If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  I wanted to believe her. Or even just to pretend to believe her. For one minute more.

  “You know,” she said after a moment, “you don’t have to have this surgery if you don’t want to.”

  I pulled away, irritated once more. “Who said I didn’t want to?”

  Mascara smudged her cheeks. “There’s nothing wrong with your foot, Kath.”

  “Stop it.” The brace on my leg was even more grotesque in this artificial light. Scratched. Rusted. Monstrous. “I want this. You know I want this.”

  “But why?”

  I scowled. “Maybe I want to be normal for a change. Do normal stuff.”

  “You are normal.”

  “You don’t know what it’s like.”

  “Kath—”

  “You’ll never know. You’re beautiful. And kind. And smart. And everyone’s favorite. Even Pa’s.”

  “Kathryn.”

  “And you’re a Mayfield now.”

  The words hung over us like a storm cloud refusing to break. I sat back and stuck my chin out, daring her to respond, pleading with her to have an answer. Instead, she bit the inside of her cheek and said nothing.

  I picked at my dress, trying not to let my disappointment show. “This is how it’s gotta be. I’ll go and get that surgery, and I’ll come back. And I won’t be a burden no more.”

  “You’ve never been a burden.”

  And she’d never been a good liar. She’d had to carry me for years. And not just with her arms. She’d miss school sometimes to care for me. Because I couldn’t care for myself. I’d seen the way people around town looked at her. Poor, pretty girl with her crippled sister. No wonder she’d gone running off to that swine Henry Mayfield. He’d given her an out. A big, fancy out.

  “But how can you be Dorothy without the Silver Shoes?”

  I bit down on a smile. My loafers looked nothing like Dorothy’s magic sparklers. Even the metal on my brace had lost its shine. But I liked when Melissa called them that anyhow. “I’ll just have to find another way.”

  Her eyes crinkled, leaving faint smudges of eyeliner below her brows.

  “What?”

  “I have something that might help.” From her pocket, she produced a beautiful blue-and-white handkerchief and pushed it into my hand. “I want you to take it with you.”

  The material was soft and smooth like Ma’s old curtains . . . before Helen hung them out to dry one day and the grasshoppers ate them. I held on to it loosely, afraid my dirty fingers would ruin the colors. “But where did you—?”

  “Never mind that. It’s mine, and I’m free to do with it as I choose. And I choose to give it to you.”

  “Em—”

  She folded my hands over it. “Take it. Please.”

  I wanted to hit her. Or hug her. She was being stupid, giving me something so beautiful. My heart swelled with feelings I couldn’t put into words. I had nothing to give her in return. Nothing . . . except everything. I pulled a worn book from the fraying pocket on my dress. With all the packing, I’d been too scared to let it out of my sight; Helen would have found a way to leave it behind. “You should take this.”

  Melissa’s hands ran delicately over the cover, tracing the gold lettering with her finger. She shook her head, causing a red curl to fall loose over her forehead. “I can’t. It’s your favorite. And besides, Pa gave it to you . . . from Ma.”

  I shrugged. “Yeah, but I’m going with Pa. You’re not.” The words came out meaner than I meant them. “I just mean I know it by heart. And I’m guessing Henry doesn’t have a copy of The Wonderful Wizard of Oz. With all these books around, you might need something to read.”

  Tears welled in her eyes again, and suddenly I knew. I knew I had to do this. I had to go; I had to get better. Melissa had wasted so much of her life worrying about me. And unless I learned to stand on my own two feet—literally—she would waste years more. She had a husband now, and soon, babies. And she would be their mother. It was time to stop treating her like she was mine. I needed to let her be happy, even if that meant letting her be a Mayfield. Even if that meant leaving.

  I let her hold me as she sobbed, but this time I didn’t join her. I had to be strong for the both of us. I had to be strong enough to go so I could be strong enough to come back. Strong enough to let Melissa be who she was—my sister. Not my caretaker, not my crutch, but my sister. Just my sister.

