If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  My mouth suddenly had too much saliva.

  With a rude creak, the door swung open. When she grabbed the basket, she was careful to avoid touching my hands. The entire house shuddered when the screen slammed shut.

  “You tell the ladies at St. Paul’s I said thank you. But I’d appreciate if they’d send someone else over next time.”

  Then she turned and disappeared back into the shadows.

  Shaken and wounded, I fled down her steps, not stopping to catch my breath until I reached the corner, out of view of the house’s accusing glare. It was only then that I noticed dirt on the bottom of my dress. No matter how much I rubbed it, the black smudge refused to fade.

  CHAPTER NINE

  KATHRYN

  Frank Fleming’s car was full of dynamite. Dynamite and something he called “so-lid-o-fied nitroglycerin.”

  I immediately regretted getting inside.

  “Relax.” He laughed and leaned back in his tattered seat, like there was nothing but kittens sitting behind him. “They ain’t gonna blow up all by themselves. Trust me, you’re perfectly safe.”

  This man had shown me kindness, saved me from probable death . . . and yet something about him gave me the willies. And that was before I knew the car was full of dynamite.

  He waggled his eyebrows, a dry smile playing under his sweaty mustache. “So you gonna tell me your name or not?”

  Not. But I found myself saying, “Kathryn Baile.”

  “Well, Miss Baile. You mind telling me how you ended up in the middle of Kansas all by yourself?” He alternated glances between the road and me, one clown-size hand draped lazily on the steering wheel.

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “You mind telling me what you’re doing with explosives in your back seat?”

  He slowed to maneuver around a drift. In the back seat, boxes shifted.

  I hunched my shoulders, waiting for a bang. None came.

  “I told ya they ain’t gonna go off. No need to be scared.”

  “I’m not scared.”

  He clicked his tongue behind his ugly teeth. “Alright, Miss Baile.”

  I stuck out my chin. “And it don’t matter how I got here. All that matters is where I’m going.”

  “And just what exactly is it you’re hoping to do in Indianapolis?”

  “I’m going to find my pa. He . . .”

  He left me.

  “We got separated,” I said instead, swallowing the shame bubbling in my throat. I turned to watch a pheasant scurry out from under our wheels. “In a duster. He might even be in Pratt, waiting for me.”

  “Lucky for you I came along then, isn’t it?”

  Being in the car with Frank Fleming was a lot of things. Lucky was not one of them. “Your turn. Why you got all those explosives?”

  “Because I’m fixing this here drought.”

  Well, that explained it. He was crazy. Fantastic. “Oh? And how you planning on doing that?”

  “With science!” His voice deepened. His posture straightened. This was obviously not the first time he had given this speech. “Rain follows military battles. Plutarch knew it, Napoleon knew it—do you know who they are?”

  I stuck out my tongue.

  He laughed, the grating hee-haw echoing off the roof of the car. “Alright, alright. I was just making sure. But I digress! Yes, rain follows battles! Even Civil War soldiers knew it to be true! And why does it rain after military battles? Why?”

  “I don’t—”

  “My dear, it’s called the concussion theory. Explosions disturb the atmosphere’s equilibrium, making rain fall from the sky. Now, the good Lord has blessed us with a time of peace in this country—” he made an exaggerated sign of the cross on his chest—“but we are still in a time of hardship. And in times of hardship, we must turn to lessons we learned during times of war.” He bowed his head respectfully.

  “What in Sam Hill are you talking about?”

  He stared at me so long I worried we were gonna drift off the road. When he spoke, his voice was low, a secret meant just for me. “We bomb the clouds.”

  “Bomb the clouds?”

  He grinned and finally returned his attention to the road. A lone drop of sweat dripped from his nose. “A war on weather, if you will.”

  I scooted closer to the door, peeling sticky legs from the ripped seats. I’d’ve jumped if I hadn’t thought it would kill me. “You are completely crackers.”

  He neighed again. “Not crackers at all, little lady. Why, just last week, I opened up the clouds in Council Grove. Sent my special mixture up into the sky and boom! Within the hour, an inch of rain had fallen.”

