in. Quite a change from my usual relegation as the pastor’s wife. But then, at the moment, he isn’t a pastor.

The opportunity comes on the second Saturday in May, meaning Ronnie and Ariel will be left to their own devices for the entirety of the afternoon. Both react to the circumstances with minimal pouting, however, as Barney became pregnant immediately following her escape from her traveling basket, and a box of tiny kittens mewl in a corner of the washroom.

“Stay close to the house,” I admonish as I give myself a final inspection in the front hall mirror. Since arriving in Baltimore, I’ve gained at least ten pounds, the weight manifested in the softened planes of my face. My hair has recaptured the sheen of my youth and, having escaped the brutal weathering of the dust and wind, my skin glows in gratitude.

“But, Ma, there’s going to be a game at the park.”

My heart nudges at my protective reserve. Since arriving, the children have taken to the fresh air —no matter the cold of these early spring days —like a dying man for water. I’ve been sure to dress them in their best, clean clothes, and keep them scrubbed and fresh so nobody at school would think to call them “dirty Okies.” They both immediately made friends —Ronnie due to his ability to man third base, and Ariel due to her intriguing curls and fat, beautiful cat. Russ and I have made some fine acquaintances too, but I can only imagine the importance of the people we will meet this afternoon. My first instinct was to buy yet another new dress, but my Easter dress has not yet been seen in our nation’s capital, so I figure it will do.

“Well then,” I concede, “could you at least take her with you? Let her watch? I’ll tell her to behave, and if you both do, I’ll bring you back a prize from today.”

Ronnie takes a moment to weigh the possibilities and declares if Ariel isn’t perfect, he is going to take her prize and give it to the charity auction.

“Empty threats,” I say, ruffling my fingers through his hair. He is at least as tall as me these days, and will be taller by the end of summer when he starts high school. More and more he looks like his father, shoulders broadening along with his smile.

I repeat the instructions to Ariel, making her promise to be a good girl at the park, and no, she can’t take the kittens to the park because they are too little to be away from their mama, and Barney is too tired, but she can take a doll if she wants, though not a paper doll because it might blow away.

“Is it windy, Mama?” she asks, her eyes filled with fear for the first time since she got on the train in Boise City.

I glance out the window and gauge the motion in the newly budded trees.

“A bit.” I kiss the top of her head. “But nothing to be alarmed about. We’ve certainly seen worse.”

From outside, the honk of a car horn calls me to quicken my pace. Usually Greg takes the train, but today’s special occasion calls for a drive, and he and Russ are waiting, not quite patiently, for me to join them. I elicit one final promise from the children to behave, then go outside, nearly trotting down the walkway to the car.

It is ten o’clock in the morning, with Russ due to speak to the committee at one. Exactly when he will be finished, however, is anyone’s guess, so we’ve made no plans for the afternoon beyond finding someplace for a nice dinner. “On Uncle Sam’s dime,” Greg jokes.

The farther we get into Washington, the narrower the streets become, or so it seems with the congestion of so many automobiles threatening to pile on one another. The national grandeur of the city is lost until the moment the Capitol comes into view, with its white dome and green lawn, all seen as we drive past the glistening Potomac.

“I wanted you to get a good look at it,” Greg says, as both Russ and I press our faces against the window. “The parking garage doesn’t present nearly as fabulous a view. I’ll circle around, drop you off, and you can give your names to the security guard. I’ll meet you in the Rotunda. Or you can wait on the steps.”

“Steps,” Russ and I say simultaneously, sharing our children’s thirst for air. All I want to do is raise my face to the sky and thank God for his deliverance. Who would have imagined only a year ago, when I buried my friend who drowned on dry land and took in the living ghost of my father, that someday I would be here? Living in a home purchased with my inheritance. The wife of a man about to address our nation’s leaders. None of it, I am sure, would have happened if not for the keeping of my secrets.

This is your mercy, Lord, I pray before adding aloud, “Show your mercy on us today.”

We walk hand in hand up the endless, shallow steps.

“Are you nervous, darling?” I ask, unable to read his passive expression.

“I’ll be talking about how much I love my home. I can talk about that all day long.”

It gives me a pang to think that he doesn’t yet consider this place to be his home, but I know that will come in time. I like to think that we are each other’s home.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” he asks. We’ve arrived, at last, surrounded by powerful white stone, making both of us seem insignificant.

“It is,” I say, drawing myself closer to him. “Are you nervous now?”

“I have to believe God brought me here for a reason. This might be it.”

