Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  “Maybe you should just listen and agree. Maybe he just wants someone to hear him.”

  “Don’t we all,” Emily sighed. “Don’t we all.”

  8

  THE JOY AND FELLOWSHIP the people of Wise felt the night of the barn dance began to fade as day after day of cloudless skies brought worries of drought. Summer seemed too much too soon as temperatures climbed and the sun beat down without mercy. Casewell had been to the Talbots’ to carry water three times, and he hauled barrels of water to his parents’ house to try to keep their garden going. Each time he pulled up to the edge of the garden with his sloshing cargo, his father watched from the porch.

  “I’d help you, son,” he said, “but it won’t do no good.” Then he laughed and slapped his thigh. He’d never been one for jokes, and his laughter sounded eerie to Casewell.

  By the middle of June, the creek at the Talbots’ dwindled to a trickle. Dead fish stank initially, but soon they were so desiccated hardly any smell remained. The pond Casewell dipped from to water his parents’ garden was little more than sludge and dying frogs. Gardens withered and folks were uneasy.

  Talk at the Thorntons’ store grew gloomy. Locals quoted the book of Revelation and talked about end times. The farm community suffered, and as a result, fewer folks shopped at the store. No one ordered Casewell’s handiwork, and a general feeling of doom hung around like dust over a dirt road on a still day.

  That Sunday the congregation murmured and shifted, uneasy in the hard pews. Casewell couldn’t get comfortable, and Pastor Longbourne’s voice seemed to drone in a way that made it hard to understand the words. Then, near the end of the service, Pastor Longbourne mentioned the dry spell.

  “We are facing a drought,” the pastor said, gripping the sides of the pulpit. “Gardens are dying, crops are failing, cattle will soon be hungry. We must pray. But it isn’t enough that we pray individually. We must pray collectively. The church will be open every day this week, and I expect to see every one of you here to pray that God will rain His blessings down upon us.

  “And not only must we pray, we must also repent. In Deuteronomy chapter eleven, verses sixteen and seventeen, you will find the words, ‘Take heed to yourselves, that your heart be not deceived, and ye turn aside, and serve other gods, and worship them; and then the Lord’s wrath be kindled against you, and he shut up the heaven, that there be no rain, and that the land yield not her fruit; and lest ye perish quickly from off the good land which the Lord giveth you.’”

  Pastor Longbourne’s voice softened as he finished reciting the Scripture. He suddenly released the pulpit and brought both fists down on the Bible that always lay open there. The crack of the impact reverberated through the now-hushed church.

  “There are sinners among us,” he said. “There are those among us who have turned aside from the Lord our God, and His wrath has been kindled against us. Repent. Repent and pray. It is our only hope.”

  Normally the congregation would sing a closing song and receive a benediction before moving into the churchyard to visit with one another. But on this Sunday, Pastor Longbourne made a slashing motion through the air in front of his face. “Go,” he said. “Eat your Sunday dinner, spread your gossip, and watch your future wither and die on the vine. As for me, I will pray.” The pastor moved to the side of the pulpit and carefully lowered himself to his knees. Those in the front pews could hear the crack and pop of his joints. He clasped his hands and began to pray softly, under his breath, his voice rising and falling like the humming of a hive.

  At first the congregation sat slightly stunned, as if afraid to move. Then a few eased to the front of the church or out into the aisles to kneel and pray. Even the children sensed the need to remain quiet and still. Longbourne’s individual hum soon doubled, then tripled, with the occasional punctuation of “Amen” or “Yes, Lord.”

  Casewell had never seen anything like this. His mother leaned forward next to him, her forehead resting on her folded hands on the back of the pew in front of her. Some cried, some begged, and some raised their hands in the air. One even lay down in the aisle. Casewell bowed his head and tried to pray for rain, tried to pray for forgiveness of his sins, although he had a hard time saying exactly what his sins were. He felt his father stir beside him and looked up.

