If It Rains

by Jennifer L. Wright

  I stopped at the garden and gathered a handful of yellow mums. The few not destroyed by rabbits or grasshoppers. I wished there were more. But I wished there were more of a lot of things.

  If anyone really knew the truth about the Mayfield fortune, they’d never accuse me of trying to scheme my way into it. There was nothing left. Henry and his father had ignored the drought, squandering money on the hope that next year would be different. Even if he’d lived, by the following summer, we’d have been destitute. No better than those he’d been squeezing dry for years. There was no wheat, no cattle, no rent, no money. As the last living member of the Mayfield family, all I’d inherited was a couple hundred bucks and the land, which I promptly auctioned with the exception of a few acres. There was no way I was ever setting foot in that house again.

  Because I was the sole surviving member . . . for now. The baby would come soon, and although she’d be half a Mayfield, I’d raise her as a Baile. Someday I would tell her about Henry. When she was ready.

  The early morning light made it difficult to see exactly where I was going, but I knew the way by heart. The fence line behind the shed. In the beginning there had been four crosses. One for Ma and three for Helen’s babies. Now there were five. Pa. Nothing but ashes, but still we buried him. Too many crosses for such a small piece of land. It should have filled me with grief. And it did, in a way. But at least they were here. In Oklahoma. With us.

  I knelt and laid a flower beside each cross, tossing aside the ones that had crumbled since my last visit. Every Sunday I came. Every Sunday I wiped away the dust, replaced weeds with fresh blooms. Just because they were gone didn’t mean they were forgotten. And just because it was hard to come here didn’t mean I shouldn’t.

  Because God’s there in the hard things, too.

  Footsteps approached, crunching on the dead grass. They stopped just behind me, and a hand squeezed my shoulder.

  “You okay?”

  I looked up and nodded, Kathryn’s face blurry through my tears.

  She knelt down beside me and took my hand, staring at the crosses. We didn’t speak. We didn’t have to.

  Kathryn had arrived at the hospital a few days after the storm. I’d been weak and delirious, unable to even open my eyes. I’d only heard her. The click of the door. The squeak of her brace. And I swore I had died. There was no way my sister was here in Dalhart. But her callused hand had slipped into mine, much like it was now, and I’d known the entirety of it all without her even telling me. We wept for what seemed like hours, for Pa, for us, for everything that had changed and everything that had stayed the same.

  Today the sun rose completely, a perfect circle just over the edge of the prairie, before she let go of my hand. She stood and touched the top of Pa’s cross gently with three fingers, as if assuring him that all was okay.

  I smiled and joined her, linking my arm with hers as we made our way back toward the dugout.

  “You got a letter,” she said as we walked.

  “Oh?”

  “From Annie.”

  She’d kept her promise. Made it to California. Staying with her cousin, she’d written in her last letter. She’d asked me and Kathryn to join her. I’d declined, of course, citing my pregnancy. Knowing her, this letter would be more of a demand than a request. I smiled, thinking of it. I missed her. Her rudeness, her hardness, her unexpected loyalty. She’d made the right choice for her and her children. Maybe one day we’d tire of the fight and join her. But it would not be today.

  “Look at that garden,” Kathryn said, kicking the fence post. “We’ve gotta get the netting fixed if we have any hope of keeping out the critters.”

  I plucked a blackberry from the bush and popped it into my mouth. It was dry and sour upon my tongue. “I’ll do that today after breakfast.”

  “And that shed needs fixin’ too. Walls are starting to lean. I’ll have to shovel away that dirt before the whole thing caves in.” She settled on the front stoop, pushing her hair from her face. “Ain’t got much time till the snows come in.”

  I sat down beside her, gazing out across our homestead. A breeze whistled past us, swirling the dirt at our feet.

  Kathryn drew in it with her finger. In the pale light, she looked different, older. Maybe we both did. “You know,” she was saying, “I was thinking that right over there might be a good spot for some grass. They say the government’s handing out seeds. We could grow a patch, maybe even plant some trees. Might be good for some livestock someday. Whatcha think?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “If it rains, of course.”

