On Shifting Sand (27 page)

I laugh nervously. “We’re neighbors, aren’t we?”

“We are, but I don’t know that you’ve ever been one to drop in.”

She has me there, and I swallow another tiny bite, stalling while I wait for the right words to express my mission. “I’m . . . I mean, we’re running low on a few groceries—”

“I knew it!” She pops up from the table. “You’re too thin. I’ve been
saying as much to Mr. Brown for weeks now, that I worried you might not have enough food. These days, money being what it is—”

“No!” I catch her hand, a tiny, twig-like thing. “That’s not it at all. We have plenty, or the means to have plenty. I simply haven’t been able to stock up on a few things, with our grocer so limited, and then the storm and the funeral. And today, Russ has the car out at Pa’s place . . .”

“What’s he doing out there?”

Maybe it is the magnification from the thick lenses of her glasses, but all of Merrilou’s questions seem to come with two meanings: one for her curiosity, and one for my confession. I give her a brief summary of Russ’s plan for the store, and she listens with sage silence, nodding and making little affirming noises throughout.

“So, he—Jim, Mr. Brace—is doing a tremendous favor for us, taking this haul into Tulsa. He and Pa. And I thought the least I could do is pack him a few meals, but I’m not finding enough in my kitchen to make a decent meal for anybody.” I attempt a weak smile; she returns one equally unconvincing. “So I thought maybe you could . . . I haven’t had a chance to go into town, and I’ll—we’ll—gladly replenish . . .”

I can’t speak anymore, not with the wave of shame engulfing me, because I’m no longer asking for a ride into town. Even before I walked through her door, I knew I didn’t have enough money to justify a two-hour drive. She, the angel, doesn’t make me ask.

“Nola.” Her voice is soft, sweet. Like talking to a mother, and in that moment I wish I had such memories of my own. “Of course, sweet girl, what we have is yours. Take whatever you need, but I know you’re not telling me the truth.”

“I am—”

“I can see in your face, there’s something hiding there. And if we’re going to survive these troubled times, we’re going to have to take care of each other. Woman to woman.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not. And I’ve learned a few things over the years. There is no need too big nor any hurt too deep to take to the Lord. But you have
to go to him. Not because he doesn’t know. Trust me.” She waggles a tiny finger under my nose and smiles in a way I’m sure she means to be reassuring. “He knows everything. He can count every crumb in your bread box. He’s tasted every bite you’ve taken. He follows you every minute of the day.
He
knows your hunger.”

“We’re not—”

A wave of her hand dismisses my protest. “I’m not talking about Pastor Russ and the kids. I’m talking about
you
. Looks to me like you’ve got something so swallowed up it’s eating you from the inside.”

Her words cut to the quick of me, wrapping themselves around the last exposed nerve, sending a pain sharp enough to make my ears ring.

“Really, there’s nothing . . .” I stand and clutch at the table to steady myself within the spinning room. “Nothing . . .”

“Oh my.” She’s at my side. “Sit down. Let me get you some water.”

“No, thank you, Merrilou. I need to get back.”

“I’ll make up a basket and bring it over.”

“What?” I press my fingers to my temple, trying to make sense of what she is saying. At once the unfamiliar kitchen begins to blur, and for the life of me I can’t remember why I’ve come here. The room grows smaller as Merrilou Brown’s words loom large—nonsensical jabber and platitudes. All I can think to say is, “Thank you. Thank you,” over and over as I stumble back through her house, now choked by its pristine perfection.

Outside, while she continues to shout for my attention, I gulp in the hot, thick air, taking comfort in the feel of the airborne grains on my skin.

“Nola?”

I hear his voice through the heat and have to hold my hand up to block the brightness of the sun to see him. Russ stands in front of the shop, closing the car door behind him. Pa’s truck is nowhere to be seen, making me think that somehow the plan has fallen through. For an instant, I think maybe we can hold on to everything exactly as we have. If nothing else, he is holding his arms out to me, welcoming, inviting, and a cool rush of strength sweeps through me.

