On Shifting Sand

by Allison Pittman

  Once we are back home, I tell Ronnie to help his sister strip down the beds and put on fresh sheets. Even ours and Pa’s downstairs. These days the clean linens are wrapped tight in oilcloth in a trunk wedged into the bathroom closet. Sometimes, I think, I can put up with all matter of dirt and dust as long as I have the promise of a clean bed at night. It soothes my conscience, almost, to think I can give Russ at least that much.

  And there’ll have to be some supper too. Our regular mealtimes have been disrupted by both the unpredictability of the storms and the constant struggle to find food for the table. The local grocer has become more of a general store, with sparse dry goods and erratic stock. Rice, canned fruit, crackers, coffee. Flour and sugar, too, but all at a price that would have been unimaginably high only a few years ago. We still have a bakery, and can depend on good, fresh bread every day, but no longer are there tall cakes with swirled icing in the front window to tempt the passerby.

  With the children occupied, I set about putting a meal together, the first step being to run a sink of soapy water to wash whatever dishes we’ll use. To my utter surprise, Pa comes to stand beside me, and as I pass the first clean plate out of the rinse water, he takes it from me to dry.

  “Well, thank you,” I say, not wanting to ruin the miracle of this moment with unnecessary commentary. I’ve watched him grow in appreciation for running water, but this is the first I’ve seen him use it for any practical chore.

  “Did you know that woman? The one that died.”

  I run my dishrag along another plate, wanting to keep my friendship to myself for a little longer, but unable to resist a civil moment with my father. “We were friends, yes. She was a bit younger than me. Used to set my hair.” I have no idea what Pa could gain from these details, but they mean everything to me. She was still in high school when Russ and I married, and grew into her own not knowing enough to shun me. “She always brought a macaroni salad to potluck suppers. Some of the women teased her about it once, and hurt her feelings, I guess. Maybe that’s all she knew to make.”

  “And the boy?”

  “Nice boy. In between Ariel and Ronnie. Eight, maybe? And there’s a baby girl, too.”

  Pa stacks the clean plates carefully. “I like macaroni salad.”

  “I’ll make it for you sometime.”

  We continue until there are four clean plates, four clean glasses, and two pots ready for the stove. I open the cabinet to find two cans of lima beans, and I have some bacon in the icebox. With that, and some rice, I figure I can stretch the meal with just one can of beans. Save the other for a meal later in the week—long enough away so the kids won’t complain. Already I set my mind to not be hungry.

  “They the first ones, then?”

  “First ones, what?” I take the cloth off of the table and wipe the wood surface beneath.

  “First killed by it.”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” But I do know, and they aren’t. Maybe the first in our little town, first from our church family, but I’d read reports in the newspapers from all over. People lost, buried, electrocuted, burned to ashes in their own homes. “Now you can see, can’t you, Pa? Why we didn’t want you left alone out at your place. We need to stick together. Families, I mean. We need to keep track of one another, or it’s too easy to get . . . lost.”

  “I reckon.” He picks up a glass and holds it up to the window. “This glass clean?”

  I sigh but decide not to remind him that he himself has cleaned it. “Yes, Pa.”

  He fills it with water from the tap, dumps the water out, refills it, then goes to sit at the table. “That man still at my house?”

  I measure rice and water. A few pinches of salt, and light the burner. “I suppose so. Don’t know for sure.”

  “Don’t think he’s out there robbin’ me blind, do ya?”

  “I’m sure he’s not, Pa. He’s more of a drifter than a thief. I think he’ll keep a good eye on the place until we decide what to do.” I am talking fast, bustling between the stove and the sink and the icebox—a well-practiced habit, creating the illusion that our meal is somehow time-consuming and complicated. Most days I was just trying to make the meal itself seem more. But this evening, my shuffling serves as a shield, protecting me from the questions and thoughts I’ve done such a good job of hiding these past weeks.

  “What’s to decide?”

  I glance over my shoulder as I dice the bacon. “Oh, now, Pa. You know. It’s only a matter of time before—”

  “Shoulda left me out there.” He takes a long swallow of his water and sets the glass down with a shaking hand. “Man oughta die on his land. With his land.”

