If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  “Nah, he’s got the help. He’s fine. Don’t need you catching whatever he’s got.” He pressed my palm to his cheek before kissing it. “Your allowance is on the counter. Go on into town today and get some groceries instead.” He pulled an extra bill from his wallet. “And buy something nice for yourself while you’re at it. You’ve been working so hard, you deserve it.” He winked.

  I managed a small smile in return.

  He grabbed his hat from the hook by the door, turning to me as he reached for the doorknob. “We’ll find you a cleaning lady if you want one, Melissa. But it won’t be Annie Gale. Okay?”

  I listened to the echo of his boots against the hardwood. To the door shutting, to the roar of his engine, to the crunching of tires on gravel. I waited until silence filled our big empty house again before moving. As I stood to clear the table, the sight of our plates stopped me. Mine was empty. A slice of bacon and several forkfuls of eggs still lay on his, already attracting flies and ready to be fed to the dogs.

  I hadn’t allowed myself to go to the dugout since they left. Each time I ventured out, I took the long way into town on purpose just so I wouldn’t be tempted.

  But not today.

  Today I needed to see it. To smell it. To go inside and be in a place where the world had been poor and dirty but still made sense.

  The long, rutted drive was covered with dunes. Parking my bicycle next to a half-covered fence post, I crested the hill on foot, the late-morning sun searing my dress onto my skin. There was no more grass here; it was as if it had given up the moment Kathryn left. Strands of brown and yellow drooped in clumps, brittle blades scratching against one another in mourning. At the top of the hill, a tree, twisted and barren. There hadn’t been figs in years.

  And there, just over the crest. There it was. Home. Or rather, what used to be home.

  In the distance, under the dying maple, sat mounds of broken earth. Probably Henry, checking up on our land like he promised, testing the water pump and monitoring the underground spring, one of the few things that had kept our crops afloat while all our neighbors’ had wasted away. It was the only sign of life on the entire property.

  A large dune pushed against the west side, nearly to the roof. On the front, black tar paper wilted, revealing the sun-bleached boards beneath. One of the windows Helen had worked so hard to keep clean was cracked. On the doorstep, a jackrabbit stood frozen, watching me with accusing eyes, as if I were the intruder. And the garden—Kathryn’s garden, the one chore she never minded—was nothing but a mess of dead leaves and tangled wire.

  I didn’t need to go inside. Even from here, the truth curled around my heart like tendrils. My home was gone.

  Bile rose in my throat as I fled back down the hill, tears blurring my vision. I’d thought coming here would give me peace, but there was no peace anywhere anymore. The whole world had gone mad. I had a beautiful home, fancy clothes, a full stomach . . . and still the rain refused to fall. My sister was still gone. Boise City was still dying.

  And I was supposed to close my eyes, concentrate only on myself, and pretend like the world around me wasn’t blowing away beneath my feet.

  “And a right good day to you!”

  I slammed on my brakes at the sound of yelling, harsh words floating across the otherwise-quiet street. I was only a few blocks from the market, and though my tears had dried quickly after leaving the remains of our dugout, my heart still felt empty. All I wanted to do was get my groceries and get home. I was in no mood to play Mrs. Mayfield today.

  Just ahead of me lay St. Paul’s and, beside it, the squat brown building of the parsonage. The yelling, it seemed, was coming from there.

  “Outrageous, it is!”

  Sure enough, the door to the parsonage flew open and a brown shape emerged, arms thrown in the air and legs stomping as if trying to put out a fire. The woman—for that’s what the shape was—strode down the walk, curses spewing from her mouth.

  I shrank back, horrified. Annie. The woman was Annie Gale.

  “Jesus never turned anyone away!”

  I hopped from my bicycle and pulled it into the grass, pressing myself against a tree. It was ridiculous, hoping to blend in with the remaining bark, but still I tried, letting out a breath only when I realized she had turned, heading west on Main, away from my pathetic hiding spot. Her muttered swears lingered behind her like a fog.

  I waited several moments before emerging just in case she changed her mind. When I was sure the coast was clear, I mounted my bike and made to turn north—the long way to the market but, at least for now, the safer one.

