Casewell tried to focus, to remember what it was he wanted to say to God. Usually the names of those in need paraded across his mind in a never-ending array, and he would call God’s help down for them. Casewell had prayed for the church and the farms and the local businesses. He had prayed for the sick, the confused, the outcast. But on this night, all that would come to mind was that he needed to pray for his own soul. He needed to pray that his heart would soften and he would come to know his fellowman and love him. But that seemed like nonsense. Casewell clasped his head between his hands and wrinkled his brow with the effort to keep his eyes closed and his mind focused on God.
It was no use. Nothing came. Casewell pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom to clean his teeth and wash his face. He felt that God had abandoned him. And then, without warning, he thought, Judge not, that ye be not judged. He actually spun around as if someone had spoken the words from the hall. Of course no one was there. He shook his head and finished readying himself for bed.
10
CASEWELL HEADED FOR HIS WORKSHOP as soon as he’d swallowed some coffee the next morning. His father had changed his mind about selling the cattle, so he had the whole day ahead of him. He hadn’t felt this eager to get to work in years. It was invigorating, and it was an escape from the desolation he’d felt the night before. He was completely absorbed in his work when Frank Post knocked on his open door.
“Howdy, neighbor,” Frank said. “Mind if I sit and visit a spell?”
Casewell did mind but said he’d be glad of the company and stood to stretch out his neck and shoulders. He couldn’t imagine why Frank had come to see him. The man had no friends to speak of and until recently was rarely seen anywhere other than his own home or the Simmonses’ back porch, where just about everyone knew moonshine was stored under the third step from the bottom.
“Whatcha making there?” Frank asked.
“A bed.”
“Well, now, that’s a tall order.”
“Actually, it’s not an order. I’ve just always wanted to make one.” Casewell ran his hand over the piece of wood he was shaping. “Most likely I’ll give it to Mom and Dad for Christmas.”
“I was real sorry to hear about how sick your father is,” Frank said, staring at a point between his booted feet. “I never got to know him real well, but he always seemed like a good ’un.”
“He is that.” Casewell turned back to his work, hoping Frank would take the hint and leave.
“Reckon you could find time for a commission?” Frank asked.
Casewell stopped what he was doing and turned back to Frank, curious. “I could. Paying work is mighty thin right now.”
“I need a tea table. The finest, most delicate, prettiest little tea table you can conjure. From the looks of that carving you’ve sketched out over there”—he pointed at the unfinished footboard with his chin—“I’m thinking you’re the man for the job.”
“That’s the kind of work that takes time. I’ve got plenty of time, but I’ll have to charge more than I would for a plain table,” Casewell said, tugging his beard.
“I’ve got time and I’ve got money. So far I haven’t had near as much use for either one as I would have thought when I was your age. But now, well, it’s time to set some things right.”
Casewell couldn’t help wondering if Frank thought to make amends with Liza. He was still trying to figure women out, but he was skeptical that a table, no matter how nice, was really the way to say you were sorry for abandoning your fiancée. Even so, it was paying work, and it would help him pace himself on the bed.
“All right then, I’ll make some drawings to show you what I’m thinking and bring them over to the house tomorrow,” Casewell said.
“Nope. I’d rather come on by here. I don’t have near enough reasons to get out and about. How’s four o’clock sound?”
“Fine. Now as to the payment—”
“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Frank cut in. “I’ll be more than fair. I’ve been unlucky in life in a lot of ways, but money’s not been a worry for a long time. Wish it could do anybody any good.”
Frank stood and flexed his knees. “I still get around pretty good, but these old joints seize up on me if I stay still too long. See you tomorrow.” He walked out the door as silently as he had come.
Casewell considered that if he were the sort to spread gossip, he’d have plenty of grist for the mill. Who was the table for? Where did Frank get his money? Was he sober for once? The old man seemed to be sober—how long would that last? Casewell stood thinking for a moment; then the unfinished bed caught his eye, and within moments he was once again completely absorbed in his work. He’d start the tea-table drawing after supper.
