If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  This place was killing him too. It wasn’t just the pain and the dead babies. It was the very earth itself. He needed to leave just as much as Helen did. And maybe just as much as I did. I was mean and ugly, getting meaner and uglier with each day the sky held its breath. But how could that be? How could home possibly be the place we didn’t belong anymore?

  “Don’t make this harder than it already is. This ain’t only about Helen, and you know it.”

  I did know. But I didn’t have to say it.

  “You’ve wanted surgery for a long time, Kathryn. I’ve seen it in your eyes. Don’t act like you don’t just to spite me.”

  I wasn’t trying to spite him. I was trying to spite her.

  “This surgery will change your life. Make things better. Make at least one thing in this whole miserable world better. No more brace. No more pain. Ain’t that what you been wishing for?”

  Yes. But . . .

  “We’ll come back, right, Pa?” I don’t know why those were the first words out of my mouth. It had nothing to do with his question. And everything.

  He stared at his hands, calloused and brown, covered with a permanent layer of dust. “Maybe next year. After the surgery. If this drought lets up.”

  His boots cracked on the dry grass as he walked away. He didn’t look back.

  “Ain’t that what you been wishing for?” If only Pa knew all the things I’d been wishing for. I wished I hadn’t been born with a crippled foot in the first place. I wished Ma hadn’t died. Wished Melissa hadn’t gone and married that Mayfield. I wished Helen’s father’s traveling charity clinic had never pulled into Boise City, that Pa had never broken his arm and that the regular doc hadn’t been tending to a flu outbreak in Guymon. I wished she’d followed her father right on out of town instead of finding her way to our house, and I wished they’d both realized how stupid it was to think they were in love.

  Most of all, though, I wished it would rain.

  We waited two more weeks until Pa’s truck was fixed and the last of the farmwork was done, not that there was much to finish. Most of the wheat rotted; even for pennies on the dollar, it was impossible to sell. The livestock was even worse. Practically had to beg someone to take ’em. The chickens could still lay, Pa insisted, though I noticed he left out the part about just how few eggs we were actually pulling from the coop. And that cow—milk as sandy as a bowlful of grits. I doubted she’d make it to the fall before being slaughtered for meat. What meat she had left anyway.

  The night before we left, I saw Melissa for the first time since her wedding. She’d come to visit Helen after the baby, but I’d been in town, lollygagging after buying the nails Pa had sent me for; the longer I could stay out of the house, the better. When I’d returned and discovered I’d missed her, I’d made for the door, planning on a visit of my own, but was stopped cold by Helen. “Don’t you dare go knocking on that door,” she’d spat. “I shooed her out just as soon as she arrived. Newlyweds need time alone, and it wasn’t right for her to be here fawning over me with a new husband at home. She’s a Mayfield now and her place is with the Mayfields—and she don’t need you over there, making her feel otherwise.”

  So I stayed. But not because Helen said to. It was because her words—though cruel—carried truth: Melissa wasn’t mine anymore. She was Henry’s, and I had to get used to it. I stayed away, even when I needed her help fixing the grasshopper muslin, even when Helen tried to make me wash the windows for no good reason, even when Pa started packing up our stuff like we were fleeing a sinking ship. I wondered if she knew we were leaving. Or if she even cared. Which was stupid because of course she cared. It was just easier to leave her—even a her that wasn’t her anymore—if I was mad.

  It was the longest I’d ever gone without talking to her. But then it was the end of June and our dugout was bare, the truck was loaded, and Pa announced we were having dinner at the Mayfields whether I liked it or not. The next thing I knew I was standing on the porch I didn’t want to be standing on, getting ready to have dinner with people I didn’t want to have dinner with, and when Melissa opened the door to the Mayfields’ house—excuse me, her father-in-law’s house—I found myself face-to-face with a stranger.

  “Oh, Kath.” Delicate arms wrapped around my neck. The smell of lavender overpowered everything. It felt like hours before she broke away, though it could have only been seconds. But even then she refused to let go of my hands. Tears glistened in the corners of her eyes. “I was hoping I’d get to see you before—”

  “Are you wearing makeup?”

