Miracle in a Dry Season (11 page)

Frank approached the table and shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The smell of stale liquor seemed to ooze from his pores. He licked his lips and looked like he might speak. Before he could, Perla took the old man’s hand and pressed a bowl into it.

“There’s plenty,” she said. “Let me know if you’d like more.”

Frank gave a stuttery nod and went to stand by an open window to eat. Casewell felt scorn rise as he watched Frank scoop beans into his mouth with his fingers. He turned back to his work and tried to forget about the old drunk. It was a good thing Jesus loved Frank Post, because Casewell didn’t much care for him.

After the last person had accepted his meal, Casewell turned to Perla, certain he would have to find his own lunch. She handed him a bowl, which he accepted with raised eyebrows.

“And look,” Delilah said, wonder in her voice, “there’s still a little left.” She held up the pot with several spoonfuls of beans still in the bottom and waved her hand at half a cake of corn bread.

Perla laughed softly. “Oh well, it always seems to work out.”

Casewell lifted a spoonful of beans to his mouth and was immediately distracted from the mystery of how they had
fed so many. The beans, simple beans, melted in his mouth. Perla must have used a ham hock to give them their slightly smoky, savory flavor. He could sense the shape of each individual bean in his mouth just before they dissolved into a deliciously creamy mass. And the corn bread was moist with a wonderfully crisp crust. He would have expected it to be cold and maybe even a little dried out by now, but it was quite possibly the best thing he’d ever put into his mouth. There were actual pieces of corn in the bread, and it had a slight tang that vibrated across his tongue—buttermilk probably. Normally he would wish for butter or some jelly on his corn bread, but he couldn’t imagine anything improving this food. He finished, and just as he thought to ask for a little more, he realized that he was perfectly full and perfectly content. He did not desire another bite.

Casewell looked across the church to where Frank helped Perla collect bowls and stack them in a large basket. He had thought her beautiful before, but now he was sure she was the most breathtaking woman he had ever laid eyes on. He hated that Frank was so near her.

Perla saw him walking toward her. “Casewell, thank you for the bowls. I’m amazed we got all those people fed, but things usually work out. Have you ever noticed that?”

Casewell shook his head and tried to give Frank a stern look without Perla seeing.

“Well, they do. Not always the way you think they will, but they turn out.” Perla dropped her head and didn’t move for a moment. “Of course, with your father sick, that probably sounds like nonsense,” she said. “I’m praying for him and the rest of your family. I’ll try not to be trite when you’re dealing with something so difficult.”

Casewell finally found his voice. “Thank you,” he said as he handed her his empty bowl. It wasn’t what he wanted to say at all. And he could have sworn he saw Frank grin at his discomfort.

By Saturday most folks had given up on the prayer vigil, although a few were still praying. Casewell had dropped in a couple of times to join the praying, but somehow his heart wasn’t in it. He felt like they were asking God for something that God had already decided about. Like Abraham trying to bargain for Sodom and Gomorrah. The cities were destroyed, and of the few who escaped, one became a pillar of salt just for looking back. Casewell knew God was not to be trifled with. He had a plan and there was a fair chance none of them would like it. Casewell had prayed for many things that he did not receive. He knew better than to expect God to go soft now. The safest thing was to pray “Thy will be done” and then grit his teeth for what would come.

Saturday evening he walked home from the church. Only two old-timers had stayed, saying they would pray through the night. Casewell felt torn between admiration for their stamina and scorn for the waste of time and energy. As he walked, he noticed the grass had withered and the leaves that had unfurled soft and green on the trees just a few weeks before were now curled and brittle looking. A fine layer of dust had settled on everything, and Casewell felt as if a fine grit coated his teeth.

Word got out that some wells had gone dry, and those families now carried water from neighbors. Farmers fed what remained of their winter hay stores to the cattle. It was time for the first cutting of the year, but there simply wasn’t anything to cut. His father had turned his cattle out into the hayfields,
letting them graze what little could be found. Not only would there be no feed stored up for winter, but it was doubtful there would be enough to get through summer.

As Casewell trudged along, getting his boots dusty and trying to breathe through his nose, a truck pulled up beside him. It was his father.

“Hop in,” Dad said, stopping in a cloud of dust. Casewell opened the passenger door and slid onto the cracked seat.

“I’m rethinking my plan, son.” He shoved the truck into gear and eased forward so as not to stir up any more dirt than necessary. “Them cows I planned to sell this fall may not live that long without rain. We need to sell the calves now and hope the cows can tough it out until next year.”

“Prices are bound to be low,” Casewell said. “Maybe it will rain. Maybe we should just wait it out.”

Dad cast him a sidelong glance and then turned his head and rolled the window down to spit. As he rolled it back up, he said, “And maybe wishing will cure me of cancer. Your mother is trying to make me well by pretending I ain’t sick. I can tell by the feeling in my bones that it sure ain’t working.” He massaged his right thigh as he spoke.