  I don’t know why the thought hasn’t occurred to me before, but suddenly I recall my father sitting—like he is now—at his own table, covered in dirt, dust drifted through open windows. He hadn’t been caught unaware. Not at all. He’d been burying himself, one breath at a time.

  “You shouldn’t say such things.” I make no interruption in my task.

  “Don’t get me wrong, girl. I’m grateful for what you done, bringin’ me here, takin’ me in. But I don’t belong in town. Never have. That was for my brother, and yours, I guess. I need to go back, pay for what I done.”

  I am about to open up the drawer to paw through, looking for the key to open the can of beans, but I stop. Instead, I take Pa’s glass, refill it, and join him at the table.

  “We talked about this, Pa. A few times. There’s no going back. No money to be made there now, not until this dryness breaks. And then it might take years.”

  “My house still standin’?”

  “Far as I know.”

  “I know you been out there.”

  “Just the once.” I wish I had kept to my supper preparations, because my father’s eyes bore into me—suspicious, steely gray drill bits.

  “And not since?”

  “No.” I speak too quickly, too loudly, to ease my father’s mind.

  “You sure about that?”

  “Pa, I’ve been here every day; you know that. Taking care of you, and the house, and the kids.”

  “You been known to sneak off before, if I remember.”

  “Oh, you remember. I was a kid, Pa.”

  “Seems you thought you was woman enough.”

  “Well, now I’ve had enough of this.” I back my chair away from the table and return to my stove top, lighting a second burner and slamming a pan on top of it, throwing in handfuls of the diced bacon.

  “We need to be mindful of what our sin brings back to haunt us, Denola Grace.”

  Pa only uses my full name in times of extreme anger, or extreme tenderness, and as far as I know, this moment calls for neither. Now his words come as a distinct, unprecedented omen, and they compel me to turn and face him.

  “What are you talking about, Pa?”

  “We sinned against this land, all of us. Just like your brother says. All that—what do they call it—the science? Mowin’ down the grasses. Harvestin’ too much. We got greedy, and God has humbled us. It’s his judgment.”

  “I don’t think—”

  “Just you listen.”

  He stands and comes closer, lowering his voice at the sound of Ronnie and Ariel clomping up the stairs. They burst in holding the kitten, with Ariel asking if she can give her a bath in the sink since she is so dusty. I tell her no, that kittens have a way of cleaning themselves, but when Ronnie promises he’ll help his sister be gentle, I send them off to try. I hoped the interruption would derail my father’s thoughts, but no. He only leans closer, so close I can smell the dust that still clings to his breath. That’s when I realize Pa hasn’t lost a mite of his anger. It’s been shifted, is all. Gathered and honed and sharpened to slice me with new precision.

  “Your head ain’t here, girl. You never been a-one to own up to your sin. So pretty and proud marryin’ that man, all that shame you was carryin’. And you been takin’ everything. Pilin’ it up. That store, most of all. Our family store, down to nothin’
.”

  “Haven’t you noticed, Pa? The whole country’s down to nothing.”

  “The judgment, I say. For our sin. But yours’ll hit closer, girl. I knew when you started runnin’ around with that boy, what you wanted was to run away. Didn’t want none of this.”

  “Why would I? I was smart, Pa. I am smart, and I could’ve done anything I wanted. Greg said so. Said there were lots of girls at college, but you wouldn’t have any of it. Had to beg you to let me finish high school.”

  “You almost ruined that yourself with that baby.”

  “Don’t,” I warn.

  “You thought that preacher boy would take you away, didn’t you? Run off with you somewheres to spare his name? And when he didn’t . . .” He contorts his bone-thin frame, forcing me to look at him. “You got that cagey look. Like you do right now, and since I come here. Like you want to get away.”

  “It’s because I want to get away from you.”

  “Git on then.” A drop of spittle flies from his mouth, and I regret every drink I ever gave him.

