“Folks were accepting?” Casewell asked, hoping they didn’t hear the catch in his voice.
“More than one hinted they wouldn’t mind if no one else knew they took the food, and I think the rest pretended they didn’t know who did the cooking,” Robert said. “All’s well that ends well. Let’s eat. I’ve been smelling this good chicken all afternoon.”
Just then Perla stepped out of the store, a smile like a sunrise lighting her face. “Come on in,” she called. “I fixed up something special for the delivery crew.”
They all trooped inside, Casewell taking Sadie’s hand and wondering at how it fit so snugly into his palm. At the rear of the store, a door had been placed across two sawhorses to make a worktable. Perla had found a rose-patterned cloth to drape over it and had dragged the chairs from the potbellied stove over to their makeshift dinner table. She had placed a chicken pie with a fancy crimped crust in the center of the table. Casewell’s bowls sat at each chair, with spoons resting on tea towels in place of napkins. Perla had rounded up a few stumps of candles and set them in china teacups on either side of the pie. There was a peach cobbler, still bubbling hot from the oven, sitting on the stovetop. Coffee mugs and a tin pitcher of water finished off the setting.
Casewell breathed in the aroma of roasted chicken, peaches, and butter. He grinned. Robert elbowed him and the two men exchanged delighted smiles. Delilah exclaimed over how beautiful it all was and clapped her hands. Sadie found the seat with an upside-down crate on it and tried to climb up. Struggling, she turned to Casewell and raised her arms to him. He lifted her, and as her feet left the ground, he found himself tossing her into the air and catching her before setting her as gently as the finest china onto her seat. Sadie’s laughter seemed to fill them all with a joy beyond understanding. They sat and joined hands to give thanks for this food.
The next morning Casewell went to his workshop to hammer together a couple of extra crates for food deliveries. He was almost surprised to see the finished bed and tea table sitting exactly where he had left them two days earlier. He needed to let Frank know his commission was complete. He doubted Frank had a phone, so he wrapped the table in an old blanket and carefully wedged it into the front seat of his truck. He drove out to the Rexroad place, whistling absently through his teeth and thinking about nothing in particular.
Frank sat out front in an old kitchen chair with a frayed bottom. He wore threadbare dungarees and a thin undershirt. His feet were bare and his white hair gleamed in the morning sun. Casewell stopped well back of the house to keep the dust down. He’d driven over with the windows up to protect the table, and he could feel sweat gathering where his back pressed against the cracked seat.
Climbing out of the truck, Casewell raised a hand and called out. “Brought your table.”
Frank nodded and waved him on. Casewell unwrapped the table and carried it over to set in front of the old man. He thought it made an interesting picture—the barefoot man in his broken-down chair and a handcrafted tea table, all sitting in a dusty, shadeless yard.
“Hope you like it,” Casewell said, taking a step back and giving Frank room to make up his mind.
Frank lifted the tray out and clicked it back into place. He ran a hand over the inlay and stroked the scalloped edge. He nodded one time, emphatically.
“Son, you have earned your pay and then some,” he said at last. He fished in his front pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off what he owed and handed it over. Casewell took the cash, wondering that a man with no shoes would have a bankroll handy.
“I hope the lady you plan to give it to likes it,” Casewell said.
Frank’s head jerked up. “I didn’t say I planned to give it away,” he said sharply.
Casewell reddened. “I guess you didn’t. I made an assumption there. My apologies.” He began backing toward his truck. “Guess I’d better be getting on. Thanks for the work.”
Frank laid a hand on the table again. “It is a gift,” he said softly. Casewell stopped. “But I don’t suppose it will make a bit of difference. There are some things you can never apologize for.”
Casewell cleared his throat. He had the feeling Frank wasn’t talking to him. “It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness,” Casewell said. “Even if you don’t get it, I think it’s worth asking.”
