“Mom?” Casewell said the single word, and it was a question, a command, and a plea. “Mom, what do you think?”
“We’re going home,” she said, looking at her husband with a depth and a rawness that somehow embarrassed Caswell, as if he had walked in on his parents being intimate. He ducked his head.
“Well, then,” he said.
“Well, then go find that old fraud who’s trying to tell me how to die.”
Casewell went.
The old fraud was more than reluctant to let his patient go, but he’d been doctoring the Phillips family for several generations, and he said he guessed stubborn was a genetic predisposition. He made Casewell and his mother promise to bring John in for a check-up every two weeks, although Dad indicated that he’d be less than cooperative. Still, he was too eager to leave the hospital under his own power to fuss too long and loud about Dr. McNeil’s requirements. He agreed grudgingly and the doctor threatened to come to the house if necessary.
“Come around dinnertime,” Dad growled. “Least that way it’ll be worth your time.”
By the end of the day Casewell was driving back the way they had come just three days earlier. The world looked different. His mother sat in the center of the truck’s bench seat this time, clutching a bag with prescription painkillers that Dad swore he would never take. Casewell found himself hoping that his father’s stubborn streak could somehow ward off cancer, could somehow change the rapid division of cells. That stubbornness could keep his body from turning against him—from turning against them. Casewell prayed and watched the familiar, unfamiliar landscape roll by.
The family made an effort to return to normal. Casewell went home to catch up on his carpentry projects, his mother spent her days working in her kitchen garden, and Dad continued to walk the fields, tending to the spring calving. He walked more slowly and rested more often, but he refused to give up his work.
When Casewell came to supper about a week after his father’s return from the hospital, his mother called him into the kitchen to help her. “He’s taking them pills,” she said. “Not many and not often, but he’s taking them.”
Casewell nodded. “I guess that’s good.”
His mother gave him a sharp look. “I wouldn’t say that. He must be in a world of pain to take help from a pill bottle.”
“But at least he’s taking help,” Casewell said.
Emily made a tsking sound and began dishing up the meal. After they ate—mostly in silence—Dad scooted his chair back and pushed himself to his feet. “Come on out here on the porch with me, son.” He began fishing makings out of his breast pocket. Emily opened her mouth as though she would speak, then pressed her lips together in a tight line.
On the porch, Dad rolled his cigarette and then stood looking at it. “Reckon it’s too late to quit now,” he said. But he didn’t raise the cigarette to his lips. “We need a good year, son,” he said, squinting across the pasture. “Even if I die quick, it’s gonna cost money.”
The frank statement hit Casewell hard. He knew his father’s prognosis, but to hear him speak of it so calmly, so matter-of-factly, took Caswell’s breath away.
“I’ve got some pretty calves coming on this spring. All we need is a summer with good grass and plenty of hay to put up for winter. Come fall, we can sell off some of the cows for good breeders and keep some younger ones for stock. By spring the yearlings will be ready to go to market, and you can turn a nice profit that’ll keep your mother. Beyond that, I leave the running of the cattle to you. Sell ’em or keep the line going. All I ask is that you always take care of your mother.”
His dad seemed to have shrunk a notch by the time he finished his speech. Casewell was too choked by emotion to speak for several minutes. Finally, he said, “Dad, you know I’ll always take care of Mom. You don’t even need to think of that. And we’ll handle the cattle however you want. I just wish . . .” Casewell knew without finishing his thought that his father had little use for wishes.
“Wish all you want, son. You can even pray. Probably most of the old women around here dropped to their knees as soon as word got out that I’m dying. They’ll pray for me, but I don’t hold out hope for it working. I don’t expect half of ’em to even mean what they pray.” Dad looked at the cigarette he still held in his hand and tucked it into his pocket next to his tobacco tin. “I ain’t afraid to die, boy. I just hate to leave . . . ” He shot a look over his shoulder into the house, and Casewell saw him swipe at his face. “I hate to leave your mother.”
