CHAPTER 5

THERE IS A DECEPTIVENESS about life in a time of drought. Clear blue skies stretch like satin but hold no beauty. Clouds, rolling and gray in the distance, mock us, turning into rainless scraps of vapor before our very eyes. We feel thirst everywhere —our parched throats, of course, and the corners of our mouths. It seems, sometimes, that we are drying up from within. Our lungs rasp with every breath, our bones threaten to snap themselves to powder. There is not enough water to drink, to wash, to bathe. We are never quenched. We are never clean.

Russ, in all his sermons, reminds us that Jesus is the Living Water. And that all who come to him shall never thirst again. We might weep at the thought of such a thing, the coolness of his compassion, the refreshment of his mercy. But our eyes cannot make tears, so we nod and utter a dry amen, keeping our parched lips open for the smallest drop of grace.

This last storm took its toll on our town. In the weeks that follow, two more families pack what they can carry and drive away. I don’t see them, of course, but Merrilou Brown does, and she wastes no time bustling into the shop with the news.

“The Campbells?” She stretches on her toes, trying to bring herself closer to my ear, as if what she has to impart is some great secret. A meaningless gesture, as there isn’t a single customer. Only Ariel, playing log cabin by stacking sacks of chicken feed. “Poof. Let the bank take their house. Didn’t even lock the front door when they left.”

“How do you know?” I run an oiled rag over the gleaming counter. Every bit of our merchandise —what there is of it —might be covered with the film left by the storms, but I keep the counter polished to a mirrored shine.

“I was out walking Luther when they drove off. Before dawn, it was.”

“No, how do you know they didn’t lock their front door? Did they tell you that?”

She sinks back to her flat feet and gives me a look that is both innocent and mischievous. “I told them I’d keep an eye on their place.”

“Did you wait until sunrise?”

“They have some very nice things, you know. She came here from Chicago, so there’s lots of fanciness there. A couple of those —what do you call them? That you can put on the buffet to keep the food hot?”

“Chafing dish?”

“That’s it!” She snapped her twig-like fingers. “Silver plated. At least three of them. Thought they might do well for the next church supper. Only to borrow. Take ’em right back after.”

“Of course.”

“And the bank’s going to take everything anyway. Scrap it, most likely, what they can’t sell. And who are they going to sell it to? Mrs. Campbell would have sold it herself if she thought she could get a dime from any of us for it.”

“She didn’t even try.” The casual listener might think —by the tone of my voice —that I am a full conspirator, when in fact I find the glint in the eye of this diminutive pirate amusing. “Any jewels? Furs? Gold bricks buried in the back of the closet?”

“Oh, you.” She swats at my arm. “I just wanted you to know, in case there’s anything you need. Their little one’s about her age.” She cocks her head toward Ariel. “There’s a few nice toys. Might put them away for Christmas.”

“Thank you.” As if I would consider such a thing. I try to strike a note of finality strong enough to urge her out the door, but she seems to be dug in, ready to wait for me to link arms and accompany her on a scavenging expedition. I am about to come out from behind the counter to bring a friendly nudge toward the door, when the bell above it rings, and Jim Brace walks into the shop.

He hasn’t been here since the night of the storm, when he sat at my kitchen table with the rest of my family. Somebody once granted such a familiar privilege should not inspire the nervous fluttering I feel at his arrival. I grab the abandoned rag and begin rubbing the already too-clean counter. Merrilou catches my eye, looks at him, then back at me, questioningly. It’s not good business form to ignore a customer, not in days when one is so rare, but I count nearly thirty seconds gone, and none of us have said a word.

Finally Jim clears his throat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Merrill.”

“Good afternoon.”

He looks much the same as he did that night, though somewhat roughened by the days spent away. His hair, if not longer, is less kempt. His skin, darker. And his clothes —the very same he’d worn to our dinner —crusted over with dirt.

“Is Russ around?”

He works just as hard to avoid my eyes as I do to avoid his, though neither of us can escape the crosshairs of Merrilou Brown.