  When she kissed my forehead and led me back to the dining room, I pretended not to notice the dusty footprints I left in my wake.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  MELISSA

  They were gone.

  I didn’t see them leave. There wasn’t really any point. We’d already said our goodbyes. No, not goodbyes, I’d assured Kathryn. See-you-laters. Anything more would have been overkill. And probably would have broken me. Still, Pa had told me they were leaving at seven this morning, trying to make the most of the daylight. And it was now 7:03. They were gone.

  Not that I needed the clock.

  I could feel every mile Kathryn got farther away from me. My heart was cleaved; with every second, my sister faded a little more. How I wished I could have seen her face one more time. Her stoic gaze, her brave reassurances that everything would be okay, even if neither of us believed it. For years I’d cared for her as a mother to a child, preaching to her about the hope she could never truly seem to grasp; how was it that now her faith seemed so much stronger than my own?

  But it was a good thing. It was. Henry was now the only family I had in hundreds of miles. I was his and he was mine. Home was no longer that little dugout on that dried-up piece of land. And without Kathryn in it, maybe I could stop thinking of it that way.

  Home was the Mayfields’ farm, three miles outside Boise City and several thousand dollars outside what anyone else could ever dream of affording. There was money in oil, and the Mayfields had been lucky enough to find it first. They owned nearly all of Cimarron County because of it and rented out plots of land to farmers. What was left of the farmers, anyway.

  The main house where Mr. Mayfield lived—I mean, William; he insisted I call him William—sat at the front of the property. Less than a mile down the jutted and cracked drive, on the other side of the windswept grass field, was our house, smaller but just as showy. White with blue trim, thick columns all along the front. Straight shutters, a porch swing, painted steps. And in the yard, a lifeless pecan tree and a flower bed long since abandoned. It was kind of funny, actually. The large, wooden houses were ornate and well-kept; the land surrounding them was just as dry and barren as everyone else’s.

  The main house had servants, the senior Mrs. Mayfield having passed several years ago, and William had insisted on sending one to our house. It was the one and only time I’d put my foot down in front of my new father-in-law. I could accept the cotton sheets and braided rugs and indoor plumbing. But I could not accept being waited on and served to and cleaned up after, especially when it was just the two of us. Mayfield or not, I wanted to care for my home and my family. I’d done it my whole life. And I intended to keep on doing it without assistance, thank you very much.

  William had laughed. Henry had found my resolve adorable. But they’d relented. And so, the first morning of my new Kathryn-less world, I found myself as I always did: with a broom and rag in my hand. With too much change happening too quickly, there was solace in the familiar. Even if the familiar was sweeping and scrubbing.

  I was no stranger to hard work, but keeping a two-story house in pristine condition in the middle of a dry Oklahoma summer was a bigger challenge than I had imagined. By the time I finished wiping down one room, the previous one was already coated with a fine layer of brown. Closing the windows didn’t help. The dirt was determined to find its way inside. After six hours of rigorous cleaning, my hands were chafed, my back ached, and still the dust lingered. Convinced I’d done all I could do, I retreated to the backyard to find some wildflowers for the dining room table. A little color would take the sting ou
t of my imperfect undertaking.

  Henry’s old coon dogs lounged in the shade beneath the oak tree. Try as I had to win them over, they still cared about no one but Henry. They raised their heads as I emerged, watching as I made my way out of the house. Realizing I was alone, they settled back down. It was just me. And it was too hot to care.

  The heavens were pale. Not even a hint of clouds blemished the sky. The morning had been still, but a breeze had begun to trickle in from the north, gaining steam as it reached the open expanse of the prairie. In the distance, clouds of dirt detached themselves from the ground and spiraled upward, blending the earth and sky into an indistinguishable haze.

  What little grass remained crunched beneath my feet. It was no longer green. It hadn’t been green in years. But every so often, a small yellow bloom—a weed, really, but the only source of color for miles—poked its way through the parched soil, stubbornly refusing to believe the drought. I gathered a handful in the folds of my dress.