“I don’t know. It’s been a lot of years since I tampered with not one heart but two.” He pulled his hand back from the table. “Three, if you count mine. At first I was too mad to come home, so I traveled the world, nursing what I told myself was a broken heart. Then when I came home . . . well, what I found gave me the ammunition I needed for some good ol’ righteous indignation. Crawling into a jug of moonshine seemed the answer back then. Now I tend to think the answer might be owning up to my part in the whole thing. Can’t hardly change anyone but me, so thought I’d start there.”
Frank nodded his head and patted the table. He looked up and seemed to shed his pensive mood like brushing away cobwebs. “You bring me some of that good food Perla’s cooking down at the store.” Casewell thought he saw a twinkle in the old man’s eye. “I reckon I’m going to need my strength.”
Perla needed to get away. She’d been cooking all week and she was exhausted. By Friday, a few folks were coming to the store to pick up their daily meal, but Casewell and Robert were still delivering most of the food. Perla wasn’t complaining—she loved every minute, from the time she stepped into the kitchen area each morning until she sat down at the end of the day to consider the inevitable leftovers. Delilah kept Sadie occupied and the time flew like startled doves. But even so, Perla was tired.
Delilah stopped Perla as she started out of the house on Saturday morning.
“No, ma’am,” she said, barring the younger woman’s path. “Today is your day off. From what I hear, the food that’s been delivered this week has supplied enough leftovers that folks can just reheat whatever they feel like today. You’ve been spoiling this town.” Delilah looked thoughtful. “And they’re mostly ungrateful, anyway. You go put your feet up somewhere. Sadie and I are going down to the store to see if anyone wants to buy a spool of thread or a cup of sugar.”
Perla felt intense relief, although she tried not to show it. “That sounds nice, Delilah. I think maybe I will go for a walk.”
Perla watched Delilah and Sadie as they headed out, and then she walked out the back door and began wandering aimlessly. Maybe she would find a nice spot down by the creek—or what used to be the creek—and just sit.
Even though the water had dried up, the trees near the creek banks had roots that ran deep enough to still be mostly green. Perla thought she was close to where the swimming hole behind the Talbots’ used to be. The dark rocks still held some coolness, even in the absence of water. Perla picked her way among the stones and was startled when she heard the rattle of pebbles. Whirling toward the bank, she saw Liza Talbot seated on a stone.
“Did I startle you?” Liza asked.
“A little. I didn’t expect to see anyone down here.”
“I like to come here to think. I liked it better when there was water.” Liza scanned the rocky bed and sighed.
“It seems like a good place.”
“Oh, it is.” Liza patted a rock next to her. “You’re most welcome to join me.”
Perla wasn’t sure she wanted company, but she sat, anyway. Silence reigned for a time.
Eventually Liza looked over at Perla, almost as though she were surprised to see the other woman sitting there. “Have you ever been wrong about someone you thought loved you?” she asked.
Perla jerked as though Liza had slapped her. Liza didn’t seem to notice. “I’ve been so very blind,” she said. “Do you mind if I tell you about it? Somehow I feel safe talking to you.”
Perla nodded jerkily and made a small sound of agreement. She had the feeling she didn’t want to hear what Liza had to say, but she also felt deeply curious. She knew very well how it felt to mistake someone’s love.
“When Frank began courting me, Angie didn’t approve,” Liza said. “She thought he would never amount to anything. Oh, he was such a fun-loving young man. And he could dance, which was generally frowned upon by almost everyone we knew. But Mama let us go to a country dance once, and Frank stood up with me. Well, I guess I fell in love with the pure joy in that man. He danced once with Angie, too, but Angie said he was too free with himself, and it would only lead to a broken heart.” She darted a look at Perla. “I guess she was right.
“Frank came around all the time. Mama and Papa encouraged him. I guess they hoped to marry off one of us. I’d always been too shy to do much courting, and maybe Angie was too particular. At first I wasn’t entirely certain which one of us he was courting. He flirted with me and teased Angie something awful. I never did know what to say to him, but Angie always had something smart to come back at him with. Eventually he started asking me to sit on the porch swing with him or to walk out through the pasture and along the creek. Angie came along sometimes, as chaperone, but she always kind of lagged behind.
