His words were cut off by a punch to the stomach.
“Hey!” I yelled again. My foot was stiff as I tripped my way across the lumpy ground.
The sky went dark. The noise of the rockets stopped, the thud of fist against bone carrying across the field. Crack. Thump. Squish. One after another after another.
And then silence. So thick it felt perverse, the stench of sulfur and ashes mixing with smoke in the air. My brace squeaked as I rushed forward, dry grass crunching beneath my feet. In front of me, Frank’s body dropped to the ground and was still.
Apparently satisfied, the men abandoned their prey and moved toward me. In too much pain to flee, I stopped and held up my fists. Do it, I screamed inside my head. I was no match for them. But I was angry enough to fight anyway. Not for Frank. But for myself.
They passed me without a second glance. The smell of alcohol lingered in their wake.
I stared after them, my relief only lasting a few seconds before turning into rage. “Hey!”
They continued to walk.
“Hey!” Angry tears streamed down my cheeks. I was too slow to catch up. Always too slow. “Hey!”
I didn’t want them to turn around. I needed them to turn around. I would not be left behind, invisible to these monsters, too.
The men climbed into Frank’s car, laughing. By the time I reached the street, the taillights had faded into blackness. I kicked at the dusty ground and screamed. My clubfoot throbbed inside my boot. I kicked harder.
I made my way over to Frank. His jacket was ripped. Blood crusted his face. But his chest rose and fell. I lay down next to him, curling my knees to my chest. From my pocket, I took Melissa’s handkerchief and held it next to my face, holding back tears determined to fall. “I want to go home,” I whispered. “Please, God, I just want to go home.” I prayed harder than I’d ever prayed before, twisting Melissa’s handkerchief around my fingers. I prayed until I ran out of prayers and then started over again. “Please, I’m sorry. I just want to go home.”
When I opened my eyes, I thought for a moment it had worked. Miles of dirt and dead grass stretched out all around me. Oklahoma. I was back in Oklahoma. Then, at my feet, Frank Fleming moaned and stirred.
Before giving myself over to sobs, I prayed one more time. To a God I wasn’t sure was listening, that I was even less sure cared. But as I’d done a million other times before, I prayed for rain. Only this time, not for it to end the drought, but to come and wash me away.
CHAPTER TEN
MELISSA
The town of Boise City would not let drought or dusters keep it from hosting the county fair. Forget that most of the population had little money to spend on such foolishness. Forget that the sunbaked earth was so hard the tents were nearly impossible to pitch. Forget that there was nothing really to celebrate. The summer carnival was tradition, and tradition was all the people of Boise City had left.
When she was small, Kathryn loved the carnival. The noise, the smell, the excitement. It was as if we weren’t in the middle of nowhere Oklahoma but instead in some city somewhere, with all its buzz and energy and life. People traveled for miles to see it. For a few days, Boise City was the center of the world. Or at least it felt that way. Vendors lined the streets, selling popcorn and candy and small wooden toys. Ring toss and strongman games sat on every corner. A local band played on a makeshift stage, banjo and six-string knitting a melody that rained over the crowd like confetti.
Here in this place, I was twelve years old again, Kathryn at my side, sweaty hand in mine. Hundreds of people flocked onto Main Street, swallowing the two Baile girls, here without their pa again. He hadn’t been seen much since that Barrett woman came into town. But Pa’s absence was the last thing on our mind. I’d heard a rumor about a new sweet coming to the carnival, something called “cotton candy.” Betty Purcell had bragged about it in school, saying she’d already had some at the fair down in Dalhart. I didn’t believe her. How could sugar turn into string? Betty was a fibber. But if she was telling the truth, I didn’t want to be the only one to miss out. I was going to find it, and I was going to find it first.
“Look, Em!” Kathryn pulled my hand, forcing me to stumble. She was barely six, her brace still too big for her scrawny leg, but her arms were stronger than an ox.
We were close. I could smell a sweetness in the air. Why was she stopping now? “What?” I snapped, spinning around.
