Miracle in a Dry Season (24 page)

“That’s how God does us. He’ll forgive us anything—all we have to do is ask Him. I know I’ve had to ask Him for plenty of
forgiveness here lately. He doesn’t hold it over me, He doesn’t carry a grudge, and I don’t think He even remembers what I needed forgiveness for. All He asks is that I forgive other people the same way He’s forgiven me.”

Casewell smiled and leaned into the pulpit. “I know. Easier said than done. Somehow other people’s sins seem to look worse than mine.” His eyes flicked past Perla. He was trying hard not to look at her. He didn’t want her to know that he’d ever judged her so harshly. “But in God’s eyes, sin is sin, whether it’s murder or telling a little white lie. We all need forgiveness just the same.

“And we all need to dish out forgiveness just as quick as we dish out judgment and condemnation. Jesus made it pretty clear that God’s forgiveness depends on our forgiving one another. In Luke, chapter six, He said, ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.’ I’ve seen people forgive things that I would want to hold on to. Cruelty, spite, mean-spiritedness. It takes a gentle spirit to turn loose of all that, but it’s no less than what God calls us to do.

“I don’t know about all of you.” Casewell really looked at the congregation for the first time. Did some people look uncomfortable? Maybe. Maybe they needed to. “But I don’t want to be judged or condemned by God. I know I’ll come up short. So I plan to try real hard to forgive when I need to. And I’m going to start by forgiving Pastor Longbourne for the trouble he stirred up. I reckon he’s got enough pain bottled up inside him that there’s no need for me to hold anything against him. And if there’s anyone else out there who wants my forgiveness, though I don’t think I have anything against even one of you, consider it given.”

Casewell moved out from behind the pulpit and stepped off the dais. He raised his hands into the air. “Go forth this morning and search your hearts to know if there’s anyone you need to forgive. Find them and give them the same gift God is so glad to give to you. Peace be with you.” He dropped his arms and walked toward the back door so he could shake hands. He hoped no one would notice his sweaty palms.

But before Casewell had taken more than two steps, he heard a rustling and then a voice—his father’s voice.

“Son, forgive me.”

Casewell stopped and turned as though afraid of what he might see. His father stood, hunched over and leaning against the pew in front of him. “I have not been the father”—he looked at Emily—“or husband I should have been. Forgive me.”

Mom leaned forward and pressed her cheek against his father’s hand where it gripped the pew. Tears washed over the worn knuckles. Casewell didn’t know what to do. Should he speak? Should he go to his father? And then it was as though he lost the ability to decide for himself, and he rushed to wrap his arms around his father’s frail shoulders. He thought he might hurt the sick man, he was squeezing so hard, but his father wrapped an arm around Casewell and squeezed back just as hard. Casewell could feel every bone beneath Dad’s taut skin. His father had the feel of a man who might break. Then again, maybe he was finally broken.

That afternoon Perla left Sadie playing quietly at Delilah’s feet so she could close herself alone in the room she shared with her daughter. Casewell’s sermon had touched her in ways
she did not expect. “I must forgive him,” she whispered. “I must forgive them both.”

She fell to her knees on the braided rug and clasped her hands at her breast. She closed her eyes and began to pray aloud.

“Father, I came here to escape the censure of men, but that is not what I most wanted to escape. People will judge me, and it is, perhaps, no less than I deserve. I was trying to outrun your judgment, Father. I blamed . . . him . . . for loving me when he was not free to do so. But I loved him back, even when I knew it was wrong. And I turned my back on you as though that would prevent your seeing. You have forgiven me, Father, but I have not forgiven him. I have heaped blame on his shoulders, attempting to lessen my own load. I forgive him now. Please bless him.” Perla squeezed her eyes more tightly shut. “And bless his family.” She gave one tearless sob, then composed herself again.

“And, Father, I forgive Casewell, too. It wasn’t until this morning that I knew there was anything to forgive. I’ve carried anger toward him for judging me. He is a good man. I had hoped . . . well, you know my hopes and dreams, impossible, as I know they are. Amen.”

Perla remained kneeling, hands now limp. She felt lighter, easier. A breeze slipped in the window and caressed her face. She felt beloved by God, if by no one else.

17

C
ASEWELL
ENJOYED
S
UNDAY
DINNER
with his parents. They ate leftovers from Perla’s last round of cooking.

“I’m proud of you, son,” Dad said.

Casewell felt a surge of joy that made the top of his head tingle. He grinned, something he doubted he’d done at the dinner table since he was in a high chair.