  It is a short, silent dinner. The few grains of rice I manage to swallow stick like glue in my throat. Later, in bed, I ask Russ how much he heard.

  “Just that you want to get away.”

  I prop up on my elbow and study his profile in shadow. “It’s not true, you know. At least not away from you.”

  “Well, there’s some comfort, at least.”

  “It was a mistake. Bringing him here. I thought it would be fine. That he’d changed, gone softer. But now it’s almost worse, because he’ll be sweet enough one moment, and a snake the next, and there’s no knowing which is going to come out.”

  “What choice did we have?” He shifts too, and we are parallel. “And when you look at what happened today. Dear, sweet Rosalie, and the boy. I’m so sorry about your friend.” He reaches out and grasps my arm. “But don’t you see? That could have happened to him.”

  “I think that might be what he wanted all along.”

  “Well then—” he gives me a familiar, perfunctory kiss—“all the more reason to make this his home now.”

  He lies back, preparing to sleep, but I stay awake long into the night. Thinking about Rosalie. Not reliving memories of our friendship or mourning on behalf of her husband and little girl. I don’t even think about the boy, whose name and age escapes me. When I think about Rosalie, all I can picture is a woman leaving. Away from her house, only for a moment, and never making it back again.

  CHAPTER 13

  I AWAKE THE NEXT MORNING to a gentle nudging of my shoulder. A glimpse toward the window tells me the sun is high—higher than it should be for newly waking. When my eyes finally, fully open, I see Russ sitting on the edge of the bed, looking at me, bemused.

  “You were talking up a storm.” He traces a finger along my jaw as if to recapture my words.

  “Was I?” My mind searches frantically for the dream that dissipated upon awaking. I am usually much more careful with unguarded moments. More than once—nearly every day, in fact—I find myself standing at some abandoned task. I’ve scorched three shirts, letting the iron burn through cotton. I get light-headed, dizzy, and Russ pesters me to eat something. Only once before can I remember Jim entering my dream, and that morning I woke up entwined in Russ’s compliant arms. My silence has been my protection, wrapping itself around the details of my sin. But unguarded? From the depths of sleep? Perhaps this is how my soul will unburden itself.

  “What was I saying?”

  “Gibberish, mostly. But kind of moanful. You sounded sad.”

  While I may not be able to recall my dreams, I do remember every moment of wakefulness, and those hours in the dark haunt me more than any nightmare could.

  “It was a sad night.”

  “True.” He leans down and kisses my forehead. The smell of his shaving soap fills my senses, and as I touch my cheek to his soft-shaven face, fragments of the dream return.

  “I was dreaming about her.” My mouth is dry, my words thick. Already a slow-spreading ache manifests itself beneath my scalp.

  “Rosalie?”

  “Yes.”

  His face takes on a cool, careful expression, and he shifts his weight away from me to slip his foot into a boot. “I’m taking Ben in to Boise City to break the news to her parents.”

  “They don’t know?”

  “He wanted to tell them in person. We’re going to have the funeral tomorrow.”

  “So soon?”

  “There’s no other family to bring in besides them. If we get a dust-free day, best not to waste it.”

  “I suppose.” But I hate the thought of her being so quickly buried again. “I don’t remember much, but I dreamed they found her. No, you found her. And cleaned her up. And she was alive.”

  “Well, that doesn’t sound like a sad dream at all.” His boots are on, and he is mine again.

  “I guess it’s sad because it isn’t so.”

  “She’s with the Lord now. She and her boy, clean and white as snow.”

  “Wouldn’t that be nice?” I sit up, first propped on my elbows, then fully, bringing myself close enough to put my head on his shoulder. Looking down, I see a familiar shadow on the pillowcase where I’d been resting. It happens about every night, no matter how clean the linens or how carefully I wash my hair. Embarrassed to have Russ notice, I flip the pillow over and lean against it on my elbow. “What time is it, anyway?”

  “Almost ten.”

  Disgruntled, I push against him. “Move, and let me up. Pa’ll be having a fit for his breakfast.”

