On Shifting Sand (33 page)

“Just rinsed it out, Pa.” The droplets still cling to the rim.

We gather and hold hands as Russ leads us in a blessing, thanking God for the restoration of health and family, while pleading for a restoration of our land. At his amen, I heap generous amounts of Merrilou’s food onto each plate, allotting a modest spoonful for myself.

“I’m still not quite up to solid food,” I say, answering Russ’s disapproving gaze. “I’ll have a glass of milk with it, though. And how about some canned peaches with cinnamon for dessert?”

Ariel wriggles delightedly in her chair at the idea, and I nibble two beans off my fork.

“What was Mrs. Brown saying about a surplus?” My question is directed to Russ, but it’s Pa who responds first with a disapproving snort and a muttered expletive directed at the government.

Russ ignores the emergent tirade. “Greg wrote to us about it a few months ago, remember?”

I shake my head. So much of what happened since that afternoon remains lost to a blur of survival and shame.

“The Agricultural Adjustment Administration—”

“Them ones what went and ruined good crops, took and slaughtered all for nothin’. Takin’ a man’s work and makin’ it straight into trash.”

Russ waits politely for Pa to finish before continuing. “Yes, there were some misguided decisions at the forefront. But now they’re bringing food to many of the towns hit hard.”

“Puttin’ good people on the dole, without them even wantin’ the charity.”

“Nobody has to take anything they don’t want,” Russ says, his patience now coming with noticeably more effort. “But I’m offering up the shop as a distribution center.” He turns to me. “I hope you don’t mind, Nola.”

None of his words make any sense, nor do Pa’s, and I feel myself on the verge of retreating into the familiar detached fuzziness of hunger and denial. “Why should I mind?” I fight my way back, hoping my questions will bring the missing clarity.

Pa undermines my effort. “Might be you’d mind turnin’ what used to be a thrivin’, self-made business into a breadline.”

“It’s not a breadline,” Russ says, speaking with the sharpness that only my father can provoke. He brings his voice to a place of gentle reason before continuing on. “I don’t know what they’ll have. It differs, I think, depending on what’s available and the greatness of need. I got a letter last week, asking if they could distribute from the church, but I know there’s a few who wouldn’t be comfortable going there, so I offered the shop. Put it to some good use.”

Pa keeps himself to mere noise, shoveling in a forkful of rice, his disapproval undaunted.

“I think it’s a fine idea,” I say, separating my own grains of rice on my plate. “And, Pa, you can stay upstairs if you’ve a mind to.” Then, to Russ, “What do we need to do?”

Before Russ can answer, Pa makes a show of cleaning the last of his plate and dropping his fork on the table. The suddenness of his action startles Ariel, who’s been following the conversation with her eyes held wide, but Ronnie seems not to notice anything at all.

“Been doin’ more’n any man should of dishes these last days.”

With that, he leaves, and nobody says a word until the sound of his footsteps down the stairs disappears. When it does, I lock eyes with Russ.

“When did you know about this?”

He shifts uncomfortably in his chair and looks to Ronnie for confirmation. “A few weeks ago?”

“And you didn’t tell me?”

Again, Ariel’s eyes are wide, in recognition of underlying conflict.

“You seemed so frail. I didn’t want to burden you.”

“When were you planning to tell me?”

“It’s not a secret, Nola.” He speaks with an infuriating mix of soothing
compassion and subtle accusation, and I flinch at the thought of living with that tone for the rest of my life.

“Of course. It’ll be good to help our neighbors. We haven’t been able to be generous in such a long time.”

“It’s for our benefit too, darling.”

“No.” It is nearly the first Ronnie has spoken since his lukewarm welcome. “We ain’t going to take charity. Bad enough people’ve been bringing food over every day since you went.”

Ronnie stands as if to follow Pa’s example, but a sharp word from Russ brings him back to his seat.

“Son, I understand your bitterness. This has all been hard on us. But they’ll be setting up sometime this week, and you’re going to need to help your mother. And I’ll be expecting you to do so with an attitude of respect and obedience. Is that understood?”

“Yessir.” Ronnie stares deep into his plate.

“I’ll help too, Papa,” Ariel says, laying a small hand on Russ’s sleeve.

“That’s a good girl,” Russ says, and I might join him in his proud, parental smile, if one lingering question weren’t niggling at the corner of my mind.

“Why am I going to need all this help, Russ? Where will you be?”

“I’d rather we talk about it later.” He speaks with our understood emphasis when something needs to be discussed outside the earshot of the children.

“All right.”

I offer second servings, but everybody declines, meaning there will be enough left over for the next day. Once the pot is safely put away in the icebox, I open a tin of peaches, dish out the servings, sprinkling sugar and cinnamon on each, and thrill the children with promises of Jell-O at all of our meals in the foreseeable future.

“And look at this,” Russ says with a glance out the darkening window. “A whole day without a storm. Without much wind, even.”

“And Mama’s home,” Ariel chimes in.

I ask the children to take their dishes to the sink, and then give each
permission to listen to the radio while the other takes a bath. Ronnie volunteers to go first, so he can listen to
Amos ’n’ Andy
, but Ariel declares she’s listened to enough of the radio while Paw-Paw was taking care of them and opts to spend her time making Barney chase after a knotted length of yarn. Our home fills with sounds of happiness and health, and I pray the same will soon be true for Ladonna’s home.

