Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  The service seemed to drag on forever. Old man Peterson took a fit and began speaking gibberish. The old folks called out that he was speaking in tongues and listened attentively, as if they could decipher what he was saying. As he ranted on, an old woman cried out, “Repent, harlot! He calls on you to repent.”

  Casewell didn’t know how much more he could stand, but finally Pastor Longbourne called for a closing prayer that went on for a good ten minutes. Following his “Amen,” Casewell rose to his feet and hoped others would accompany him out the door. He had always considered himself a stalwart member of the congregation, an upright pillar of the community, setting a good example for others. But somehow on this morning, it was all he could do not to run as far as possible from the church and the people who seemed to fill the building with fear.

  Stepping into the churchyard, Casewell stood off to the side, watching others make their way out. They gathered in clumps and talked quietly among themselves. It had the feeling of a funeral.

  George Brower eased over to where Casewell stood and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Ever seen the like?” he asked.

  “I reckon not,” Casewell said. “And I hope not to see it again anytime soon.”

  “The drought is bad enough, but this witchcraft talk is getting folks too riled up for their own good.”

  “What are you talking about?” Casewell asked, stunned by his friend’s words.

  “That Perla Long feeding a hundred people out of one pot of beans and half a cake of corn bread ain’t natural.” George shuffled his feet in the dust. “Folks figure there’s no explanation for it other than witchery.”

  “It was a big pot of beans, and there were at least four cakes of corn bread,” Casewell said. “I was there to help hand it out. And there weren’t any hundred people. What kind of nonsense is that, anyway?”

  “Old man Peterson says that folks what ate from Perla’s hand lost the will to pray and went home. He says she must be a witch to make food last like that and to make people so contented that they’d give up doing the work of God after eating it.”

  Casewell was having a hard time following George’s explanation. “Wait a minute. You’re saying that folks suspect Perla is a witch because she fed them?”

  “I guess it was the way she fed them. Never running out of food, like magic.”

  “Shootfire, man, I was there handing out the bowls. Does that make me a witch, too?”

  “I think the term is warlock, but no, I haven’t heard that anyone thinks that. They just think she’s, well, enchanted you a little or some such.” George seemed to be trying to drive his hands right through the bottoms of his pockets. “It’s foolish, I guess, but you know how people are, making judgments and deciding things on their own.”

  Casewell felt the anger begin to drain out of him. He did know how people were. He knew how he was and the kinds of judgments he’d made about people. The kind of judgment he’d made about Perla with her illegitimate child. Anger began to give way to shame, and he looked around the churchyard for Perla. He didn’t have any idea what he would do once he found her, but the need to know where she was and what she was doing rose in him like sap in the spring. He could no more fight it back than he could stop the sun from rising. But Perla and the Thorntons were gone.

  “Where is Perla?” he asked.

  “I think maybe Delilah got a whiff of what was going around and bundled her and the child on back to the house.” George squinted into the distance. “Probably for the best.”

  Perla went straight to the room she shared with Sadie when they arrived home from church. Her aunt, uncle, and daughter were in the kitchen pulling out leftovers for lunch, but Perla excused herself, saying she wanted to change her clothes. She stripped off her gloves, tossed her hat on the bed, and loosened the fabric belt that matched her periwinkle dress. She reached back for the zipper, then dropped onto the edge of the bed. She had been moving mechanically, but suddenly the will to keep putting one foot in front of the other left her. All she could do was sit, hands braced against the bed to either side.

  She had heard the whispers. She had seen the looks. And it was worse than being a scarlet woman. It was worse than being known as the woman who gave in to the lust of the flesh and now had to carry her sin with her in the form of an innocent child. They thought she was evil. Not just sinful—that, she could stand—but to believe that her ability to feed people, to give them love in the form of nourishment, was witchcraft? How could they?

  “I’ll have to stop cooking,” she whispered to herself. “It always happens, so I’ll just have to stop.”

  But it was the only thing she had to give to Robert and Delilah. It was how she repaid them for their kindness and for giving her a place to stay. Perla knew business was slow at the store, and if the drought continued, it would get worse. Her aunt and uncle would never ask her to leave, but if she stayed and gave them two extra mouths to feed, the least she could do was cook food that somehow multiplied in the preparation.

  “God,” she said in a low voice, “why would you curse me this way? Why would you give me a gift that appears to others as evil?”

  Perla eased down onto the bed as if she ached, as if a sudden movement would be disastrous. Once her head touched the pillow, despair washed over her, and she fell asleep. As if sleep would absolve her of the agony of her abilities.

  And in sleeping, Perla dreamed. She dreamed of a man in a robe with sandals on his feet. It looked like he was praying over baskets of food. And then people came and began taking food from the baskets, and no matter how many came, there was still more for them to eat. And they were satisfied.

  9

  CASEWELL WENT TO HIS WORKSHOP as soon as he got home. He sat and looked around. The space was clean. All the shavings and bits of wood had been swept away. He had stacked leftover pieces of lumber under his bench, and the larger lengths were securely stowed in the rafters. Everything was in its place. The only thing missing, thought Casewell, was a work in progress. He had finished all his commissions, and he was tired of making bowls. With the drought putting a strain on nearly everyone’s finances, he knew there would be no orders for kitchen stools or new shelves or front-porch repairs. He was bored, and with everything on his mind, boredom was eating away at him.