  I leaned against the seat, staring ahead. There were no clouds in the sky. Patches of asphalt shimmered in the heat, melting into dust that swirled around our tires. Even with the windows rolled up, I could smell the brittleness of the grass. All these miles and I still hadn’t seen a drop of water yet. The entire world was drying up.

  I wanted to believe him. I wanted to buy what he was selling. Rain. Sweet, blessed rain. We could sew clothes. We could plant food. We could build houses. But not one of us could make it rain. And especially not an idiot like Frank Fleming.

  “If you honestly think dynamite can make it rain, then you ain’t crackers—you’re just a plain old dip.”

  Though traces of a smile remained on his lips, Frank’s body deflated. He removed his hat and smoothed down the greasy strings underneath. “Suit yourself. But soon enough you’ll be singing a different tune. The good folks of Pratt took up a collection and hired me to make it rain. And that’s just what I’m gonna do. You stick around. You’ll see.”

  “And what if you can’t?” It was a stupid question. He wasn’t going to make it rain. And I hated him for making me think even for a second he was. “Aren’t you scared of what the town will do to you if it don’t work?”

  For the first time since I’d gotten into the car, something changed in Frank Fleming’s eyes. They seemed darker, more uneasy and fatigued. His gaze floated across the dry prairie and to the pile of dynamite in his back seat. “Darling, the only thing that scares me these days is a lighted match.”

  The town of Pratt, Kansas, looked just like Boise City. Houses chipped down to gray wood. Dunes pushed against stores all the way up to the windows. Sand plowed off the streets like snow and dumped in piles off the main drag. The air even smelled like home—stale and thirsty. Only I was very aware that it wasn’t home.

  Frank told me to wait on a bench while he went inside the headquarters of the Pratt County Press, promising me a sandwich if I did. Seeing as how I wasn’t keen to sit in a car full of dynamite, and a sandwich was a sandwich even if it came from a crazy person, I did as he said. I counted cars as they rumbled down the dusty street and, when I got tired of that, studied the blue-and-red marquee of the Barron Theater across the street. Star of Midnight was playing tonight at 7 p.m. Ginger Rogers and William Powell. Melissa had loved Flying Down to Rio. I wondered if Henry would take her to see this one. Probably not. Only Technicolor films for the Mayfields. Not that the Palace Theater in Boise City got many of those.

  “Hey,” Frank said, interrupting my thoughts. “You actually stayed put.”

  “You promised me a sandwich.”

  He blew a short burst of air out of his nose. “So I did.” He shoved a wad of cash into his breast pocket and, noticing me staring, winked. “Money now, rain later.”

  I pressed my lips together. “Just get me my sandwich.”

  He replaced his hat. “As you wish. Follow me.”

  I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the bread hit my tongue. This was real food. Not jackrabbit stew. Not water gravy. Not hard wheat bread and dry wheat cereal and grainy wheat macaroni. No. This was soft, fluffy, and covered in butter. And there was chicken! Chicken, dripping with grease. Back home, our hens were for eggs alone; we couldn’t afford to slaughter them. But here, with Frank Fleming, I feasted. And I feasted well.

  He watched with a curl
ed lip as I licked the last of the crumbs from my fingers. “Better?”

  I downed the last of my Coca-Cola and burped, pinching my nose at the burn. “Yep.”

  “Good. Because now we work.”

  Gone was the sensation of contented fullness. The chicken turned in my stomach. “’Scuse me?”

  Frank stretched his arms behind his head, revealing perfect circles of sweat beneath his armpits. “I’m a nice guy, but I ain’t that nice. I gave you a ride and a meal. Least you can do is give me a couple hours of work.”

  “Now hold on just a minute. I didn’t ask you for nothing. You offered.”

  He laughed that stupid, obnoxious laugh again. “So I did.” He leaned toward me, pressing his jacket against his plate. “To tell you the truth, you hurt my pride, Miss Baile.”

  His breath smelled like tuna. In fact, there was still a piece of it stuck in his mustache.

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Come on, now. Give me a chance to prove my science.”

  “I gotta go find my pa.”

