She squeezed me tightly before she walked away. We both knew it would be the last time we would ever speak.
I returned to Henry, but his attention remained on the group of men in front of him, none of whom I recognized. Judging by their suits, I gathered they were important. I stood behind him silently, clasping and unclasping my hands.
“Mrs. Mayfield?”
I flicked a speck of dirt from my dress. I wondered if it had gotten there from hugging Doris.
“Mrs. Mayfield?”
I looked up.
The preacher’s wife, Mrs. Brownstone, stood in front of me, smiling. “Mrs. Mayfield,” she said again.
Mrs. Mayfield. I was Mrs. Mayfield. She was talking to me. “Oh,” I stuttered. “Yes?”
“May I have a word?”
I glanced past her at my husband. Henry was still deep in conversation. “Yes, of course.”
She pulled me to the side, where a group of ladies stood in a circle. “Mrs. Mayfield, this is Mrs. Egan—” the banker’s wife—“Mrs. Bonnifeld—” Bonnifeld . . . like the department store—“Mrs. Marimen—” must be the sheriff’s wife—“and Mrs. Willis—” I recognized her from church bake sales; her cherry pie was a bestseller.
I nodded at each one. “How do you do?”
“Mrs. Mayfield, we are the chairs of the Ladies Auxiliary Club.”
I cringed. So they were the ones. For each of Helen’s pregnancies, someone from the Ladies Auxiliary had dropped off a basket of baby gifts—diapers, blankets, and such. I’d had to return them twice. I wondered if Kathryn had taken the latest one back before they left.
Mrs. Brownstone’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “We’d like to extend an invitation for you to join. We meet once a week here at the church.”
The ladies all murmured their agreement.
“Oh, I don’t know . . .” I glanced in Henry’s direction. He laughed loudly and patted the man next to him on the back.
“Oh, but you must!” Mrs. Brownstone exclaimed. “I remember your mother being a part before . . .” Her voice faded as her eyes flickered downward.
Before she died, she was going to say. My mother had been a member before she died. Or maybe she meant before the drought, when regular women had the time and energy to do such things. Before being a part of the Ladies Auxiliary was a luxury only the luckiest could afford. Before Helen, who’d struggled just to keep our homelife afloat as it was, who’d needed far more from these ladies than she could ever give back in return. Before life itself had simply gotten too hard.
“We’re here to help the community,” Mrs. Willis popped in, trying to cheer away all the unspoken sorrow. Sweat glistened on the rolls under her chin and she fanned herself with her bulletin. “We knit blankets, collect food, whatever we can. We strive to be Jesus’ hands and feet. The good Lord knows our town needs it.”
The women all amened in agreement.
“Please consider it, dear.” Mrs. Brownstone squeezed my hand, her silver bracelet scraping my skin. “What with your legacy of faith and your newfound resources, you could do so much good. We’d just love to have you on board.”
Newfound resources. Yes, the town did need help. My family had needed their help. But now these women saw me as a giver, not a receiver. I was no longer a charity case; I was the charity. All because I’d changed my last name.
“Yes,” I said weakly. “I will. Thank you.”
This seemed to satisfy the group. They returned to their chatter.
Mrs. Bonnifeld, however, led me a few steps away. “I hope you’ll join us,” she said, leaning toward me. Her long blonde hair, which was pulled back in a sensible bun, smelled of honeysuckle. “It’s important for women like us to give back.”
Women like us. I was part of the us now.
“And,” she continued, lowering her voice, “sometimes we need a reason to get out of the house. We have to do what we can to . . . keep the peace.” Her eyes flitted over the cut on my lip.
I sucked it in, feeling the wound reopen beneath the pressure.
And then she was gone, swallowed back into the crowd of worshipers. Most would go home, change out of their one set of Sunday clothes, and work their farms, praying for the rain that would surely come tomorrow. Others, like my husband, would retreat to their houses, to their elaborate Sunday dinners, to their books and brandy.
As I sat next to my husband on the drive home, I wondered if I’d ever understand why the world was full of such disparity. And if I could ever truly make the leap from one side to the other.