  He thought to go to the house and get out his mandolin, but he couldn’t seem to put the thought into action. He stared at his tools and the pieces of wood until something began to take form in his mind.

  A bed. Casewell had always wanted to make a really beautiful bed. Not just a serviceable piece of furniture, but a grand, magnificent piece that would be a source of delight and wonder to its owner. So often his work required him to build practical items for daily use. Even when he made something more challenging, like the Talbots’ cupboard, the furniture was simple and straightforward. There was little demand for intricate carving or fancy work. But now he had the time and the materials lying about idle. He would make a bed with a high, elaborate headboard and a footboard too beautiful to ever drape a pair of dungarees across. He would make something more wonderful than he ever had before.

  Casewell slapped his knees and stood up to take stock of his lumber. He had a plan and he was excited about it. He knew he should be worried about the drought and how he and his neighbors would make it through the year. He knew his father was in trouble and his mother was suffering by his side, but he still found himself feeling like a kid headed off to the fair. Wonderful things were right around the corner.

  A thought hit Casewell. What would he do with this bed once he made it? He could always keep it, but what did he need a fancy bed for? His parents—of course. He would make a Christmas gift of the bed to his parents. Assuming his dad was still around. Casewell shook that thought off. He’d be around. Christmas wasn’t so far away, and his father was still as active and ornery as ever. Well, almost. Casewell began to pull out lumber so that he could see his fancy bed take form in it.

  That evening Casewel
l sat on the front porch, feeling contented in spite of worrying about his father, the weather, and Perla Long. The bed was taking shape as though his hands knew what to do without his head telling them. It had been a long time since Casewell made something bigger than a bowl just for the pleasure of it. He felt good.

  It was one of those soft summer evenings when the days were hot, but the nights were still cool. The air had an almost mossy quality to it—even the color of the dusk settling across the pasture and the trees beyond seemed green. Casewell sighed and laced his hands behind his head, tilted his chair back on two legs, and braced his feet against a porch post the way his mother always told him not to. He smiled.

  Across the pasture, Casewell thought he saw movement—probably a deer browsing in the edge of the woods. He kept watching until he could make out a figure walking slowly across the dying field. Eventually he could see that it was a woman, and soon he recognized Perla. It was clear she had no intention of walking close enough for him to speak. She followed an arcing path through the field that would soon begin carrying her further away. Without giving it much thought, Casewell stood and walked out to meet her.

  “Mind if I walk with you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said without looking at him.

  “Sure is a pretty evening,” he said.

  Perla looked up and around, as if checking to make sure he was telling the truth. “Yes.” She had been walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her back, but now she released her hold and began to move with more purpose.

  “Where are you headed?”

  “Back to the house. I hate to leave Sadie for long.”

  “I’m so used to being alone, I guess I forget how some folks relish a few minutes to themselves.” Casewell matched his long stride to Perla’s shorter one. “And here I am, interrupting your solitude.”

  Perla looked surprised. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Pretty much everyone else is leaving me alone right now.” She made the statement without any hint of bitterness or anger. “I’m afraid the rumors are even bothering Robert and Delilah. I may have to find somewhere else to go soon.”

  “But you can’t leave,” Casewell blurted.

  Perla laughed a little. “You’re probably right—I can’t. But I may have to just the same.”

  “Where would you go? Back home?”

  “No,” Perla answered slowly. “There are stories there, too—probably the same stories. No, I guess I’d have to find someplace new. Someplace where I can pretend I don’t have . . .” She hesitated, then thrust her chin out. “This misbegotten child and this strange way with food.”

  Casewell tried to hide his shock and quickly asked, “What’s strange about your food? It’s mighty good and I guess you always make plenty, but I haven’t noticed anything else.”

  “Haven’t you?” Perla gave him a bemused look. “Usually the women notice first. Delilah realized I had a . . . well . . . a knack, right away. But I think she loves me too much to say anything or even to think it’s odd. Robert’s like you—he’s still not sure what people are talking about.”

  “So what is it, then?”

  Perla stopped and turned to face Casewell. “I guess if I can tell you about Sadie, I can tell you about my cooking. I seem to have a gift for plenty—for making lots of food out of almost nothing.”

  “Well, I guess there are quite a few ladies around here who can do that.” Casewell felt relieved. “Mom can take just a few potatoes and turn them into a meal fit for a king. Surely that’s not so strange.”

  “No, Casewell. It’s not just using ingredients to their best advantage. When I cook, whatever I cook doesn’t run out. Not for a long time. Like those beans at the church. I made enough for maybe twenty people, but we didn’t run out until everyone was fed.”

  “Oh, now, I was there and you made food aplenty. Why, there were the four cakes of corn bread and—”

  Perla cut him off. “I made two cakes, Casewell. Folks ate at least nine—probably more. I just went back to the basket for the same pans over and over again. I hoped no one would notice.”

  Casewell stood unmoving, a look of confusion on his face. “But how is that possible?”