  I nodded, staring at the naked spot of ground, trying to imagine it covered again in long, swaying strands of green. “Of course.”

  Much like us, this land was changed, scarred. No one would call it beautiful. It was barren, dry, cracking beneath a sun that refused to quit and clouds that refused to open. It was a violent place, prone to wrath and cruel to those who didn’t belong. But for those it called its own, there was peace. It was a peace that prevailed despite hardships, despite sorrow, despite uncertainty. A peace that encouraged us to hang on one more day, pray for one more night, and nurse the wounds of our greed, rather than abandon the land to its injuries. It was the peace of knowing that, whatever lay ahead, we were home.

  And we would never be alone.

  A NOTE FROM

  THE AUTHOR

  I was born and raised in the Midwest—rolling fields of green as far as the eye could see—but in 2014, I found myself somewhere completely unexpected: living with my husband and two small children in southern New Mexico. It was brown and dry and hot . . . and completely foreign to a Hoosier like me. But Air Force spouses are nothing if not resilient, and I was determined to make the best of it. My daughter was born just two months into our new duty station, and one afternoon as I sat rocking her, staring out a window on the upper floor of our home, I witnessed my first dust storm.

  From that small seed, If It Rains was born.

  Watching a wall of dust race across the desert floor was like nothing I had ever seen before. You could see it coming for miles, rising up from the ground and gaining speed, just like a wave right before it breaks over the beach. Only this wave was dirty, monstrous, and opaque, blocking out the sun in the middle of the day.

  Always naturally curious (or nosy, depending on who you ask), I began researching dust storms: their causes, how they form, their history. I soon fell down a rabbit hole of Dust Bowl survivor stories, devouring books such as Timothy Egan’s The Worst Hard Time and bingeing Ken Burns’s Dust Bowl documentary in one weekend. These stories of hardship and courage, determination and grief, fascinated and inspired me. I began fleshing out the characters of Melissa and Kathryn even before the end credits started to roll.

  Although If It Rains is a fictional story, I tried to retain a sense of authenticity by including historical facts within the text. For example, the town of Boise City was chosen as the setting because of its designation as the epicenter of the Dust Bowl. Frank Fleming’s profession as a “rain merchant” was a real job during the height of the drought; when old wives’ tales about hanging dead snakes belly-side up from fences didn’t pan out, town leaders across the Plains turned to science. Or rather, what they thought at the time was science. Other events, such as jackrabbit roundups and government-sponsored cattle euthanasia, were also heartbreakingly real.

  I believe the hallmark of any good piece of historical fiction is its ability to ignite in readers a desire to learn more about the time period and events upon which it’s based. Timothy Egan’s book and Ken Burns’s documentary are excellent places to start, though I encourage you to seek out other resources too, including the myriad of excellent historical fiction books written about the Dirty Thirties. Rae Meadows’s I Will Send Rain and A Cup of Dust by Susie Finkbeiner are two of my personal favorites.

  And to those who lived through the Dust Bowl, who heard the roar of the wind and watched as the sky turned black, I will forever be i
n awe of your tenacity and spirit. You made hard choices, impossible choices. But whether you left or whether you stayed, you never quit. Thank you for the stories you gave and the legacy you wove of grit, resolution, and adaptation. No one could ever truly do justice to the spirit of this hardscrabble group of settlers, but I hope Melissa and Kathryn come close.

  CHAPTER ONE

  OCTOBER 1944

  The Army moved in on a Sunday.

  Moved in. That’s what Uncle Hershel called it. Like they’d been a happy family out house hunting and found the perfect little bungalow. Like they hadn’t just walked in and taken what was ours, claiming the government needed it for the war effort. Uncle Hershel could call it anything he pleased. I called it stealing.

  I was in the hayloft when they arrived. Pushing things to the side, sweeping away years of dust and bird droppings, making space for boxes of things we were no longer allowed to keep in our house. Because our house, and over 75 percent of our land, was no longer ours. It was now property of the US government.

