If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  “Of course not, Hen—Mr. Mayfield. I merely . . . merely stopped by to wish you both a pleasant evening.”

  “And to you, Mr. Egan.”

  The banker made an exaggerated bow and nodded in my direction, causing a bead of sweat to fall onto his shiny black shoes.

  After Mr. Egan, there were others. The sheriff and his wife. Mr. Bonnifeld, the owner of the last department store in town. Mr. Clark, the Oklahoma Club’s owner and head chef. An endless parade of Boise City’s who’s who all come to pay their respects to the new Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield. It was flattering. And overwhelming. And exhausting. After a while, the chitchat and toadying grew old. My cheeks hurt from smiling. And my husband and I still had not shared a single word alone.

  My gaze floated to the picture window at the front of the club. Outside, the rest of Boise City drifted by with fake busyness, stealing glances at a place they would probably never set foot inside. The adults who passed kept their heads down, too proud to admit longing. But the kids—the kids stopped and stared. And they stared right at me without shame. Only hunger.

  I picked at my fingers under the table, pretending I didn’t see them. But nothing I did could keep me from feeling their eyes on me. Henry, meanwhile, didn’t seem to notice.

  The visitors abated only when our food arrived, balanced on a large tray by a boy not much younger than me. It took a few moments to place the dark hair and freckles.

  “Lucas?”

  The boy paused as he set a plate in front of Henry.

  “Lucas McCarty? It’s me, Melissa Bai . . . Melissa Mayfield. James Baile’s daughter.”

  Lucas smiled, revealing a row of crooked teeth. “Yes, ma’am. I know who you are.”

  Ma’am. Never in my life had I been called ma’am. Especially not by Lucas McCarty, the boy who used to bring Pa feed from his father’s general store every Friday. That was, before the store, like so many others in town, went under.

  “How is your—?”

  “Everything to your liking, Mr. Mayfield?” Lucas remained by Henry’s side, his face turned firmly away from my own.

  Henry waved him away without ever once meeting his eye. His gaze, instead, narrowed at me. “Fine. That will be all for now.”

  Lucas nodded once. “Of course, Mr. Mayfield. Thank you.”

  I smiled and tilted my head, trying to catch his eye. “Thank you, Lucas. And tell your father I said hello, please.”

  The corner of his mouth curled up slightly but he looked over my head instead of at me as he backed away, turning heel only after reaching the door to the kitchen.

  On the table before us lay an assortment of bread and vegetables and meat. Corn and potatoes and collard greens. Bread as thick as a book and steak—real steak, not the rabbit fillets Pa’d been trying to fool us with for months—steak as big as Helen’s fine china, before she’d sold it. It was enough to feed my family—my old family, I reminded myself—for a week, more food than we’d had even at Pa’s wedding. All of this for a regular evening meal.

  And yet Henry was not eating it. He was still looking at me.

  “Honey?”

  He smiled with his mouth but his eyes remained neutral, distant. Drumming his fingers on the burgundy tablecloth, the still-new gold band making a loud clicking sound against the hard wood beneath, he studied my face as his tongue explored the inside of his cheek.

  “Henry?” I ventured again, quieter.

  The drumming stopped. In its absence, the air in the room rushed forward to surround us, muting the noise of the other patrons. It pressed on every inch of my body, squeezing my lungs and forcing my heart into my throat.

  And still Henry stared.

  The other customers had stopped eating, the clinking of silverware ceasing as utensils hovered over plates. Food cooled, and glasses froze in midtoast. Every eye was on us, on me. At least it seemed that way.

  And then it was over. Henry blinked and his hand was on mine, his pale-blue eyes once again lively. “A feast worthy of a king . . . and his queen.”

  The air rushed out, releasing the pressure and forcing the blood back into my arms and legs. All around us, people laughed and talked, crunching their salads and cutting their steaks, indulging as if nothing had happened. And maybe it hadn’t. I nodded shakily, pleading my pulse back to normal.

  Henry winked and squeezed my hand. “But first, my dear, we pray.”

  The food was delicious. I think. Every bite was ash in my mouth, soured by the unrest in my heart. I had done something wrong. But I had no idea what it was.