  Dad stood and made his way to the front of the church. He looked down at Pastor Longbourne and then turned his gaze across the congregation. “Fools,” he bellowed. “You are fools to believe that God will hear and forgive. God does not forgive. God punishes—He weakens and shames and taunts you with your shortcomings. There will be no rain. God does not care for any of you.”

  He limped down the aisle to the door. As he passed, Casewell thought he heard his father mumble, “Nor does He care for me.”

  Even after Dad’s outburst, many in the church stayed to fast and pray. Others took the opportunity to slip out and go home. Mom looked torn, so Casewell told her he thought they should find his father and go to the house. She nodded and they found Dad smoking a cigarette in back of the church. He remained quiet the rest of the afternoon, as if he had used up any energy he had spreading despair.

  That evening in his own home, Casewell fell to his knees and prayed that God would forgive his sins, whatever they might be, and stop punishing the people he loved. He prayed that his father would find that the cancer had been a mistake, that his mother would have the security of a healthy husband, and that the community would have rain. Casewell begged God to bring relief to the people around him. “Not for my sake, Lord,” Casewell breathed, “but for theirs.”

  That night Casewell dreamed that his father was cured and, as a result, became cruel and miserable. He dreamed that his mother cried at the news of his father’s good health. He dreamed that rain came and floods washed all the crops away. The people he loved most turned on him, called him names, and said that their problems were his fault. Perla appeared carrying a casserole dish that she placed in front of Casewell. She handed him a spoon. “Eat it,” she said. “This is for your sake.”

  Casewell woke in a cold sweat and thought for a moment he might be sick. The nausea passed, though, and he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, trying to think of what he wanted to say to God. He finally fell asleep again, still trying to form the words of a prayer.

  A few days later, Casewell stopped by the Thorntons’ store to pick up a few groceries. His mother kept him well stocked, but he needed coffee and sugar. Robert and Delilah were talking quietly in the back when he came in. Delilah moved toward the front counter.

  “What can I get you?” she asked.

  “Coffee, sugar, and how about a wedge of that hoop cheese, there. Oh, and a box of saltines.”

  Delilah gathered the few things and began ringing them up. “Guess you’ve heard that some folks have yet to leave the church after Sunday’s service,” she said.

  “No, I hadn’t heard. But the preacher said he’d keep the church open all week. Guess some folks took him serious.”

  Robert drifted forward while Casewell and Delilah spoke. “Some folks say it’s like when the disciples tried to cast out a demon and couldn’t do it,” he said. “Jesus told them it couldn’t be done but by fasting and prayer. I, for one, don’t understand how that’ll help, but who knows? Seen any clouds this morning?”

  Casewell stepped to the door and scanned the sky. “Clear,” he said.

  “Those poor people must be half-starved by now,” Delilah said. “Fasting is one thing, but starving yourself is just foolish. I feel like I ought to take some food over there, but, well,” she looked uneasily from Robert to Casewell.

  “What my wife is trying to say is that business has been mighty slow lately. Crops aren’t looking so good and folks have started cutting back. We’re barely selling the necessities, much less anything that could be called a luxury. Shoot, even coffee sales are down.” Robert slapped the sack of beans on the counter in front of Casewell. “We don’t have as much to spare as we once did, and
from the looks of things, I’m not feeling too confident about the future.”

  Just then Perla stepped through the door with Sadie trailing along behind her. She carried a large pot that looked heavy. “Delilah, I hope it’s all right that I made a pot of beans to run over to the church,” she said. “And I’ve got a couple of cakes of corn bread back at the house if one of you would run get it. I figured to take it over so those that want to eat can do it.”

  Delilah blushed. “I’m so glad you thought to do that, Perla. I’ll get the corn bread, but what will people eat from?”

  Casewell gave a start. “Business has been slow,” he said. “I’ve taken to making wooden bowls from scraps. I must have twenty or so stacked up in the workshop.”

  “Well, fetch ’em and meet us at the church,” Delilah said. “We’ll see about feeding the hungry masses.”