  Perla stamped a foot, crossed her arms across her chest, and gripped her upper arms as if she were cold. Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve prayed and prayed that God would take this thing from me, but He just won’t do it. I try not to make so much food, and it’s almost as if the less I make, the more there is. How can abundance be a bad thing?” Her eyes pleaded with Casewell to explain.

  “It’s not,” he said. He reached out and placed one hand awkwardly on her shoulder. A Scripture popped into his head—I am come that they might have life—and that they might have it more abundantly. “I think it’s a gift,” he said. “And sometimes the gifts God gives us feel like burdens, but we have to trust that He knows what He’s doing. How have you used your gift?”

  Perla relaxed her grip on her arms. “To feed people—mostly people I love.”

  “There you go. Folks just don’t understand. Shoot, I don’t understand, but from what I know of you, I’d say you’re closer to an angel than a witch.” He reddened as soon as he realized what he’d said and dropped his hand back to his side.

  Perla smiled and began to walk again.

  “That I am not.” She laughed softly. “But if you can see your way clear to accept me as I am, maybe others will, too.” She glanced at him, a faint twinkle in her eyes. “When I first arrived here, I heard you described as a pillar of the community.”

  Casewell felt his face burn hotter. But this time what he felt was more shame than anything. When she’d first arrived, he would have agreed with her, but now . . .

  “No more than you’re really an angel, I guess. Folks are mighty quick to slap labels on people around here.”

  “I think it makes them feel safer.” Perla glanced up at the stars beginning to show. “People like to know where they fit, and it’s easier to find your own place if everyone else is safely in theirs.”

  They walked the rest of the way to the Thorntons’ in silence. Casewell stopped at the bottom of the steps and watched Perla make her way up onto the porch. She turned at the top to wish Casewell a good-night. The light from inside the house cast a halo around Perla’s hair, and Casewell had to smile. She might not be an angel, but she couldn’t help looking like one.

  She seemed to hesitate, then spoke. “Thank you, Casewell. I felt like maybe you judged me harshly after I told you about Sadie. Somehow, after this evening, I feel, well, I guess I feel like you’ve forgiven me. Like you’re not going to hold my sins against me anymore. I appreciate that.”

  Before Casewell could reply, she turned and disappeared inside the house.

  Why did she continue to bare her heart and soul to Casewell Phillips? Perla berated herself. She hadn’t felt the condemnation radiating from him the way she had on the night she told him about Sadie. But still, what was it about the man that seemed to pull the truth from her?

  She tried to remember the Scripture about the truth setting you free, but it wouldn’t come. And she surely didn’t feel free just then. She felt laid bare—stripped to her core with little left to hide behind. And she wanted to hide more than anything. She wanted to hide from the stares at church, from the whispers she couldn’t help but overhear, from the choices she’d made, and the repercussions that continued to unfold.

  Alone in her room while Sadie listened to the radio with Robert and Delilah, Perla sat at the dressing table and unfastened her hair where she had rolled it at the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes and remembered how it had felt when Sadie’s father unfastened her hair and let it fall soft against her shoulders. Her eyes flew open and she reached for a brush. She must banish such thoughts from her mind. She had no business giving in to her longings. And remembering was the last thing she needed now.

  Perla drew the brush through her hair, jerking at knots. She slowed and t
hought about Casewell’s hand on her shoulder. It was obvious he’d been uncertain about touching her, which made it all the more tender. His big heart had overcome his sensibilities. She bowed her head. She might have loved a man like Casewell if she hadn’t thrown herself away on a man she’d known she could never have.

  Folding her arms on the table, Perla laid her head down. She meant to cry, but the tears didn’t come. She felt as dry and barren as the world around them. Walking with Casewell, hearing him call her ability with food a gift from God, she was beginning to understand just how far reaching her choice would be.

  That night Casewell knelt beside his bed to pray. He’d given up this affectation a long time ago, but somehow it seemed the thing to do. The floor was hard beneath knees that weren’t quite as flexible as they’d once been. He clasped his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing came. Casewell usually found that prayer came easily. He could close his eyes, think of his Lord, and just let the thoughts roll through his mind as naturally as the sunrise. But on this night, when he stilled his mind to tap into his connection with God, he found himself at a loss. Nothing came. The flow had stopped.

  Casewell’s eyes flew open and he shifted on his knees. There was a bit of dirt or a tiny stone under his right knee, but he did not move to brush it away. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again. The presence that he so often felt seemed absent. “Oh, God,” he whispered, dropping his head forward onto the edge of the mattress. Where could God be? He had always been so sure of his faith, of where he stood with God. But on this night he felt lost, alone, like he was wandering in a wilderness.

  A dry, arid wilderness, thought Casewell, where crops are dying and people are so desperate for answers, they lash out at one another. They’re looking for someone to blame, someone to take responsibility. Casewell had been a child during the Depression, but he could remember enough. He remembered saving his too-large and eventually too-small shoes just for church. He remembered those times when the bounty of their cellar waned while they waited for the spring planting season to wax. He remembered having little more than corn bread and milk for dinner and seeing the hard looks on his parents’ faces.