  By the time we’d finished, the early evening breeze had given way to an angry gale. Outside the window, the sky was the color of earth, and the sand dunes collecting around the boardwalk were starting to shift. The earlier stragglers were gone.

  “Do you think the truck will start?” I asked, clutching Henry’s arm as we made our way to the foyer.

  Henry pulled his hat from the rack and scowled. “Of course it’ll start. It ain’t no jalopy.”

  But his eyes flickered to the window anyway. Dust swirled in the twilight, scratching against the door. Even a truck as nice as Henry’s could only do so much in the face of ten-foot drifts.

  He yanked his brim down low and tugged on the collar of his shirt. “Well, let’s get going. You best cover up. Where’s your hankie?”

  The steak in my stomach lurched. My hankie. My beautiful new hankie was in Kathryn’s pocket. Right where I wanted it to be. But judging from Henry’s face, not where it was needed most.

  The wind whistled through the rafters.

  “Melissa?” Henry glanced at me sideways. “The hankie.”

  “I . . . I gave it to Kathryn.”

  “You what?”

  “I gave it to Kathryn. For the journey. She was sad, you see, and I wanted her to have something of mine. To comfort her.” I waited for Henry to say something, to nod, to blink. Anything to signify he heard what I was saying and understood. But he did nothing. “She just . . . she was scared, is all. And you know how bad the dust gets on the road. She—”

  “You gave your sister your hankie.”

  It was not a question, but I answered anyway. “Yes.”

  “That hankie was your wedding present. A gift. From me to you.”

  I swallowed, my shoulders drooping. “I’m sorry, Henry. I know. And it was such a lovely gift. But Kathryn needed it more than I did.” I moved to put my hand on his arm. “And besides, the real wedding present is you, right? Us.”

  He flinched under my touch, pulling away so quickly it made me jump. “Do you know how much that hankie cost?” he whispered, though his voice was anything but soft. “That fabric came all the way from Dalhart. The stitching was done by one of the top embroiderers in the state of Texas.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “I bought it for you. For my wife.” The words came out hushed but firm. “That hankie was not yours to give away.”

  Behind us, the voices of the other patrons rose and ebbed in the dining room, but Henry’s displeasure built a wall around us, muting them. No one even glanced in our direction. We were alone. I was alone.

  I pressed a hand to my collar, trying to rub away the tightness slowly spreading through my chest. Yes, I’d disappointed my husband, created strife within our marriage. But as sorrowful as I felt for grieving him, giving Kathryn that hankie still didn’t feel wrong. I’d been sacrificing for my sister my entire life, putting her needs first, trying to model a life of a faith and selflessness the way our mother had done for me. What was mine was hers. Always. Loving my sister wasn’t a sin.

  And yet, in this new world, this other one in which I now lived, somehow it was.

  Henry looked at the ceiling and let out a deep breath. “You should have asked, Melissa. You should have asked. You’re my wife and you don’t just go throwing away my money without asking.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Henry shifted a toothpick with his tongue, staring at me with that look again. The same one
from dinner, the one that had stolen my air and iced my heart. The wood clicked against his teeth, somehow echoing in the small foyer. “Well,” he said finally, “let’s go, then. Before this duster gets any worse.” He grabbed my elbow roughly. I didn’t dare cry out.

  The storm was a welcome companion during the ride home, commanding my husband’s attention. His eyes strained, knuckles white on the steering wheel. The darkness turned the ten-minute drive into thirty; the tension made it seem even longer.

  When we arrived home, Henry didn’t open my door. He didn’t help me inside. He didn’t even say a word. But the sound of that slap. Of skin on skin. I would never forget it, even after the bruise faded. It burned into the walls of our kitchen, echoed like his footsteps as he climbed the stairs without giving me a second look.

  When I finally collected myself enough to join him, he roused from his slumber to kiss me good night.

  It was our two-month anniversary.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  KATHRYN

  I regretted giving Melissa that book twenty minutes into our trip.

  Pa and Helen rode up front, and there was no room for me. Not that I would have sat up there anyway. Helen was doggone near dancing when we left, and it was only Pa’s sad eyes that kept my mouth shut. I sat in the back, on top of the few trunks Helen allowed us to take, trying not to watch home slip away. My foot, Helen’s babies, the drought—I knew all the reasons we were leaving. But none of them seemed good enough when Oklahoma looked at me like that.

