If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  I tried to be quiet as I approached, but my swollen foot fell heavy. More than likely, Frank heard me coming the moment I stepped away from the tree.

  Sure enough, I found him smiling smugly, one large hand wrapped around a tin cup, a crust of bread in the other. “Well, lookee who decided to join us. Mr. Hickory, this here is Kathryn Baile. The girl I was telling you about.”

  The fire blinded me against the surrounding darkness. For a moment, I thought Frank was going crazy. But then, ever so faintly, the outline of a man appeared on the other side of the flames. He rose and walked toward me.

  I shrank back. The man was thick as a barrel and near seven feet tall, with arms and legs like a spider’s. A weathered cowboy hat sat atop his head, adding to his height and rendering him faceless.

  Had it not been for Frank, I would have run. Or tried to. But there wasn’t no way I was letting that man look braver than me. Summoning a courage I did not feel, I extended my hand. “Mr. Hickory. Pleased to meet you.”

  His face remained a shadow, and he did not accept my hand. He did, however, offer another tin cup and hunk of dry bread.

  The water was dirty and tasted of sand and metal. It was the best I’d ever had. I drank greedily, nearly choking but refusing to stop, feeling every drop as it traveled through my body.

  Without speaking, Mr. Hickory refilled the cup from a large canteen and handed it back to me. I still couldn’t see his face.

  After my second cup, Mr. Hickory lit a cigarette and retreated, a slight shuffle in his step. The water sloshed in my stomach, making me nauseous, and I wobbled toward Frank slowly, afraid I’d lose the precious gift I’d just been given.

  Frank stretched his legs out in front of him. “So as I was saying, Mr. Hickory, the science behind it goes back hundreds of years. We all know that rain falls when drops of water inside the clouds get too heavy. And they get too heavy by bumping into each other and forming bigger drops, right?”

  Mr. Hickory did not answer.

  Frank didn’t care. His body was a wreck but his inner showman was alive and kicking. “Well, what my explosives do is force the water droplets together. The blast discombobulates the air molecules, shaking the rain right out of the sky. Why, it’s a proven fact that . . .”

  After everything that had happened in Pratt, Frank was still preaching. But that didn’t mean I had to listen to it. I busied myself with small bites of bread, my tender stomach the only thing keeping me from eating it all at once, and sneaking glances at our new companion instead. Flames finally penetrated the darkness beneath his hat. He looked familiar, but it was a familiarity I couldn’t place. Leathery skin beneath a layer of silver stubble. His hooked nose was made longer by his sunken cheeks and eyes that looked like they hadn’t slept in weeks. In the light of the fire, they were the color of steel . . . and they were watching me watch him.

  I wasn’t as sneaky as I thought.

  And still Frank talked. “The problem is that dynamite is expensive. And those hooligans stole my money and my whole lot, save for that there.” He gestured to the box that was, thankfully, placed away from the fire. “I’m hoping the next town will give me a loan so I can continue my work. I gotta have some more money.” He gave a high-pitched bray as his eyes flitted around the campsite. “I gotta keep going. I mean, we’re all in this together, right? And I don’t see anyone else stepping up to fix this drought.”

  Mr. Hickory was no longer looking at me. He was looking at Frank. “We should get some sleep,” he said quietly.

  So quietly Frank finally stopped talking. “Huh? Oh. Yes. Right. Long day tomorrow.”

  The fire between us popped, sending embers into the sky. Mr. Hickory lay down where he sat, placing his hat over his eyes.

  Shrugging at me, Frank did the same.

  Swallowing the last of my meal, I laid my head against the hard ground. The sky was moonless and quiet. Nothing but the soft crackle of the fire and the chirruping of crickets. Almost peaceful. Until Frank fell asleep.

  A high-pitched whining leaked from his nostrils with each breath, like too much air being squeezed from a pin-pricked tire. He’d never whistled in his sleep before. Or maybe he had. Maybe I’d just been too consumed by my own thirst to notice.

  Teeth clenched, I rolled onto my side and draped my arm over my ears. It didn’t help. I lifted myself up on my elbows and glared at him, even though he couldn’t see. Frank shifted and let out a hacking cough before stilling.