  “Mrs. Mayfield!”

  Mrs. Brownstone came out of the parsonage, her mouth pressed into a frown, her thin arms waving.

  My fingers squeezed my handgrips. I was caught.

  “Mrs. Mayfield!” Mrs. Brownstone reached my side, her chest rising and falling rapidly. “My dear, what are you doing here?”

  “I was just passing by,” I said, looking at the top of her graying hair. Very deliberately avoiding her eyes. “On my way to the market.”

  She nodded, turning her head to look behind her. The way Annie Gale had just gone. “Yes. Yes.” Apparently satisfied the woman wasn’t coming back, she returned her attention to me. “Well, I’m so sorry you had to see that. To hear that.” She tsk-tsked with her tongue.

  I shook my head quickly. “No, it’s fine. I didn’t—”

  “She doesn’t understand that we’re doing the best we can. I sent extras over with you a few weeks ago, out of the goodness of my heart, but I can’t be handing out food willy-nilly. She’s gotta learn to make it last.”

  My mouth felt dry. I swallowed, noisily.

  Mrs. Brownstone gave me a half smile. “We’re doing the best we can,” she repeated. “Once a month simply has to be enough. There’s too much need all around.”

  Somehow I nodded, though everything in me was screaming no. No, once a month was not enough, precisely because of all the need. I’d seen Annie’s children—one of them, at least—and I knew that food wasn’t being wasted. And it wasn’t as if Annie failed to ration it. There simply wasn’t enough. I’d felt hunger, remembering well the enormity of that want. It wasn’t something I’d ever forget, no matter the richness of my current diet.

  Shame burned through me as I thought back to the carnival, to all the faces in the crowd, to the dresses. The ridiculous dresses. Mrs. Bonnifeld’s dress. Mrs. Brownstone’s dress. My dress.

  No, we weren’t doing the best we could. None of us.

  It wasn’t a conscious decision to go to Annie Gale’s house. Or maybe it was. All I knew was that something came over me as I stood talking to Mrs. Brownstone. Something like tranquility in the midst of grief, like being led by something other than myself for once. I didn’t look back when I finally left her, promising my presence at the next Auxiliary meeting, and I didn’t stop pedaling until I reached the market. I knew what I was doing when I grabbed an extra loaf of bread. When I told the butcher to halve the meat and package it separately. When I grabbed a few pieces of penny candy near the register. When I turned left outside the market instead of right, a mixture of both serenity and dread swirling inside my stomach. But I was still surprised to find myself on her front porch, knocking on her door, staring into one of the dirty faces that had haunted my dreams for weeks.

  “Is your momma home?”

  The child stared at me shyly, dust caked in the creases of her mouth. She was once again shirtless, ribs visible beneath her tan skin.

  “Sweetie, is your momma home? Can you go get her for me?”

  In lieu of an answer, Annie’s face appeared around the corner. She wore the same faded dress, the same hard expression. “I asked them to send someone else.”

  “I’m not here on Auxiliary business.”

  “Then you ain’t got no business bein’ here at all.” She moved to close the door.

  “Wait!” I didn’t recognize the sound of my own voice. “I’m not here from the
church but I . . . I have some things for you.” I held out the bag of groceries.

  Her eyes flickered but she didn’t move.

  “It’s nothing, really. Well, not nothing. It’s bread, meat, canned goods. Just a few things I thought you might nee—” I stopped myself. “Want.” I rummaged through the bag. “And I brought some candy. For the little ones.” I leaned down and smiled hopefully at the child wrapped around her leg. I couldn’t remember her name.

  She smiled back and moved to grab the sweet.

  “Mary Beth, don’t you dare.”

  The child shrank back immediately, wounded but obedient.

  “What are you trying to do?” Annie snapped.

  I straightened. “Nothing. I—”

  “You think you can just waltz over here in your Margaret Sullavan dress whenever you want?”

  Margaret Sullavan? I’d dressed down today in a pale-purple button-up dress and brown flats. Nice but plain. Simple. Nothing movie star about it.