  “Already took care of that.” Russ stands, and that’s when I notice he is wearing his nicest suit pants. “Mrs. Brown brought over some rolls and sausage. Said to ask you if you’d be up to helping the women get the Harrises’ house in order. Cleaned up, for after the service tomorrow.”

  “I suppose.” Though nothing could be more unpleasant. “Is there any breakfast left?”

  “Only because I saved some for you.” He indicates a napkin-covered plate while tying his tie. “Now—” he bends to plant another kiss on top of my head; I remember the stain on my pillow, and fight to keep myself still beneath it—“I’ll leave you to your breakfast, m’lady. And I shall strive to be home by supper.”

  “I should see to Pa and the kids.”

  “They’re fine. Listening to the radio and wiping down dishes.”

  “Even Pa?”

  “I think—I know—he said some hurtful things to you last night.”

  “Nothing more than usual.”

  “But I think he wants peace. He’s more frightened than anything. Everything he’s ever known about life is coming to an end—blowing away—and he doesn’t know his place anymore. Let’s be patient. Humbling is a painful process.”

  Even as he speaks, I feel some of my own pain smooth away. Russ has always been quick to forgive my father for his cutting remarks and hateful spirit. He makes grace sound so easy, almost painless, and it gives me hope that he will extend the same to me. When it’s time. When the heat of my father’s accusations has once again cooled. When we don’t have to think about burying a young mother killed by God’s wrath upon our land.

  “Remember this,” he says, taking my hand. “I love you. I have since the moment I saw you, and nothing he’s said has ever been able to touch that.”

  “But he’s right. He knows—”

  “Your father has never seen the girl I fell in love with.”

  I smile weakly. “Maybe you’ve never seen the girl he knows.”

  Russ kisses my fingers. “Maybe not, but I’m glad for it. If I have to suffer a kind of blindness, I’d rather suffer with the one God gave me. I know this might be hard for you, but as long as he is here, try to see yourself through my eyes instead of his. Love yourself the way I love you, the way God loves you.”

  He can’t imagine how hard that is for me to do. I’ve always taken Russ’s love for me as fact, like knowing the ground will be beneath my feet wh
en I stand. It is knowledge that has thrived without faith, never tested. And now, with threats coming from two directions, I wonder if it is strong enough. Complete enough. It’s always been around me, keeping me safe, but I don’t know if I’ve let it infuse me—as if I’ve kept myself too full of shame to feel anything else.

  “I’ll try,” I say, hoping to appease him.

  He kisses my fingers, and I offer a delicate wave as he leaves. For a full minute, at least, I stare at the door that has shut behind him. Then, slowly, like a woman three times my age, I bring myself out of bed and take the few steps over to where my breakfast waits. I reach for the coffee, hoping the first sip will help alleviate the pain in my head. It is warm, but not steaming, and I end up gulping half the cup before setting it down. I pinch a bite of the sausage, realizing long before I taste it that it has gone cold. But it is good, and palatable, especially when wrapped in a piece of the sweet yeast roll. Still, after less than half of it, my stomach cramps, refusing any more.

  Later that afternoon, I work with a small army of women doing service for the Lord by cleaning Rosalie’s house. Our sacrifice is to scrub every surface, making it cleaner than our own homes. Buckets of mud-dark water are dumped into the street, and rather than wash the curtains and cloths that Rosalie had so carefully draped over her furniture, we contribute our own—those that languish in hampers and trunks, as well as others taken and laundered from homes long abandoned.

  All around me, women chatter the way women will, about how the poor man will manage all alone with the baby, and that it might be best if he remarries quickly, so the littl’un will grow up knowing a mother. Soon follows a listing of suitable candidates to be the next Mrs. Harris. These musings come with the same authority and confidence as how to best scrub the stain from the porcelain sink, and the benefits of an electric sweeper over beating a rug on a clothesline outside.

  I hear little of it and contribute even less. My mind is miles away from the tragic young widower and his motherless child. I resent the fact that my own house is filthy, and I walked out of it this morning to the sound of my father’s complaint. Every inch of me is covered by the filth of his hateful words. Always has been.