  He leaned back. A line of grease ran across the front of his coat. “And then what?”

  “And then we’ll go on to Indianapolis. Like I said.”

  Frank Fleming took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it slowly, savoring. He had all the time in the world, it seemed. “And whatchu gonna do in Indianapolis? Outrun the drought?”

  He looked at me like he was expecting an answer. I didn’t have one. Not that I was going to tell him that.

  He took another drag from his smoke and shook it at me, dropping ash onto the table. “That’s the problem with you folks. Everybody’s running. Let me tell you something, Miss Kathryn Baile. There ain’t no escaping this drought. The whole country’s gonna be covered in dust soon. You mark my words. There ain’t no running from this one.”

  “I ain’t running.” I fiddled with my napkin, pulling it across my mouth like I hadn’t licked every drop of grease from my lips already. This man was a fool. Plain and simple. Looked like one, talked like one; I swear I could even hear his empty head rattle when he moved. And yet I’d traveled for days only to find everything around me still dead. What if there really was no end to it? No water anywhere?

  I drew my arms in against my sides, staring at my hands. In that moment, I’d have given anything to see Melissa, hear her whispering those words of faith, even if I didn’t believe them. Being with her, seeing her, feeling her—it would have been enough.

  But Melissa was hundreds of miles away; her faith felt even farther. Instead, there was only Frank Fleming. Frank, who watched me with eyes half-hidden behind a cloud of smoke. “Well, I ain’t running. I’m gonna fix it.” He smashed his cigarette into his plate. “Are you gonna help me or ain’t you?”

  All I wanted to do was go. I wanted to find Pa, go to Indianapolis, get my stupid foot fixed, and go home. But more than all those other things, I wanted it to rain. Without rain, none of that other stuff would matter.

  “Can we at least find my pa first?”

  Frank dropped a bill on the table and polished off the last of his coffee. “Trust me, kid. If your pa’s still in town, he’ll be there tonight. Ain’t no one gonna wanna miss it.”

  And that’s how I found myself that evening carrying boxes of dynamite into an open field on the outskirts of Pratt, Kansas. Despite the setting sun, it was still hot, and the explosives were heavier than I imagined they’d be. My hands were sweaty, and my foot had swollen quickly during the heat and activity. I tripped, dropping the explosives—and luckily catching them before they hit the ground.

  After that, Frank assigned me to unpacking the boxes instead. It wasn’t long before he was proven right on one count—people started to gather. Families in the back of pickup trucks, couples on blankets, stragglers with their cigarettes and overalls. People brought food. The whole town had come out for the party. Because maybe, just maybe, tonight we would witness a miracle.

  As Frank tinkered with his rockets, I scanned the crowd for signs of Pa. From this distance, everyone looked the same. Dirty. Tired. Hopeful. Just like the people in Boise City. But not one of them resembled my father.

  Despite my disappointment, I could feel electricity in the air. And it wasn’t from an incoming duster. It was coming from the crowd. From their eleventh-hour faith. Women twirled umbrellas. Kids stomped around in rain boots. Because this was going to work. It had to work. If hope alone could bring rain from the clouds, Pratt, Kansas, would be flooded. But since it couldn’t, we could only pray that Frank Fleming’s rockets would.

  And so help me, I found myself praying right along with them.

  “Alright,” Frank huffed, stepping back from his work. Sticks and canisters wrapped around rockets and balloons. It looked dangerous. And exciting. “Stand back. We’re gonna aim for that cloud there.” He pointed into the orange sky.

  A lone, tiny cloud—the only one for miles—sat directly over our heads. It was shaped like a poppy.

  He crouched on the ground, arranging and rearranging his TNT. He set a bucket at my feet, water sloshing onto my shoes. “I need you to be on the lookout for embers.”

  “Embers?”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Sam Hill, girl. Yes. Sparks. I know how to shoot these here to get ’em high enough into the sky, but this entire county is a tinderbox. All it would take is one spark and the whole place’ll go up in flames.” He pointed one finger in the air. “I’ll keep my eye on the sky. You keep yours on the ground.”