Casewell was ashamed that instead of being touched that his father loved his mother so much, he was disappointed that Dad hadn’t said that he’d hate to leave anyone else—like his son.
7
CASEWELL TRIED TO FORGET that his father was dying. There wasn’t much point in remembering. His parents behaved as though the days spent in the hospital had been a disappointing vacation they’d just as soon forget. So Casewell did the same, as best as he could. He kept up with his woodwork, played his mandolin of an evening, and tried not to think about death or Perla Long. And then, Angie and Liza called about their garden.
“Casewell, we need your help,” Angie hollered into the telephone.
“Oh, we do, we do,” Liza echoed. Casewell assumed she was on the extension.
“That Williams boy has left us high and dry,” Angie said. “He promised to come hoe the garden once a week and to carry water from the creek if need be, and we haven’t seen hide nor hair of him since the beginning of the month.”
“Oh, the garden is terrible weedy,” Liza said. “We’ve done what we can, but it’s not like when we were girls.”
“We’ll pay the same we offered that Williams boy,” Angie said, steel in her voice.
“Oh yes, we’ll pay,” Liza sighed.
Casewell wished with all his might that he hadn’t answered the telephone. “I’ll come over after supper,” he said.
“Why don’t you come have supper with us, and that can be part of your pay,” Angie said with a bounce to her voice that let Casewell know she thought she’d hit on a good idea.
“Do come,” Liza said. “We’re having beans and corn bread.”
“All right,” Casewell agreed. Why not? He had no other plans.
At the Talbots’ house the sisters already had supper laid. Casewell took his seat—“In Papa’s chair,” commented Liza with a look of affection—and waited for the other two to settle in their places. Once alight in her chair, Angie turned cool eyes on Casewell and asked him to pray. He had never been entirely comfortable praying aloud, but Casewell made his way through a simple prayer and then dished out the food.
“It’s so nice to have a man at the head of the table,” Liza said. “Angie usually serves, but it’s really a man’s place.”
“Women serve just fine,” Angie said, then softened as she watched Casewell begin to eat. “But it takes a working man to do food justice.”
Throughout the meal the sisters talked about the recent dance, how their chickens were laying, the fact that it hadn’t rained in a while, and finally came around to what Casewell supposed had been on their minds all along.
“I hear your father had a short stay in the hospital,” Angie said as she sliced a pound cake sitting on the cupboard Casewell had built. “Is he well?”
Casewell shouldn’t have been surprised by this line of questioning, but he hadn’t thought what he would say. He took a big bite of cake and chewed slowly.
“Well, he has cancer,” Casewell said at last. “But he seems to be doing okay, and he’s determined to keep up with the farm.”
“As it should be,” Angie nodded. “We have an uncle who was supposed to have died of cancer three years ago, and he still works his farm without one sign of being puny.”
Liza looked like she was going to say something, but Angie shot her a look, and Liza began clearing dishes instead.
“Doctors do the best they can, but they don’t know what they’re talking about half the
time,” Angie said. “Dr. McNeil told me I had a ticky heart five years ago, but here I am, strong as ever. Was it McNeil what said John has the cancer?”
“It was.” Casewell knew Angie meant to boost his spirits, and he also knew she was a long way from an authority on anything medical, but he soaked up her words like gospel, nonetheless.
“There you go,” Angie said, softly slapping the table. “Tell John we’ll be praying for him.”
“I will,” Casewell said. “Now what can I do to help in the garden?”
“Hoe’s in the shed,” Angie said. “And there’s a bucket out there. We need the weeds knocked back and water carried from the creek. Seems like it hasn’t rained in a month.”
Casewell nodded and headed out to the shed to collect the tools. The sisters had a small garden patch with corn, sweet peas, tomatoes, potatoes, green beans, squash, spring onions, and some lettuces that had already been hit pretty hard by the rabbits. He hoed for about an hour. He knew he wasn’t being as thorough as his father would have demanded in the family plot, but he didn’t want to stay all night. After the weeds were somewhat in check, he took the bucket and stepped down to the creek.