  The flowers reminded me of my mother. Picking them with her and later making circles of daisies that I draped around her belly, Ma insisting my baby sister would need a crown. She knew it was going to be a girl. Somehow she knew. And she loved her. This child she only knew through the bulge of her stomach, through the kicks that would cause her to jump and laugh. She loved her.

  Even when those giggles turned to pain, those smiles to grimaces. When Pa tried to shoo me from the house and I’d hidden beneath the window anyway. The whispers of the midwife, the panic in her voice clear even if my six-year-old mind didn’t quite understand the words.

  And my mother’s insistence, her plea steadfast through her agony. Kathryn would be born, one way or another.

  I’m sure hours passed. But in my memory, it happened quickly, Pa pulling me back inside, telling me to hug my mother, to kiss her pale cheek. I remember the sweat and the smile, the love on her face as she placed my baby sister in my arms for the first time.

  And then she was gone.

  Everything was different after that, and yet somehow still the same. The land still sang when the wind blew, soft and sweet, like the grass itself. The rains still fell. I remembered the smell the most—clean and earthy, fluffy clouds collecting overhead, looking as supple and billowy as goose down. The soil was brown as chocolate when the rains came, and the wheat doubled in size overnight, covering the land like a blanket as far as the eye could see. Pa would whistle in the fields and Kathryn would ride the plow and I would shell peas in the sunshine. In the evenings, tummies full and bodies tired, we would read or play cards. In the midst of tragedy, Oklahoma continued on, a reminder of what was lost—but more importantly, what remained.

  Until now. Kathryn says everything changed when Helen arrived. Perhaps. It changed more when the rains stopped, though.

  I was just returning to the house when I heard Henry’s truck rumble down the driveway. Surrounded by prairie hills and my own memories, I’d lost track of time. My heart fluttered.

  “Melissa?”

  I shoved the flowers into a jar hastily and smoothed down my dress. “In here!”

  My husband swept into the kitchen and wrapped me in a hug.

  I breathed him in deeply. He smelled of hay and dry air, only the faintest trace of his aftershave still lingering on his skin. “How was your day?”

  “It was fi—good grief, Melissa. What happened to you?” His lip rolled up over his teeth.

  My hand went to my face. “What?”

  “You’re filthy.”

  I glanced down. There was a raw spot in the knee of my new dress. Dried grass clung to the fabric at my chest. And my nails—goodness, they looked like Kathryn’s. Grimy and broken. “I didn’t have a chance to freshen up. I’ve been cleaning all day, and—”

  “You’ve been cleaning all day?” His eyes surveyed the kitchen. A small pile of dust had collected in the corner.

  “Well,” I stammered, “I tried but—”

  Henry held up a hand.

  I collapsed into silence, ready to cry. I’d worked all day, and I’d failed. I’d tried to not think about my sister and my father and our dugout, and I’d failed at that, too.

  “Honey?” Henry’s hand was on my chin. “Are you crying? I’m teasing.”

  “No,” I whispered, refusing to open my eyes. I didn’t want to fail at not crying, too.

  I felt his lips on mine, soft with a slight hint of tobacco. I couldn’t help it. I needed to see him. I opened my eyes.

  His lips were puckered into a tight smile. “There you are.” He kissed me again. There were no tears this time. There was just him. And us. And this.

  I didn’t want him to pull away, but he did. I leaned my head into his chest, savoring the feel of it rising and falling beneath my touch.

  “You haven’t started dinner? I’m hungry.”

  His tone was still light—joking, I reminded myself—but the words settled on me like an indictment. “I was . . . I was getting ready to. I didn’t realize you’d be home so soon. I was . . .” I gestured limply to the flowers on the table.

  His face softened. “You were just trying to make it nice.”

  I nodded.

  “Sometimes I forget how different we really are.” He smiled. “I’m sure you had to use a lot of flowers inside that old dugout to bring in some color, didn’t you?”

