Miracle in a Dry Season (10 page)

“Drought,” Dad intoned, as if he were about to launch into a great speech. His eyes were a little glassy. “Gonna be a terrible drought. I can feel it in my bones. Could be the end of us all.” He turned crazy eyes on Casewell. “Not just me—all of us.”

“Well, now, you never know.” Mom slid a plate with three eggs, sausage, and biscuits in front of Casewell. She set a plate with just one egg in front of Dad, as if she were trying not to draw attention. Then she fetched her own plate and joined the men at the table.

Casewell began to eat. He hoped his father would follow the example, and he did for three bites. Then he pushed his plate away and stood to look out the window. “A great drought. Like when Joseph predicted seven years of lean. A biblical drought.”

Casewell felt a chill crawl down his spine. His father spoke like some kind of prophet, though Casewell assumed it was the cancer eating at his mind and his well-being. Something like that would make anyone go dark and gloomy.

“We’ll be all right, I reckon,” Casewell said. “The creek has never gone completely dry, and the wells around here are plenty deep. It’s just a dry spell. We have ’em most every year.”

His father returned to the table and finished his egg and biscuit. Then he got up and went to sit on the porch and smoke.

“At least he ate,” Emily said. “I haven’t been able to get him to eat anything for two days. And when he talks like that, it’s all I can do to stay in the room.”

“It’s all right, Mom.” Casewell put his large, calloused hand
over his mother’s. “If you didn’t get a little out of sorts, I’d wonder about you.”

“That’s just it.” Emily turned frightened eyes on her son. “The dying I can stand. It’s this crazy talk that’s wearing me out. I try to talk sense to him and he gets angry. So angry. But leaving him alone isn’t enough, either. He somehow wants me to be with him in his crazy talk. He wants me to talk back, and I have no idea what to say.”

“Maybe you should just listen and agree. Maybe he just wants someone to hear him.”

“Don’t we all,” Emily sighed. “Don’t we all.”

8

T
HE
JOY
AND
FELLOWSHIP
the people of Wise felt the night of the barn dance began to fade as day after day of cloudless skies brought worries of drought. Summer seemed too much too soon as temperatures climbed and the sun beat down without mercy. Casewell had been to the Talbots’ to carry water three times, and he hauled barrels of water to his parents’ house to try to keep their garden going. Each time he pulled up to the edge of the garden with his sloshing cargo, his father watched from the porch.

“I’d help you, son,” he said, “but it won’t do no good.” Then he laughed and slapped his thigh. He’d never been one for jokes, and his laughter sounded eerie to Casewell.

By the middle of June, the creek at the Talbots’ dwindled to a trickle. Dead fish stank initially, but soon they were so desiccated hardly any smell remained. The pond Casewell dipped from to water his parents’ garden was little more than sludge and dying frogs. Gardens withered and folks were uneasy.

Talk at the Thorntons’ store grew gloomy. Locals quoted the book of Revelation and talked about end times. The farm
community suffered, and as a result, fewer folks shopped at the store. No one ordered Casewell’s handiwork, and a general feeling of doom hung around like dust over a dirt road on a still day.

That Sunday the congregation murmured and shifted, uneasy in the hard pews. Casewell couldn’t get comfortable, and Pastor Longbourne’s voice seemed to drone in a way that made it hard to understand the words. Then, near the end of the service, Pastor Longbourne mentioned the dry spell.

“We are facing a drought,” the pastor said, gripping the sides of the pulpit. “Gardens are dying, crops are failing, cattle will soon be hungry. We must pray. But it isn’t enough that we pray individually. We must pray collectively. The church will be open every day this week, and I expect to see every one of you here to pray that God will rain His blessings down upon us.

“And not only must we pray, we must also repent. In Deuteronomy chapter eleven, verses sixteen and seventeen, you will find the words, ‘Take heed to yourselves, that your heart be not deceived, and ye turn aside, and serve other gods, and worship them; and then the Lord’s wrath be kindled against you, and he shut up the heaven, that there be no rain, and that the land yield not her fruit; and lest ye perish quickly from off the good land which the Lord giveth you.’”

Pastor Longbourne’s voice softened as he finished reciting the Scripture. He suddenly released the pulpit and brought both fists down on the Bible that always lay open there. The crack of the impact reverberated through the now-hushed church.

“There are sinners among us,” he said. “There are those among us who have turned aside from the Lord our God, and His wrath has been kindled against us. Repent. Repent and pray. It is our only hope.”

Normally the congregation would sing a closing song and
receive a benediction before moving into the churchyard to visit with one another. But on this Sunday, Pastor Longbourne made a slashing motion through the air in front of his face. “Go,” he said. “Eat your Sunday dinner, spread your gossip, and watch your future wither and die on the vine. As for me, I will pray.” The pastor moved to the side of the pulpit and carefully lowered himself to his knees. Those in the front pews could hear the crack and pop of his joints. He clasped his hands and began to pray softly, under his breath, his voice rising and falling like the humming of a hive.

At first the congregation sat slightly stunned, as if afraid to move. Then a few eased to the front of the church or out into the aisles to kneel and pray. Even the children sensed the need to remain quiet and still. Longbourne’s individual hum soon doubled, then tripled, with the occasional punctuation of “Amen” or “Yes, Lord.”