  Melissa’s cheeks turned a deep shade of crimson. At least I thought they did. Hard to tell under all that goop.

  “I’ve never seen your face look like that before.” Makeup in Boise City was almost unheard of. And yet here stood my sister: Irish skin rosy, green eyes smoldering beneath honey-colored shadow, and shimmery red lipstick on her pout. Even her eyelashes seemed longer.

  She dropped my hands and averted her gaze. “Henry likes it.”

  I pulled at my dress. Melissa had sewn it for me last year out of a leftover flour sack. It was covered in small, faded strawberries. My favorite. The prettiest thing I owned suddenly looked hideous. And suddenly I cared.

  “Come in. Please.”

  The front parlor was bright and clean. Spotless. I’d bathed before I’d come—no way I was letting Helen douse me in her disgusting perfume again—but I still felt dirty. You couldn’t wash Oklahoma off you anymore. It hung in the air, stuck to your skin, invaded every single nook of your house no matter how much you swept. Unless you were a Mayfield, apparently.

  Melissa embraced Helen and gave Pa a kiss on the cheek. “I’m so glad you came. It’s right through here.”

  I’d been in the dining room before. For the wedding, they’d decked it out in ridiculous flowers and silver that probably cost more than Pa made in two years. Somehow, the whole room had smelled like cinnamon. I’d told myself it was just because of the wedding. Even regular folks liked to get a little fancy when it came to a wedding. But as Melissa led us inside, I realized that wasn’t the case. The room still smelled of cinnamon. The silver was still everywhere. And while the flowers were less, they were still there.

  It was the most absurd thing I’d ever seen in my life.

  Mr. Mayfield Sr. sat at the end of a long table but rose when we entered. “James!” His voice was too big, even for a room this size. “So glad you could make it! Come! Sit! Sit!”

  My father looked dark against the brilliant lights as he let his hand be enveloped inside Mr. Mayfield’s. Henry, appearing from the kitchen, patted his back. All three men smiled and laughed like our presence in this home was the most natural thing in the world.

  Helen pushed me forward. I wanted to push her back. My brace squeaked as I made my way toward my father. Loudly. Everyone turned to look at me.

  “Ah, and there she is. The lovely Miss Kathryn.” Mr. Mayfield was old and fat and smelled like tobacco and Ivory Soap. He held out his arms like he was expecting a hug.

  No way was I going near that starched white shirt with this dress on. I grabbed his hand awkwardly.

  He chuckled and adjusted his grip, giving me a firm handshake. Winking, he turned his eye to Helen. “Mrs. Baile, how are you this evening?”

  “Fine, Mr. Mayfield, thank you.”

  Did she really just curtsy? Good grief, Helen. Why don’t you shine his shoes while you’re at it?

  “Shall we all have a seat?” Henry put his arm around Melissa’s waist and guided her to the table.

  Good. Enough small talk. We could get to the table and I would finally be able to talk to Melissa. Maybe my sister was still in there somewhere under all that makeup and fancy hair.

  But Melissa did not sit by me. She let herself be led to a seat on the opposite side of the table. Next to Henry. Across from Helen. I sat at the end by myself like a leper. Or a cripple.

  Dinner was served by a servant—a servant. Pork chops and green beans and n
ew potatoes and water without even a hint of dirt in it. I wasn’t going to eat it, I decided. I didn’t need the Mayfields’ fancy food, thank you very much. No sir. Let the rest of them stuff their faces with their shiny forks. Kathryn Marie Baile was perfectly fine with rabbit stew and lentils.

  I lasted three minutes. But I protested inside my head with each delicious bite.

  Mr. Mayfield coughed and spat into his hankie. “Excuse me. Doggone dust is everywhere!”

  I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. Like he knew anything about the dust.

  “So,” he continued, voice once again light, “are you all packed up?”

  “Yes, sir,” my father said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “Ain’t too much to take, of course. Just some essentials. Helen’s folks have a real nice place in Indianapolis with plenty of room. Don’t make no sense to take much farmin’ stuff to the city.”