  Not long after, Casewell found himself handing bowls of creamy beans and hunks of corn bread out to his neighbors and friends at the church. A few refused, saying they would continue to fast, but most accepted the food gratefully and ate it with relish. Soon, folks who hadn’t been at the church got word the Thorntons were hosting a bean supper and began drifting in—some bringing their own bowls. Casewell sighed when he saw the crowd swelling. They would run out soon and people would be disappointed.

  But Perla kept dishing up beans and breaking off pieces of bread until the fifty or so who had come had been fed. Those who finished first rinsed their bowls in a tub Robert had hauled over and handed them to the next in line.

  As the crowd dwindled, Casewell looked up to see Frank Post drift in the door. It was probably the first time he’d set foot inside the church since coming home in 1930. His thick, wavy hair had gone entirely white and stood at odd angles from his head. Casewell saw the old man glance around and try to smooth his wild hair into place. His face wore creases and lines that suggested he’d spent much of his life laughing in the sun—though he wasn’t laughing now. He was almost painfully thin, and his blue-gray eyes were soft and tired like faded flowers.

  Frank approached the table and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The smell of stale liquor seemed to ooze from his pores. He licked his lips and looked like he might speak. Before he could, Perla took the old man’s hand and pressed a bowl into it.

  “There’s plenty,” she said. “Let me know if you’d like more.”

  Frank gave a stuttery nod and went to stand by an open window to eat. Casewell felt scorn rise as he watched Frank scoop beans into his mouth with his fingers. He turned back to his work and tried to forget about the old drunk. It was a good thing Jesus loved Frank Post, because Casewell didn’t much care for him.

  After the last person had accepted his meal, Casewell turned to Perla, certain he would have to find his own lunch. She handed him a bowl, which he accepted with raised eyebrows.

  “And look,” Delilah said, wonder in her voice, “there’s still a little left.” She held up the pot with several spoonfuls of beans still in the bottom and waved her hand at half a cake of corn bread.

  Perla laughed softly. “Oh well, it always seems to work out.”

  Casewell lifted a spoonful of beans to his mouth and was immediately distracted from the mystery of how they had fed so many. The beans, simple beans, melted in his mouth. Perla must have used a ham hock to give them their slightly smoky, savory flavor. He could sense the shape of each individual bean in his mouth just before they dissolved into a deliciously creamy mass. And the corn bread was moist with a wonderfully crisp crust. He would have expected it to be cold and maybe even a little dried out by now, but it was quite possibly the best thing he’d ever put into his mouth. There were actual pieces of corn in the bread, and it had a slight tang that vibrated across his tongue—buttermilk probably. Normally he would wish for butter or some jelly on his corn bread, but he couldn’t imagine anything improving this food. He finished, and just as he thought to ask for a little more, he realized that he was perfectly full and perfectly content. He did not desire another bite.

  Casewell looked across the church to where Frank helped Perla collect bowls and stack them in a large basket. He had thought her beautiful before, but now he was sure she was the most breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on. He hated that Frank was so near her.

  Perla saw him walking toward her. “Casewell, thank you for the bowls. I’m amazed we got all those people fed, but things usually work out. Have you ever noticed that?”

  Casewell shook his head and tried to give Frank a stern look without Perla seeing.

  “Well, they do. Not always the way you think they will, but they turn out.” Perla dropped her head and didn’t move for a moment. “Of course, with your father sick, that probably sounds like nonsense,” she said. “I’m praying for him and the rest of your family. I’ll try not to be trite when you’re dealing with something so difficult.”

  Casewell finally found his voice. “Thank you,” he said as he handed her his empty bowl. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. And he could have sworn he saw Frank grin at his discomfort.

  By Saturday most folks had given up on the prayer vigil, although a few were still praying. Casewell had dropped in a couple of times to join the praying, but somehow his heart wasn’t in it. He felt like they were asking God for something that God had already decided about. Like Abraham trying to bargain for Sodom and Gomorrah. The cities were destroyed, and of the few who escaped, one became a pillar of salt just for looking back. Casewell knew God was not to be trifled with. He had a plan and there was a fair chance none of them would like it. Casewell had prayed for many things that he did not receive. He knew better than to expect God to go soft now. The safest thing was to pray “Thy will be done” and then grit his teeth for what would come.