  He was trying to be kind, but his words stung. It was the first time he’d ever mentioned the difference in our upbringings. Not that it wasn’t always there. But saying it made it bigger. I suddenly felt filthy, and it had nothing to do with a day’s worth of dirt staining my face.

  “It’s sweet, really,” he said, breathing softly in my ear. “I appreciate the effort. I like that you want to please me. A beautiful house, a beautiful wife . . . I am the luckiest man in Oklahoma.”

  My body relaxed. I managed a slight smile.

  “We’ll go into town for dinner tonight. Something real special.” He flashed me one of his million-dollar smiles. “Why don’t you go get cleaned up?”

  I ascended the stairs on wobbly knees.

  “Oh, Melissa?”

  “Yes, darling?”

  “Let’s try a little harder tomorrow, okay?”

  People stared when I went out in public now.

  And not like before. Not the shy glances. Not the gentle looks I got when I was with Kathryn. These stares were different, invisible. Stares that weren’t stares. Stares that meant something I couldn’t yet figure out. It was one more thing I would have to get used to. I was a Mayfield now, and people looked at the Mayfields.

  The Oklahoma Club had been little more than a hole-in-the-wall before the boom days of the 1920s, much like the town of Boise City itself. Built as a prop to appeal to eastern sophisticates, it graced the cover of the town’s brochures, showcasing the tree-lined streets, artesian wells, and thriving businesses. Truth was, behind its beautiful brick exterior, the Oklahoma Club was nothing more than a dirt-floored speakeasy, the centerpiece of our founders’ deception. There was nothing sophisticated about Boise City. In fact, it was barely even habitable.

  Maybe that’s what made the town so special. The original settlers—men like William Mayfield—refused to believe they’d been duped. Call it stubbornness, call it arrogance, call it whatever you will. Arriving here and finding no amenities and no culture, they could have left. Cimarron County wasn’t exactly welcoming. But they dug in, stuck it out, and created something out of nothing. Like the Oklahoma Club, whose cozy interior now matched the elegance of its once-phony front.

  True, the drought had reduced its menu and minimized its customers, but it was still the nicest, most extravagant place in town. I had only been there twice in my entire life: when Pa had married Helen and the night Henry proposed. The former had been quiet and small, just family and a few friends in the back corner with dinner and drinks. The latter had been boisterous: a center table, a serenade from a visiting mariachi, all eyes on me as Henry asked for my hand in front of what fe
lt like the entire town with a ring he’d had made especially for me in Amarillo. Even tonight, months later, I still found myself staring at my finger. I’d gotten used to the weight of it, but even under lights as soft as these, its glare was conspicuous.

  I wore a green dress, one I knew he liked, since he was the one who bought it for me. He said it matched my eyes. Aside from my ring, it was the brightest thing inside the dim restaurant, with its dark wood, wine-colored tablecloths, and smoldering fire. I had hoped for an intimate affair, but it wouldn’t be possible with this dress. Or with Henry Mayfield.

  We’d been seated exactly two minutes before the first intrusion.

  “Mr. Mayfield! Good to see you!”

  Henry rose and shook the newcomer’s hand. “Mr. Egan, how are you?”

  The bank manager was a fat man with perpetually red cheeks. His teeth were a sickly shade of gray, the stub of a cigar always hanging from his cracked lips. Kathryn asked me once how he kept from choking on it in his sleep. I smiled, remembering it.

  Mr. Egan took my smile as his cue to kiss my hand. His lips were as dry as they looked. But he at least removed his cigar first. I would have to tell Kathryn next time I talked to her. Whenever that might be.

  “I’ve been trying to get ahold of your father, Henry. There’s some business to attend to regarding the Avery estate. Hemorrhaging money, it is. I think your best bet is to sell it now before the drought gets any worse. Fine time to—”

  “Surely, Mr. Egan, you’re not insisting on talking business in front of the lady, are you?”

  Henry’s tone was peaceful, controlled, but distress flickered across Mr. Egan’s face. He licked his lips, somehow keeping his cigar in place, and tugged at his jacket.