  “Now you wait one minute. I didn’t sign up to be putting out no fires. Didn’t you—?” I stopped.

  Frank grunted as he shifted another box. “Didn’t I what?”

  He was going to make me say it. Didn’t he see my foot? I couldn’t move quick enough to put out no sparks. But he didn’t say it. And neither did I. Because at just that moment, the first rocket shot into the sky. The entire town sucked in its breath.

  The thing burst on target, right in the middle of the rapidly dissipating cloud, casting a white glow in the fading daylight. The explosion rumbled through the soles of my feet. The crowd oohed in excitement.

  A second rocket went off.

  As the boom faded and the ringing in my ears quieted, a stillness fell over the field, the sound of a hundred people, palms held upward, holding their breath. I was one of them. And yet no rain fell.

  At my feet, Frank scrambled, repositioning and lighting more rockets.

  “What—?”

  “It don’t happen on the first try,” he snapped.

  Four more rockets went into the sky. Then six more. Night began to fall. Rain did not.

  Frank fiddled with matches and dynamite and a funny-looking gadget he called a barometer. I watched him for several minutes before remembering I was supposed to be keeping an eye out for fires. Not that I would have been able to move if there had been one. Frank’s anxiety pinned me to the ground like an anchor. It was like watching pigs root around in dried-up slop. Didn’t matter how hungry they were. Wasn’t nothing in that trough gonna satisfy.

  As more and more rockets exploded and the earth still remained dry, the hopefulness of the crowd melted into the darkness. What started as impatient grumbling swelled into angry shouts. Curses and bottles were thrown in our direction. It was hard to see the masses through the haze of smoke, but I didn’t need to. You could feel their disappointment and fury. If it didn’t rain soon, the drought wouldn’t matter anymore. Because we’d both be dead.

  “Frank?”

  He didn’t hear me. Or couldn’t. He kept lighting. Feverishly. Wordlessly.

  “Frank?”

  Sweat rolled down his forehead and collected in his mustache. He adjusted wires and tied strings with the urgency of a surgeon. The sun was completely gone now, the only light from the rockets he refused to stop firing. The white glow made him look like a spook. A twitchy, agitated spook. But unlike me, he didn’t seem the least bit concerned with the crowd. His only worry was failure.

 
I scratched at my arms, swallowing an ache in my throat, surprised by unexpected sympathy. Rocket after rocket fizzled, and still Frank tried. Because the world needed fixing, and he honestly believed he could do it. In his mind, he was a savior, his life’s purpose born out of desperation and delusion. Frank Fleming was no crook. He was a poor, pitiful sap. Just like the rest of us.

  I wanted to hate him. I should’ve hated him. His science was wrong, his optimism absurd. And I had been stupid enough to believe him. Just for a minute, but nevertheless I had believed. There was no magic cure. There would be no end to this drought. The ground at my feet was withering while the sky above me collapsed under the weight of our hope.

  Frank didn’t even notice as I walked away. I hobbled into the dispersing crowd, trying to be heard over their aggravated mutterings.

  “Excuse me, do you know James Baile? . . . Have you heard of a James Baile? I’m looking for him.”

  Downcast faces, miserable shrugs.

  “Have you seen any travelers from Oklahoma coming through this way? A man and a woman, maybe?”

  People pushed past me without answer, just averted eyes and weary shakes of the head. Umbrellas were folded once more, rain boots still covered in dust. Who had the energy for compassion when yet another dream had been shattered?

  I slumped next to a fence post, pulling at my hair in frustration and misery. This was just another dead end in more ways than one.

  The crowd thinned, disappointment filling the gaps between stragglers. But near the back, two black masses separated themselves from the assembly and moved toward the open field. No, not masses. Groups of men. Large men. Heading right for Frank.

  “Hey!” I shouted, scrambling to my feet.

  Three large explosions muted their approach. Frank remained hunched over his science experiment, barely visible in the orange glow.

  “Frank!”

  Too late. One of the men grabbed Frank’s arms, yanking him upward.

  “No, please,” I heard him whimper. “Sometimes it can take a couple days. I have to get the conditions—”