“It was the best sermon I ever heard,” his mother said.

“Ma, you’d say that no matter what.”

“Of course I would, and I’m allowed. The other mothers wish their sons could do half so well.”

“Don’t go and indulge in pride now,” Casewell teased. “If I’m going to be the preacher, I’ll have to hold you accountable.”

The three laughed together and finished off the meal with the most lively conversation Casewell ever remembered them having.

After dinner Mom helped Dad back to bed. Casewell realized that his father seemed to have trouble lifting his feet. He dragged into the bedroom, and Casewell helped his mother get him into a nightshirt. Then Mom excused herself to tidy up the kitchen.

In the quiet left behind, Casewell could hear his father’s breathing. It was raspy and seemed slow. He really looked at his father for the first time in a long while. The older man’s white hair had long been striking against his sun- and wind-darkened skin. But now his face was almost as pale as his hair, the ruddy flush of sun and hard work long gone. The lined skin seemed to have pulled tight against Dad’s skull, giving his flesh an almost translucent quality. Casewell noticed the throbbing of his father’s heartbeat in the fragile skin of his neck. He wished the beat were faster.

“Do you hear that, son?” Dad turned his head toward the window, which was closed in a futile effort to keep out the dust.

“Hear what?” Casewell moved to look outside.

“Open the window,” he commanded.

Casewell moved to obey the order even as he argued against it. “It’ll just let in more dust, Dad. There’s hardly a breeze to make it worthwhile.”

But as the window cleared the sash, a gust of cool air surged into the room, sending the lacy curtains billowing out over the bed. Casewell looked out the window and saw that the formerly barren sky was now scudding with great cottony clouds. It wasn’t just a breeze that had kicked up. It was wind.

“The rain sounds so good after all this time,” Dad sighed. “Thank God for the rain.”

“It’s not raining, Dad.” Casewell glanced at the window. “And even though there are clouds, I don’t hold out much hope. We’ve seen clouds before that didn’t amount to anything.”

“Oh, the sweet sound of rain on a tin roof.” He smiled. “Your mother and I hid out in a barn in a storm like this once. That’s when I kissed her the first time. Can’t help but think that sound is the purtiest I ever heard.”

Casewell glanced out the window again and looked back at his father. Going to church and having dinner must have been too much for him. He was hallucinating. Casewell wondered how to snap him out of it, but the more he thought about it, the more he felt it would be cruel to interrupt such a pleasant notion.

“It does sound good,” he said at last. “Been too long since we heard rain like that.”

“Ain’t it the truth,” Dad said, closing his eyes.

Casewell noted the rise and fall of his father’s chest. It was slow, but it was there. And then, as he watched his father breathe, he did hear something. It sounded like thunder, distant thunder. Probably just heat lightning way off on the horizon. It happened like that in the evenings sometimes. And then he heard the unmistakable splat of water on a pane of glass.

Casewell whirled toward the open window and saw it was true. One fat drop after another splatted against the upper panes. Drops came through the open window and made a pattern in the dust on the sill. Casewell reached out a shaking hand and felt the cool water bless his skin. He turned to show his father, but the rise and fall of Dad’s chest had ceased. His father lay still, smiling, as Casewell stretched out wet fingers to anoint his brow.

The rain came like a petulant child given permission to play. It came in sheets with crashes of thunder and lightning, then eased down to a sprinkle—teasing—before revving up again for an hour of slow, steady blessing.

Casewell opened all the windows and doors in his parents’ house while his mother lay down next to his father and
whispered he knew not what. After opening the house, Casewell slipped back into the bedroom and placed a hand on his mother’s shoulder.

“I called the funeral home. They’ll come for him after the rain eases up. The roads are rivers with all the water trying to soak into the parched ground. Marvin said he’d just about need a boat to come right now.”

“I’m in no hurry.” She had cried but only a little. Now she lay curled on her side, stroking her husband’s hair. “I know he’s not in there,” she said. “But I’m going to miss touching him so very much. I always loved to feel his hair, though he didn’t like me to do it unless we were alone. I guess this is the first time I’ve run my fingers through his hair while someone else was in the room.” She gazed past her husband into nothingness. “I don’t suppose he minds.”

Casewell sat on the foot of the bed. He would have expected being in the bedroom with his dead father and living mother to be strange, but somehow it was friendly. His mother began humming “I’ll Fly Away,” and he wished he had his mandolin to play along. The patter of the rain, the warmth of the room, and the song conspired to make Casewell drowsy. He thought it was probably awful of him to think of sleep at a time like this.