“Are you in pain, Dad?”

“That’s about the stupidest question I ever heard. I haven’t felt good for the last fifteen years, and now every morning when I get out of bed, I hurt a little bit worse. Don’t ask me ever again about pain, son.”

Casewell felt tears rising and hated himself for it. His father, never a gentle man, was turning cruel with his illness.
It’s just the cancer,
Casewell told himself.
He can’t
help it.

“Come to the house Monday,” Dad said, pulling up in front of Casewell’s house. “The sooner we get those calves to market,
the better. This drought will only get worse. Prices may be poor now, but they’ll drop to nothing soon enough.”

Casewell felt impatience and frustration rise in him. “How do you know?” he asked, speaking more sharply to his father than he had ever dared. “What makes you so sure?”

Dad sighed, air whooshing out of his lungs. “The devil told me. Don’t expect to see me in church tomorrow. Comfort your mother the best you can.” He shoved the truck back into gear and waited for Casewell to get out. Casewell slammed the door harder than he needed to and didn’t look back as his father drove away.

Sunday morning dawned with an uneasy feeling in the air. Children whimpered, old folks mumbled prayers, and everyone shifted in the pews as if they couldn’t get comfortable. Frank Post sat in the back right corner, his hair somewhat tamed. Maybe the old drunk was making folks uneasy, or maybe it was the week of praying and the drought putting them on edge. But Casewell noticed as Perla and Sadie trailed Robert and Delilah to their usual pew, a disturbance seemed to follow in their wake—a murmur that wasn’t altogether pleasant.

Pastor Longbourne got up and said that instead of their usual service, they would pray throughout the morning, along with some Scripture readings. “There are rumors that this drought is not natural,” he said. “That someone among us has brought it on us as punishment for our sins. Or perhaps for the sins of someone in particular. It is not for me to say, but if you have sinned, I call on you to repent as though your life depended upon it. Repent as though all of our lives depended upon it.”

Casewell could have sworn that the pastor looked at Perla as he spoke, but surely not. There was sin aplenty to go around.

The service seemed to drag on forever. Old man Peterson took a fit and began speaking gibberish. The old folks called out that he was speaking in tongues and listened attentively, as if they could decipher what he was saying. As he ranted on, an old woman cried out, “Repent, harlot! He calls on you to repent.”

Casewell didn’t know how much more he could stand, but finally Pastor Longbourne called for a closing prayer that went on for a good ten minutes. Following his “Amen,” Casewell rose to his feet and hoped others would accompany him out the door. He had always considered himself a stalwart member of the congregation, an upright pillar of the community, setting a good example for others. But somehow on this morning, it was all he could do not to run as far as possible from the church and the people who seemed to fill the building with fear.

Stepping into the churchyard, Casewell stood off to the side, watching others make their way out. They gathered in clumps and talked quietly among themselves. It had the feeling of a funeral.

George Brower eased over to where Casewell stood and shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Ever seen the like?” he asked.

“I reckon not,” Casewell said. “And I hope not to see it again anytime soon.”

“The drought is bad enough, but this witchcraft talk is getting folks too riled up for their own good.”

“What are you talking about?” Casewell asked, stunned by his friend’s words.

“That Perla Long feeding a hundred people out of one pot
of beans and half a cake of corn bread ain’t natural.” George shuffled his feet in the dust. “Folks figure there’s no explanation for it other than witchery.”

“It was a big pot of beans, and there were at least four cakes of corn bread,” Casewell said. “I was there to help hand it out. And there weren’t any hundred people. What kind of nonsense is that, anyway?”

“Old man Peterson says that folks what ate from Perla’s hand lost the will to pray and went home. He says she must be a witch to make food last like that and to make people so contented that they’d give up doing the work of God after eating it.”

Casewell was having a hard time following George’s explanation. “Wait a minute. You’re saying that folks suspect Perla is a witch because she fed them?”

“I guess it was the way she fed them. Never running out of food, like magic.”

“Shootfire, man, I was there handing out the bowls. Does that make me a witch, too?”

“I think the term is
warlock
, but no, I haven’t heard that anyone thinks that. They just think she’s, well, enchanted you a little or some such.” George seemed to be trying to drive his hands right through the bottoms of his pockets. “It’s foolish, I guess, but you know how people are, making judgments and deciding things on their own.”

Casewell felt the anger begin to drain out of him. He did know how people were. He knew how he was and the kinds of judgments he’d made about people. The kind of judgment he’d made about Perla with her illegitimate child. Anger began to give way to shame, and he looked around the churchyard for Perla. He didn’t have any idea what he would do once he
found her, but the need to know where she was and what she was doing rose in him like sap in the spring. He could no more fight it back than he could stop the sun from rising. But Perla and the Thorntons were gone.

“Where is Perla?” he asked.

“I think maybe Delilah got a whiff of what was going around and bundled her and the child on back to the house.” George squinted into the distance. “Probably for the best.”