  “A piece of candy and a few groceries is supposed to make everything better, huh? Never mind you stole our home right out from under us.”

  “I never—”

  “Not like you ain’t got a hundred more acres of your own. Gotta take back those five from a widow. Don’t want her to get too big for her britches. She might be able to afford some candy of her own if we’re not careful. Then where we would be? How could we possibly keep her in her place then?”

  Hot tears filled my eyes. I willed them down, embarrassed, and shoved the candy back into the bag. “This was a mistake. I’m sorry.” I stumbled over a broken board as I retreated down her porch, the splintered wood slicing my ankle.

  “Maybe if I’d let Henry Mayfield under my skirt, I coulda kept our land too.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Blood dripped onto my shoe. It seeped into the fabric, blossoming out like a flower. It was ruined. I’d never get that stain out. Of my shoe or my name. Heat flushed through my body. I spun around and marched back up her sagging steps, ignoring the pain searing with each step. “I beg your pardon?”

  For the first time since I’d met her, Annie Gale’s expression changed. Although still hard, her eyes danced between amusement and surprise. It made me even angrier.

  All the stares had said it. All the whispers and side-eyes since our wedding day. But she said it out loud. She made it real. “I married Henry Mayfield because I love him. And he loves me. And any notion floating around suggesting otherwise is just ugliness.” I stuck out my wobbly chin. “Now, I’m sorry about whatever business there was with your farm, but that had nothing to do with me. I’m a Mayfield by name, but a Baile by blood, and I know poverty and dirt and death as well as any person in this town. I’m no saint, but I ain’t no she-devil either, no matter what you think about me, Annie Gale. I’m a good Christian woman just trying to do right by the Lord.” I stamped my foot in frustration. “And darn it all if you won’t swallow your pride and let me!”

  I dropped the bag on the porch and stormed away, pretending not to notice the drops of blood trailing behind me. I grabbed my bicycle, swearing under my breath as the kickstand brushed against my wound. I made it to the end of the street before I started to cry. Jumping from the seat, I steadied myself against a tree, sucking in a breath and sobbing from a hurt that had nothing to do with my leg.

  It took several minutes to calm myself enough to get back on my bicycle. I needed to get home and clean myself up before Henry got there.

  Swinging my leg over the side, I glanced back at Annie’s house. The bag I’d left on the front porch was gone.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  KATHRYN

  I shoulda left him there. I don’t know why I didn’t.

  Maybe it was because Frank Fleming was the only person I knew in two hundred miles. Maybe it was because all Melissa’s preaching about taking care of others finally stuck. But I think the most likely reason was because I had no other option. I didn’t have anywhere else to go. Home was dying. Indianapolis was a dream. And Frank’s broken hope was a bigger handicap than my clubfoot. How could one cripple abandon another?

  I didn’t sleep. Instead, I sat with him until he finally stirred, groaning and spitting clots of blood onto the cracked earth. His right eye was swollen shut, glistening and scarlet, with dried spittle crusting the mustache above his busted lip. Looking at him made my head hurt.

  He said nothing as he stood. Just swayed a few times and then vomited, wiping his mouth with his ripped sleeve. Then, as if nothing had happened, he began loading his supplies back into boxes.

  Did he even see me? Maybe those thugs had punched him blind. Or maybe he didn’t remember who I was. Pa told me once about a cousin of his who got kicked in the head by a horse so hard he forgot how to go to the bathroom. Had to wear diapers again. I felt sorry for Frank, but I sure as anything wouldn’t be changing his diapers.

  “Frank?”

  He said nothing.

  Blind or stupid, I guess it didn’t really matter. Not like I had anything else to do with myself. I grabbed a handful of matches and threw them into the box.

  “Easy,” he croaked, grabbing my wrist. His good eye washed over me, causing me to shiver. It was bloodshot and glassy, pupil dilated.

  Well, he wasn’t blind or stupid, that was for sure. But his gaze . . . it was as vacant as a corpse’s. Surprisingly, I wished for the old Frank. Creepy was better than dead.

  “If you’re gonna help, do it proper now.”

  I nodded, and he released my hand.