Casewell pushed rhododendron branches aside in the gathering dusk. The music of the water spilling over stones immediately soothed him. He felt the coolness and the smell of damp earth rising to meet him. There was a swimming hole just a little further down where he had spent many a pleasant summer afternoon. The icy water flowed over rocks that looked almost black in this coal-rich part of the country. He stopped to breathe it all in.
After a moment, he crouched down to dip the bucket and realized with a start just how low the water was. He knew it had been dry for a while, but this creek usually ran steady no matter the weather. It still flowed, but he had to move further into the streambed to find a pool deep enough to fill the bucket. This would take longer than he expected.
On Casewell’s fifth or sixth trip back to the creek, he stopped a moment to rest on a cool, dark rock. He sat with his booted foot on a barely submerged stone in the center of the creek. He could feel the coolness of the water slowly making its way through to the sole of his foot.
“I like to sit here, too,” came a soft voice. Casewell turned and saw Liza standing on the bank. “It’s a good spot to think or sometimes not to think.”
“I suppose it would be,” Casewell agreed, rising to fill his bucket again.
“Oh no. I didn’t mean to hurry you,” Liza said, beginning to pick her way across the rocks toward Casewell. He stepped closer to give her his hand. She perched on a stone near Casewell’s, so he sat down once more.
“Frank and I did some of our sparking here.” Liza looked wistful. Casewell hadn’t been born yet when Frank ran off to be an animal wrangler for Wild Bill’s Wild West in 1902. He was twelve or so when Liza’s fiancé returned. Either Frank had taken to the bottle when he was in Europe or he took to it soon after he got home. He was rarely seen in polite company, and when he did come to town, he was almost always drunk. Casewell found Frank’s behavior shameful.
“Once I took off my shoes and waded in this creek with Frank. Oh, I thought I was bold then. Maybe I was bold.” Liza paused and leaned forward to dip her hand in the water. “I don’t think I’ve felt bold even once since I gave up on Frank.”
Casewell got the feeling that Liza might have forgotten he was there.
“Angie gave up on him long before I did, but she was always the sensible one. Mother said I was a dreamer.” Liza sat gazing into the water so long that Casewell began to feel uncomfortable. Frank Post wasn’t fit to clean Liza’s boots. He cleared his throat and stood.
“Reckon I better finish watering the garden.”
“Oh, I did interrupt your work, didn’t I? Don’t tell Angie. She’ll fuss.” Liza looked around as if finally seeing the creek with its canopy of trees and rhododendron almost enclosing it. “My, I think this may be the lowest I’ve ever seen the water.”
“It is mighty low,” agreed Casewell. “Guess it hasn’t rained upstream, either.”
“Help me to the bank, if you would.” Liza held out her hand in a gesture that made Casewell see her as she must have been—a slender young woman with kind eyes and a gentleness that likely charmed Frank. He felt a flash of pity for the old drunk. Liza wasn’t the only one who’d missed out.
Casewell finished carrying water and went in to tell the Talbot sisters good-bye. Angie quizzed him about how low the water in the creek was. He wondered that she didn’t go down there herself to look. If Liza could make it, Angie would surely have no problem. The sisters finally bid Casewell good-night, and he headed for home.
The garden work was something Casewell wasn’t used to anymore, and he could feel his tired muscles stiffening as he prepared for bed. He lay down and waited for sleep to come, which it almost always did quickly. But this night he lay awake, picturing a young woman wading in cold creek water while a young man looked on. Poor Frank. Poor Liza. Would they have been happy together? Would they still be married today? Would Liza have stayed “bold” if she’d had the love of a good man to encourage her? Would Frank have stayed sober?
His ponderings led him to think of Perla Long. Perhaps Sadie’s father had made Perla feel bold and alive. Casewell felt anger burning in him at a man who would refuse to take responsibility for his child. And how could a man let a woman like Perla slip through his fingers? She had exercised poor judgment, certainly, but she didn’t act alone.
