If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  My father always told me I was beautiful. “You look just like your ma.” Always said with a twinkle in his eyes and a smile on his lips. I never believed him. My hair was too red, my skin too pale. I was nothing like her, I thought. And beauty didn’t mean much in Boise City, anyway. Yet still I couldn’t help but notice the stares and whispers from the boys in school, though my shyness stalled any pursuit beyond the initial “hello” phase.

  Except for Henry Mayfield.

  Folks around town said it was no surprise I had caught his eye. It was a surprise, however, when our courtship began in earnest. Because he was Henry Mayfield. And I was Melissa Baile. And those two names had never been together on anyone’s tongue.

  Until now.

  Our wedding was the event of the year in Boise City. The drought hadn’t given us much to celebrate lately, but a wedding was something to behold in the prairie, especially when it involved the Mayfields. Everyone had come, rich and poor, old and young, like the royal weddings in my childhood storybooks. The church had been filled with flowers, something I knew I’d remember for years to come. After months of brown and gray, my wedding was overflowing with greens, reds, and pinks. Henry had brought color back into my world. It was a perfect day. Even Kathryn’s scowls and the duster’s abrupt interruption couldn’t spoil my mood. Too much.

  Those same flowers now filled Henry’s home. Our home. Our big, beautiful home full of beautiful furniture and fancy china. Two stories tall and almost a dozen rooms, with walls not made of dirt, and no snakes or centipedes hiding in their depths. The air inside smelled of tobacco and leather, not sweat and dung. The bathroom was bright and white and indoors. I wondered if I’d ever get used to hearing my shoes click on the wooden floors.

  “I have something for you,” Henry murmured, brushing a hand across my cheek.

  I closed my eyes and smiled, Kathryn and Helen and Pa forgotten. “More?”

  “You’re a Mayfield now. There’s always more.” From behind his back, he pulled a small parcel wrapped in tissue. “Open it.”

  I unwrapped it slowly, savoring the moment. Fire crackled behind us. The wind outside howled, but in here I was safe and warm and married. Beneath folds of white paper lay a blue- and white-checked handkerchief. The letters MM were embroidered with red thread.

  “Oh, Henry,” I breathed. “It’s beautiful.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind my ear. His hands weren’t scratchy like Pa’s or dirty like Kathryn’s. They weren’t even cracked like Helen’s. “I can’t stop the dust, but I can protect my wife’s face from its sting.”

  “It’s too much.”

  “Nothing is too much for you.”

  I held it over my mouth and nose, batting my eyelashes. “How does it look?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Thank you, Henry. I love it.”

  “I knew you would.” He gave a quick wink, his eyes sparkling. His eyes. They were what first attracted me. So pale blue they were almost transparent. Oozing with confidence and charm. He nuzzled my neck, his breath sprouting goose bumps across my arms. “You’re finally mine.” His lips brushed my earlobe. “Mrs. Mayfield.”

  The name sounded foreign, as if spoken to a stranger. And yet his gaze remained fixed on me.

  He ran a hand down my back and gestured to the stairs. “And now, my beautiful bride . . .”

  The butterflies in my stomach turned to moths. I knew this was coming. And I wanted it to come. I did. I was a wife now, and I had to do what wives did, although I wasn’t quite sure what that was. It was improper to ask my friends, and I’d been too embarrassed to ask Helen.

  The worst of the storm had passed, leaving a stillness even louder than the wind. Or maybe that was just the sound of my own heart as I allowed myself to be led to his bedroom. No, our bedroom. With its white walls and squishy rug and fluffy bed big enough for two people.

  Henry let go of my hand and lit a bedside lamp, causing me to wince. The usual soft, comforting glow was too bright in here. Like a spotlight, trained directly on me. It was hot and glaring and yet somehow I shivered.

  My husband sat down on the bed and loosened his tie. The bedspread crinkled beneath him. I moved to sit next to him, but he pushed me back, gentle but firm.

  “Get undressed.”

  There was a smile on his lips. One I’d never seen before.

