On Shifting Sand (8 page)

JOB 7:4-6

  CHAPTER 5
  

T
HERE IS A DECEPTIVENESS
about life in a time of drought. Clear blue skies stretch like satin but hold no beauty. Clouds, rolling and gray in the distance, mock us, turning into rainless scraps of vapor before our very eyes. We feel thirst everywhere—our parched throats, of course, and the corners of our mouths. It seems, sometimes, that we are drying up from within. Our lungs rasp with every breath, our bones threaten to snap themselves to powder. There is not enough water to drink, to wash, to bathe. We are never quenched. We are never clean.

Russ, in all his sermons, reminds us that Jesus is the Living Water. And that all who come to him shall never thirst again. We might weep at the thought of such a thing, the coolness of his compassion, the refreshment of his mercy. But our eyes cannot make tears, so we nod and utter a dry amen, keeping our parched lips open for the smallest drop of grace.

This last storm took its toll on our town. In the weeks that follow, two more families pack what they can carry and drive away. I don’t see them, of course, but Merrilou Brown does, and she wastes no time bustling into the shop with the news.

“The Campbells?” She stretches on her toes, trying to bring herself closer to my ear, as if what she has to impart is some great secret. A meaningless gesture, as there isn’t a single customer. Only Ariel, playing log cabin by stacking sacks of chicken feed. “
Poof.
Let the bank take their house. Didn’t even lock the front door when they left.”

“How do you know?” I run an oiled rag over the gleaming counter. Every bit of our merchandise—what there is of it—might be covered with the film left by the storms, but I keep the counter polished to a mirrored shine.

“I was out walking Luther when they drove off. Before dawn, it was.”

“No, how do you know they didn’t lock their front door? Did they tell you that?”

She sinks back to her flat feet and gives me a look that is both innocent and mischievous. “I told them I’d keep an eye on their place.”

“Did you wait until sunrise?”

“They have some very nice things, you know.
She
came here from Chicago, so there’s lots of fanciness there. A couple of those—what do you call them? That you can put on the buffet to keep the food hot?”

“Chafing dish?”

“That’s it!” She snapped her twig-like fingers. “Silver plated. At least three of them. Thought they might do well for the next church supper. Only to borrow. Take ’em right back after.”

“Of course.”

“And the bank’s going to take everything anyway. Scrap it, most likely, what they can’t sell. And who are they going to sell it to? Mrs. Campbell would have sold it herself if she thought she could get a dime from any of us for it.”

“She didn’t even try.” The casual listener might think—by the tone of my voice—that I am a full conspirator, when in fact I find the glint in the eye of this diminutive pirate amusing. “Any jewels? Furs? Gold bricks buried in the back of the closet?”

“Oh, you.” She swats at my arm. “I just wanted you to know, in case there’s anything you need. Their little one’s about her age.” She cocks her head toward Ariel. “There’s a few nice toys. Might put them away for Christmas.”

“Thank you.” As if I would consider such a thing. I try to strike a note of finality strong enough to urge her out the door, but she seems to be dug in, ready to wait for me to link arms and accompany her on a scavenging expedition. I am about to come out from behind the counter to bring a friendly nudge toward the door, when the bell above it rings, and Jim Brace walks into the shop.

He hasn’t been here since the night of the storm, when he sat at my kitchen table with the rest of my family. Somebody once granted such a familiar privilege should not inspire the nervous fluttering I feel at his arrival. I grab the abandoned rag and begin rubbing the already too-clean counter. Merrilou catches my eye, looks at him, then back at me, questioningly. It’s not good business form to ignore a customer, not in days when one is so rare, but I count nearly thirty seconds gone, and none of us have said a word.

Finally Jim clears his throat. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Merrill.”

“Good afternoon.”

He looks much the same as he did that night, though somewhat roughened by the days spent away. His hair, if not longer, is less kempt. His skin, darker. And his clothes—the very same he’d worn to our dinner—crusted over with dirt.

“Is Russ around?”

He works just as hard to avoid my eyes as I do to avoid his, though neither of us can escape the crosshairs of Merrilou Brown.

She chirps, “Who is this?” looking at him, but talking to me.

His name sticks in my throat. I don’t trust myself to say it. In the
wake of my silence, however, Merrilou’s brows rise up above the rims of her spectacles.

“This is—” I tap my finger to my temple, as if in the throes of recollection—“Mr. Brace. James Brace.”

“Jim,” he says, and I repeat it, proving it to have no hold on me.

She holds her hand out in welcome. “Merrilou Brown.” She points to the empty sleeve. “Lost that in the war, did you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

When he smiles at her, warm and flirtatious, Merrilou giggles like a girl and compliments the strength of his grip.

“He’s Papa’s friend from college,” Ariel says from behind her feed-sack wall.

“Is that right? Well, any friend of Pastor Russ is a friend to all.” Merrilou, yet to take her hand away, gives me a quick glance for confirmation.

“Russ is visiting some folks,” I say, my tongue looser as it draws his attention. “I expect he’ll be back within the hour. You’re welcome to wait here.”

Ariel comes out from her structure complaining, “But, Mama, it’s lunchtime. You said . . .”