She chirps, “Who is this?” looking at him, but talking to me.

His name sticks in my throat. I don’t trust myself to say it. In the wake of my silence, however, Merrilou’s brows rise up above the rims of her spectacles.

“This is —” I tap my finger to my temple, as if in the throes of recollection —“Mr. Brace. James Brace.”

“Jim,” he says, and I repeat it, proving it to have no hold on me.

She holds her hand out in welcome. “Merrilou Brown.” She points to the empty sleeve. “Lost that in the war, did you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he smiles at her, warm and flirtatious, Merrilou giggles like a girl and compliments the strength of his grip.

“He’s Papa’s friend from college,” Ariel says from behind her feed-sack wall.

“Is that right? Well, any friend of Pastor Russ is a friend to all.” Merrilou, yet to take her hand away, gives me a quick glance for confirmation.

“Russ is visiting some folks,” I say, my tongue looser as it draws his attention. “I expect he’ll be back within the hour. You’re welcome to wait here.”

Ariel comes out from her structure complaining, “But, Mama, it’s lunchtime. You said . . .”

And I had, moments before Merrilou came in, that we would run upstairs for a bite and a story and a nap —though she would only acknowledge the first two. Now she is behind the counter and wrapped around my leg. I pat her head, telling her not to be rude, and fight my instinct to shake her off.

“Go ahead,” Jim says. “I can watch things down here, if you like.” He’s taken the opportunity of distraction to disengage from Merrilou’s grip.

“Is he working for you?” she asks, and somehow I know she’s planned out the rest of our conversation no matter what my reply.

“Not exactly.” I look at him. “Nothing official, anyway.”

“Just helping out when I can.” He speaks with the confidence of a truth long understood by all parties involved.

“Well, then,” Merrilou says, “I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, Jim. And you, Nola —we’ll talk later? I saw a lovely glass punch bowl.”

Without waiting for a reply, she scuttles out of the shop. Jim looks at me, and Ariel tugs on my skirt.

“Go ahead.”

He releases me, and Ariel tugs harder.

“Thank you, Jim. If you need anything . . .” I gesture around the store. “If somebody comes in —”

“Mama, lunch.”

“It’ll be fine, ma’am.”

I hate how I bristle. Ma’am. The same as he called Merrilou, but for me the word has an intimate touch of irony. With final reassurances I take Ariel’s hand and lead her upstairs to our apartment. Once the door closes behind me, I lean against it, my head pounding.

“What —?” I clap my hand over my mouth. What are you thinking?

Ariel pulls a loaf out of the bread box. I follow behind, bumping her gently aside with my hip as I take a knife from the drawer and instruct her to get the cheese out of the icebox. I hold the loaf steady against the countertop, but the hand with the knife shakes so, I hardly trust myself to slice it. The serrated blade grates against the crust, sending flakes and crumbs to the countertop. There was a time I’d take a damp cloth to wipe them up before even getting the sandwiches on the plate, but this afternoon I leave them, along with tiny remnants of cheese. I set the butter knife right in the midst before pouring a small glass of cold milk for Ariel and taking it to where she waits patiently at the table.

“Aren’t you gonna eat, Mama?”

I’ve left the second sandwich on the counter.

“No, baby.” I tell her I’m not hungry, which is easier than trying to explain the odd fullness in my stomach.

“Is it for Papa? Is he home?”

“No.” I answer her second question.

“Is that for Mr. Jim, then?”

“I suppose it could be. Now, no more talking ’til you’ve finished your lunch.”

In general, I tend to encourage conversation at mealtimes, trying to school our children in its art should they ever have the opportunity to dine in a fine establishment. Once, when Ronnie was three years old, Russ and I went on a weekend away to a prayer gathering in Tulsa. We stayed in a fine hotel and had occasion to share the dinner table with other ministers and their wives, and I was appalled at some of the attendees’ inability to carry on an entertaining dialogue. Nothing beyond parables and the country’s moral decline.

