Miracle in a Dry Season

by Sarah Loudin Thomas

  The men shifted uneasily and looked at each other’s shoes. “What are we going to do?” Casewell asked.

  “Just what we’ve been discussing,” George said. “We were thinking it might be good to pool our resources, bring supplies down here to the store, and feed the whole community that way.”

  “I’ve been saying we need to let Perla do the cooking,” chimed in Robert. “She’s got a way with food, makes it stretch further than you’d think.”

  The men looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know as my wife would eat what Perla cooked,” Roger said slowly. “I don’t mind myself.” His eyes darted from face to face. “But some of the women seem to think there’s something strange about that one.”

  “Are you men?” Casewell asked more loudly than he planned, but he didn’t soften his tone. “Are you going to let the women bully you out of letting the best cook in the county stretch what food we’ve got to feed the whole town? Maybe there is something a little different about Perla Long, but I say we treat it like a gift, not a curse. We’re in a fix here and I, for one, aim to do what it takes to get through.”

  As Casewell spoke, the men seemed to stand a little straighter—to stick their chests out a little further. One of them said, “They’re probably just jealous because she can cook and she’s easy on the eyes. Can’t let that sway us.”

  There were nods of agreement and soon a general consensus was reached. They would go out and suggest to their neighbors and families that they bring everything they had down to the Thorntons’ store and start a community kitchen. Robert said he’d haul his stove and Frigidaire over so they could set up a work area in the back of the store, where there was already a deep sink for cleaning. They made tables out of crates and some old doors Robert had stacked out back, and soon they were ready to put their plan into motion.

  11

  YOU TALK TO PERLA,” Casewell said to Robert. “She may not like this at first, but I’m betting she’ll come around.”

  Robert gave him a thoughtful look. “Know her that well, do you? Well, I suspect you’re right. Delilah will get her to go along. Might not hurt if you asked her, too.”

  “I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Casewell said.

  But the next morning, as Casewell boxed up some dry goods and canned things his mother had left for him to add to the community food stores, the phone rang. It was Robert, saying that Perla refused to cook. “She says she’s caused enough trouble and suspicion around here, and she’s not inviting more gossip by cooking for the whole community. Neither Delilah nor I can budge her. You’d better come see what you can do.”

  Casewell heaved the crate of food into the back of his truck and drove to the Thorntons’. He had no idea what to say and seriously doubted that he was the one to convince Perla of anything. Still, he found himself looking forward to talking to her.

  She was sitting on the Victorian sofa in the parlor. Sadie sat on the floor, quietly arranging and rearranging the doll furniture Casewell had made for her. The little girl grinned at him. He walked over and sat in a delicate side chair. He thought it might break. Perla sat with legs crossed, seemingly engrossed in watching her right foot as she jiggled it.

  “Robert told me you won’t cook for folks.”

  “Why should I? To give them more ammunition? I’ve hardly left this house in over a month just to avoid adding fuel to the fire. And now you want me to strike the match.”

  Casewell thought she had a point. “I heard the Snowdens have just about run out of anything to feed their six kids. It’d be good of you to help, if only for the sake of those children.” Even as Casewell spoke, he felt that this wasn’t the right argument.

  “Send the children to me,” she said. “I don’t owe their parents anything. They can stay home and go hungry.” A tear slid down her cheek.

  Sadie came to lean on her mother’s leg and gazed up into her face. “Did they hurt your feelings, Mama?”

  “Yes, sweetheart, but don’t you worry about it. I’m okay.” She cupped the child’s cheek in her hand.

  “Aren’t you supposed to forgive people when they hurt your feelings?” Sadie asked.

  Perla hung her head, and Casewell felt like he’d been hit with an electric shock. Perla had thanked him for forgiving her, but had he? Did he even have a right to? He suddenly wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to forgive him, but he wasn’t entirely sure what needed forgiving. With what judgment ye judge . . .

  “Perla, I . . .” Casewell began to speak. “I need to tell you something.” But he still didn’t know what it was.

  “Yes?”

  “I judged you,” he blurted. “I had no right to, but I did.” He darted a glance at Sadie. “You’re a good mother and a good woman, and you have a remarkable gift that I think is from God. You said the other day that you felt like I had forgiven you. There’s nothing for me to forgive, but I think I need your forgiveness.”

  Casewell hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt Sadie move to his side and lean against his knee. He opened his eyes and looked into the child’s.

  “I love you, Mr. Casewell,” she said.

  He looked up at Perla, who was crying softly but also smiling. She reached out to touch his cheek, and he felt peace fall on him softly, like rain.

  Perla agreed to cook for the community, but only if Delilah, Robert, and Casewell helped. Casewell couldn’t imagine what help he would be, but he agreed. Somehow he thought he owed it to Perla.

  Food had already begun arriving at the Thorntons’ store when the cooking crew showed up the next morning. Crates, boxes, sacks, and jars were stacked on the front porch, and people stood or sat on the porch and in the yard. It was quiet and there was a general atmosphere of unease.

  Perla walked out ahead of her little group, chin up and eyes boring a hole in the front door of the store. She looked neither to the right nor to the left as she waited for Robert to open the door and usher her to the makeshift kitchen he’d set up in back.