  “Olive!” Ma’s voice came from outside, just below the window.

  I didn’t answer. Instead, I jumped over a hole in the loft floor—one more thing we didn’t have the time or money to fix—and tossed a bag of old grain over to the corner with a bang. Dust floated up from the impact, shimmering in the afternoon sun.

  “Olive, come on down. Your brother can finish up there. I need you to help me move the last of this stuff into the casita.”

  I stuck my head out of the narrow opening. “Make Avery do it. I’m already up here.”

  Ma shielded her eyes as she looked up at me. “Avery is stronger than you. It will be easier for him to carry the boxes up the ladder. Besides—”

  Her sentence was interrupted by a distant rumble. She and I turned at the same moment, searching for the source of the commotion. From my vantage point in the loft, the land spread out beneath me, shades of brown and green. Dirt and shrubs, rock and hills, miles of withered land fading in a pale sky. Ugly. Barren. Home. But now, in the distance, on the last hill before our house—the one with the Arizona sycamore, my initials carved in the trunk, bark worn smooth from climbing and that one branch perfect for reading . . . beside that hill, my hill, a large truck rolled to a stop, the words US Army stamped on the side.

  “They’re here,” Ma said unnecessarily. “Avery! Hershel! They’re here.”

  I pulled myself back from the loft window as another truck reached the barn. Tires on gravel, engines cut, and in their absence, a stifling silence. I pressed myself against the wall, unable to breathe, unwilling to move. A slamming door, muffled voices. A man. And then my mother. Laughing.

  I dug my fingernails into my arm and stared at my boots, breathing in the smell of manure and hay and memories of a place that was fading before my eyes.

  And my mother was laughing.

  The squeak of the barn door being shoved aside; the rush of sunlight across gray, weathered beams. “Olive?”

  Uncle Hershel’s gruff voice. I pushed myself further against the wall.

  “I know you’re up there,” he hissed. “Get down here. Now.” The last word cut through my resolve the way only Uncle Hershel could.

  The ladder creaked as I swung my feet over the side, shuddering beneath my hands as if it too felt my apprehension. I jumped off the last rung, a small cloud of dust billowing out from my boots. I straightened my back, jutting my chin against Uncle Hershel’s harsh gaze.

  The buttons of his flannel shirt strained over his barrel chest as he wiped the sweat from his thinning black hair. He sneered as he placed a battered cowboy hat back atop his head. “Get out here and say hello like is proper. Ain’t gonna have these men thinking we’ve raised a bunch of savages.”

  “So today we care what the Army thinks, huh? Just a few weeks ago we hated Roosevelt and the war. Then your CPUSA buddies tell you that they’ve changed their mind, so now we do support the war. I can’t keep—”

  “Shut your mouth, Olive.”

  Hershel raised his hand, prepared to strike, but I ducked out of his way. He would always be bigger than me, but now I was faster.

  He scowled. “When are you going to grow up and think about someone other than yourself? This country has made you soft and stupid, girl. When I was your age—”

  But I strode from the barn before he could finish. I did not care what Hershel was like when he was my age. My bet was brooding and Russian—just like he was now.

  The October sun was harsh and bright, summer refusing to give in to fall, as was often the case in this part of New Mexico. I walked with my head hung low, staring at the ground, avoiding the reality of what I knew I’d have to see eventually.

  “Olive? Olive, this is Sergeant Hawthorne.” My mother’s tone was light, fake, grating.

  “Olive, so nice to meet you.”

  Sergeant Hawthorne had dark hair, slick with pomade, and eyes as green as the Rio Grande valley in spring. He was tall—over six feet if I had to guess—and muscular, evident even under the drab brown of his uniform. He stared down at me with a smile that dimpled his cheeks. On a normal person, I would have found all of these traits appealing. Downright handsome.

  Too bad I’d already decided to hate him.

  He extended his hand. I didn’t take it.

  Beside me, my mother giggled and tugged at her dress. “Olive.”