  I fingered Melissa’s handkerchief inside my pocket. I wanted to take it out, hold it against my face, breathe in her scent—her new scent, of course, but hers just the same. But I didn’t dare let Pa or Helen see it. They’d make me give it back for sure. It was the only piece of home I had left; I wouldn’t let them take it away too. I traced her initials with sweaty fingers. If she were here, she’d make up games for us to play. Or sing to me. Or read. But she wasn’t here. And I didn’t know if I’d ever see her or Boise City again. I wondered what she was doing now. Not that it really mattered.

  We headed east, our truck bouncing over narrow jutted pathways barely visible between barbed fences half-covered in dunes. The road was straight, but the journey was twisted, as Pa maneuvered our truck around drifts and clots of tumbleweeds. At the end of the first day, we’d only made it to Pa’s cousin’s farm just on the other side of Sturgis. It felt like God Himself was trying to keep us from leaving Oklahoma. If only Pa would listen to Him instead of Helen.

  On our second day, we passed into Kansas. I leaned over the side of the truck as Pa called out, feeling something other than bitterness for the first time since the truck had groaned to life beneath me. Kansas was where Dorothy lived. She’d given up Oz for it. Surely it was something special. Pa honked his horn as we crossed the state line, but the earth remained brown, crunchy, and flat. I settled back into the truck, scowling. Kansas was just as dead as Oklahoma, only worse. Because it wasn’t Oklahoma.

  It was the farthest away from home I’d ever been. My stomach turned in a way that had nothing to do with Pa’s driving. The land was the same, but the air was different. Less friendly. There was nothing familiar about these fields, these roads, these barren trees. They were imposters. The dust from our wheels floated southwest with the breeze. Even it was trying to get back across the state line.

  We drove three days straight and then another, stopping only when the sky behind us faded to orange. Seeing as how there was no one within a hundred miles who knew us and how we barely had enough money for gas, a hotel wasn’t an option. Camping was fine the first three nights. It felt good to stop, at least, give the rattling in my bones a chance to still. But by the fourth night, not even the prospect of stretching my cramped legs could raise my spirits. Not when Helen’s were mixing with the very clouds.

  “James, did I tell you about the garden?”

  Pa was busy making a small fire under the only cove of trees we could find. He paused just long enough to shake his head.

  Helen pushed a strand of hair from her eyes as she rummaged through our small supply of food. “As big as our dugout! With every kind of vegetable you could imagine. Just wait until you taste the tomatoes. Oh, how long has it been since I’ve had a tomato?”

  I slammed a pile of firewood at Pa’s feet. He glanced at me, eyebrows raised.

  Helen continued to rummage with her back to us. “And the soil! As dark as your hair and so rich I half expect it to sprout money.” She giggled at her own stupid joke. “My father hires a man to tend to it, but I expect he’ll allow you to care for it once we arrive, if you want. He understands a farmer’s need to be out in the dirt.”

  I snapped a branch under my foot, hoping it would ease my irritation. It didn’t. “And what about you, Helen?”

  The tone of my voice finally shut her up.

  “What’s that?”

  “Do you understand a farmer’s need?”

  She turned around slowly, tattered basket in her hand, face tight.

  I smiled, meanly but the first one in days, and took a step toward her. “Seems like common sense that a person attuned to a farmer’s need would understand the last thing you should do is take him away from his land. Maybe city folks like you and your pa ain’t quite smart enough to—”

  “That’s enough, Kathryn.” Pa was behind me suddenly, a hand on my shoulder. Firm.

  “I’m just sayin’—”

  His grip tightened. “I said enough. Jibber-jabberin’ ain’t gonna get food into the pot, and we’ve got another long day tomorrow. Make yourself useful and help Helen with those vegetables.”

  I opened my mouth but closed it as he squeezed my shoulder tighter, pinching the flesh beneath. Glowering, I wrenched free from his grasp and shuffled over to Helen, yanking the vegetable basket from her hand. Pa retreated to the fire once more.

