Miracle in a Dry Season (13 page)

Alone in her room while Sadie listened to the radio with Robert and Delilah, Perla sat at the dressing table and unfastened her hair where she had rolled it at the nape of her neck. She closed her eyes and remembered how it had felt when Sadie’s father unfastened her hair and let it fall soft against her shoulders. Her eyes flew open and she reached for a brush. She must banish such thoughts from her mind. She had no business giving in to her longings. And remembering was the last thing she needed now.

Perla drew the brush through her hair, jerking at knots. She slowed and thought about Casewell’s hand on her shoulder. It was obvious he’d been uncertain about touching her, which made it all the more tender. His big heart had overcome his sensibilities. She bowed her head. She might have loved a man like Casewell if she hadn’t thrown herself away on a man she’d known she could never have.

Folding her arms on the table, Perla laid her head down. She meant to cry, but the tears didn’t come. She felt as dry and barren as the world around them. Walking with Casewell, hearing him call her ability with food a gift from God, she was beginning to understand just how far reaching her choice would be.

That night Casewell knelt beside his bed to pray. He’d given up this affectation a long time ago, but somehow it seemed
the thing to do. The floor was hard beneath knees that weren’t quite as flexible as they’d once been. He clasped his hands and squeezed his eyes shut, but nothing came. Casewell usually found that prayer came easily. He could close his eyes, think of his Lord, and just let the thoughts roll through his mind as naturally as the sunrise. But on this night, when he stilled his mind to tap into his connection with God, he found himself at a loss. Nothing came. The flow had stopped.

Casewell’s eyes flew open and he shifted on his knees. There was a bit of dirt or a tiny stone under his right knee, but he did not move to brush it away. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes again. The presence that he so often felt seemed absent. “Oh, God,” he whispered, dropping his head forward onto the edge of the mattress. Where could God be? He had always been so sure of his faith, of where he stood with God. But on this night he felt lost, alone, like he was wandering in a wilderness.

A dry, arid wilderness,
thought Casewell,
where crops
are dying and people are so desperate for answers, they
lash out at one another. They’re looking for someone
to blame, someone to take responsibility.
Casewell had been a child during the Depression, but he could remember enough. He remembered saving his too-large and eventually too-small shoes just for church. He remembered those times when the bounty of their cellar waned while they waited for the spring planting season to wax. He remembered having little more than corn bread and milk for dinner and seeing the hard looks on his parents’ faces.

Casewell tried to focus, to remember what it was he wanted to say to God. Usually the names of those in need paraded across his mind in a never-ending array, and he would call God’s help down for them. Casewell had prayed for the church and the farms and the local businesses. He had prayed for the
sick, the confused, the outcast. But on this night, all that would come to mind was that he needed to pray for his own soul. He needed to pray that his heart would soften and he would come to know his fellowman and love him. But that seemed like nonsense. Casewell clasped his head between his hands and wrinkled his brow with the effort to keep his eyes closed and his mind focused on God.

It was no use. Nothing came. Casewell pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the bathroom to clean his teeth and wash his face. He felt that God had abandoned him. And then, without warning, he thought,
Judge not, that ye be not judged.
He actually spun around as if someone had spoken the words from the hall. Of course no one was there. He shook his head and finished readying himself for bed.

10

C
ASEWELL
HEADED
FOR
HIS
WORKSHOP
as soon as he’d swallowed some coffee the next morning. His father had changed his mind about selling the cattle, so he had the whole day ahead of him. He hadn’t felt this eager to get to work in years. It was invigorating, and it was an escape from the desolation he’d felt the night before. He was completely absorbed in his work when Frank Post knocked on his open door.

“Howdy, neighbor,” Frank said. “Mind if I sit and visit a spell?”

Casewell did mind but said he’d be glad of the company and stood to stretch out his neck and shoulders. He couldn’t imagine why Frank had come to see him. The man had no friends to speak of and until recently was rarely seen anywhere other than his own home or the Simmonses’ back porch, where just about everyone knew moonshine was stored under the third step from the bottom.

“Whatcha making there?” Frank asked.

“A bed.”

“Well, now, that’s a tall order.”

“Actually, it’s not an order. I’ve just always wanted to make one.” Casewell ran his hand over the piece of wood he was shaping. “Most likely I’ll give it to Mom and Dad for Christmas.”

“I was real sorry to hear about how sick your father is,” Frank said, staring at a point between his booted feet. “I never got to know him real well, but he always seemed like a good ’un.”

“He is that.” Casewell turned back to his work, hoping Frank would take the hint and leave.

“Reckon you could find time for a commission?” Frank asked.

Casewell stopped what he was doing and turned back to Frank, curious. “I could. Paying work is mighty thin right now.”

“I need a tea table. The finest, most delicate, prettiest little tea table you can conjure. From the looks of that carving you’ve sketched out over there”—he pointed at the unfinished footboard with his chin—“I’m thinking you’re the man for the job.”