  Finally. Silence. I lay back and closed my eyes.

  A snort and the whistling began again in earnest.

  I let out an irritated sigh and glanced across the fire at Mr. Hickory. His breathing was slow and quiet, hat still covering his face. How was he sleeping through all this racket?

  Wheeze, whistle, grunt. Wheeze, whistle, grunt.

  Inching closer to Frank, I balled up my fist and jammed it into his rib cage.

  He sat up with a yelp, gooey eyes struggling to focus. “Wha—?”

  “Shut up,” I hissed.

  He rubbed his side. “What did I—?”

  I scrunched up my face and scooted away from him, turning my back to his whines. It was colder on the edge of the fire circle. Behind me, Frank coughed and shuffled. I squeezed my eyes shut, waiting for the noises to start again. They didn’t. Satisfied, I curled my knees to my stomach and closed my eyes.

  But in their absence, the sound of silence buried me. Even the insects had fallen into a hush. It mixed with my sudden loneliness, the distance between me and Melissa, me and Pa, me and anything normal and comforting and familiar, magnified in the dark, pushing in from all sides. I stretched out, trying to shake it away, but it simply moved with me, like the winter quilts that seemed to pin you against the scratchy mattress. I covered my face with my arms, trying to muffle the quiet with my own ragged breaths.

  It took me a very long time to fall asleep.

  I dreamt of Helen. Of the first night she spent in our dugout. I’d curled up with Melissa as usual, but there was nothing usual about it. There was a woman in our house who didn’t belong there. She’d cooked weird food and made the place smell like a whorehouse. And now she was whispering. Loudly.

  “I’m just saying there are other, better places for her, James. Institutions with people trained for her condition.”

  Melissa snorted softly and rolled over, taking the sheet with her. I waited until her breathing steadied before inching closer to the edge of the mattress. I strained my ears in the darkness.

  “Ain’t no better place than here.” Pa’s voice.

  “But you can’t go on like this. How long do you think you can care for her? She needs more, James. More than you can give her.”

  Pa’s voice again. Too soft to make out.

  “I know she’s just a child, but what happens in a few more years when she’s not? She won’t ever be able to take care of herself, and you’ll wear yourself ragged trying to do it for her.”

  “She’s my daughter, Helen.”

  “And I’m your wife now. I just want what’s best for her. And for you.” More words, softer. The rustling of sheets.

  The next words were Pa’s, low but firm. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.”

  My chest ached. But not only from the dream. Because, for some reason, my ribs hurt too.

  My eyes fluttered open. Something was on top of me. And it was no longer just the darkness. I thrashed against the pressure, and a hand clamped across my mouth.

  “Shhh. Shhh. Shhh. It’s me.” In the dying firelight came Frank Fleming’s face. His eyes were bloodshot. Pus oozed from the corners.

  My mind woke slower than my body. Frank. He was on top of me, his weight against my torso, his knees pinning my arms to the ground. He was smiling, but it wasn’t friendly. Fresh blood dripped from his cut lip.

  I tried to scream.

  His hand pushed down harder on my mouth. “Shh. Shh. Just be still. This will only take a minute.” With his free hand, he reached u
nder my dress.

  I froze. No one had ever touched me under my clothes. I did not want Frank to be the first. I twisted and pushed, trying to free myself.

  His body tensed, trapping me. “Stop it,” he hissed. “It’s not what you think. Stop it!”

  I would not.

  His hand went down my leg, away from what I most feared. But it didn’t make me feel any less scared. “I’m sorry,” he breathed in my ear. “I’m sorry. I have to do this. I need this. I ain’t got nothing else. It’s for us. For all of us.”

  I wriggled beneath him, panicked. His belt buckle scratched my stomach.

  “You’ll be fine. You’ve got Mr. Hickory now. You’ll be fine.” His breath was acidic, coppery. “I’m sorry, Kathryn Baile. It’s the only way.”