He doesn’t know. He can’t, because no amount of godly grace would account for the quickened pace that brings him to meet me halfway across the street, take my hands, and guide me gently home.

“I missed you,” I say in answer to his question about the fervency of my embrace once we were safely inside the store. I’d launched myself into his arms before the bell above the door stopped ringing.

“I can see that.” A good-natured chuckle accompanies his comment. “I missed you too.”

“Don’t go away again?”

“Well, I don’t know. If I get this kind of reception . . .”

He brings me close and nuzzles my neck. My mind fills with questions.
What do you know? What did he say?
And the blessed answer.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Here he is, my daily bread, and I thank God for the nourishment of this moment.

“Jim should be here in a minute,” he says, pulling away with obvious reluctance. “Truck pulling a trailer moves a little slower, but I spotted him behind me as I was getting into town.”

“It’s all set, then?”

“All set.” He looks around the store, inviting me to do the same. It’s a ghost town, boxes stacked to varying height and depth, with nothing but empty floor space in between. “Hardly seems like a life’s endeavor, does it?”

“It was never what I wanted, being a shopkeeper’s wife.”

“Or a farmer’s wife.” He grins. “Or, truth be told, a preacher’s wife.”

I face him full-on. “I wanted to be
your
wife, whatever that meant. And I still do. You have to believe that. No matter what we lose.”

Before he can answer, the bell over the door rings, and I turn to see Jim, hat in hand.

“Mrs. Merrill,” he says, cool as cream, looking right at me as if the last time we saw each other wasn’t in dark, desperate embrace.

“Hello, Jim.” I trust myself with nothing beyond that greeting, and even wish I could swallow those words back. Were they too soft? Too intimate? Had I ever called him Jim in Russ’s presence before? The last
time I spoke to him, I had my lips against his skin, my fingers entwined in his hair, and I force myself to keep my hand pulled away from my mouth in an effort to keep that memory in place.

“Back door’s locked,” he says, as if apologizing for coming through the front. “So this is all of it?” He keeps his gestures close and tight.

“This is it,” Russ says, heaving a sigh that sinks his shoulders. “I’ll go upstairs and get Ronnie to come help us load.”

“I’ll go,” I say. “He might be out with friends. You two can start organizing a bit.”

Jim catches my eye, perplexing me with the sheer blankness of his stare. His look goes straight through me, piercing, like a spear through my core, pinning me in place. I imagine bits of my flesh peeling off and landing on the floor as I step away.

Upstairs, Pa is at the window. He turns when I arrive. “He’s here?”

“They are.”

“Got the truck runnin’.”

“Apparently.”

“Saw it turn the corner and go around the back.”

“Yes. I’m up here for Ronnie. It’s time to start loading. Perhaps you’d like to help?”

“Reckon I could.” Beneath the gruffness of his reply, I sense he is pleased to be useful.

“Where’s Ariel?”

“Taggin’ along after her brother. Tol’ him to check back in an hour.” He glances at the clock. “Might be quicker to wait than to wander off tryin’ to find him.”

“I’m sure he’s just a block over. Playing ball. Probably saw the car coming into town. I can just—”

“You can wait. Like I said. He’ll be back directly.”

Pa disappears through the kitchen door, and I listen to his slow, shuffling step down the stairs.

I exhale.

Once, when Ronnie was a very little boy, he dropped a small sack
of marbles on the floor, and they scattered and rolled in all directions, and the more we tried to gather them together, the more they clacked against one another, setting off in slow, straight trajectories behind furniture, under rugs, ricocheting off walls. I’d pick one up only to have it slip through my fingers while picking up another. I knocked them away with a touch of my foot, losing some forever.

That’s how I feel now. Over the course of such a short time, my life has been ripped open, everything I know and love dumped out. My affections and secrets dispersed and strewn about, every word poised to set off some dangerous reaction.