“That’s the kind of work that takes time. I’ve got plenty of time, but I’ll have to charge more than I would for a plain table,” Casewell said, tugging his beard.

“I’ve got time and I’ve got money. So far I haven’t had near as much use for either one as I would have thought when I was your age. But now, well, it’s time to set some things right.”

Casewell couldn’t help wondering if Frank thought to make amends with Liza. He was still trying to figure women out, but he was skeptical that a table, no matter how nice, was really the way to say you were sorry for abandoning your fiancée. Even so, it was paying work, and it would help him pace himself on the bed.

“All right then, I’ll make some drawings to show you what I’m thinking and bring them over to the house tomorrow,” Casewell said.

“Nope. I’d rather come on by here. I don’t have near enough reasons to get out and about. How’s four o’clock sound?”

“Fine. Now as to the payment—”

“We’ll talk about that tomorrow,” Frank cut in. “I’ll be more than fair. I’ve been unlucky in life in a lot of ways, but money’s not been a worry for a long time. Wish it could do anybody any good.”

Frank stood and flexed his knees. “I still get around pretty good, but these old joints seize up on me if I stay still too long. See you tomorrow.” He walked out the door as silently as he had come.

Casewell considered that if he were the sort to spread gossip, he’d have plenty of grist for the mill. Who was the table for? Where did Frank get his money? Was he sober for once? The old man seemed to be sober—how long would that last? Casewell stood thinking for a moment; then the unfinished bed caught his eye, and within moments he was once again completely absorbed in his work. He’d start the tea-table drawing after supper.

The next afternoon Frank arrived at four on the dot. Casewell showed him a sketch of a dainty little piecrust table with a top that could be removed and used as a tray. Instead of carving, he thought he’d try his hand at a little inlay. He laid out a geometric design based on one of his mother’s quilt patterns. He could use cherry and maple to create the starburst in the center of the table. He planned to use walnut for the base. Casewell was pretty pleased with himself, and Frank agreed to the design right away. Before Casewell could name a price, Frank offered an amount almost twice what Casewell had been thinking. He agreed and accepted a down payment but said he would only accept the rest once the table was done.

“Sounds right,” Frank agreed. “Guess you’ve come a long way from the troublemaker I knew back in the day.”

Casewell looked at the older man in confusion. “Troublemaker?”

“Lordy, son, I know you were drunker than a skunk, but surely you remember?”

Casewell felt heat rise up his neck and a roaring start in his ears. “How do you—”

Frank quirked an eyebrow. “I was there. Come to think of it, I guess you wouldn’t remember that part.” The older man leaned back against the doorframe, as though settling in for a long story.

“I’d come out to the still to shoot the breeze and get my weekly allotment, but the Simmons boys were in high dudgeon when I got there. Seems somebody’d robbed the still and fouled up the copper tubing. Not only did they lose a run of liquor, but it was going to take some serious money and time to get the still working again.”

Casewell closed his eyes and sank onto a stool. He thought no one knew. He’d been so sure no one ever knew.

Frank continued, seeming to enjoy the tale. “If those boys had been hornets, I would have guessed some fool had stuck a stick in their nest and stirred. I thought to leave, but they kind of pulled me in to help look for the culprit. Seems the feller what done it had left a trail a blind man could follow. We didn’t have to go far before we come across you laid out under an old pine, snoring away. By the time I saw it was you, Clint already had his knife out and looked like he aimed to skin your face off.”

Casewell’s hand rose to find the scar along his jawline. His beard hid it, but his fingers knew how to read the raised flesh
under the whiskers. “He might have killed me,” Casewell whispered.

“Oh, he planned to. I reckon he cut on you to wake you up so he could kill you proper. Only you didn’t much wake up, and I suggested an alternative. I paid ’em for what you took, along with enough to fix the still, and they agreed to let it be.”

“How much was it?” Casewell couldn’t hide his shock. It was bad enough that Frank knew he’d stolen moonshine and gotten drunk. To find out after all this time that his life had been saved by the town drunk was too much.

Frank looked Casewell straight in the eye. “I don’t remember,” he said. “And likely wouldn’t say if I did. The past is past. Looks to me like you smartened up and turned out just fine. Let’s speak no more of it.”

“I can’t charge you for that table. Take your money back.”

Frank turned away and walked toward the door, leaving Casewell sitting on his stool, cash clutched in his hand. “There is no debt. If there was, it’s been long forgiven. I’ll be seeing you.” And with that he was gone.

Casewell spent the rest of the week working on his two projects. Shaping the bed eased his mind, while the table plunged him into turmoil. Could forgiveness be that easy? Would his father have forgiven him for being a thief and a drunkard? Casewell felt pretty certain he would not. And the town drunk handed out forgiveness like it was the easiest thing in the world. Casewell hadn’t even asked for it. He hadn’t even known to ask for it. Casewell owed Frank more than he’d ever imagined, and Frank wouldn’t let him pay the debt. All he could think
to do was to make the most beautiful tea table the world had ever seen. It wasn’t enough, but it was something.