  “Bring me anything that will spoil first,” she said. “We’ll start with that.”

  Not much more than an hour later, Casewell and Robert began dishing out beef stew to anyone who was hungry. The hush that had met them when they arrived continued to hang in the air. Casewell could have sworn he saw one or two of the older ladies bob a curtsy as he ladled stew into their bowls. He and Robert had helped make beaten biscuits, pounding the dough after Perla’s arm gave out. Casewell wished folks would talk and laugh and make some noise, but he couldn’t find a way to get them started.

  And then Frank showed up.

  “I hear the best cook in the whole of West Virginia is dishing out a free supper,” he said, striding into the store. The silent, wild-haired drunk had been replaced by a dapper gent with a smile for everyone. “I could eat a bear, as Davy Crockett once said, and I aim to sample the victuals.”

  People looked up in surprise, and Casewell could have sworn he saw a little fear on a few faces. But then smiles started to spread as Frank made his way to the stewpot and asked if there was an extra bowl lying about. Casewell filled one of his own handcrafted bowls and handed it over. Frank dipped two fingers into the stew and scooped out a bite. He closed his eyes.

  “Lordy, manna from heaven wouldn’t taste half this good,” he said with a sigh. “’Course forty years of beef stew might get old, but I’d be willing to give it a shot.” He winked at Perla where she stood stirring a pot at the stove. She pushed strands of golden hair back from her perspiring forehead and gave Frank a tentative smile.

  “I’ve eaten from your hand before, but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said.

  “This is my niece, Perla.” Robert came forward from where he’d been sitting on a keg of nails. “She’s spending some time with Delilah and me, and this evening she’s been kind enough to tackle feeding this unruly crowd.” Robert nodded at the silent group gathered around the store.

  Frank leaned in close to Robert and spoke in a stage whis
per. “They’d best try and look like they’re enjoying this tasty grub, lest Miss Perla take offense and refuse to feed ’em anymore. The gods on Mount Olympus might get tired of ambrosia, but I sure could eat this stew another night or two before givin’ it up.”

  George Brower was sitting not far off, and he quirked a smile. “You ever hear tell about Joe Cutright’s old dog Sloomer? The dog what ate a whole bucket of pig slop afore anybody noticed?”

  Robert grinned. “Seems like I mighta heard that one, but Frank here probably ain’t. Go ahead and tell it.”

  And with that, the whole lot of them were off and telling stories, eating more stew, raving over the biscuits, and laughing until their sides hurt. Even Perla began to smile as folks came around to thank her for cooking and to compliment her on the food. Casewell felt something ease deep inside him. Maybe it would be all right after all.

  But the next morning things were far from all right. In the night someone had slipped up on the porch of the Thorntons’ store and painted a pentagram in whitewash across the front door. A cardboard sign hung from the knob. It read, “I am against you,” declares the Lord Almighty. “All because of the wanton lust of a harlot, who enslaved you by her witchcraft.”

  As soon as he got to the store, Robert called Casewell, and the two men did their best to scrub away the evidence before anyone saw it. But news traveled fast, and they were only half-done when a crowd began to gather. Pastor Longbourne soon made his way to the porch steps. He stood with one foot on the ground and one two steps up. He leaned on his knee and considered the work being done.

  “Washing it away won’t change anything, son,” he said to Casewell. “Sin is sin, and it will always come to light.”

  Casewell ignored him as he worked at the stain.

  “These good people”—Longbourne waved an expansive arm at the crowd that had gathered—“don’t need the help of an evil idolater to see them through these difficult times. God will see them through.”

  Casewell suddenly had a vision of himself standing in the crowd behind the preacher. He saw himself nodding along with what Longbourne said, agreeing and condemning without hesitation. He saw himself judging Perla Long to perdition for sins no worse than his own.

  Turning, scrub brush still in his hand, Casewell glared at Longbourne. The pastor returned the look for a moment and then stepped back, putting both feet on the ground. Casewell stepped forward. He felt Robert place a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. He had no idea what he meant to do until he stood on the edge of the porch. He looked at the group of people, holding one eye and then another until no one would meet his gaze.

  “‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged.’” Casewell turned his back and resumed scrubbing.

  “Don’t you spout Scripture at me, boy,” yelled Longbourne. “God has turned His back on Wise just as surely as He did on Sodom or Gomorrah. We must root out the evil if we have any hope of winning God’s favor.” The pastor stood, chest heaving. Then he raised an arm and pointed a bony finger at Casewell. “Spellbound, that’s what you are. You and anyone who’s eaten from that witch’s hand.”

  There were gasps from the people standing about—most of whom had enjoyed Perla’s stew the day before. Longbourne turned to those standing behind him. “Repent,” he cried. “Go forth and sin no more. Do not partake of this evil again.”

  People began drifting away, and Casewell knew that within fifteen minutes the entire community would be aware of what had just happened at the Thorntons’ store. After the previous day’s success, they had invited everyone to come back for a noon meal. Perla was due to arrive and begin cooking in about an hour. Casewell had a bad feeling.