I smiled, tight-lipped, and nod. For Russ, I know, it will never be enough to consider that God may have brought us here solely for my sake. To rescue me from the temptations I was powerless to deny, or even to make a home in a place where our children can live without the constant threat of illness and death.

A gust of wind drives itself into my back, familiar in its strength, and I barely get my hand to my hat in time to save it from flying off my head. It carries with it a familiar scent that tickles at the back of my throat. Perhaps I will be forever haunted by the storms of Oklahoma, like the soldier who cannot bear the sound of a banging cupboard or a slamming door. If my husband is not willing to accept our displacement as nothing more than a means to save our family, I will do so on his behalf.

“I think,” I say as Greg comes into view, “I’m not going to go in with you.”

His face registers surprise rather than disappointment. “Why not?”

“Russ.” I step closer to him, pulling us into an invisible space where we can ignore the hundreds of milling people. “Will I ever be enough for you?”

“What do you mean?” He touches his lips to mine, and nobody seems to notice. “You are my life.”

I know he will never ask me the same question; it isn’t his way to seek such confirmation.

Greg joins us and loops my arm through his. “Are we ready, kids?”

“I’m not sure, all of a sudden,” I say, “if it’s my place to go.”

“Of course it’s your place. You’re my wife.”

“They won’t care that she’s your wife,” Greg says, quietly coming to my defense. Then, to me, “You should go because you survived this too.”

And so I do.

How anyone ever learned to navigate the labyrinth of passages and stairways I’ll never know, but Greg proves the perfect guide, never condescending to speak directions, but keeping enough of a lead to allow us to follow both his conversation and his steps. He leads us to a room that might be smaller than I imagined, if I had the wherewithal to imagine anything at all. Two rows of long tables stretch across the front, elevated, and a row of tables face them with a bank of seats filling out the rest of the room. After giving a sheaf of papers to a young boy in a crisp blue suit, Greg instructs me to sit in the bank of chairs, three rows back, while he and Russ move toward the tables.

There are, perhaps, thirty people in the room at the time, with me the only woman, a fact that makes me all the more thankful that my dress is new, my hat in place, and my skin radiant. More than one appreciative glance comes my way, not the least from the men coming to sit at the tables at the front of the room. These, I know, are elected officials. Powerful men who decide the fate of what is quickly becoming a desert back home. I uncross and cross my legs to see if their eyes follow, and to no surprise, they do.

Greg glances back, and I send him a withering, humor-filled glare. So much for my presence being powerful because I am a survivor who matters. Greg wants me there because I am a beautiful woman, in a place where such creatures are all the more valuable for their rarity.

All around me, chairs fill, and I realize Greg’s strategy in getting us into the room at the hour he did. My seat is front and center in the gallery, just as it used to be in church. Only now, my husband speaks with his back to me, while the others at their long stretch of pulpit look on. Sitting alongside Russ, one man after another speaks, extolling the need for replanting the wild grasses, rotating crops, allowing fields to lie fallow for years to come. Buying farmland and paying farmers not to work it. All of this in the name of healing the land and restoring the soil that will remain once the wind stops and the rains come.

When it is Russ’s turn to speak, I hear for the first time the distinctness of his accent. Though his diction is strong, his vocabulary elevated, he comes across as a humble man, wise despite his relative youth. His is a voice of hope, someone who speaks for the bedraggled men and women pictured in the newspaper reports about the drought, yet not one of them.

The committee members lean forward as he speaks, as do I, resting my elbow on my knee. Every time I move, I distract the decision makers from their duty, so I decide on a single pose, and hold it throughout Russ’s speech. When he finishes, he turns in his seat to introduce me as his wife, saying, “We brought our family here for the sake of our children, and we are so thankful for the opportunity to speak for all of those whose voices you cannot hear.”

As a test, I smile, and they smile back, and I gloat a bit in my seat.

One of the congressmen is about to ask a question, perhaps directed at me, if the direction of his gaze is any hint, when the young man in the blue suit bursts through the door and makes a dignified run to the front of the room, stopping at the congressman’s elbow. He leans in and whispers something that registers a look of pure disbelief on the face of every man in earshot, and the news travels down the length of the table like an oncoming cloud.

Because apparently, an oncoming cloud exactly describes what is barreling down on the city.

Amid the crowd, Greg, Russ, and I manage to find each other, and once again we follow my brother, though this time through lesser-used service hallways emptying out onto the more utilitarian side of the Capitol, where we stand among the throng, covering our mouths and shielding our eyes against the relentless, thick, grainy brown sky.

The storms have followed us home.