  When Mr. Mayfield nodded, his entire belly shook. “Very true. Well, I meant what I said about holding on to your land until you return. We own the deed now, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t still yours.”

  “Own the deed?” The words fell from my lips, surprising even me. All eyes turned to look at me. All, that was, except Melissa’s. She stared at her hands as if they were the most fascinating things in the room, as if I hadn’t spoken at all.

  Pa cleared his throat. “Kathryn.”

  I could read my father’s tone. It was a request—no, a plea—to let it drop, to talk about it later. But my stomach was at my feet, my heart in my throat. There was no going back from here. “What’s he mean ‘own the deed’?”

  Mr. Mayfield laughed again, though whether he did it to break the tension or because he thought I was funny, I wasn’t sure. “It’s just a piece of paper, dear. Family members helping family members. Because that’s what we are now, Kathryn. We’re family.”

  My breath came forth in quick bursts. “But what—?”

  “Gentlemen, shall we not discuss business at the dinner table?” Helen’s voice dripped with honey, but her eyes, narrowed in my direction, crackled with electricity.

  Mr. Mayfield laughed—again—and raised his glass. “Agreed, agreed! Polite conversation in polite company, Mrs. Baile.”

  I wanted to scream. Something was happening between my father and Mr. Mayfield. Some secret they were keeping. But not from Helen. Probably not from Henry or Melissa, either. A secret they were keeping just from me.

  I’d known that after the wedding, Melissa would start siding with the Mayfields. I had even started expecting Pa to side with Helen. But I’d never expected all of them to be on the same side . . . with me on the other.

  I shifted in my seat, causing my brace to squeak again.

  “Heard we might be getting some rain soon,” Henry said, clearing his throat.

  “Is that so?” Helen’s voice was tight.

  “Boys up in Campo said a storm blew through last night with more rain than they’d seen in a year. Streams flooded and old man Follett’s grainery washed clean away.” He chuckled. I wasn’t sure what was so funny about someone losing their entire livelihood in one night. “Lost about eighty bushels of wheat along with it. But it’s a small price to pay if it means the rains are coming back.”

  The table all murmured in agreement.

  Of course. One man’s entire crop was worth sacrificing if it meant the Mayfields would soon be making money again. Who cared? I chewed my fingernails, fretting. I could still taste the last of the pork chop’s juices, the dark-brown broth having soaked into the dry skin on my fingertips. I sucked at it, ashamed of the neediness of my body, letting out one accidental slurp in the process.

  All eyes turned to me.

  I lowered my hands.

  “So,” Mr. Mayfield said, smiling. The shine off his silver hair made me squint. “Kathryn, Helen tells me her father is a surgeon.”

  I nodded, glancing at my father’s wife. Her smile was tight.

  “And he’s offered to fix that foot of yours.”

  Everyone’s eyes flickered toward the table, like they could see through the cloth and wood to the monstrosity I was hiding beneath it. I tucked it behind my other leg and nodded again, feeling my cheeks flush.

  How dare she tell him about the surgery? And how dare this man ask me about it like he knew me?

  Mr. Mayfield blinked twice, his smile frozen on his face. “Well, aren’t you excited?”

  Everyone stared.

  I pushed my lips together, the pork chops curdling inside my stomach. I knew what I was supposed to say. I was supposed to say yes, to ooze praise for Helen and her father and the magical city of Indianapolis. But I wouldn’t. I couldn’t.

  Mr. Mayfield waggled his eyebrows. Playfully. Expectantly. He had no idea the weight of his question, the sheer impossibility of an answer. No one at that table did.

  Except Melissa.

  “Kathryn,” she said quietly. So quietly, the word sounded like a scream. It was the first she’d spoken all evening.

  And that was all it took to break me. I stood suddenly, causing my chair to topple backward. I didn’t say sorry. I didn’t pick it up. Instead, I walked out. I didn’t know where I was going. Home, maybe. Well, home for one more night at least. Or maybe I’d find a room in this house and just hide until Pa and Helen came back from Indianapolis. It was so big there were bound to be rooms they didn’t even use. It didn’t really matter. I just knew I had to get out of that room.

