Miracle in a Dry Season (12 page)

Perla went straight to the room she shared with Sadie when they arrived home from church. Her aunt, uncle, and daughter were in the kitchen pulling out leftovers for lunch, but Perla excused herself, saying she wanted to change her clothes. She stripped off her gloves, tossed her hat on the bed, and loosened the fabric belt that matched her periwinkle dress. She reached back for the zipper, then dropped onto the edge of the bed. She had been moving mechanically, but suddenly the will to keep putting one foot in front of the other left her. All she could do was sit, hands braced against the bed to either side.

She had heard the whispers. She had seen the looks. And it was worse than being a scarlet woman. It was worse than being known as the woman who gave in to the lust of the flesh and now had to carry her sin with her in the form of an innocent child. They thought she was evil. Not just sinful—that, she could stand—but to believe that her ability to feed people, to give them love in the form of nourishment, was witchcraft? How could they?

“I’ll have to stop cooking,” she whispered to herself. “It always happens, so I’ll just have to stop.”

But it was the only thing she had to give to Robert and
Delilah. It was how she repaid them for their kindness and for giving her a place to stay. Perla knew business was slow at the store, and if the drought continued, it would get worse. Her aunt and uncle would never ask her to leave, but if she stayed and gave them two extra mouths to feed, the least she could do was cook food that somehow multiplied in the preparation.

“God,” she said in a low voice, “why would you curse me this way? Why would you give me a gift that appears to others as evil?”

Perla eased down onto the bed as if she ached, as if a sudden movement would be disastrous. Once her head touched the pillow, despair washed over her, and she fell asleep. As if sleep would absolve her of the agony of her abilities.

And in sleeping, Perla dreamed. She dreamed of a man in a robe with sandals on his feet. It looked like he was praying over baskets of food. And then people came and began taking food from the baskets, and no matter how many came, there was still more for them to eat. And they were satisfied.

9

C
ASEWELL
WENT
TO
HIS
WORKSHOP
as soon as he got home. He sat and looked around. The space was clean. All the shavings and bits of wood had been swept away. He had stacked leftover pieces of lumber under his bench, and the larger lengths were securely stowed in the rafters. Everything was in its place. The only thing missing, thought Casewell, was a work in progress. He had finished all his commissions, and he was tired of making bowls. With the drought putting a strain on nearly everyone’s finances, he knew there would be no orders for kitchen stools or new shelves or front-porch repairs. He was bored, and with everything on his mind, boredom was eating away at him.

He thought to go to the house and get out his mandolin, but he couldn’t seem to put the thought into action. He stared at his tools and the pieces of wood until something began to take form in his mind.

A bed. Casewell had always wanted to make a really beautiful bed. Not just a serviceable piece of furniture, but a grand, magnificent piece that would be a source of delight and wonder
to its owner. So often his work required him to build practical items for daily use. Even when he made something more challenging, like the Talbots’ cupboard, the furniture was simple and straightforward. There was little demand for intricate carving or fancy work. But now he had the time and the materials lying about idle. He would make a bed with a high, elaborate headboard and a footboard too beautiful to ever drape a pair of dungarees across. He would make something more wonderful than he ever had before.

Casewell slapped his knees and stood up to take stock of his lumber. He had a plan and he was excited about it. He knew he should be worried about the drought and how he and his neighbors would make it through the year. He knew his father was in trouble and his mother was suffering by his side, but he still found himself feeling like a kid headed off to the fair. Wonderful things were right around the corner.

A thought hit Casewell. What would he do with this bed once he made it? He could always keep it, but what did he need a fancy bed for? His parents—of course. He would make a Christmas gift of the bed to his parents. Assuming his dad was still around. Casewell shook that thought off. He’d be around. Christmas wasn’t so far away, and his father was still as active and ornery as ever. Well, almost. Casewell began to pull out lumber so that he could see his fancy bed take form in it.

That evening Casewell sat on the front porch, feeling contented in spite of worrying about his father, the weather, and Perla Long. The bed was taking shape as though his hands knew what to do without his head telling them. It had been a long time since Casewell made something bigger than a bowl just for the pleasure of it. He felt good.

It was one of those soft summer evenings when the days
were hot, but the nights were still cool. The air had an almost mossy quality to it—even the color of the dusk settling across the pasture and the trees beyond seemed green. Casewell sighed and laced his hands behind his head, tilted his chair back on two legs, and braced his feet against a porch post the way his mother always told him not to. He smiled.

Across the pasture, Casewell thought he saw movement—probably a deer browsing in the edge of the woods. He kept watching until he could make out a figure walking slowly across the dying field. Eventually he could see that it was a woman, and soon he recognized Perla. It was clear she had no intention of walking close enough for him to speak. She followed an arcing path through the field that would soon begin carrying her further away. Without giving it much thought, Casewell stood and walked out to meet her.

“Mind if I walk with you?” he asked.

“No,” she said without looking at him.

“Sure is a pretty evening,” he said.

Perla looked up and around, as if checking to make sure he was telling the truth. “Yes.” She had been walking slowly with her hands clasped behind her back, but now she released her hold and began to move with more purpose.