And I had, moments before Merrilou came in, that we would run upstairs for a bite and a story and a nap—though she would only acknowledge the first two. Now she is behind the counter and wrapped around my leg. I pat her head, telling her not to be rude, and fight my instinct to shake her off.

“Go ahead,” Jim says. “I can watch things down here, if you like.” He’s taken the opportunity of distraction to disengage from Merrilou’s grip.

“Is he working for you?” she asks, and somehow I know she’s planned out the rest of our conversation no matter what my reply.

“Not exactly.” I look at him. “Nothing official, anyway.”

“Just helping out when I can.” He speaks with the confidence of a truth long understood by all parties involved.

“Well, then,” Merrilou says, “I’ll leave you to it. Nice to meet you, Jim. And you, Nola—we’ll talk later? I saw a lovely glass punch bowl.”

Without waiting for a reply, she scuttles out of the shop. Jim looks at me, and Ariel tugs on my skirt.

“Go ahead.”

He releases me, and Ariel tugs harder.

“Thank you, Jim. If you need anything . . .” I gesture around the store. “If somebody comes in—”

“Mama, lunch.”

“It’ll be fine, ma’am.”

I hate how I bristle.
Ma’am.
The same as he called Merrilou, but for me the word has an intimate touch of irony. With final reassurances I take Ariel’s hand and lead her upstairs to our apartment. Once the door closes behind me, I lean against it, my head pounding.

“What—?” I clap my hand over my mouth.
What are you thinking?

Ariel pulls a loaf out of the bread box. I follow behind, bumping her gently aside with my hip as I take a knife from the drawer and instruct her to get the cheese out of the icebox. I hold the loaf steady against the countertop, but the hand with the knife shakes so, I hardly trust myself to slice it. The serrated blade grates against the crust, sending flakes and crumbs to the countertop. There was a time I’d take a damp cloth to wipe them up before even getting the sandwiches on the plate, but this afternoon I leave them, along with tiny remnants of cheese. I set the butter knife right in the midst before pouring a small glass of cold milk for Ariel and taking it to where she waits patiently at the table.

“Aren’t you gonna eat, Mama?”

I’ve left the second sandwich on the counter.

“No, baby.” I tell her I’m not hungry, which is easier than trying to explain the odd fullness in my stomach.

“Is it for Papa? Is he home?”

“No.” I answer her second question.

“Is that for Mr. Jim, then?”

“I suppose it could be. Now, no more talking ’til you’ve finished your lunch.”

In general, I tend to encourage conversation at mealtimes, trying
to school our children in its art should they ever have the opportunity to dine in a fine establishment. Once, when Ronnie was three years old, Russ and I went on a weekend away to a prayer gathering in Tulsa. We stayed in a fine hotel and had occasion to share the dinner table with other ministers and their wives, and I was appalled at some of the attendees’ inability to carry on an entertaining dialogue. Nothing beyond parables and the country’s moral decline.

Now, though, I need quiet, as my mind races with the ravings of a banshee. There is something new, yet familiar, about this tightening clot within me. Something equally detested and welcome, and I can only think of Lucifer in his finery, jeweled and beautiful and deadly.

Ariel hums as she eats, clearly in defiance of my instruction to be silent, because it isn’t a tune, but unvoiced talk, with all the inflection and rhythm of banter. She pauses as if listening to a reply, raises her eyebrows in reaction, and nods, shoving another bite of sandwich into her mouth.

“Who are you talking to?”

She puts a finger to her lips and hums what I’m sure are the words
It’s a secret.

“You shouldn’t keep secrets, girlie. It’s impolite.”

But I hardly get the words out, because I feel secrets sprinkling my thoughts, grabbing hold of my lips and tugging them into a half smile as I remember the evening spent around this very table, and how very schooled he was in the art of conversation. At ease with Ronnie, amiable with Russ, attentive to Ariel, and to me.

I remember every word of it. Everything he said, everything
I
said, though for myself I reshape my words, making them wittier. I knew the answer to the riddle before he even spoke it. The two of us shared a secret before we even met.

“The beginning of eternity, the end of time and space. The beginning of every end, and the end of every place.”

I adopt Ariel’s performance and hum the cadence of the phrases as I take her empty plate, give the crumbs a halfhearted swipe with the
bottom of my apron, and put the dish back in the cupboard. She drinks the rest of her milk and runs her arm across her lips, a habit I allow of late since we so rarely have clean, dry napkins lying about. Besides, straight from the table, she’ll go to the bathroom to tinkle and wash her face and hands before meeting me in her bedroom to read three selections from her
Children’s Book of Virtue and Verse
.

“I don’t wanna take a nap.” She is pouting, as she does every afternoon.

I point to the big hand on the small, round clock by her bed. “Watch it fall, slowly, slowly. Until it’s all tired out. When it touches this six on the bottom, come find me.” It is our normal routine, just to see if she needs to sleep. Some days she might come running with her clock, thirty minutes to the dot after I’ve left her side. Other days, more often than not, I check in to find her lost to sleep. The only constant is the fact that she must not leave her room. Nor her bed, since the day I checked in to find her playing with her paper dolls and took them away for two whole days.