Casewell had never seen anything like this. His mother leaned forward next to him, her forehead resting on her folded hands on the back of the pew in front of her. Some cried, some begged, and some raised their hands in the air. One even lay down in the aisle. Casewell bowed his head and tried to pray for rain, tried to pray for forgiveness of his sins, although he had a hard time saying exactly what his sins were. He felt his father stir beside him and looked up.

Dad stood and made his way to the front of the church. He looked down at Pastor Longbourne and then turned his gaze across the congregation. “Fools,” he bellowed. “You are fools to believe that God will hear and forgive. God does not forgive. God punishes—He weakens and shames and taunts you with your shortcomings. There will be no rain. God does not care for any of you.”

He limped down the aisle to the door. As he passed, Casewell thought he heard his father mumble, “Nor does He care for me.”

Even after Dad’s outburst, many in the church stayed to fast and pray. Others took the opportunity to slip out and go home. Mom looked torn, so Casewell told her he thought they should find his father and go to the house. She nodded and they found Dad smoking a cigarette in back of the church. He remained quiet the rest of the afternoon, as if he had used up any energy he had spreading despair.

That evening in his own home, Casewell fell to his knees and prayed that God would forgive his sins, whatever they might be, and stop punishing the people he loved. He prayed that his father would find that the cancer had been a mistake, that his mother would have the security of a healthy husband, and that the community would have rain. Casewell begged God to bring relief to the people around him. “Not for my sake, Lord,” Casewell breathed, “but for theirs.”

That night Casewell dreamed that his father was cured and, as a result, became cruel and miserable. He dreamed that his mother cried at the news of his father’s good health. He dreamed that rain came and floods washed all the crops away. The people he loved most turned on him, called him names, and said that their problems were his fault. Perla appeared carrying a casserole dish that she placed in front of Casewell. She handed him a spoon. “Eat it,” she said. “This is for your sake.”

Casewell woke in a cold sweat and thought for a moment he might be sick. The nausea passed, though, and he lay for a long time staring at the ceiling, trying to think of what he
wanted to say to God. He finally fell asleep again, still trying to form the words of a prayer.

A few days later, Casewell stopped by the Thorntons’ store to pick up a few groceries. His mother kept him well stocked, but he needed coffee and sugar. Robert and Delilah were talking quietly in the back when he came in. Delilah moved toward the front counter.

“What can I get you?” she asked.

“Coffee, sugar, and how about a wedge of that hoop cheese, there. Oh, and a box of saltines.”

Delilah gathered the few things and began ringing them up. “Guess you’ve heard that some folks have yet to leave the church after Sunday’s service,” she said.

“No, I hadn’t heard. But the preacher said he’d keep the church open all week. Guess some folks took him serious.”

Robert drifted forward while Casewell and Delilah spoke. “Some folks say it’s like when the disciples tried to cast out a demon and couldn’t do it,” he said. “Jesus told them it couldn’t be done but by fasting and prayer. I, for one, don’t understand how that’ll help, but who knows? Seen any clouds this morning?”

Casewell stepped to the door and scanned the sky. “Clear,” he said.

“Those poor people must be half-starved by now,” Delilah said. “Fasting is one thing, but starving yourself is just foolish. I feel like I ought to take some food over there, but, well,” she looked uneasily from Robert to Casewell.

“What my wife is trying to say is that business has been mighty slow lately. Crops aren’t looking so good and folks have started cutting back. We’re barely selling the necessities, much less anything that could be called a luxury. Shoot, even
coffee sales are down.” Robert slapped the sack of beans on the counter in front of Casewell. “We don’t have as much to spare as we once did, and from the looks of things, I’m not feeling too confident about the future.”

Just then Perla stepped through the door with Sadie trailing along behind her. She carried a large pot that looked heavy. “Delilah, I hope it’s all right that I made a pot of beans to run over to the church,” she said. “And I’ve got a couple of cakes of corn bread back at the house if one of you would run get it. I figured to take it over so those that want to eat can do it.”

Delilah blushed. “I’m so glad you thought to do that, Perla. I’ll get the corn bread, but what will people eat from?”

Casewell gave a start. “Business has been slow,” he said. “I’ve taken to making wooden bowls from scraps. I must have twenty or so stacked up in the workshop.”

“Well, fetch ’em and meet us at the church,” Delilah said. “We’ll see about feeding the hungry masses.”

Not long after, Casewell found himself handing bowls of creamy beans and hunks of corn bread out to his neighbors and friends at the church. A few refused, saying they would continue to fast, but most accepted the food gratefully and ate it with relish. Soon, folks who hadn’t been at the church got word the Thorntons were hosting a bean supper and began drifting in—some bringing their own bowls. Casewell sighed when he saw the crowd swelling. They would run out soon and people would be disappointed.

But Perla kept dishing up beans and breaking off pieces of bread until the fifty or so who had come had been fed. Those who finished first rinsed their bowls in a tub Robert had hauled over and handed them to the next in line.

As the crowd dwindled, Casewell looked up to see Frank
Post drift in the door. It was probably the first time he’d set foot inside the church since coming home in 1930. His thick, wavy hair had gone entirely white and stood at odd angles from his head. Casewell saw the old man glance around and try to smooth his wild hair into place. His face wore creases and lines that suggested he’d spent much of his life laughing in the sun—though he wasn’t laughing now. He was almost painfully thin, and his blue-gray eyes were soft and tired like faded flowers.