“Where are you headed?”

“Back to the house. I hate to leave Sadie for long.”

“I’m so used to being alone, I guess I forget how some folks relish a few minutes to themselves.” Casewell matched his long stride to Perla’s shorter one. “And here I am, interrupting your solitude.”

Perla looked surprised. “I don’t mind,” she said. “Pretty much everyone else is leaving me alone right now.” She made the statement without any hint of bitterness or anger. “I’m afraid
the rumors are even bothering Robert and Delilah. I may have to find somewhere else to go soon.”

“But you can’t leave,” Casewell blurted.

Perla laughed a little. “You’re probably right—I can’t. But I may have to just the same.”

“Where would you go? Back home?”

“No,” Perla answered slowly. “There are stories there, too—probably the same stories. No, I guess I’d have to find someplace new. Someplace where I can pretend I don’t have . . .” She hesitated, then thrust her chin out. “This misbegotten child and this strange way with food.”

Casewell tried to hide his shock and quickly asked, “What’s strange about your food? It’s mighty good and I guess you always make plenty, but I haven’t noticed anything else.”

“Haven’t you?” Perla gave him a bemused look. “Usually the women notice first. Delilah realized I had a . . . well . . . a knack, right away. But I think she loves me too much to say anything or even to think it’s odd. Robert’s like you—he’s still not sure what people are talking about.”

“So what is it, then?”

Perla stopped and turned to face Casewell. “I guess if I can tell you about Sadie, I can tell you about my cooking. I seem to have a gift for plenty—for making lots of food out of almost nothing.”

“Well, I guess there are quite a few ladies around here who can do that.” Casewell felt relieved. “Mom can take just a few potatoes and turn them into a meal fit for a king. Surely that’s not so strange.”

“No, Casewell. It’s not just using ingredients to their best advantage. When I cook, whatever I cook doesn’t run out. Not for a long time. Like those beans at the church. I made
enough for maybe twenty people, but we didn’t run out until everyone was fed.”

“Oh, now, I was there and you made food aplenty. Why, there were the four cakes of corn bread and—”

Perla cut him off. “I made two cakes, Casewell. Folks ate at least nine—probably more. I just went back to the basket for the same pans over and over again. I hoped no one would notice.”

Casewell stood unmoving, a look of confusion on his face. “But how is that possible?”

Perla stamped a foot, crossed her arms across her chest, and gripped her upper arms as if she were cold. Tears came to her eyes. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “I’ve prayed and prayed that God would take this thing from me, but He just won’t do it. I try not to make so much food, and it’s almost as if the less I make, the more there is. How can abundance be a bad thing?” Her eyes pleaded with Casewell to explain.

“It’s not,” he said. He reached out and placed one hand awkwardly on her shoulder. A Scripture popped into his head—
I
am come
that they might have life—and that they might have it more abundantly
. “I think it’s a gift,” he said. “And sometimes the gifts God gives us feel like burdens, but we have to trust that He knows what He’s doing. How have you used your gift?”

Perla relaxed her grip on her arms. “To feed people—mostly people I love.”

“There you go. Folks just don’t understand. Shoot, I don’t understand, but from what I know of you, I’d say you’re closer to an angel than a witch.” He reddened as soon as he realized what he’d said and dropped his hand back to his side.

Perla smiled and began to walk again.

“That I am not.” She laughed softly. “But if you can see your way clear to accept me as I am, maybe others will, too.” She
glanced at him, a faint twinkle in her eyes. “When I first arrived here, I heard you described as a pillar of the community.”

Casewell felt his face burn hotter. But this time what he felt was more shame than anything. When she’d first arrived, he would have agreed with her, but now . . .

“No more than you’re really an angel, I guess. Folks are mighty quick to slap labels on people around here.”

“I think it makes them feel safer.” Perla glanced up at the stars beginning to show. “People like to know where they fit, and it’s easier to find your own place if everyone else is safely in theirs.”

They walked the rest of the way to the Thorntons’ in silence. Casewell stopped at the bottom of the steps and watched Perla make her way up onto the porch. She turned at the top to wish Casewell a good-night. The light from inside the house cast a halo around Perla’s hair, and Casewell had to smile. She might not be an angel, but she couldn’t help looking like one.

She seemed to hesitate, then spoke. “Thank you, Casewell. I felt like maybe you judged me harshly after I told you about Sadie. Somehow, after this evening, I feel, well, I guess I feel like you’ve forgiven me. Like you’re not going to hold my sins against me anymore. I appreciate that.”

Before Casewell could reply, she turned and disappeared inside the house.

Why did she continue to bare her heart and soul to Casewell Phillips? Perla berated herself. She hadn’t felt the condemnation radiating from him the way she had on the night she told him about Sadie. But still, what was it about the man that seemed to pull the truth from her?

She tried to remember the Scripture about the truth set
ting you free, but it wouldn’t come. And she surely didn’t feel free just then. She felt laid bare—stripped to her core with little left to hide behind. And she wanted to hide more than anything. She wanted to hide from the stares at church, from the whispers she couldn’t help but overhear, from the choices she’d made, and the repercussions that continued to unfold.