Casewell realized he’d tangled his sheets around his legs. He felt trapped, caught up like a fly in a web. He kicked and pulled at the covers, almost panicking over the constricted feeling of the sheets wound about him. He got loose and sat on the side of the bed, panting a little. He pulled on his clothes and went out to the workshop to do some sanding. Sleep seemed elusive at the moment.
Casewell finally crawled into bed in the small hours of the morning. He woke far too early when the telephone jangled. He staggered into the kitchen and answered it.
“Casewell, I think you should come see your father today.” His mother spoke without preamble.
“Is everything okay?” Casewell asked, still groggy with sleep.
“Fine, fine. I just think you should come today.”
“All right. When?”
“Come on over now, and I’ll feed you breakfast,” she said and hung up the phone.
Casewell replaced the earpiece over the rotary dial on his wall phone. He scratched behind his ear in an absent kind of way, and it occurred to him to find the phone call a little strange. He walked back to his bedroom to get dressed.
At his parents’ house, Casewell entered without knocking. He could smell sausage frying and his stomach rumbled. It had been a long time since the Talbot sisters’ beans and corn bread hit bottom.
“Smells good, Mom,” he said, pulling out a chair at the kitchen table and sitting. His father sat in his place, hunched over a cup of coffee, scowling. “Hey, Dad, how’re you feeling this morning?”
His father let fly a curse that made Casewell flinch. “If one more person asks how I am, I’m gonna cut ’em.”
Casewell glanced at his mother standing at the stove. She cast a worried look over her shoulder. She turned back and began cracking eggs into the sausage grease.
“How many, John?” she asked.
“None,” he grunted. “Why should I eat if I’m gonna die anyway?”
Casewell began to see why his mother had called. “I’ll take three, Mom,” he said. She smiled gratefully.
“So, Dad, how’re the calves coming?” he asked.
His father blew heavily, as if trying to disperse a cloud of mosquitoes. “They’re coming. Can’t say the same for the grass. No rain makes for poor feed.”
“I was at the Talbot sisters’ last evening. Creek’s mighty low. Liza said it was the lowest she’d seen it.”
“Drought,” Dad intoned, as if he were about to launch into a great speech. His eyes were a little glassy. �
��Gonna be a terrible drought. I can feel it in my bones. Could be the end of us all.” He turned crazy eyes on Casewell. “Not just me—all of us.”
“Well, now, you never know.” Mom slid a plate with three eggs, sausage, and biscuits in front of Casewell. She set a plate with just one egg in front of Dad, as if she were trying not to draw attention. Then she fetched her own plate and joined the men at the table.
Casewell began to eat. He hoped his father would follow the example, and he did for three bites. Then he pushed his plate away and stood to look out the window. “A great drought. Like when Joseph predicted seven years of lean. A biblical drought.”
Casewell felt a chill crawl down his spine. His father spoke like some kind of prophet, though Casewell assumed it was the cancer eating at his mind and his well-being. Something like that would make anyone go dark and gloomy.
“We’ll be all right, I reckon,” Casewell said. “The creek has never gone completely dry, and the wells around here are plenty deep. It’s just a dry spell. We have ’em most every year.”
His father returned to the table and finished his egg and biscuit. Then he got up and went to sit on the porch and smoke.
“At least he ate,” Emily said. “I haven’t been able to get him to eat anything for two days. And when he talks like that, it’s all I can do to stay in the room.”
“It’s all right, Mom.” Casewell put his large, calloused hand over his mother’s. “If you didn’t get a little out of sorts, I’d wonder about you.”
“That’s just it.” Emily turned frightened eyes on her son. “The dying I can stand. It’s this crazy talk that’s wearing me out. I try to talk sense to him and he gets angry. So angry. But leaving him alone isn’t enough, either. He somehow wants me to be with him in his crazy talk. He wants me to talk back, and I have no idea what to say.”
Miracle in a Dry Season Page 6