My sister’s cheeks were red from exertion, and sweat dampened the hair around her face. Her clubfoot twisted inward despite her brace, a trick Kathryn learned early on would ease a nasty cramp. I’d been pulling her too hard. All because I wanted candy. I leaned down to her level, my voice softer. “What is it, Kathryn?”
She wasn’t even looking at me. Her eyes were skyward, the lights above us reflecting in them like fire. “It’s the road of yellow brick.”
Hundreds of small bulbs hung above us, connecting building to building and turning the street at our feet a pale shade of yellow. There were no bricks in sight. Only miles of hardened dirt. But for that moment, I saw Boise City through Kathryn’s eyes. Somehow the road was glittering. For the Baile sisters, it was no longer just Main Street. It was magical. And so were we.
I squeezed my sister’s hand and smiled. The cotton candy was forgotten as we walked, just the two of us in a sea of people, on the road to the City of Emeralds.
Tonight, though, the lights seemed dimmer. And they didn’t make anything glitter. They just made it hotter. The sun had set behind the western hills, but instead of a blissful respite, the evening air remained stagnant. One of my arms was wrapped tightly around Henry’s; the other wiped sweat from my brow. It wasn’t ladylike, I knew. I should dab with my handkerchief. Not that I had one.
“Mr. and Mrs. Mayfield! Hello!”
“How’s your father? Missed him at the chamber meeting Tuesday evening.”
“Rain in Dallas last night. We’re next! I can feel it!”
“Price of wheat fell again. I swear the government is trying to kill us faster than this drought.”
Hands shaken, cigarettes exchanged, voices raised to be heard over the music and by everyone else. I’m talking to Henry Mayfield. Henry Mayfield is talking to me. We were Boise City royalty and this was our victory parade.
As Henry led me into the center tent, its red-and-white canopy flapping gently in the breeze, the crowds parted before us. On the stage, the horns silenced, a montage of Bing Crosby’s latest cut short. My heels echoed on the dirt as Henry pulled me to the middle of the dance floor, a hundred interrupted revelers crowding the edges. Not one of them dared say a word.
Shivers crept up my spine even as sweat dripped from my neck. “Henry. Henry, what—?”
He cut off my question by spinning me once, quickly, sending my maroon dress twirling.
I let out a surprised giggle, gripping his arm to steady myself.
He held me close as the band started up again, the first strains of a familiar tune. “Moonglow.” The first song we’d danced to at our wedding.
“For you,” he whispered, his freshly shaved cheek smooth against my own. “For us.”
I pulled away slightly, running my hands through the wisps of hair at the back of his neck as I looked into his eyes. Those eyes. “I love you.”
He winked and kissed my forehead before drawing my body close once more. His hand traveled down my back a little lower than what was proper. I let it.
Feet shuffled and the crowd returned to the dance floor. Bodies bumped and mixed around us, but Henry and I remained undisturbed. In our bubble. The Mayfield bubble, a space reserved just for us no matter how many others wanted to join.
Faces swirled around us. A few I recognized. Like Mrs. Bonnifeld, winking at me over the shoulder of her husband, her dress a deep green, not a single frayed thread or patched hem. Her husband was clothed in a gray suit, probably from his own department store, pressed and crisp, his tie a shade of emerald to match his wife. And there, behind them, Pastor and Mrs. Bro
wnstone, their clothes not quite so new, not nearly as polished, but still clean and modern. Cotton, perhaps. At the very least, not made out of flour sacks.
And then there were the others. The blur of gray faces at the edge of the crowd. Watching.
“You’re so beautiful,” Henry breathed. “Look at how they’re all staring. At you. My wife.”
Heat rose in my cheeks. “Henry.”
But they were. They were staring. All around us, eyes pierced my skin. But what my husband mistook for adoration, I understood to be bitterness. Desperation. Beneath multicolored lights and joyful music, the people of Boise City looked tired, the forced happiness empty. Weary smiles painted across defeated faces. Feet waltzing across dead earth. Earth that had broken some, driven many more away . . . and left Henry Mayfield untouched. Resentful of circumstance but powerless to change it, the entire lifeless population of Boise City was here tonight, dancing on ground that was killing them because there was simply nothing else to do. Not when the sky stubbornly refused to fall.