“I pinched myself. I felt so lucky. Frank was handsome and fun and made me feel beautiful. I had never dared to imagine myself married or a mother, and the more Frank came around, the more I thought it was possible. It was almost Christmas in 1901 that Frank asked me to marry him.” Liza got a faraway look and fell silent. Perla thought maybe the story was over. Then Liza resumed the telling.
“Angie and I were out cutting pine and holly to decorate the house. Frank planned to meet us and help. Angie was on the creek side of the house, where the big hollies grow, and I had gone up the hill out front to cut some cedar. I was coming back to the house when Angie came tearing around the side, looking mad as a wet hen. Frank trailed along after a few minutes later, looking kind of sheepish.”
Liza paused and picked up a small round stone, which she rolled between her fingers. Perla was interested in spite of herself, but she didn’t feel it was appropriate to speak.
“I guessed Frank went too far in his teasing. Now I wonder. Angie refused to speak to either of us the rest of the afternoon, and Frank didn’t stay much longer. I heard him in the kitchen telling Angie he was sorry, but she didn’t answer him. I heard her crying later that night, but I didn’t ask her about it. I think I didn’t really want to know what had her so upset.
“The next day was Christmas Eve, and Frank came to dinner. After we ate, he asked to speak to Papa privately. They talked and he came into the family room, knelt down beside me where I sat near the fire, and asked me to be his wife. I was never so happy before or since, even though Papa said we had to wait until I was eighteen. The next year he went off to roam the world with Buffalo Bill—said he was going to make our fortune. After a few letters I never heard from him again.” Liza tucked the stone she had picked up into a pocket. Perla suspected she didn’t even realize she’d done it.
“I was so sad, but since we didn’t hear anything to the contrary, I hoped maybe he just wasn’t able to get back to me some way. I guess I really thought he’d been killed. But I used to daydream about how he’d lost his memory and then one day it would all come back to him and he’d rush home to me and we’d get married and live happily ever after.” Liza picked up another pebble.
“And then Angie told me she’d heard Frank married a girl in France. She said a friend of Frank’s sent her a letter and that she was so mad she’d thrown it into the fire.” Liza looked sad. “I’ve never in my life had reason to doubt Angie, but I wonder . . .”
Liza seemed to have run out of words. Perla laid a hand on her arm and squeezed gently. “What’s got you questioning Angie?” she asked softly.
“I came home from my walk this morning, and Frank was in the living room with Angie. There was a fancy tea table sitting there, and Angie was crying. Frank was holding one of her hands and looking so very sad. As soon as I came in, Angie jumped up and jerked her hand away. She started talking about the table and how Frank had brought it as a gift for the two of us. She said over and over that it was for both of us, that it was Frank’s way of saying how sorry he was for all the years we didn’t know what happened to him.” Liza stopped and closed her eyes. “And maybe for the years we knew but didn’t understand.
“It just seemed odd somehow. I can’t make sense of it all. He never was married, and why in the world did he think I would start courting someone else just like that? There’s so much I don’t understand.” Tears streaked Liza’s wrinkled cheeks. “I hate to feel suspicious of Angie, but I think there’s something more to the story. I tried to talk to Frank once after he came back, but he was drunk and acted the fool.”
Perla patted Liza’s hand. “There’s usually more to every story. And Liza”—Perla made sure the older woman was looking at her—“it’s often not what we imagine.”
Liza smiled. “Oh, Perla, you’re right. My imagination is getting carried away with me. Thank you.”
They chatted a little longer, and Liza insisted Perla come to see the tea table. Angie was sitting in the living room near the little table and rose to greet them as though she’d been waiting for them to arrive. Perla admired the craftsmanship of the piece.
“Frank told us Casewell made it,” Angie said.
“He made our kitchen dresser, too,” chimed in Liza.
“He’s a gifted craftsman,” Angie said.
“A shame he’s still single,” Liza added.
“Some of us are destined to be single,” Angie said. “And that’s just the way of it.”