Russ comes up behind me as I stand at the sink. I know he means for me to lean back into him, but I don’t. Despite the emerging contentment around me, I know there is something he is holding back, and I have to keep my guard until I know exactly what that is. Instead, I toss a comment over my shoulder, something about the quicker this chore is finished, the quicker I can spend this first night in my own bed.

I dawdle bathing Ariel, noting that the water is surprisingly clean even after giving her hair a good shampooing. I let her float her rubber boats and play pretend that the washcloth is a giant sea monster while I work a comb through her tangles. When she is ready to get out, I lift her over the side of the tub, staggering a bit under her weight, and wrap her in the cleanest towel I can find.

“Can I have some of your pretty dust?” she asks, her nose to my nose.

“Well, I suppose that would be all right.” By
pretty dust
, she means my talcum powder, and I walk her across the hall to my bedroom, where the tin sits on my dressing table. I dab the soft, white puff into the powder and dust her from top to bottom. When I finish, I give her the puff and let her dab it along my neck and shoulders.

“Now we’re the same,” Ariel says. “And I’ll be able to smell you on my pillow all night. And I won’t have to miss you again. Ever.”

I take her in my arms and hold her so tight, I fear one of us will crack. “That’s right, my baby girl. I’m never going away again. I promise you that.”

Later, in the dark stillness of our bedroom, I lie in bed, staring at the light streaming from the kitchen. I know Russ is sitting at the table, preparing his sermon, a glass of water and a short stack of saltine crackers at his elbow—a ritual he’s kept for as long as I’ve known him. I hear the
kitchen door open, and Pa’s muffled voice. Brusque, Spartan, masculine conversation, before Pa goes into the bathroom to wash up. When he’s finished, his shadow stands at my door, and a soft knock opens it wide.

“You awake, girl?”

“Yes, Pa.” I clutch the blanket closer to me.

“Glad you’re home. Think you can set things straight now?”

“I think so.”

He grunts something like an approval.

Alone again, I wait with quiet, still dread. I try to ease my mind with prayer, thanking God for delivering me safely home, for my restored health. I pray for Ladonna, that she’ll be home among her children soon. And for Jim to stay away. I think maybe I should get out of bed, down on my knees, because it feels like my prayers are hitting up against the ceiling and sprinkling down all around me. I picture myself getting out of bed and seeing my silhouette on the mattress, outlined by the residue of all I’ve offered to God.

It seems a full hour passes before Russ comes in, all washed and clean, sliding in beside me. I remain still and stiff at his side, intending to feign sleep, with the exhaustion of the day serving as a viable excuse. But then he turns, props up on his elbow, looks at me. With my eyes long adjusted to the darkness, I turn too and reach my hand up to touch his face. Two days’ worth of growth, and only the slightest bit of fuzz on his jaw.

“‘Baby face,’” I sing. “‘You’ve got the cutest little baby face.’”

I feel him smile, then pull him toward me for a kiss that deepens immediately, and each embrace that follows carries with it the urgency of separation. I respond as one resurrected, burying the woman who would give herself so callously to another man, and emerging from a body rescued from the brink of death. Russ, I can tell, is as starved for my flesh as I’ve been starved for food, and I give myself to him. I keep my eyes open, filling my vision with bits and pieces of my husband, fearing the images that might come with the dark. Whispers of his name fill the silence, spoken as promises. Through sheer, passionate will, I bring
his wife into our bed. The wife who didn’t know the heartache of buried children. The wife who didn’t know the touch of another man. The wife who didn’t know the loss of her very life.

Russ loves that woman, and with each passing moment, I roll myself into her. Disappearing, hiding. Like a skin-fitting costume. Later, as he sleeps beside me, I fight back my tears, terrified I’ll wash it all away.

  CHAPTER 21
  

A
T THE POST OFFICE,
I find that two letters from Greg arrived during my stay at the hospital in Boise City, the second a short note dashed off after he received the telegram telling of my collapse.

Remember, Sis—many have found new homes away from Oklahoma.

Perhaps it is time for you to consider the same.

I’m glad not to have kept this to read after Sunday dinner, as the mere notion of picking up stakes would be near blasphemous to my father and an unthinkable luxury to Russ. I take Greg’s suggestion and tuck it away, just as I do the note, and peruse his letter for Sunday’s reading.

Another envelope catches my eye as I riffle through the accumulated post. This one from the hospital, and I can only imagine it is a statement of account. Knowing it was my stay that prompted the bill, I am fully within my rights to open it and see with my own eyes
the further sacrifices my family will have to make to accommodate my shortcomings. The addressee, however, is Russ Merrill, so with a strange mix of loyalty and denial, I tuck it within the other pieces of mail before heading back home.

Russ, returning from a morning visit with the Lindstroms, heralds me from across the street, and I wait for him to join me. I don’t often have the chance to see him from a distance, and I’m struck by the toll these hard times have taken on him, too. While still broad-shouldered, he seems to lack the comforting softness I remember. His clothes fit with room to spare, like a layer of the man has been planed away. One hand holds his hat to his head, the other waves to a passing neighbor, and then he is at my side.

“I was planning to pick the mail up on my way home,” he says by way of greeting. “I should have told you.”

“I needed the air. It’s fresh enough today.”

“Anything for me?” His question holds expectation.

“Letters from Greg. And something from the hospital. Bill, I suspect.”