  But still I did not shake his hand. Sergeant Hawthorne pulled his arm back to his side but kept that stupidly handsome grin on his face. “It’s alright, Mrs. Alexander. I’ve got a daughter around her same age. I know all about teenage girls.”

  The two of them laughed at his joke like it was funny, my mother’s giggles morphing into one of her coughing fits.

  “I’m sorry,” she gasped, trying to steady her breathing. “This dust. You never really get used to it.” She cleared her throat and wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, gesturing toward my brother. “And this is Avery.”

  Tall and wiry, with a mop of jet-black hair that would never lay flat, my brother looked younger than his nineteen years, though lately he more than made up for it with his ridiculous manly posturing. He thrust his shoulders back, chin lifted, and shook Sergeant Hawthorne’s hand with enough force for the both of us.

  Sergeant Hawthorne’s eyes widened as his arm jerked forward under the intensity of Avery’s grip. He stiffened, regaining his bearing and letting out an amused laugh. “Quite a handshake there, son.”

  Avery gave a curt nod, lips pressed in an absurd, overly serious non-smile.

  “We could use a man like you in the ranks!”

  “I actually leave in two days, sir.”

  Sergeant Hawthorne dipped his head and grinned, completely oblivious to the effect Avery’s words had on my mother. The slight shift in her stance. The almost-imperceptible intake of breath.

  His initial application the year before had been rejected, though I knew nothing more about the story than Avery’s return from the enlistment office with fire in his eyes and whiskey on his breath, along with a string of curse words that made even Uncle Hershel’s mouth seem tame. Avery had never exactly been light, but his darkness had grown even heavier then. He spent less time in the house with us and more time in Hershel’s casita, his bad temper exacerbated by our uncle’s own and fueled by a steady diet of Hershel’s never-ending rhetoric on this country and its problems.

  Still, despite it all, I thought that was the end of it. The world would war but we would continue on, untouched. And we did . . . for a while. Then the Army sent a letter. Next thing I knew, Hershel’s friends from California had shown up, their loud meetings in the casita—which now included Avery—growing louder and then markedly quieter, all manner of strange men coming and going from the ranch for days before the whole lot of them just up and disappeared. That’s when Avery announced the Army had changed its mind and he was leaving soon, too.

  Since then, my brother had started smiling more, my mother less and less. I kept my head down,
doing my chores and trying to pretend none of it was happening.

  But now here we were.

  Uncle Hershel brushed past me, knocking my arm a little harder than necessary. “Sergeant Hawthorne, Hershel Alexander.”

  “Hershel, yes, yes, of course. I can’t thank you enough for this.”

  I glowered at the ground. As if we had a choice.

  “It’s temporary, of course,” Sergeant Hawthorne was saying. “Just a billet for the men while construction is ongoing. Your house will be yours again before you know it. But the land could take longer. It’s all a matter of . . .” He cleared his throat, swallowing whatever he was about to say. Awkwardness seeped into the air around us.

  He couldn’t tell us when. He couldn’t tell us why. But he knew. He knew what all of this was for, what secrets the government was hiding beneath its “war effort” label. He knew . . . and he couldn’t tell. And that knowledge was a power over us no amount of smiles or small talk could ever erase.

  “Let me show you around,” Uncle Hershel barked, breaking the tension. “We’re just about finished in the main house—a few odds and ends here and there—but let me go ahead and give you the lay of the land. Now, over here . . .” He put a hand at Sergeant Hawthorne’s elbow, leading him away.

  My mother sighed as she watched their retreat. The smile, the joy, the facade faded as quickly as it had appeared, her shoulders collapsing in on themselves. She pulled a cigarette from her dress pocket, lighting it with shaking hands. “Come on, Olive,” she said wearily after taking a drag. “We still have work to do.”

  Inside the main house, Avery returned to stacking boxes in the hallway, Mama to loading dishes in the kitchen. I joined them, biting the inside of my cheek to stem tears as I folded blankets in the living room.