  We worked silently until all the debris was cleared from the field. It didn’t take long. Everything he had left fit into one small box. Above us, the sky was pale and sickly. All that dynamite had done nothing. Not even a wisp of a cloud. The only thing hanging over our heads was the stink of old gunpowder.

  When we finished, Frank straightened his back with a loud pop and looked across the field to where his car once sat. His car with all his belongings and remaining dynamite. It wasn’t there.

  Placing his crushed hat atop his head, he retrieved his box, spat another wad of blood onto the ground, and turned toward the open prairie. His feet crunched loudly as he limped away. I watched him, unsure whether to follow. Or if I even wanted to.

  Suddenly the crunching stopped. “You coming?” He didn’t look at me.

  I found that I was. And so we hobbled, two cripples headed east, neither of us quite sure why or where to go.

  “Look.”

  No way I was looking. It would take too much energy.

  “Come on, look.” Frank nudged my foot.

  I yanked it away, cursing. I still did not open my eyes. “If it ain’t the next town, I don’t care. Ain’t nothing to see but brown grass.” We had stopped under a shriveled walnut tree. A full day of walking with nothing to show for it but dry mouths, rumbling stomachs, and sore feet. We’d managed to pilfer some water from a well at an abandoned farmhouse the day before last, filling a small jug we discovered in the nearly empty barn before we continued our journey. But our pathetic attempts at rationing hadn’t held and that water was long gone. We’d seen nothing but parched fields and arid creek beds since.

  “It’s not the next town.”

  ’Course it wasn’t. There was no next town. He’d been wrong about the rockets. He was wrong about this, too. But my foot hurt too much to argue.

  Leaves rustled beside me. “But it’s not just grass, either.”

  I cracked open one eye. The sun had nearly set. All I could make out was Frank’s silhouette. He was right, though. There wasn’t just brown grass anymore. There was the deep purple of twilight. And in the distance, orange. A glowing orange ball. A campfire.

  “We should go over there,” he whispered.

  “Dry up.”

  “Already did.”

  If I’d had the strength, I would have rolled my eyes. He’d lost his dignity but not his terrible sense of humor.

  “They might have food. Water.”

  “And guns.” />
  “I’ll protect you.”

  “No thanks. I’ve seen you fight.”

  He scowled, reopening his split lip. “Fine. Stay here and die of thirst. I’m going over there.”

  I watched his head bob in the darkness for a few minutes, one pathetic box of rockets under his arm, before settling back against the hard ground, fuming. He was going to get himself killed. We were in the middle of nowhere. Anyone out here was out here for a reason, and not a respectable one. The fire was more than likely a criminal’s campout. Or a group of Indians. Either way, they wouldn’t take kindly to a stranger, especially not one like Frank Fleming, who looked like he’d seen the wrong side of an angry mob.

  “Good riddance.”

  Frank’s footsteps grew faint. Behind me, the grass whispered. The branches above my head groaned in a sudden gust of wind. Only there was no gust of wind. And what was that noise? Pa said rattlesnakes were getting bolder on account of the drought. And so were the coyotes.

  More movement. Behind me now.

  I scrambled to my feet, glad I’d kept my brace on despite the pain. What was that story Big Dumb Harry and his cronies told when they were trying to scare Alice Mitchell on the playground? She’d told us her family was fixin’ to move to Kansas, and Big Dumb Harry’d told her to watch out for the spook who roams the Kansas roads. Long white beard and a staff. Always looking for traveling companions. Walking Will. That was his name.

  And now I was in Kansas. Alone.

  The darkness was thick. Even the sun had hidden. Try as I did, all I saw was nothing. I stilled myself, trying to hear, but the night pressed in against me, muffling its secrets. A fallen limb cracked to my right.

  I limped away swiftly, heading for the campfire. Frank must have arrived by now, and I’d heard no sounds of trouble. But if there were, I’d be able to explain things. Perhaps traveling with a girl might make him seem less a danger. He needed me. And it was the right thing to do, looking out for him. Melissa would have wanted me to do the right thing. I left the night noises behind me and focused on the orange glow ahead, proud of my selflessness.