  I fiddled with the folds of my wedding dress. Lace and satin—two fabrics I’d never thought I’d wear, let alone own. But Henry had insisted on this gown because it was the best. He’d had it brought in all the way from Dallas. I wasn’t ready to take it off, and not just because it was beautiful. “Henry, I—”

  “I want to see you.”

  My modesty swelled. I’d never allowed anyone to see me unclothed, not even Kathryn, and we’d shared a room since the day she was born. Still, I wanted this to happen. I wanted to be his in every sense of the word. Just not in this light. Something softer. Dimmer. “Maybe we could light a fire?”

  “No.” His voice was soft but impatient. The faint smile faded.

  Unexpected tears formed in my eyes as I tugged at my dress. Grow up, I scolded myself. You are his wife. This is what married people do. In the light, in the dark, it doesn’t matter. So stop it.

  My dress fell to the floor silently. I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Put your arms down.”

  Henry’s gaze washed over me. Hungry. No, not hungry. Hunger could be ignored. I’d done it countless nights before. This . . . this was like the crops when the heavens opened. Insatiable. Ravenous. He inspected every inch of my exposed flesh steadily, deliberately, and when his eyes finally met mine, I did not recognize what they were trying to tell me.

  Heat rushed through my cheeks but still I trembled. Henry sat on the edge of the bed, his back to the light, his face hidden in shadow. The clock ticked loudly in the hallway. Seconds. Minutes. How long was he going to make me stand here like this? I’d never felt so cold.

  Finally he moved. Slowly. Confidently. His hands traced circles along my back and twirled a strand of hair around his finger. “You are so beautiful.”

  I melted into his touch. He loved me. He wanted me. And I wanted him, more than I could say.

  He unclasped the silver cross at my neck. My mother’s necklace. A relic of her faith, a faith she’d passed on to me during our few short years together. A faith I’d clung to when she’d slipped away and Pa had retreated into himself, leaving me with an inconsolable newborn and a tarnished cross. I never took it off. I grasped for it, but Henry covered my hand with his. “I need all of you,” he whispered. “Nothing between us.” Running a hand down my arm, he kissed me, a kiss I felt in every nerve in my body. The necklace was forgotten.

  It was rougher than I expected. Henry’s hands were urgent, his actions fevered. Initial pleasure faded into pain. I cried out, but he covered it with a kiss. He did not ask if I was okay. Tears flooded my eyes and still he continued. His eyes remained on my body but avoided my own, no matter how much I tried to meet his gaze.

  And then it was over. I waited for his panting to cease, for some kind of sign he was happy. Was I supposed to feel something afterward? Did he? Had I done it right? I hadn’t expected the physical act of love to be so . . . physical.

  After several minutes, he kissed my forehead and rolled onto his back. Wrapping the sheet around me, I excused myself to the bathroom. My legs were wobbly, and my back was tender from the scratch of the bedspread. My hands shook as I cleaned myself.

  I opened the door to find Henry fully dressed. His eyes were once again soft, a playful smile dancing on his lips. “Up for a nightcap?”

  Later that night, I lay next to my husband. My body ached. My mind refused to settle, and I found myself unable even to pray. I wished I were listening to Kathryn read, her slow, meticulous intonation as she sounded out unfamiliar words. I pictured her curious brown eyes peering over the top of the book, seeking my approval at her pronunciation. She was six years my junior,
and I’d taught her everything I knew. Starting with reading.

  I wondered what she was doing now. Perhaps she was reading, just like I pictured. If I listened hard enough, maybe I could hear. But that was ridiculous. Kathryn was miles away. And she was probably sleeping. Or sitting in bed, still stewing at me.

  For the second time that day, a tear rolled down my cheek. Frustrated, I wiped it away. I hadn’t been a child for a very long time, since my mother died. So why was I acting like one now?

  The house creaked in ways our dugout did not. Henry snored and snorted in ways Kathryn never did. I couldn’t get used to sleeping on a pillow. Even the smell in here was wrong—like flowers and aftershave and clean air, above the ground and not below it. Everything was different. I was different. Or I would be. One of these days.