  Beside me, Helen pulled a can of beans from a burlap sack and studied the label. From the side of her mouth, her words came out as a hiss. “You can be as ugly as you want, Kathryn Marie Baile, but nothing is going to stop us from getting to Indianapolis. And I mean nothing.”

  I grabbed a shriveled carrot and snapped it in two. “We’ll see about that.”

  She grabbed my wrist suddenly, her nails digging into my skin with more strength than her weak frame revealed.

  Behind us, Pa’s back was turned, the first wisps of smoke rising from the pile of tinder. I bit my tongue, not wanting to give her the satisfaction of a yelp.

  “Yes,” she breathed, the vein in her forehead bulging. “We will.”

  Dinner was quiet, the only noise coming from the crackling fire and the constant chirruping of grasshoppers. The stew was thin and bitter, the few vegetables I’d salvaged from our garden having already begun to spoil. I ate it anyway. Who knew when I’d taste Oklahoma again?

  Afterward, Helen fell asleep quickly, sprawled across the seat of the truck. Pa and I were expected to sleep outside. She did share a couple blankets, at least, though I’m sure if she could have gotten away with it, she would have made sure both went to Pa and not me. I was lucky she wasn’t that bold. Yet.

  I settled myself at the base of a tree, staring up through the gnarled branches to the darkening sky above. They might have been pretty once. Now they were nearly naked and gloomy, just like the rest of the countryside. The air smelled like manure, probably from some shriveled-up herd of cows nearby. Even the sunset was ugly here.

  My body ached from the jarring ride, my foot especially. It felt as if I’d walked a hundred miles, which was funny since I hadn’t walked at all. I wanted to take my brace off. But Pa was watching. So I lay down instead, rolling my leg slightly to relieve the pressure. Inside its cage, my foot cramped and throbbed and screamed, but taking off my brace right now would be like admitting I wanted the surgery. That I needed it. And I wasn’t willing to give anyone that kind of satisfaction.

  The ground was hard, packed, and riddled with pebbles my thin blanket couldn’t hide. But t
he sky was clear and, before long, filled with thousands of stars. The fire smoldered nearby, popping every so often and sending sparks dancing into the air. I tried to pretend I was camping with Pa and Melissa on our farm in Oklahoma. We’d done it lots of times when it was too hot to sleep in the dugout. Before Helen.

  “Kath?”

  I rolled over.

  Pa’s face stared at me from across the fire. “You okay?”

  I looked back up at the sky. “Fine.”

  “You lie.”

  I turned my back. He could call me a liar all he wanted. It wouldn’t change where we were. And where we weren’t.

  A long, wet sigh. “Did I ever tell you about your maimeó and daideó? ’Bout their trip across the ocean?”

  I still didn’t look at him.

  “They was young. Not much older than you are now. Your daideó was kicked out of Ireland for—”

  “Selling a bull on a Sunday,” I huffed, pulling my blanket over my head. I’d heard this story about my grandparents before. I loved it. But I didn’t want to hear it right now.

  “Right, right.” My father paused. “But do you know why he sold that bull?”

  I stilled. I’d never thought to ask. Melissa would have. Probably did when I wasn’t around. She was good like that.

  “He never had a ma, and his daddy died young. Left my da a copy of the Good Book, a pair of strong arms, and a parcel of fertile land. But Da never quite got over the loss. And a broken heart will kill you if you don’t let it mend.”

  I scowled. My heart wasn’t broken over Ma or Melissa or Oklahoma. It was angry.

  Pa coughed and spat. When he continued, his breathing was uneven. “He was a fool. Lived his life tryin’ to run from death and threw his inheritance away on gamblin’ and drinkin’. Soon he had nothing but a large debt, an unworked farm, and one scrawny bull.”

  I pretended to be asleep. He kept talking anyway.

  “One night, after a particularly rough fight with a bottle of whiskey, my da found himself laying in a field, staring at the sky. Now, the sky in Ireland is a lot like the sky in Oklahoma. Big. Beautiful. And he found he couldn’t look away from the stars. See, the stars make no noise. Yet you notice ’em anyway. Your eyes are always drawn up. Why do you think that is?”