The next afternoon Frank arrived at four on the dot. Casewell showed him a sketch of a dainty little piecrust table with a top that could be removed and used as a tray. Instead of carving, he thought he’d try his hand at a little inlay. He laid out a geometric design based on one of his mother’s quilt patterns. He could use cherry and maple to create the starburst in the center of the table. He planned to use walnut for the base. Casewell was pretty pleased with himself, and Frank agreed to the design right away. Before Casewell could name a price, Frank offered an amount almost twice what Casewell had been thinking. He agreed and accepted a down payment but said he would only accept the rest once the table was done.
“Sounds right,” Frank agreed. “Guess you’ve come a long way from the troublemaker I knew back in the day.”
Casewell looked at the older man in confusion. “Troublemaker?”
“Lordy, son, I know you were drunker than a skunk, but surely you remember?”
Casewell felt heat rise up his neck and a roaring start in his ears. “How do you—”
Frank quirked an eyebrow. “I was there. Come to think of it, I guess you wouldn’t remember that part.” The older man leaned back against the doorframe, as though settling in for a long story.
“I’d come out to the still to shoot the breeze and get my weekly allotment, but the Simmons boys were in high dudgeon when I got there. Seems somebody’d robbed the still and fouled up the copper tubing. Not only did they lose a run of liquor, but it was going to take some serious money and time to get the still working again.”
Casewell closed his eyes and sank onto a stool. He thought no one knew. He’d been so sure no one ever knew.
Frank continued, seeming to enjoy the tale. “If those boys had been hornets, I would have guessed some fool had stuck a stick in their nest and stirred. I thought to leave, but they kind of pulled me in to help look for the culprit. Seems the feller what done it had left a trail a blind man could follow. We didn’t have to go far before we come across you laid out under an old pine, snoring away. By the time I saw it was you, Clint already had his knife out and looked like he aimed to skin your face off.”
Casewell’s hand rose to find the scar along his jawline. His beard hid it, but his fingers knew how to read the raised flesh under the whiskers. “He might have killed me,” Casewell whispered.
“Oh, he planned to. I reckon he cut on you to wake you up so he could kill you proper. Only you didn’t much wake up, and I suggested an alternative. I paid ’em for what you took, along with enough to fix the still, and they agreed to let it be.”
“How much was it?” Casewell couldn’t hide his shock. It was bad enough that Frank knew he’d stolen moonshine and gotten drunk. To find out after all this time that his life had been saved by the town drunk was too much.
Frank looked Casewell straight in the eye. “I don’t remember,” he said. “And likely wouldn’t say if I did. The past is past. Looks to me like you smartened up and turned out just fine. Let’s speak no more of it.”
“I can’t charge you for that table. Take your money back.”
Frank turned away and walked toward the door, leaving Casewell sitting on his stool, cash clutched in his hand. “There is no debt. If there was, it’s been long forgiven.
I’ll be seeing you.” And with that he was gone.
Casewell spent the rest of the week working on his two projects. Shaping the bed eased his mind, while the table plunged him into turmoil. Could forgiveness be that easy? Would his father have forgiven him for being a thief and a drunkard? Casewell felt pretty certain he would not. And the town drunk handed out forgiveness like it was the easiest thing in the world. Casewell hadn’t even asked for it. He hadn’t even known to ask for it. Casewell owed Frank more than he’d ever imagined, and Frank wouldn’t let him pay the debt. All he could think to do was to make the most beautiful tea table the world had ever seen. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.
The days flew by and Casewell hardly left the workshop except to eat and sleep. On Saturday his father rolled into the yard in his pickup in the middle of the afternoon, bringing the now ubiquitous dust cloud with him.
“Your ma done sent me to fetch you home to supper,” he said when Casewell walked toward the truck. “She called, but you ain’t been answering your phone.”