13
LATER, WHEN REMEMBERING WHAT HAPPENED at church that Sunday, folks talked about the day Pastor Longbourne tried to pry open the gates of hell and see who he could kick through the door. From the moment the first person stepped into the church, it was clear that this day would be different. Longbourne stood in front of the pulpit in his shirtsleeves, black suspenders taut against his bony shoulders. He didn’t speak until the last parishioner slid into his seat. An uncomfortable silence reigned.
Casewell noticed that his parents had not come. He didn’t know if his father was too ill or too ornery. Perla was conspicuously absent as well. Robert and Delilah sat a little ways back with Sadie between them.
Casewell realized that the pastor seemed to be breathing heavily, as though he’d been running. He took in a deep raspy breath and then exhaled with a great gust of air. “Pontius Pilate washed his hands of the Jews when they insisted on slaughtering the Son of God. And so I wash my hands of you.”
He strode over to the small baptistery, sent the cover crashing to the floor, and sloshed his hands vigorously. He turned and slung water out over the first few pews. Casewell felt cool drops spray across his cheek.
“I have warned you. I have spoken truth from this pulpit. I have all but named the sinner in our midst.” Longbourne seemed not able to take in enough air for a moment. “And you have turned from the light and into darkness. I gave you the Lord’s manna, and you cried out for meat. I gave you the rules of righteous living, and you made yourselves an idol. You are foolish, wayward children, and I will have nothing more to do with you.”
The congregation sat dumbstruck. Even the children were quiet. Longbourne stared unseeingly over their heads to the back of the building.
“Go,” he said, pointing a long finger to the door. “Be gone from this place, and do not darken the door again.” He took another shuddering breath. “Or get on your knees and crawl forward toward the light. Prostrate yourselves here at my feet and beg for forgiveness. I can’t promise you’ll receive it, but if you value your very soul, you will press your face into the dust and plead for mercy.”
For several long moments, no one moved. Then Robert and Delilah stood and took Sadie out. A few others rose to follow. Casewell wanted to leave, too, but he felt frozen in place. He watched as the first few lowered themselves to the dusty floor and began moving forward, crouching or on their knees. Longbourne made a sharp, slashing gesture with his hand. “Down. Get yo
urselves down like the dogs you are.” Congregants dropped to their hands and knees, trying not to make eye contact with one another.
Casewell could stand it no longer. He stood to walk out. Liza and Angie sat in the back pew. He stopped and offered them each a hand. “I’ll escort you out, if you like, ladies.” Angie rose with dignity, hooking her arm through Casewell’s. Liza seemed to flutter against his other side. They exited the church together.
The following week they abandoned the plan for feeding the masses. Perla was willing, but Robert and Casewell talked in private and decided that it might not be safe. Casewell tried to tamp down the anger he felt rising in him. People could be so foolish, and for someone who claimed to be a man of God, Pastor Longbourne seemed determined to sow hate and dissension. Casewell hoped to have a chance to speak to the pastor, to try to understand why he was trying to turn the people against Perla, and in doing so, turning them against one another. It just didn’t make sense.
With time on his hands, Casewell tried to pick up his mandolin and occupy himself, but his fingers felt stiff and unwilling. He finally gave up and wandered out to his workshop. The bed still stood there, and as Casewell admired his own work, he realized that he didn’t want to wait until Christmas. His father was likely dying. His mother suffered more each day. He would give them the bed now.
Casewell carefully loaded the pieces of the bed into his truck and covered them with several layers of tarps and blankets to keep the dust out. He drove slowly to his parents’ house and backed the truck right up to the porch. Emily came out and raised her hand to shade her eyes from the glare. Casewell got out and walked over to meet her.
“I’ve brought you a present, Ma,” he said.
“Why, Casewell, what in the world for?”
“I meant it to be a Christmas present, but with things the way they have been lately”—Casewell braced a foot on the bottom step and slapped at some dust on his pant leg—“well, I thought I’d bring it on over now. Where’s Dad? I’d like to show it to both of you.”
Miracle in a Dry Season Page 11