CHAPTER SEVEN
KATHRYN
I was dead. The sudden stillness in the air, the earsplitting silence, the rapid shift from darkness to light—that didn’t happen on earth. There was a gradualness to things. I had to be dead.
And yet there was a sharp rock at my back. A layer of dust on my skin. Fuzziness on my tongue. Stinging in my eyes. And my aching, deformed foot was still in that cursed boot. If I was dead, then I must not have made it to heaven.
I pulled Melissa’s handkerchief from my face. The blue-and-white checks were brown. Everything was brown. I coughed and hacked and spat, then coughed and hacked and spat some more. The dirt was coming from inside me. I’d never get it all out. I crawled from my hiding spot and shook my head, watching a cloud of dust float to the ground. I rubbed the handkerchief across my face, even though it wouldn’t do much good.
I shoved it in my pocket and stretched, making my brace creak. Dust in the joints. It would make it that much harder to walk. Fantastic. My arms were crisscrossed with dirty blood and fresh bruises. I tried to spit on the worst, but even my saliva was mud. I needed water. Surely Pa had some in the truck.
The truck.
My eyes scanned the prairie. Which way would the truck be from here? I took a step away from the trees to get a better look.
Nothing but parched earth.
No. Something had to look familiar. It had to. But I was hundreds of miles from familiarity, in a different land that looked completely the same. Shifting dunes and dry grass and hilly fields that should have been covered in wheat but weren’t. Every single direction was brown, empty nothingness.
Panic rose in my throat. Or was that vomit? Both. I heaved into a cluster of tall grass, retching bile, dirt, and what little water remained in my body. Mud ran from my nostrils, making me gag again. I wiped my face and was surprised to find tears.
“Stop it.” The words fell to the ground. “Stop it,” I repeated, more forcefully. These words seemed to linger in the air a bit longer. Satisfied, I spun around, squinting against the light. There had to be something, something I would recognize. If only I’d stop being so weak.
I closed my eyes and held my breath. It was a trick Melissa taught me. When Helen was being Helen, it made my insides spin like a twister. But if I held my breath long enough, there wouldn’t be enough wind to fuel that twister and it would die down. Then I could think straight again and not get in trouble.
I counted to ten and opened my eyes. The hills rose and fell for miles around me. Sand dunes broken by clumps of grass. Behind me was the dry creek bed I’d taken shelter in. The only trees in sight sat on its banks.
And then there it was. A fence post. Half-hidden by sand, but still it was there. I limped toward it, my brace squeaking with every step. Never mind there were probably dozens of fence posts scattered across these fields. This was the same fence post I’d run into during the storm. It had to be.
A small tangle of barbed wire hung from its side, barely visible beneath the dirt. I began to dig, feverishly, desperately. I knew I was the last person God probably wanted to hear from, and yet I prayed anyway, hoping to feel Him the way Melissa did. But all I felt was the sand growing thick under my fingernails. Finally, miraculously, after what felt like ages, I found it: hidden under several inches of soil was a piece of my dress, still clinging to the rusted wire.
I ripped it free and held it to my face. “Thank You!” I breathed. “Thank You!”
This was it. This was the same fence post. Which meant the road was right behind me.
I spun around. Sure enough, yes, the road was there. You’d have to be looking right at it to find it, seeing as how it was all but covered in fresh dunes, but it was there.
The truck wasn’t.
I rushed forward, tripping over a pile of knotted tumbleweeds.
Most of the sand had blown against the ditches. There were no dunes big enough to cover a truck. Not on the road. The tallest was about half my height, slumping to the north as if tired from its journey.
Maybe the wind had tipped the truck on its side. Yes, that’s probably what happened. That’s how it got buried. I didn’t even let myself consider how stupid that was. I was going to cry again if I didn’t start digging. And there wasn’t enough water left in the world to fuel tears.
So I dug. First one hole, then another, then another. Praying again, this time to feel metal, rubber, wood, anything besides dirt. I dug until I felt gravel, until my fingertips bled. And still I dug. It had to be here. Trucks didn’t just blow away, not even in a duster like that. No, it was here. It was here. It was here. I just had to find it.