Casewell had noticed that not only did his father curse occasionally now, but that his way of speaking was less careful. His father prided himself on not sounding like a country bumpkin and had always insisted Casewell avoid slang and poor grammar. Was this a symptom of cancer? he wondered.
“I’ve been working pretty hard lately, but I’m glad you’re here. I could use a break, and I haven’t been around to your place enough lately. I haven’t even carried water to the garden this week.”
“No need,” Dad said. “Waste of time trying to fight this drought. I was hoping you’d give up. If you haven’t, I’d recommend it.”
Casewell thought he’d do well not to answer that. “Let me wash up and put on a clean shirt.”
“I ain’t going nowhere,” Dad said, slouching in the driver’s seat.
Casewell looked at his father a moment, but he just sat there, hat pulled low over his eyes. Casewell waited, not knowing for what, and when nothing else was forthcoming he went into the house. What had he been waiting for? He thought a moment. Ah, he had expected to see his dad pull out some tobacco and roll a cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen him waiting for even two minutes without a cigarette between his lips.
After changing, Casewell walked out and swung into the truck beside his father. The pervasive smell of cigarette smoke was missing. Maybe he’d forgotten his makings at the house. He opened his mouth to ask about it and then decided not to. Let it lie, he thought. Let it lie.
When they pulled into the side yard, Casewell felt a little shocked to see how wilted the garden was. The corn was stubby; the bush beans were a sickly yellow and drooped to the ground; the squash leaves that should have been huge and shading delicate blossoms were small and sagged heavily over just a few clenched yellow flowers. He stood and stared.
Dad walked past Casewell. “Come on, son. All that water you hauled was a waste of time. Roots are shallow and plants are stunted. No need to waste any more time with that.”
“But it hasn’t been that long since I was here last. I thought the garden would hold up at least until today,” Casewell said.
“Even a truckload of water won’t save some of that stuff.” Dad patted his pocket and seemed surprised to find it empty. “If it started raining tonight and rained good the rest of the summer, most of the garden would still be shot.” He turned and let his eyes follow the fence line across the road where cattle grazed the parched field. “Can’t make up the missed cuttings of hay. Can’t make dead plants come back to life. Cattle gotta eat and so do we.” He turned cool eyes on his son. “Hard times are coming. Makes dying seem a little easier.”
Casewell felt frustration rise in the back of his throat like bile. He wanted to tell his father he was wrong. It would rain. The crops would be saved. The cattle would thrive and he would not die. But Casewell knew words wouldn’t change anything. He knew his father was most likely right.
Supper that night was a solemn meal. Mom tried to make conversation and act cheerful, but even she had run out of sunlight by the time she dished up last summer’s canned peaches for dessert.
“Not many of these left,” she said, spearing a golden crescent of fruit. “I was counting on that tree over behind the cellar house making a good harvest. The way it was covered in blossoms this spring was a sight to behold. But the fruit is small and hard—wormy, too. I’m afraid I won’t be able to salvage much to put up for winter.”
“Mom.” Casewell laid down his fork and looked hard at his mother. “Will you be able to get by if you don’t have anything to put up this year? No green beans to can, no tomatoes or peaches, no potatoes to put in the root cellar. What will you and Dad have left come January?”
His father snorted. “Don’t count on me needing anything to eat come January.”
Emily shot her husband a stern look and turned to Casewell. “Well, son, I suppose we’ll have enough to get along. I always put up way more than we need, so there’s some to tide us over. And I imagine I’ll get something out of the garden so long as it rains in the next week or so. No need to worry yet.”
“It ain’t gonna rain.” Dad spoke the words harshly and stood, slamming his chair into the wall behind him. He glared at his wife and son and then went into the living room and slouched in a chair, where he stared at nothing.
Tears welled in Mom’s eyes. Casewell couldn’t stand to see his mother cry like this. “Mom, it’s okay,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm.