  The smell of tobacco and old sweat. I couldn’t breathe. His weight crushed my lungs. Dots swam in front of my eyes. There was no use fighting. He would win. The world would always win against someone like me. Just let it end, Kathryn. Better for everyone. Let it . . .

  And suddenly the weight lifted. Too much air rushed in at once, and I rolled over, gagging. A scuffle, the crunch of grass growing faint. I opened my eyes to see not Frank, but Mr. Hickory standing over me, a pistol in his hand. He aimed it east, breaking the night with a single shot.

  It echoed for miles. But I heard no thud. No scream. The wind carried nothing but Frank Fleming’s footsteps across the prairie as he fled.

  My arms ached; my body shivered despite the heat. I felt naked and exposed. And not just because of his abrupt departure. I rubbed at the spot where his sweaty hand had touched me, feeling his desperation where something else should have been. My brace was gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  MELISSA

  “Is this it?”

  Henry’s lunch plate slipped from my hand, landing with a splash in the sink. I gasped—a little too loudly—as water splashed on my apron. I’d prepared the whole way home, and still my fear threatened to give me away. The peace I’d felt about following the Spirit’s nudges evaporated at the reality of what I’d done—and the reckoning that was sure to follow should I give myself away. I bit the inside of my cheek and turned, wiping my hands on a towel. “Is what what, honey?”

  “The groceries.” Henry picked up a small bag of flour from the counter. “This is all you got?”

  “I got everything on the list. Beans, peanut butter, sugar—”

  “There’s no fruit. And the meat cuts are small.”

  Because it was all I could afford shopping for two families. I touched my fingertips to my lips. “They were . . . they were out of fruit. Well, oranges and bananas. I know those are your favorites. And George has raised his meat prices again. I couldn’t even—”

  “Raised his prices?”

  “I know! Isn’t it just the goldarnedest thing? Says he’s bein’ as fair as he can, but he’s gotta make ends meet too. It’s outrageous if you ask me.”

  Henry leaned back and crossed his arms. He didn’t believe me. Of course he didn’t believe me. I was talking too fast, too high, too much.

  I dipped my chin and held up my hands. “Okay, you caught me. I . . . I bought some chocolate.”

  “You . . . bought some chocolate?”

  “I was going to surprise you with a cake.”

  “A cake.”

  It was the truth. A truth. Sure, I’d only planned the cake to cover for the fact that half of our grocery money was now sitting in Annie Gale’s kitchen cabinets, but I was going to make him a cake. “You told me to buy something nice for myself . . . but I wanted to do something nice for you instead. And now you’ve gone and ruined the surprise.” I stuck out my lip in a mock pout.

  “Well, well, well.” Henry’s eyes sparkled. Goodness, those eyes. “Look at you.” He crossed the kitchen and wrapped me in a hug. “Someone’s really getting the hang of this ‘wife’ thing. What could I have possibly done to deserve a woman like you? You spoil me.” He kissed me, running his hands over my hips. “You know what I’d like better than cake, though?”

  I let out a shaky laugh. I’d done it. I’d actually done it. The groceries were forgotten.

  He kissed me again, running his fingers through my hair. Who cared about Annie Gale when he kissed me like that? Let that pigheaded old witch make a soup out of her stubbornness for all I cared. Jesus can only knock, right? A person has to be willing to open the door . . . and not swear at the knocker, for pete’s sake.

  Henry pulled away, leaving my lips tingling. “But that, my dear, is for later. I have to get back to work.” He nibbled at my neck playfully. “You sure do make it hard to leave.”

  I giggled and turned back to the dishes. The thin layer of soap on top of the water broke as I plunged my hand back into the sink. “What do you have to do this afternoon?”

  “Got some business with the boys; then I gotta finish clearing some land. Doggone soil ain’t worth what it would take to make something grow on it. And the water . . .” He cleared his throat, started again. “If we clear some of the old wheat, tear down the houses, maybe we can sell it for other things.”

  A sudden panic spread through my chest and I spun back around, sending droplets onto Henry’s shirt and boots. “But Pa’s land . . .” The words slipped out before I could stop them.

  He flicked a spot of water from his pocket but didn’t meet my gaze. “No, not that land.”