  12

  CASEWELL WAS PACING ALONG THE PORCH when Perla arrived, walked inside, and tied on an apron. She began making pastry, mixing, lightly kneading, and rolling out piecrusts.

  “I thought we’d have chicken pie today,” she said to Casewell. “There’s canned meat and plenty of vegetables. This flour and lard should stretch far enough to feed a crowd.”

  “There may not be a crowd.” Casewell stood back, as though Perla might lash out at him if he got too close.

  “Because of the preacher?” she asked. “Because of the hateful things out front this morning?”

  “Well, yes. How did you—?”

  “Oh, Casewell. There were half a dozen women just itching to tell me what was painted on the door and printed on that sign. I was pretty upset when I heard.”

  “But you came down here, anyway.” Casewell’s confusion mounted.

  “Yes. You said something to me. You said that I have a remarkable gift from God.” Perla stopped rolling out dough and leaned on the table, head down. “For a lot of years I considered this ability a curse. I hid it as much as I could. When people did notice, it usually brought me grief. It never occurred to me that this . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right word and finally giving up. “That this thing I can do with food could be a blessing. There are folks who will scorn me and abuse me, but I think it’s my duty—my calling—to feed the hungry. The only thing that would be worse than what happened out front this morning would be my refusing to use my gift to help people.”

  Casewell took two steps toward Perla, stretching out his hand, not sure what he meant to do with it.

  “Come help me,” she said. “God will see that it all comes out the way He intends.”

  Casewell’s hand closed over Perla’s wrist where she braced herself against the table. He held on to her as though she might run away if he let go. She looked up and into his face, her eyes so clear and wide and blue. Casewell felt something flutter in his chest. It might have been an angel’s wings, or maybe it was just his heart. He began opening jars.

  Only two women came for food that day. Casewell knew one was a widow with four children under the age of twelve. The other was Liza Talbot.

  “Angie had a fit when I told her I was coming, but I came just the same,” she said to Perla. “I will confess that your cooking ability makes me a little uneasy, but who am I to question a miracle?”

  “You think this is a miracle?” Perla looked at Liza with such hope.

  “Well, I know folks have talked about how the devil can do things that look like miracles to fool people, but your feeding people is such a good thing right now. Isn’t there something in the Bible about how the devil can’t work against himself?”

  “That’s in Matthew, chapter twelve,” Casewell said.

  “Exactly,” Liza nodded emphatically, as if that were all the argument she needed. “Whatever’s happening here, the Lord will use it for good.” She patted Perla on the hand and took a bite of chicken pie. “Oh, my stars, this is good,” she exclaimed. “People will cut off their noses to spite their own faces, won’t they? Yes, indeed. If you’ll make me up another bowl, I’ll take it home to Angie, and if she won’t eat it, then I surely will.”

  “Of course!” Casewell cried, startling Perla and Liza. “If folks are too afraid to come get this food, we’ll carry it to them.” He called for Robert, and the men began planning.

  Robert and Delilah would deliver the food. Perla wanted to go, too, but Casewell and Robert agreed that she was a little too polarizing at the moment. So she stayed at the store with Casewell and Sadie in case any customers came by. None did.

  Toward evening, Perla asked Casewell to watch Sadie playing on the porch while she disappeared behind the shelves where the makeshift kitchen was set up. Casewell sat in a rocking chair and watched the little girl play with her doll and empty thread spools. Sadie’s absorption in her play left Casewell time to think. He didn’t often just sit and think. He was almost always working, and while he often found that he didn’t need to think about tasks like hoeing or sanding, he didn’t use that time for deep contemplation, either.

  Rocking and listening to Sadie carry on a soft conversation with her toys, he found himself filled with something like yearning. He wanted som
ething with every fiber of his being—what was it? He felt peaceful and contented, which was completely unexpected. His father was dying, his mother was suffering, the drought had a death grip on the land, and Perla was being ostracized. Things were not going well. And yet, sitting with a child at his feet and a woman in the kitchen at his back, he felt happier than he had in a very long time—maybe ever.

  Casewell closed his eyes and lifted a prayer to heaven. He asked that God help him understand the gift of peace and help him hold on to it. He asked that his heart’s yearning please God and benefit his fellowman. He asked for wisdom.

  Casewell was about to open his eyes when he felt Sadie place a hand on his knee. He looked at her clutching her doll in the crook of her arm and smiled.

  “I love you, Mr. Casewell,” she said and then returned to her game on the porch floor.

  Casewell nearly choked as tears rose in his throat, and he fought to keep from sobbing aloud. This child loved him. Why would she love him? Because he’d made her some toys? Because he’d talked to her a time or two and now sat with her on the porch? There was no real reason for a little girl to love him. But even as he marveled that she did, he realized that he loved her right back. More than he would have ever thought he could love someone not his own flesh and blood.

  By sunset Robert and Delilah had carried chicken pie to most of the houses within a five-mile radius of the store. They’d been turned away by some, but most folks were glad to get the food. When they pulled up to the store, Casewell was saved from spending any more time with his suddenly overwhelming emotions. Robert and Delilah climbed out, looking worn but happy.

  “We have enough left for our own supper,” Delilah said. “I just love how that works out.”