And in every single dirty face, I saw Annie Gale. I saw myself.
I kept my eyes closed for the rest of the dance.
On the drive home, the Oklahoma countryside lay barren before our headlights. One of Henry’s hands draped lazily across the steering wheel. The other wrapped around my shoulder and stroked my hair. I stole a sideways glance at my husband. If I’d not married Henry Mayfield, would I be like the rest of them? Like Annie? In her eyes, I had seen what my future could have been. Should have been. Why was I lucky, and she was not? What had I done to deserve this? What had she?
Later that night, after performing my wifely duty, I lay staring at the ceiling while Henry snored beside me. Our lovemaking was no longer painful. It was still rough, urgent, and nightly, but I’d grown used to it. Submitting was a small price to pay for what I knew was out there. My mind drifted to Annie, then wandered further—to my mother. I’d been so young when she passed, and the memories of her were hazy, little snippets of time that were more feelings than actual events. I remembered waiting by the window, anxiety growing as the sudden rain poured harder, wondering why our neighbor couldn’t have just harvested her garden herself, broken arm and all, and the feeling of elation when Ma finally burst through the door, soaked, tired . . . smiling. I remembered my protests upon spotting her favorite blue dress now on the thin frame of the widow Granger at church, and Ma’s firm hand on my arm, eyes speaking the truth of a world I didn’t yet understand.
A world in need of a faith like hers. A faith of sacrifice, of service, of loving others before self, no matter the cost.
I remembered her prayers, every morning, every evening, short, quiet . . . and powerful. She never left those prayers sitting on her Bible; they went with her all through the day, draped over her like a shawl, opening her eyes to things others couldn’t see, giving her strength to charge forward when others shrank away.
I prayed now, fingering the cross at my neck, trying to match the memories of my mother’s passion. I need vision like hers, I pleaded silently, so I can figure out how all these pieces are supposed to fit together. Another set of choices—if Henry had merely looked the other way that first day or if I’d chosen to stay home instead of ride into town for a new book from the library—and I would never have ended up here, in this house and in this bed. Maybe I would have married Lucas McCarty, spending my days chasing away the centipedes and trying to stretch last summer’s cabbage into thin soup.
Perhaps I wouldn’t have been miserable. After all, I would never have known what life was like here, on the other side. And yet, now that I knew, I couldn’t unknow. Now that it had me, the truth of our world would never let me go. I traced Henry’s brow lightly with my finger. I had been spared. God’s plan for my life, though inexplicable, had brought me here, blessed me. And perhaps, like Esther, my blessing came “for such a time as this.”
I told my husband so the next morning over breakfast.
He glanced up from the paper, a piece of scrambled egg hanging from his lip. “What did you say, honey?”
“I said the Lord has blessed us.” I wiped the food from his mouth with a smile. “And we should bless others.”
“Isn’t that what you do at your meetings?”
“Well, yes,” I said, untying my apron and sitting beside him. “But that’s more the church blessing people. I want us to help people. Me and you. We have no children and—”
“Yet.”
“Yet.” I gave him a small smile as I rested my hand on his arm. “Soon, I’m sure. But right now, we have so much to give. And the Bible says, ‘He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord; and that which he hath given will he pay him again.’”
Henry scowled. “Don’t quote Scripture at me, Melissa. I was raised in the church, same as you. I know what it says.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“It also says in the book of Luke, ‘Blessed be ye poor: for yours is the kingdom of God.’”
“I don’t think—”
“And God helps those who help themselves.”
I bit my tongue so hard it hurt. I was positive that wasn’t in the Bible anywhere. But I knew better than to say so. This was not going how it was supposed to.
“Henry, I just feel like God wants us to—”
“Oh, are you speaking for God now? A divine revelation just plopped inside that pretty little head of yours?”
My face flushed, as hot and tingly as if I’d been slapped.