  They were meant to be reassuring. But his choice of words did not escape my notice. That land. Not their land.

  I turned my back, willing myself to believe him anyway, to understand that my own guilt was projecting suspicion where it didn’t belong. Willing my breath to return. “You do what you need to do,” I said thickly. “I’ll get started on the cake.” I picked up my dishcloth and scrubbed a cup, waiting to hear the door slam shut. It never did. I turned around to find Henry still standing there, mouth curled up slightly at the corners. “What?” I asked uneasily.

  “Come with me.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me. I want you with me today.”

  The smile on my face froze. Henry never asked me to come do any sort of work with him. “That’s sweet, honey, but don’t be silly. I’ve got work of my own to do. And I need to get started on that cake.”

  “The cake can wait.” He came up behind me and grabbed my arm. “I want you with me today.”

  My body tensed beneath his touch. He knew. Somehow he knew what I had done.

  And then he pulled me in for a kiss. Slowly. Tenderly. A million moments of want inside those fifteen seconds.

  Surely he wouldn’t kiss me like that if all were not well.

  I touched his cheek and smiled. “Well, if you insist. Just let me get my hat.”

  To my relief, Henry turned not toward Boise City and the direction of George’s Sundry and Supply, but away into the open prairie. My breathing slowed as I watched the hills rise and fall gently. All around me, the earth was brown, dead, ugly. But the heavens above remained beautiful. Blue and cloudless. Looking up, you could almost forget the wasteland beneath our tires. I closed my eyes and breathed in deeply. The air flowing through the open windows smelled of hay.

  “You know what’s funny?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I stopped by Alice McDowell’s this morning hoping to catch her husband. He wasn’t home, but she insisted I stay for a cup of coffee. And you know, sitting there on her kitchen table was a bowl full of oranges and bananas.”

  My eyes jerked open.

  Henry’s gaze remained fixed ahead, one hand drooped over the steering wheel, the other hanging out of the open window. “Said she’d just been to George’s and planned on making some banana bread this afternoon. It was a shame I hadn’t come by later or I could’ve had some straight from the oven.”

  I dug my fingernails into my palms. Don’t look at him. Don’t you look at him.

  “Isn’t that funny, Melissa?”

  The countryside rushed past us unaware the world had st
opped. An eternity passed before I finally spoke.

  “She must have bought George out,” I squeaked. “Explains why there weren’t any left for me.”

  Henry drummed the steering wheel, his wedding ring letting out a dull thump with each tap. “Yes,” he said finally. “That explains it.”

  The crunch of tires on dirt was deafening. Every jut in the road rattled the dash and sent tremors through my teeth. Even the gentle breeze coming through the windows now seemed to scream. Never had silence been so obscene.

  “Where are we going?” I wasn’t even sure I said it out loud.

  “You’ll see.”

  Ten minutes later, we turned off the main road. A fence post to our left, half-buried in blown soil, was the only marker. And yet the path was recently plowed. The remains of dunes spilled onto the ground, where fresh tire marks crisscrossed the dirt. There had been recent traffic here. Lots of it.

  “Henry?”

  His eyes remained ahead. “Almost there.”

  The truck shuddered as we bounced along, breaking clods of dirt in our tracks. I clutched the sides of the seat with sweaty palms. And then, as suddenly as they’d started, the ruts stopped and the road smoothed. We crested one final hill and continued to the valley below, where a weathered barn sat in the middle of a barren field, a dozen trucks surrounding it like sentries.

  “What is this?” I whispered, not really wanting an answer.

  Henry said nothing. Instead, he exited the truck with a bang and pulled me from my seat, gripping my hand tightly as he led me to the barn. Inside, I could hear raised voices.

  “It’s time to fight back!” someone yelled. “God gave us dominion over this land, and I’ll die before I let a bunch of critters take what little dignity I have left!”

  Roars of approval.

  I blinked my eyes several times to adjust to the darkness. A hundred men milled inside a space way too small for their number. The air was unbreathable, choked by the smell of manure and sweat; the mood, agitated.