  Saturday evening he walked home from the church. Only two old-timers had stayed, saying they would pray through the night. Casewell felt torn between admiration for their stamina and scorn for the waste of time and energy. As he walked, he noticed the grass had withered and the leaves that had unfurled soft and green on the trees just a few weeks before were now curled and brittle looking. A fine layer of dust had settled on everything, and Casewell felt as if a fine grit coated his teeth.

  Word got out that some wells had gone dry, and those families now carried water from neighbors. Farmers fed what remained of their winter hay stores to the cattle. It was time for the first cutting of the year, but there simply wasn’t anything to cut. His father had turned his cattle out into the hayfields, letting them graze what little could be found. Not only would there be no feed stored up for winter, but it was doubtful there would be enough to get through summer.

  As Casewell trudged along, getting his boots dusty and trying to breathe through his nose, a truck pulled up beside him. It was his father.

  “Hop in,” Dad said, stopping in a cloud of dust. Casewell opened the passenger door and slid onto the cracked seat.

  “I’m rethinking my plan, son.” He shoved the truck into gear and eased forward so as not to stir up any more dirt than necessary. “Them cows I planned to sell this fall may not live that long without rain. We need to sell the calves now and hope the cows can tough it out until next year.”

  “Prices are bound to be low,” Casewell said. “Maybe it will rain. Maybe we should just wait it out.”

  Dad cast him a sidelong glance and then turned his head and rolled the window down to spit. As he rolled it back up, he said, “And maybe wishing will cure me of cancer. Your mother is trying to make me well by pretending I ain’t sick. I can tell by the feeling in my bones that it sure ain’t working.” He massaged his right thigh as he spoke.

  “Are you in pain, Dad?”

  “That’s about the stupidest question I ever heard. I haven’t felt good for the last fifteen years, and now every morning when I get out of bed, I hurt a little bit worse. Don’t ask me ever again about pain, son.”

  Casewell felt tears rising and hated himself for it. His father, neve
r a gentle man, was turning cruel with his illness. It’s just the cancer, Casewell told himself. He can’t help it.

  “Come to the house Monday,” Dad said, pulling up in front of Casewell’s house. “The sooner we get those calves to market, the better. This drought will only get worse. Prices may be poor now, but they’ll drop to nothing soon enough.”

  Casewell felt impatience and frustration rise in him. “How do you know?” he asked, speaking more sharply to his father than he had ever dared. “What makes you so sure?”

  Dad sighed, air whooshing out of his lungs. “The devil told me. Don’t expect to see me in church tomorrow. Comfort your mother the best you can.” He shoved the truck back into gear and waited for Casewell to get out. Casewell slammed the door harder than he needed to and didn’t look back as his father drove away.

  Sunday morning dawned with an uneasy feeling in the air. Children whimpered, old folks mumbled prayers, and everyone shifted in the pews as if they couldn’t get comfortable. Frank Post sat in the back right corner, his hair somewhat tamed. Maybe the old drunk was making folks uneasy, or maybe it was the week of praying and the drought putting them on edge. But Casewell noticed as Perla and Sadie trailed Robert and Delilah to their usual pew, a disturbance seemed to follow in their wake—a murmur that wasn’t altogether pleasant.

  Pastor Longbourne got up and said that instead of their usual service, they would pray throughout the morning, along with some Scripture readings. “There are rumors that this drought is not natural,” he said. “That someone among us has brought it on us as punishment for our sins. Or perhaps for the sins of someone in particular. It is not for me to say, but if you have sinned, I call on you to repent as though your life depended upon it. Repent as though all of our lives depended upon it.”

  Casewell could have sworn that the pastor looked at Perla as he spoke, but surely not. There was sin aplenty to go around.