Miracle in a Dry Season (25 page)

Jerking upright, Casewell realized he’d dozed off. He felt disoriented and out of sorts. He sat up and realized his father still lay in the bed. His mother had straightened Dad’s shirt and arranged the covers so that they turned down under his arms. His hands were crossed on his chest. Casewell’s gaze traveled to his father’s face and he startled, not recognizing him for a moment. He knew his father was gone, but now that he studied
his face, he realized just how long gone. Although the shape of the nose, the thick eyebrows, and the lips—surprisingly full for a man—were all the same, he no longer looked like John Phillips. That man had surely departed.

His mother bustled into the room. “Marvin called to say he’s on his way. I’m betting that’s what woke you. I was going to let you nap a little longer.”

“It’s just as well. The stories people would tell if Marvin caught me sleeping at my dead father’s feet.”

She kissed him on the forehead. “People will talk no matter what you do.” Turning to the window, she said, “The rain’s stopped. It surely is fresh outside. Come and see.”

Casewell walked out onto the front porch with his mother and inhaled deeply. The sky was the brilliant shade of blue that often came in October, and the air smelled like clean laundry. The yard, with its brittle, brown grass, was a maze of puddles that had yet to find a way into the hard-baked soil. The trees were still leafless, the earth was still brown, the garden was still a wasteland, but somehow the world looked brighter. It was certainly cleaner with the rime of dust rinsed off everything, including Casewell’s truck parked in the yard. The windows were down, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. At this point water, anywhere, was welcome.

“It’s a miracle,” Mom said. “How many times has rain spoiled some plan of mine, and now I see that it’s a miracle. Not just after a drought, but every time it rains.” Emily linked her arm through Casewell’s. “Your father knew the rain was coming. I think he knew because he was standing next to Jesus, and you can see everything from there.”

Marvin Tomlyn pulled his makeshift hearse into the yard and backed up to the porch. Casewell opened the rear door and tried not to think too much about what would happen to his father’s body after this. Marvin hopped out and strode around the vehicle to shake Casewell’s hand. The undertaker stood maybe five feet four and was built like a bull, with a broad chest and bandy legs. He looked tough as a mule, but everyone who knew him had experienced his softhearted kindness.

“How you holding up, son?” he asked.

“I’m doing all right. Ma’s taking it pretty well, too. He’d been sick for so long . . .”

“I understand. Just let me tell you one thing. Right now you can’t quite take all of this in, and thinking things like ‘he’s in a better place,’ and ‘he’s not suffering anymore’ might seem like a comfort. But trust me when I tell you that two days from now some well-meaning folks will say those exact same words to you, and you’ll want to shove their teeth down their necks. The best advice I can give you or anyone else who’s just seen someone they love die is to take it one day at a time. Don’t go beating yourself up for all the different ways you’ll feel between now and next week. It’s all normal, son.”

Casewell felt like he couldn’t get a breath. Then his lungs filled all at once, and he smiled. “I guess I’ve been feeling six or seven of ’em just today,” he said.

Marvin slapped him on the back. “There you go. You’ll be all right. Now let’s get this business taken care of. We’ll go just as fast or slow as you and your mama want.”

As it turned out, Mom had finished saying her good-byes, and Casewell felt oddly detached from the body that was once his father. It was easier than he expected to help Marvin load the body into the hearse and slam the door. Marvin sat with
mother and son as they sorted out the arrangements. There would be a viewing Thursday afternoon with the service at five o’clock. In the absence of a preacher to do the burying, Casewell would speak, along with one or two of the other elders. Dad had never been one to build close friendships with other men, but he’d won the respect of most everyone. Casewell didn’t think it would be hard to get some folks to read Scripture or to say a few words. Mom suggested Casewell play his mandolin at the service, which surprised him.

“I don’t know if Dad would think that was appropriate,” he said. “Even if I play a hymn, it’s a little jaunty for a funeral.”

“Oh, Casewell, I don’t suppose he ever told you, but he was so proud of your playing. He told me more than once that you’d been blessed with a gift, and he was so proud of how you used it to bring joy to people. He would want you to play.”

Casewell blushed at the unexpected praise and agreed. He felt inordinately pleased, as if his father himself had asked for the music.

Finally, with everything sorted out, Marvin headed for the car, hoping aloud that he wouldn’t get bogged down in the rain-wet yard. Then he turned, as if just remembering something. “You’uns probably don’t feel much like getting out, but word is going ’round that folks are gathering at the church this evening to give thanks for the rain. I can pass on word about John, if you’d rather.”

Casewell thought about it for only a moment. Something prodded him to go to the church and share this news himself. “No, that’s all right,” he said. “We’ll tell the news.”

Marvin raised one meaty hand and dropped it to his side. Then he climbed into the car and eased out of the yard, spinning his tires only a little. Casewell thought about how his
father would not have liked the ruts left behind. He smiled to himself. He’d fix them tomorrow.