Henry sighed, folded his paper. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that, okay? I’m just tired and I have a headache and . . .” He rubbed the back of his neck with a grimace. “Look. I get it. I know you used to be poor. I know you still have friends who are poor.”
Another punch. I drew my arms back toward my stomach. He sounded detached and matter-of-fact, speaking about my old life as if it were some common disease.
“But that’s not who you are anymore, Melissa.” He pushed the chair back with a rude squeak. “You’re a good person, and it’s a nice thought. But that’s what the church is for. If we were to start handing out charity to every person who needed it, there’d be nothing left for us.” He squatted in front of me and took my hands in his. “We have to take care of ourselves first. You, me, and all those little ones who will come along soon. Don’t you want to make sure they’re taken care of?”
“Of course I do. I just wanted . . .” I wanted to tell him this was about more than me. It was about finally understanding God’s plan, about fulfilling the role He had led me here to play. It was about the faith of my mother, about all the good she’d done in her life and the things left unfinished the day she’d gone home. It was about Pa, Kathryn, all those who’d done nothing wrong but still failed. It was about proving there was something here worth saving . . . and showing myself that there was still a reason for them to come back.
All of these reasons . . . and yet not one I could bring myself to speak.
“And it’s not just us, Melissa. Think of all the people who depend on us. If our family suffers, what will our tenants do? What would happen to them?”
My eyes examined his, searching for any hint of irony. There was none. “But I’m not asking for charity. I want to hire her.”
“Her? Her who?”
“There’s this widow in town who cleans houses. Hiring her would help her and help me. She comes very highly—”
“We have a cleaning lady. At the front house. I thought you said you didn’t want help.”
I knew he’d bring that up. “I was . . . I was wrong.” I tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “And anyways I don’t think we need to borrow from your father’s staff. I think we deserve our own.” The words sounded ridiculous coming from my lips.
Henry must have thought so too because he smiled and let out a small laugh. “Is that so?”
I stuck out my chin. “Yes. And Annie Gale comes very highly recom—”
“Gale? Jeremiah Gale’s wife?”
“Yes, I assume so. Annie Gale.”
Henry recoiled from me as if I’d spoken blasphemy. “No, Melissa. No way.”
“But why?”
He wrinkled his nose and pushed his tongue against his teeth. “That guy was worthless. Way behind on his payments when he died. And you know why? It wasn’t because we’re blessed and he wasn’t.” He gave me a pointed look. “It was because he was lazy. I don’t think there was a time I visited him when I didn’t find him sitting on that front porch of his, smoking a cigarette instead of doing some actual work. All while those thirty squalling kids of his crawled around in the dirt.”
I pulled my hands into my lap. I didn’t know anything about Annie’s husband. Maybe he had been idle and fruitless. Or maybe he’d been a ruined farmer with nothing to do. Either way, it didn’t matter. He was dead, and his wife and children were not. “But that’s not Annie’s fault.”
“Annie? Shoot, that woman was mean as a hornet and ungrateful as a mule on Sunday. Cussing and spitting when I came to collect. It took two of my men just to hold her back.” He chuckled, but there was nothing funny in it. “Didn’t even say thank you. Dead or alive, that man still owed me several hundred dollars in back pay. But I was feeling generous. Took back the farm and called it even. All I got for my trouble was a scratch across my arm and a string of curse words that would have made a sailor blush.” He shook his head. “No, Melissa. We won’t be giving no charity, and we darn sure won’t be giving it to Annie Gale.”
I picked at the fabric on my dress, any protests turning to ash in my mouth.
“Melissa.”
It wasn’t a question, but I knew he was requesting an answer. I gave him a slight nod.
He smiled, satisfied. Victorious. “Well, I have to get going. I gotta run to Dalhart today. Doc says there’s some medicine there might get Dad back up on his feet. Break that stubborn fever.”
I frowned, Annie momentarily pushed to the back of my mind. William Mayfield had been battling the flu for several weeks now, but this was the first time Henry had been sent out of town for reinforcements. “Should I go see him? Maybe there’s something I could bring? Cheer him up a bit?”
If It Rains Page 10