  I pushed open a door. The Mayfields’ library—good gracious, they even had their own library—was the size of our dugout. The wooden floors shone beneath a red-and-white rug. A massive brick fireplace nestled into the far wall, with shelves of books lining the others. A piano sat in the corner. I wondered if Henry could play.

  Melissa swept in behind me, her blue heels clicking loudly on the hardwood. Her navy dress—new by the look of it—swung like a bell. “Kathryn.”

  “What did Mr. Mayfield mean when he said he owned the deed?”

  “Kathryn—”

  “I know you know.”

  She sighed, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing her shoulders. She didn’t look at me. “It’s not that we were keeping it from you. I honestly thought Pa would have told you by now.”

  “Told me what?”

  “Pa sold the land to Mr. Mayfield.” She flinched as if expecting me to lash out.

  But I only stared. Numb. Dumb. “He did what?”

  “He sold the land to Mr. Mayfield,” she repeated. Then, quicker: “Money was tight, Kathryn. You know how bad things have been. Don’t act like you don’t.”

  I looked down at the ground. There was a dust bunny on the rug, gray against the stark white. So the Mayfields weren’t immune to the dirt, after all.

  “He needed the money. For food, for clothes, for . . . travel.” She spoke the last word quieter, like a burden. “And selling it to Mr. Mayfield means it stays in the family. Means the land will still be here when the drought is over. When the surgery is over. When you all come back.”

  When you all come back. Somehow she still had it—that irrational faith. I believed in God, sure. But He was distant, judgmental, maybe even just a little bit mean. I didn’t understand Melissa’s God. To her, He was Someone bigger, Someone there in the room with us, Someone not contained in words on a page or the walls of a church, awesome and powerful and loving. Someone in whom she had enough faith to say words like when you all come back.

  I wanted to believe her, to feel it too. But the truth of the situation—our land gone, swallowed up inside the Mayfield name like so many other farms—welled up inside me, bigger than my floundering faith.

  “Kathryn, please sit down.”

  “I’m fine right here.”

  “Kath, please—”

  “Henry read all these books?”

  Melissa stopped, the ball of her thumb twisting her wedding ring around her finger. Like if she stopped touching it, it would disappear. “What?”

  I ran my fingers over t
he faded spines on the shelves. “All these books on the walls. Henry read ’em?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “Kinda wasteful, don’tcha think?”

  “What?”

  “All these people got nothing to read,” I managed, fighting my tight throat and lips that were beginning to quiver. The concrete slab was sliding from my heart, the sight of all these beautiful, unread books pulling me from my numbness. “And the Mayfields have walls of ’em, just going to waste.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “I’m scared, Em.” The words fell out before I could stop them, grief rushing forth out of the darkness inside. I used her nickname desperately, hoping to find my sister beneath the new Mrs. Mayfield. “I don’t know if we’re coming back.”

  “Of course you’re coming back—”

  “Pa’s giving up. Selling the land, running away.”

  “That doesn’t mean he’s giving up. If anything, he’s trying to save it.”

  “But if it doesn’t rain soon—”

  “It will rain.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I just know. God is good, Kathryn, and this drought will not last forever.” There it was again. That faith she’d tried so hard to make me understand. But something else, too. Just below the surface her face spoke the doubt her words refused to acknowledge.

  And that grieved me more than anything.

  “Em—” I was not a crier. But somehow tears formed behind my eyes.

  “Please don’t cry.”

  For a moment, I forgot about her dress, her makeup, her too-tall shoes. I ignored the expensive furniture and dirt-free floor. And I didn’t even care about the phonies in the next room or the drought lurking just outside the door. For this one moment, it was just us two, clinging to one another yet again in a land of never-ending wind and want. Our sobs echoed in the massive room.

  “You will be back,” Melissa hiccuped, smoothing my stringy hair. It was chin-length and greasy, not quite blonde and not quite red, but some hideous shade in between. Melissa had even gotten the prettier hair. “Henry is a good man, and he promised that old dugout ain’t going nowhere. It will still be here when you get back. When. And I’ll be here to keep an eye on it for you. So don’t you say another word about it.”