Casewell called Robert and Delilah to let them know about his father’s passing and asked Delilah to come sit with Emily. She preferred to stay home from the church celebration, and though she said she’d be fine by herself, Casewell hated the idea of her sitting in the lonely house. Delilah said of course she would come, and Robert offered to read from the Psalms at the service on Thursday.

As Casewell hung up the phone and washed his hands and face before driving over to the church, he felt a weight lift. Someone else knew his father was gone. Somehow it seemed it would be easier to tell the next person and then the next. By the end of the week he thought he might have gotten used to the news himself.

Casewell heard Robert and Delilah come in and speak to his mother. Their tones were low and soothing. He heard his mother laugh softly and marveled that she could do that with her husband so recently gone. He was grateful she could.

“Casewell, come on,” Robert called.

“I’m right behind you.” Casewell stepped out of the bathroom, running his fingers through damp hair.

“Why don’t you ride with me? I’ll have to come back here and get Delilah after we finish whooping it up over the rain.”

“Well, my windows were down when the rain started, so I guess I’d appreciate a ride.” Casewell walked over and put a hand on his mother’s shoulder. “I’ll see you shortly,” he said. “Thought I’d spend the night.”

“You don’t need to do that, son,” she protested. Then she put her own hand over Casewell’s where it gripped her shoulder. “But I guess I’d be more than glad to have you.”

Casewell gave her a final squeeze and trailed out after Robert.

After dark now, light poured from the windows of the church. Drops of water suspended from leafless trees sparkled. Casewell felt a lump rise in his throat. He supposed it was the loss of his father combined with the blessing of the rain. As Robert parked, Casewell felt a shyness wash over him. He didn’t know how to tell these people about his father’s passing in the midst of their celebration. He wished he could find Perla and tell her first.

As though in answer to his wish, Perla appeared outside the car window. She was holding tight to Sadie’s hand, and the light from the church caught in her blond hair, seeming to form a halo around her face. Casewell felt enchanted for a moment, as though he had the power to make his own dreams come true. Perla smiled when Casewell stepped out of Robert’s car, and Sadie threw her arms around his right knee.

“Dad died today,” Casewell blurted. “Delilah’s with Mom.”

“Oh, Casewell, I’m so sorry,” Perla’s face softened and her eyes seemed to plumb the depths of his. He felt she understood the mixture of sadness and joy he was experiencing, that she knew what it was to be glad a thing had happened and sorry at the same time. The urge to take her in his arms and cry with her almost overwhelmed him, but some other folks came by, and the spell was broken. She squeezed his arm and smiled through tears.

“And on the day the rain finally came,” she said. “All too often sorrow and joy come skipping into your life holding hands.”

Casewell nodded mutely. Robert beckoned them on to the church, and they walked into the spill of light coming through the open door.

George and Steve were at the front with their instruments, and Casewell felt somehow naked without his mandolin. Robert made his way to the front of the jam-packed church and waved his arms for quiet. Casewell and Perla slipped into the outside of a middle pew.

“Before we begin offering praise tonight, I have some important news to share,” Robert said. “Casewell Phillips has joined us this evening, even though his father, John, passed earlier today.”

Casewell felt grateful to Robert for solving his dilemma about how to tell folks, although he was also embarrassed to have attention drawn his way. Perla placed slender fingers on his arm and squeezed gently before folding her hands in her lap once more. He felt her warmth linger on his skin as someone in the pew behind patted him on the shoulder and those in front turned to nod or offer up sad smiles.

“We’ll gather back here tomorrow for the viewing and the burial. But like it says in Ecclesiastes, there is a time for everything. ‘A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance.’ This whole summer has felt like a mourning time, with the world withering and dying all around us. Now it’s time to rejoice in God’s grace in sending the rain.”

As Robert finished speaking George and Steve began playing “Shall We Gather at the River?” The congregation rose to their feet and sang as though they wanted heaven to hear.

“Yes, we’ll gather at the river,

The beautiful, the beautiful river;

Gather with the saints at the river

That flows by the throne of God.”

As he sang, Casewell glanced down at the top of Perla’s golden head. He could see that she was smiling and tapping her foot in rhythm to the music. Little Sadie had taken her mother’s hand and was swinging it to the beat. They both looked happy and peaceful. Casewell marveled, thinking of all Perla had gone through to keep this child with her. He had judged her sinful at one time, now he judged her brave and bold . . . and beautiful. Casewell felt joy and sorrow twine together in his heart and form something he had never experienced before. He thought it might be love. He thought it might be the feeling a man had when he looked at his beloved family. All he knew was that he wanted to go on feeling it.

“Soon we’ll reach the silver river,

Soon our pilgrimage will cease;

Soon our happy hearts will quiver

With the melody of peace.”

That night Casewell enjoyed a deeper and more peaceful sleep than he had in months. Maybe ever.

But when he woke in his parents’ house the next morning, he realized he still needed to think of what to say at his father’s funeral.