It was after the fourth dune that I saw them. Tire marks. Old ones would have blown away in the storm. These were new. Fresh.
They’d left me.
I folded onto the ground, sinking into the dune I’d been fighting. There was no truck. And there weren’t even any footprints. Not on the road, not in the field, not in the ditch that lay filled with half-covered tumbleweeds.
Only tire marks headed eastward. Not just toward Indianapolis . . . but also away from me.
The dirt shifted beneath me, covering my legs. I didn’t try to push it away. They’d driven away. Left me behind. They’d gotten their chance to finally be rid of me, and they’d taken it. A chance to finally be free from their mean, ugly, deformed daughter. The one who’d been a curse since the day she was born. Who’d killed her mother. Who refused to let anything good come into their lives.
I bit the inside of my cheek as hard as I could, ripping the tender flesh and tasting blood. But the pain wasn’t enough to stop the tears. With nothing but wasteland in front of them, my screams raced across the open prairie, carrying my despair for miles before drying out in the stale Kansas air. The earth seized my tears, pulling them into the depths before the sun had a chance to snatch them away. I wailed and thrashed until my throat was raw and my face stiff, until the ground around me covered my body like a death shroud. I closed my eyes and let it.
The setting sun left orange spots behind my eyelids. I watched the dots shrink and expand, wondering how long it would take for me to die. Hours? Days? Maybe if I was lucky, I would just sleep. Sleep and never wake up.
The sudden caw of a crow made me jump. I opened my eyes to see him circling overhead, watching me. Waiting. I’d heard rumors about crows scavenging dead livestock lately, eating whatever they could find since the plants dried up. Eyeballs and noses, Matthew Warren had said. Those were the first things to go on the goats after the crows landed on his daddy’s farm.
I put a hand to my brow, instinctively protecting my eyes. This bird was waiting for me to die. He was waiting for dinner.
Digging my fist into the dirt, my hand curled around a rock. Even in my wretchedness, I would not allow myself to be reduced to bird chow. With a scream, I hurled it toward him, missing by miles but sending him away squawking curses. I followed his silhouette until it disappeared in the rapidly setting sun. West. Toward Oklahoma.
I could go. Nothing was stopping me. Return to Boise City. The dugout was still there. Melissa was still there.
The cramp in my leg spread to my chest. No. Melissa Mayfield was there. Melissa Baile was not. I pulled the hankie from my pocket and wiped the sweat from my lip, trying to force a breath into knotted lungs. The material was frayed and filthy, a shadow of its previous state. I’d ruined it already.
I couldn’t go home.
But even if I deserved it, dying didn’t seem like much fun either. Not with those doggone crows around.
I could continue east. Find Pa. My heart was cleaved as I pictured him behind the wheel, tires rolling over the dunes. How could he have done such a thing? He loved me. No matter how mean and ugly I got, he loved me.
I think.
No, he did. I had to believe he did. He’d never have left me if it wasn’t for Helen. It had to have been Helen, pushing him onward, convincing him I was gone.
But I could go after him. Find him, get the surgery, and wait for the rain. Because the rain would come. And then Pa and I could come back, with or without Helen. If I quit now, she’d win. Pa’d never return to Boise City if I wasn’t there to make him. To keep those city-slicker nails from digging in too far. I could get the surgery, and I’d finally be strong, inside as well as out. Strong enough to fight for Pa and for Oklahoma.
And if I was wrong? If it was true he did want to be rid of me? Then so be it. My leg would be fixed and I’d return to Oklahoma without him.
That would show ’em.
I watched the sky fade from orange to purple to black. Then I pocketed the hankie, pushed the sand off my legs, and limped back toward the creek bed. Settling myself at the base of a dead tree, I removed my brace. There was no one I had to impress anymore. I was free. I massaged my foot. It was stiff, achy, and cramped. But I’d need it to cooperate tomorrow. Because tomorrow I was heading for Indianapolis. On my own.