Now, though, I need quiet, as my mind races with the ravings of a banshee. There is something new, yet familiar, about this tightening clot within me. Something equally detested and welcome, and I can only think of Lucifer in his finery, jeweled and beautiful and deadly.

Ariel hums as she eats, clearly in defiance of my instruction to be silent, because it isn’t a tune, but unvoiced talk, with all the inflection and rhythm of banter. She pauses as if listening to a reply, raises her eyebrows in reaction, and nods, shoving another bite of sandwich into her mouth.

“Who are you talking to?”

She puts a finger to her lips and hums what I’m sure are the words It’s a secret.

“You shouldn’t keep secrets, girlie. It’s impolite.”

But I hardly get the words out, because I feel secrets sprinkling my thoughts, grabbing hold of my lips and tugging them into a half smile as I remember the evening spent around this very table, and how very schooled he was in the art of conversation. At ease with Ronnie, amiable with Russ, attentive to Ariel, and to me.

I remember every word of it. Everything he said, everything I said, though for myself I reshape my words, making them wittier. I knew the answer to the riddle before he even spoke it. The two of us shared a secret before we even met.

“The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space. The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.”

I adopt Ariel’s performance and hum the cadence of the phrases as I take her empty plate, give the crumbs a halfhearted swipe with the bottom of my apron, and put the dish back in the cupboard. She drinks the rest of her milk and runs her arm across her lips, a habit I allow of late since we so rarely have clean, dry napkins lying about. Besides, straight from the table, she’ll go to the bathroom to tinkle and wash her face and hands before meeting me in her bedroom to read three selections from her Children’s Book of Virtue and Verse.

“I don’t wanna take a nap.” She is pouting, as she does every afternoon.

I point to the big hand on the small, round clock by her bed. “Watch it fall, slowly, slowly. Until it’s all tired out. When it touches this six on the bottom, come find me.” It is our normal routine, just to see if she needs to sleep. Some days she might come running with her clock, thirty minutes to the dot after I’ve left her side. Other days, more often than not, I check in to find her lost to sleep. The only constant is the fact that she must not leave her room. Nor her bed, since the day I checked in to find her playing with her paper dolls and took them away for two whole days.

I shut her door —not all the way —behind me and set my mind for thirty minutes. I’ve always been selfish with this time, using it to sip a glass of lemonade and read a book, or listen to a radio program, or lie down on my own bed to see if I need to sleep myself. I might even indulge in some household chore more readily accomplished without Ariel’s childlike “help,” like running our finer glassware through a vinegar rinse, or dusting the tops of the picture frames. But there is little use in such frivolous pursuits these days, and I am still standing in the hallway smoothing my hair when I realize more than three minutes are gone.

My mind awash with the rules of hospitality, I go back into the kitchen to find the cheese sandwich right where I left it, though I can’t imagine what other fate it could possibly have suffered. I take the knife and cut it into halves, and halves again, thinking that to do so will make the eating of it less ungainly. I spoon a few slices of pickled beets into a small dish, wondering if he likes them, irrationally hoping that he likes them, as I put them up myself, and fill a glass with the remainder of the milk in the icebox. All of this I assemble on a tray with a clean blue napkin resting underneath a fork, and make a halting journey to the shop downstairs.

“Lunch?” I say upon arrival. There is no one else in the store, and he stands behind the counter leaning over a battered, well-read book.

“You didn’t have to do that.” He doesn’t call me ma’am. In fact, nothing about him matches his demeanor of an hour ago.

“It’s just a cheese sandwich and some pickles.” The milk sloshes in the glass, making me grateful there hadn’t been enough to fill it to the top. “I still owe you a good, hot meal.”

“I look forward to that.”

He stands straight and closes the book, showing it to be a Rand McNally road atlas of the Western Plains. I tighten my grip on the tray handles and take a few steps closer, thankful to set it down at last.

“Are you planning a trip?”

He looks at me quizzically, then acknowledges the book and grins.

“Nothin’ else much to read in here.”

I try to ignore the relief I feel at his response and offer to find him something more suitable. “If you like cowboy stories and the like, Ronnie has quite a collection.”