  This beautiful house was my home now. Henry Mayfield was my family now. I rolled over and watched him breathe. My husband. His golden hair fell perfectly across his forehead, even in his sleep. His chest rose and fell as his mouth, those two perfect lips, twitched. I wondered if he was dreaming. After several minutes, I grabbed the necklace from my nightstand and refastened it around my neck. The warmth of the silver cross soothed me, and I finally fell asleep.

  CHAPTER THREE

  KATHRYN

  “Kath, we need to talk.”

  Light streamed from the rafters, landing on tired eyes that stared up at me from the cracks at my feet.

  I threw another mound of wheat to the floor, ignoring Pa. I had too much work to do. Trapped in the loft, the grain was starting to rot in the summer heat. We couldn’t even sell good wheat; letting it go bad was more than I could bear.

  It had been just over six weeks since the baby but things hadn’t gotten back to normal. Well, as normal as things could be now, with Melissa gone. Helen spent most of her time in the dugout, cleaning stuff that would just get dirty again and moping or else snapping at me for tracking in dust, for touching the clean sheets, for chewing my stew too loudly. For being here. Like it was my fault it wouldn’t rain and the wind wouldn’t stop blowing. Like it was my fault another baby died.

  But the change in Pa was worse. It wasn’t that he was quiet. He’d always been quiet. But this was a different kind. It was the kind of quiet you hear in the middle of a twister. Melissa says there’s no way I remember the tornado of 1925, the one that went right over the cellar and doggone near took everything. But I do, whether she believes me or not. And what I remember is when the wind is angry and roaring and hell-bent on destroying you, there’s a thin layer of quiet that covers you after you stop fighting and decide to let it. That was the kind of quiet filling my pa.

  So when he came to me in the barn, I already knew what he was going to say. But I wasn’t going to make it easy. “’Bout what?”

  “Just get down here.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “You watch your sass, young lady.”

  Helen. I hadn’t seen her come in behind him. Her face showed no signs of tears, which meant today was the other Helen—the angry one. Fantastic.

  I lowered myself down the ladder. My brace used to slow me down, but I’d gotten to be an expert at swinging my legs just so. The metal didn’t even scratch against the wooden rungs anymore.

  “Come inside. Get some water.”

  “I’m fine right here.”

  Helen clasped her hands tightly in front of her, knuckles turning white. After all these years, she still looked out of place in our barn. Too pretty. Features too delicate and hair too blonde. Even though three dead babies and two years of drought had put a twitch in her lip and wrinkles under her eyes, it still couldn’t make her fit.

  “As you wish.”

  My father stepped out from behind her, picking flecks of mud from his weathered hat. Willfully not looking at me. “Kath, Helen and I have decided—”

  “Jackrabbit.”

  “Huh?”

  I pointed out the barn door. “Jackrabbit. In the garden again.”

  The rabbit turned and looked, challenging us, his small mouth twisting with each bite of our precious crop. They’d gotten stupider over the past few months. Or more desperate. Either way, we weren’t looking to feed all of God’s creation, not when we were barely getting fed ourselves.

  Pa cursed under his breath and retreated into the blinding sunlight.

  I smirked.

  Helen’s lips disappeared under her irritation. “Stall all you want, Kathryn. We’re leaving.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says me and your pa. We’re going to Indianapolis to stay with my family until this drought is over.”

  “Over my dead body.”

  “Don’t talk like that.” My father reappeared suddenly, a grimace lingering on his face long enough for me to feel a stab of guilt.

  Death weren’t nothing to toss out like that. Not anymore. But seeing the hardness in Helen’s face stifled any remorse before it ever really began. “Is she making you do this?”

  “Kathryn, enough.”

  But it wasn’t enough. I was just getting started. “What about the Last Man’s Club?”

  “Kathryn—”

  “When they signed that charter in Dalhart, you said you’da signed it if you could’ve. Bunch of pussyfooted quitters, those suitcase farmers. But we’re real. The last men of Boise City, you said. We’d never leave.”

  Pa averted his eyes. “Things are different now.”

  I glared at Helen. “Yes, they are.”

  “Now you stop that.” His tone was sharper than he ever took with me. “It ain’t about Helen. It’s about all of us. There ain’t no money coming in, and there won’t be any money coming in until God decides our punishment has been enough. People are starvin’ and gettin’ sick. This ain’t no way to live. And I won’t let it be how I die, neither.”