It was a restless night. The sky was clear but moonless, and the air felt heavy on my skin. Like the duster had left an invisible blanket over the land. The absence of wind made every rustle echo. Although I knew it was probably nothing more than jackrabbits and crickets, my mind drifted to darker things. I wished I’d grabbed Pa’s gun from the truck. I wished a lot of things.
“The stars make no noise,” Pa had said. But tonight—tonight they were screaming.
I began my walk before the sun came up. I was hungry, but I was used to being hungry. It was the thirst I couldn’t stand. I needed to find water. My throat ached from the lingering dust and my earlier screams. I could barely swallow. There simply wasn’t enough moisture to do it anymore. If I was to have any hope, I had to find water first. The creek bed I’d slept in followed the road, so I followed the creek bed. Maybe there’d be a puddle the drought had forgotten.
But the drought had forgotten nothing. That much was clear within the hour. The ground was cracked and the grass disintegrated under my steps. Even the rocks looked parched and desperate. There was no water here. And there hadn’t been in a very long time. I gave up and retreated to the road. Maybe I’d see a house I could beg from.
My foot ached. My head pounded. My mouth was as dry as cotton. I could feel what little moisture I had left being sucked from my skin. The sun was so hot. It wasn’t this hot in Oklahoma, I didn’t think. The heat was starting to make me forget. There was no shade. No streams. No houses. And nothing but dust on the horizon.
What was I thinking? Did I really think someone like me—barely capable of making the two-mile journey to school each day on her own—could walk to Indianapolis? My mind was as crippled as my foot. It hadn’t even been half a day, I figured I was less than ten miles from where I’d started, and I was dangerously close to fading away in the noon sun. I’d be dead before nightfall. I couldn’t do things normal people could do. And not just because of my foot.
The heat made my head spin. I collapsed in a drift and vomited. Or tried to vomit. My stomach had nothing left to give. Not even any spit to wet my lips after the attempt. I didn’t bother to get up. There was no point. I lay on the side of the road, feeling my skin sizzle. I wanted to cry. But I was too dry.
I reached down and yanked off my brace. My foot was swollen. Several new areas were rubbed raw. I closed my eyes and pushed against them, wanting to feel the pain. Anything other than barrenness.
“Ya dead?”
I blinked. A shadow blocked the sun above my face.
; “Nah, you ain’t dead. Whatcha doing down there?”
I blinked again. From the sound of his voice, the shadow was a man. But I couldn’t see his face. I struggled to get upright.
The figure stepped back, allowing me some space. He was tall and gangly, dressed in a navy-blue suit two sizes too small, patches on his elbows, drooping socks around his ankles. A dusty bowler hat perched crookedly on his head. His skin was greasy and red from the sun, his hair and mustache the color of straw.
“Whatcha doing down there?” he repeated.
I opened my mouth to speak but my lips cracked at the attempt.
The man snapped his fingers. “Ah, right!” He took a few steps backward, and I noticed, for the first time, a car parked several paces up the road. He jogged toward it, then jogged back, his long legs reaching me before the rest of him. “Here,” he said, thrusting a canteen at me. “Drink.”
I was too thirsty to be wary. Greedily, I did as he said, feeling life return to my body, then sour just as quickly. I vomited between my legs.
“Whoa, whoa,” the man said. “Slowly now. Slowly.”
I took another sip, letting it slide into my stomach before allowing another.
“Better?”
“Yes,” I said, my voice muddy. “Thank you.”
He shrugged, his suit straining with the movement. “Now maybe you’ll tell me what you’re doing down there, laying on the side of the road?”
“I’m going to Indianapolis.” I didn’t mean to say it, but my tongue had a mind of its own, excited it could move again.
“Indianapolis?” The man brayed like a donkey, smacking his knees and causing his hat to topple from his head. His hair was thinning and stringy. “You’re a long way from Indianapolis.”
“I know that,” I snapped, standing and wiping the dirt and bile from my legs. I turned my back to him, lacing my brace with stiff fingers. My foot screamed, but I stuffed it inside anyway. When I turned back around, the man was staring. “What?” I asked, puffing out my chest.
If It Rains Page 7