“What about Russ?” he says before taking the first bite of his sandwich.

“Oh, he has several books too. Not so much fiction, but several religious texts and philosophy.”

“From college?”

“Some.” The mention of the word makes us both uncomfortable, yet somehow allied, our resentment creating a common enemy —one I feel compelled to defend. “And since, too. From all of his years preaching here.”

“I don’t know that I’d be interested.” He stabs a pickled beet, puts it in his mouth, and chews thoughtfully. “It’s good. You put them up yourself?”

I nod, pleased. “Maybe you could get a library card? If you’re going to stay here awhile, that is. And you could read whatever you want.”

“This town has a library?” He sounds teasing.

“A small one, yes. So, if you’re staying . . .”

He pushes the atlas away and takes another bite of sandwich.

“I could take you if you want. Or Ronnie —or Russ, if —” I am flustered, desperate to fill our silent, dusty shop with noise. He just eats, his jaw working slowly, as if he is terribly entertained at my discomfort. I blather on a bit more about our town’s sparse book collection, mostly agricultural tomes and the complete collection of Mark Twain, until I run out of things to say. My final words dissolve into something akin to a giggle, and I twist my apron, wishing it had the ability to make me disappear.

“Well now, Mrs. Merrill, as attractive as all of that sounds, I don’t know that I’m the type of fellow to have a library card.”

His inflection leaves me no choice but to suggest an alternative —some other condition to make him stay in town, stay here, at least long enough for him to read a book. Or two. None of mine, of course. The thought of taking a book from the battered, three-tiered shelf next to my bed and handing it to him seems a gesture far too intimate to be appropriate. Our eyes scanning the same words. Licking his thumb to turn the page the same way I do, especially these days, when my skin refuses to be anything but dry.

I want him to stay and I want him to read. I want us to have a reason for interacting —a shared reaction, perhaps, to a common story. Better yet, for him to read something I haven’t, so he can introduce me to something new. Nothing in Featherling is ever new. Not the people, not the thoughts, not even the books in our pittance of a library. They’re all donated, culled from estate sales, or rescued and catalogued from abandoned attics.

Which makes me think.

“There’s a family,” I say, even as the idea is forming. “The Campbells that just left. Packed up and gone. They’re from Chicago —well, she was. Their house is empty, and I know she was a reader, so they might have left —”

“What are you suggestin’, Mrs. Merrill?”

I blush, because there is more to that question than I care to admit to myself. “It’s an understanding we have here. What’s left behind is —”

“Fair game?”

Now he is outright flirting, and I flush clear down my neck. I can only plow through my thoughts, speaking too fast and too loud for him to wedge himself between my words.

“I thought you might go out to their place. We could take you —Russ could take you, if he wanted, or I’d write you the directions, though it might be better if you went with someone from town, in case anybody asked questions. Mrs. Brown, even, might escort you. She usually heads up these things. . . .” My mind wanders briefly to the image of the minuscule Merrilou Brown and Jim, picking their way through abandoned Campbell finery, and I immediately change tack. “The point is, you can go and look and see what they have before Mrs. Berry, our librarian, takes them all. Or before the bank comes for the auction. I myself might be heading out there to take a peek. For the kitchen . . .”

I haven’t run out of things to say, but his growing amusement at my speech stifles me.

“So, you’re sayin’ I’ve stumbled into a town of sanctioned squatters and thieves?”

I don’t laugh, really, not wanting to indulge his judgment. “Is that what it sounds like?”

“No,” he says, his voice gentle now, and low. “Sounds like you’re just people, hit hard and hurtin’, like everybody is. Takin’ care of each other best you can. Times like these, seems best to throw right and wrong out the window. This whole part of the country’s livin’ in a cloud.”

“It seems that way.” Which makes me wonder why he would choose to show up in a place where the rest of us longed for escape? So I ask him, but before he can answer, the bell above the shop door rings, and Russ walks in. In that moment I have my answer. Jim Brace has blown in to test me, and my feet are too shaky to stand.