“Give me this day, Lord.” I repeat the prayer, though it gives no comfort. This day—this
afternoon
, maybe, should the weather hold—and I’ll chase down all those dangers. Gather them up before they roll away. Uncover what’s hidden. Everything neat and tidy again. Cinched up, safe.

It never occurred to me that he’d follow me upstairs. That he’d watch and calculate, knowing I’d be alone. So when he walks into the kitchen, just as he did that first night, and stops himself in the doorway, waiting to be beckoned, I feel the same flash of excitement, only now it is heightened by both fear and familiarity.

“You shouldn’t be up here,” I say, backing away though he is nowhere close.

“Apparently I shouldn’t be anywhere.”

“I mean it.” The words eke their way out of my pinched throat. “Go back downstairs.”

“I have to talk to you.”

“Please.” He is three steps in, and I find myself pleading to my own weakness. “Go.”

He holds his hand up in a gesture of peace. “I will. I promise. Just let me say that I’m sorry.”

“Stop.”

He moves closer.

“And I know there’s nothing I can do to ever make it right. But I promise you, I’ll never say a word to Russ.”

I fold my arms tight across my chest. “Why should I believe you?”

“Up to now, which of us is the liar?”

He touches my face and a shock runs through me—sharp, electric, and painful enough to make me yelp as if he slapped me. In reaction, I bring my hand to his cheek, my palm stinging with the contact, and for a moment it seems we might both catch fire on the spot.

“Go.” The syllable takes the last of my strength.

“Storm’s kickin’ up,” he says. “Won’t be safe enough to leave until tomorrow.”

The air crackles between us, the phenomenon stronger now with the earth so parched dry. I don’t dare move, knowing the next step, the next touch of
anything
—furniture or flesh—will crisp my nerves. The best thing to do is to stay still, to settle into the moment until the surrounding energy acclimates. Jim knows this too, because he turns into a portrait before me, and I stare into him, study him, unabashed and bold, as I would study any other work of art. The defined curl of the hair on his brow, the shadow of stubble on his chin, the pox scar at the top of his cheekbone. He studies me, too, our bodies moving together in breath the way they have before. I don’t need to touch him. I remember. I relive.

“Looks like I got here in the nick of time.” Merrilou Brown’s voice somehow cuts through the pounding sound of my own blood in my ears.

I glance around Jim’s shoulder to see her standing at my table, holding a wicker basket twice the width of her shoulders.

“In time?” I slide out from Jim’s gaze, telling him the glasses are in the cupboard to the left of the sink.

“Looks like we’re in for a whopper. And you might want to know that your kids made it in safe and sound downstairs.” She sets the hamper on the table. “Brought over enough dinner for all of us, if you don’t mind me and the mister joining you.”

“N-not at all. Of course, we’d love it.”

“Good.” She sends Jim, who calmly sips what will be the last of the good water for a while, a wink that only I can interpret as disapproving. And yet protective, like she is prepared to launch herself into battle
for my honor. She knows too. Just like Pa. But I feel no shame, only gratitude. “And,” she continues, taking out a stack of sandwich-shaped wax-paper bundles, “you’ll be glad to know, there’ll be enough left over to pack this one a meal for the road.”

They are gone in the predawn hours of the next day. Russ and I stand on the balcony overhanging the street and wave, his arm wrapped lightly around my waist.

“I’m still worried about Pa,” I say, never losing my hopeful smile.

Russ plants a reassuring kiss on my temple. “I’d say there’s nothing better for him. He’s almost back to his old self. Maybe stronger. And this will give us time to make some improvements in his room.”

I should say something about Jim, inquire whether Russ is going to miss his friend, maybe, or express some gratitude that Pa has a traveling companion for at least half of the journey. But I say nothing.

As soon as the truck and trailer turn the corner and disappear from view, Russ tugs at me to go back inside.

The children are asleep, and it’s easy to pretend that we have the small apartment to ourselves. Last night’s storm wasn’t nearly as volatile as we had anticipated, and working together, Russ and I have the kitchen pretty much clean before the coffee is ready.