She placed her hand on top of Casewell’s. “No, son, it’s not. My orchard is dying, my garden is nearly dead, and my husband is eager to follow them.” She looked at Casewell. “He doesn’t want to live anymore. Medicine can’t fight that.” Tears began to run down her cheeks. “Love’s the only thing that can fight it, and he’s hardened his heart against me.”
Casewell drew his mother into his arms and let her cry, fearing at any moment he would break under the weight of her grief. He knew his father’s heart had hardened against him a long time ago.
Casewell was so absorbed by his work that he paid little attention to what was happening in the community over the next few weeks. But as the dog days of August approached, the drought became so dire no one could remain oblivious to it. Cattle were chewing on twigs and eating ivy, and there wasn’t a farmer in the county with even one bale of hay remaining in his barn. Housewives raided cellar stores as gardens wasted away. Everything was coated in dust, and creeks had been reduced to dry rocks.
On a Tuesday, Casewell stood back to admire the bed he had wrought with his own two hands. The headboard was six-feet high, and both it and the footboard bloomed with roses. The wood had been sanded and polished to a high sheen. He ran his hand across the curve of the footboard and traced a rose with his finger. It was lovely and he felt a swell of pride. Suddenly he wanted to show the bed to Perla more than anything. He wanted her to admire it, touch it, and exclaim over its workmanship. But of course she would never see it. Casewell had made the bed for his parents, and it would be inappropriate to show a bed, of all things, to a single woman.
He shook the feeling and turned his attention to the tea table beside it. He was proud of his work there, too. The tray clicked into the top smoothly, making it easy to lift out and carry from room to room. The inlay was intricate but not gaudy. He thought it would somehow suit Liza Talbot, who managed to be dignified and homey at the same time. Not like her sister, who had always struck Casewell as a little stuck-up—a little too formal with everyone who crossed her path.
Casewell sat and looked at his work. Satisfaction spread through him. This was the kind of thing he had been made to do. Playing music pleased him, and most any work he could do with his hands satisfied, but this shaping of wood into useful and beautiful objects—this was what God intended for him to do. At one time, Casewell had thought God would have a grander plan for his life, but it seemed like woodworking was to be his lot. And that was just fine.
As he
walked outside, Casewell felt like he was waking up from a deep sleep. He looked around at what was suddenly an alien landscape. He realized that the grass in the yard was brown, and there were bare spots of nothing but dirt. Some of the trees had lost their leaves, and those that remained looked sad and shriveled. A stand of pines close to the road was coated in a layer of dust, as was the mailbox. And it was hot. The sun beat down on the cracked earth, and Casewell noticed an absence of birdsong. He had emerged from his work into a wasteland. Fear rose in him, a foreboding tide that somehow seemed greater than the drought they were facing.
Casewell walked down to the Thorntons’ store. He went with the pretense of buying something for his supper, but he also hoped he would hear the latest news. He wasn’t disappointed. He walked into the store and found George, Steve, and some other men gathered around the counter, talking in low voices.
“Hey, fellers,” Casewell said, “what’s the news?”
“Not good,” George said. “Word is some cattle down toward Indian Ridge have died for lack of water. Creeks are dried up, ponds are nothing but bottom muck, and even the springs are giving out. Most of us around here have deep wells, but we’re gonna have to use those for our own selves.” He shook his head and looked at the toe of his scuffed boot. “It ain’t good.”
Roger spoke next. “Some folks are getting low on food, too. Not everybody stocks a cellar the way your ma does. Shoot, even Robert here is running short on stuff.”
Casewell looked around the store and saw that shelves were thinly stocked. “Why don’t you get more stuff in here?” he asked Robert.
“Nobody’s got money to buy anything, and my local suppliers are hard up. I’ve called more than sixty miles around trying to get some fruit or vegetables, and everybody’s been hit hard by the drought. I’ve got some canned stuff, but like I say, nobody’s got money for it, and it costs extra to bring things in from so far.”
Miracle in a Dry Season Page 9