  “But if we just—”

  “We’re doing this for you, too.”

  I spat out a laugh I did not recognize. “For me?”

  “My father can help you, Kathryn,” Helen said quietly.

  If Pa hadn’t been standing so close, I would have slapped her. Or maybe even worse.

  When I was born, the doctor said it was clubfoot. “Poor thing,” he’d said. “Life will be so hard.” And he was right. My childhood was difficult. But not because my foot was misshapen. Because I was ill-mannered and bullheaded, always getting into trouble, according to Pa, though he said it with a smile on his face. When I got older and started asking questions, Melissa told me it was how God made me special. She’d helped me learn to walk, stuffed cotton in the places my brace pinched, and never let me use it as an excuse to get out of doing chores. I learned to make do.

  Until Helen came along.

  The first day I’d met her, she wouldn’t look at my foot. After that, she wouldn’t stop. And she wasn’t as sneaky as she thought. I always caught her.

  Then I started to catch other people looking too. The kids at school. Mr. Clark down at the sundry. The lady who played the organ at church. But it wasn’t just the look. It was the thing in their eyes I couldn’t place. Pity? Shame? Curiosity? Whatever it was, for the first time, I realized something was wrong with me. I wasn’t normal. And where once there had been nothing, there were suddenly a bunch of things I couldn’t do. Like help Pa plow. Like get to school on my own after Melissa had finished. Like do anything right for Helen.

  She made me realize the truth: my foot didn’t make me special; it made me a problem.

  “There’s a surgery he could do,” Pa was saying. “We could get rid of that brace altogether.”

  Helen smiled like a rattler. She knew exactly what she was doing, getting Pa to say what I wanted to hear. Pa wouldn’t leave without me. She knew that. And the only way to get me to go—willingly—was to give me the only thing in the world I wanted more than to stay. I hated her for knowing dreams I hardly dared admit even to myself.

  “I don’t want the stupid surgery,” I lied. “If you want to go, go. I’ll stay here.”


  “Kathryn—”

  “You might be a quitter, but I ain’t.”

  “There’s no way you could live here by yourself. Not in your condition.”

  In that minute, I prayed. But not in the way Melissa always told me to. In that minute, I prayed for the strength not to punch Helen in the face. Of course I couldn’t work the farm on my own. Didn’t mean she had to say it out loud. “I’ll get a job in town.”

  “Doing what?”

  Smugness dripped from her words. Jobs were scarce for everyone, but especially for a cripple. No one would hire me. No one would marry me. No one would want me. I was a burden. Her burden. “You just want to leave because Oklahoma is killin’ your babies.”

  It was as if the whole earth froze. I swear even the grasshoppers stopped their cursed chirping. And they don’t stop for nothing. Ever.

  “Kathryn!”

  Pa’s voice was a million miles away. I could see nothing but Helen. Soft, perfect, horrible Helen. “It knows you don’t belong here. You’re weak. And you make weak babies.”

  I knew the words were wrong as soon as I said them. I felt it in the thickness of my throat, the tremble in my lip. But that ridiculous, ugly smile finally left her face.

  Helen let out a soft cry and fled to the house.

  Satisfied and disgusted with myself at the same time, I turned to Pa, ready to brawl. He would scold me and tsk-tsk me and tell me I was being mean and heartless and “Why can’t you just be nice to her? She’s trying, Kathryn.”

  But he wasn’t looking at me. He was studying the holes in the roof. It took a few moments to even realize what I was seeing. He was crying. A lone tear rolled down his leathery face, getting tangled in his black stubble.

  Dang it.

  I tried to remind myself I was mad at him, too. For bringing her here. For giving in. For always giving in. I didn’t want to feel bad for him. But this . . . this wasn’t Helen. She could make him say her words, but these tears were his own. And I’d caused them.

  “Pa—”

  “We’ve got to give Helen a chance, Kath. She ain’t like us. She don’t have prairie in her blood. And she never will if she only knows the pain of this place. She—” His sentence collapsed under his cough, wet and mucus-y, the sound of too much dirt inside his lungs.