Miracle in a Dry Season (14 page)

The days flew by and Casewell hardly left the workshop except to eat and sleep. On Saturday his father rolled into the yard in his pickup in the middle of the afternoon, bringing the now ubiquitous dust cloud with him.

“Your ma done sent me to fetch you home to supper,” he said when Casewell walked toward the truck. “She called, but you ain’t been answering your phone.”

Casewell had noticed that not only did his father curse occasionally now, but that his way of speaking was less careful. His father prided himself on not sounding like a country bumpkin and had always insisted Casewell avoid slang and poor grammar. Was this a symptom of cancer? he wondered.

“I’ve been working pretty hard lately, but I’m glad you’re here. I could use a break, and I haven’t been around to your place enough lately. I haven’t even carried water to the garden this week.”

“No need,” Dad said. “Waste of time trying to fight this drought. I was hoping you’d give up. If you haven’t, I’d recommend it.”

Casewell thought he’d do well not to answer that. “Let me wash up and put on a clean shirt.”

“I ain’t going nowhere,” Dad said, slouching in the driver’s seat.

Casewell looked at his father a moment, but he just sat there, hat pulled low over his eyes. Casewell waited, not knowing for what, and when nothing else was forthcoming he went into the house. What had he been waiting for? He thought a moment. Ah, he had expected to see his dad pull out some tobacco and roll a cigarette. He couldn’t remember the last
time he’d seen him waiting for even two minutes without a cigarette between his lips.

After changing, Casewell walked out and swung into the truck beside his father. The pervasive smell of cigarette smoke was missing. Maybe he’d forgotten his makings at the house. He opened his mouth to ask about it and then decided not to.
Let it lie,
he thought.
Let it lie.

When they pulled into the side yard, Casewell felt a little shocked to see how wilted the garden was. The corn was stubby; the bush beans were a sickly yellow and drooped to the ground; the squash leaves that should have been huge and shading delicate blossoms were small and sagged heavily over just a few clenched yellow flowers. He stood and stared.

Dad walked past Casewell. “Come on, son. All that water you hauled was a waste of time. Roots are shallow and plants are stunted. No need to waste any more time with that.”

“But it hasn’t been that long since I was here last. I thought the garden would hold up at least until today,” Casewell said.

“Even a truckload of water won’t save some of that stuff.” Dad patted his pocket and seemed surprised to find it empty. “If it started raining tonight and rained good the rest of the summer, most of the garden would still be shot.” He turned and let his eyes follow the fence line across the road where cattle grazed the parched field. “Can’t make up the missed cuttings of hay. Can’t make dead plants come back to life. Cattle gotta eat and so do we.” He turned cool eyes on his son. “Hard times are coming. Makes dying seem a little easier.”

Casewell felt frustration rise in the back of his throat like bile. He wanted to tell his father he was wrong. It would rain. The crops would be saved. The cattle would thrive and he would
not die. But Casewell knew words wouldn’t change anything. He knew his father was most likely right.

Supper that night was a solemn meal. Mom tried to make conversation and act cheerful, but even she had run out of sunlight by the time she dished up last summer’s canned peaches for dessert.

“Not many of these left,” she said, spearing a golden crescent of fruit. “I was counting on that tree over behind the cellar house making a good harvest. The way it was covered in blossoms this spring was a sight to behold. But the fruit is small and hard—wormy, too. I’m afraid I won’t be able to salvage much to put up for winter.”

“Mom.” Casewell laid down his fork and looked hard at his mother. “Will you be able to get by if you don’t have anything to put up this year? No green beans to can, no tomatoes or peaches, no potatoes to put in the root cellar. What will you and Dad have left come January?”

His father snorted. “Don’t count on me needing anything to eat come January.”

Emily shot her husband a stern look and turned to Casewell. “Well, son, I suppose we’ll have enough to get along. I always put up way more than we need, so there’s some to tide us over. And I imagine I’ll get something out of the garden so long as it rains in the next week or so. No need to worry yet.”

“It ain’t gonna rain.” Dad spoke the words harshly and stood, slamming his chair into the wall behind him. He glared at his wife and son and then went into the living room and slouched in a chair, where he stared at nothing.

Tears welled in Mom’s eyes. Casewell couldn’t stand to see his mother cry like this. “Mom, it’s okay,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm.

She placed her hand on top of Casewell’s. “No, son, it’s not. My orchard is dying, my garden is nearly dead, and my husband is eager to follow them.” She looked at Casewell. “He doesn’t want to live anymore. Medicine can’t fight that.” Tears began to run down her cheeks. “Love’s the only thing that can fight it, and he’s hardened his heart against me.”

Casewell drew his mother into his arms and let her cry, fearing at any moment he would break under the weight of her grief. He knew his father’s heart had hardened against him a long time ago.

Casewell was so absorbed by his work that he paid little attention to what was happening in the community over the next few weeks. But as the dog days of August approached, the drought became so dire no one could remain oblivious to it. Cattle were chewing on twigs and eating ivy, and there wasn’t a farmer in the county with even one bale of hay remaining in his barn. Housewives raided cellar stores as gardens wasted away. Everything was coated in dust, and creeks had been reduced to dry rocks.

On a Tuesday, Casewell stood back to admire the bed he had wrought with his own two hands. The headboard was six-feet high, and both it and the footboard bloomed with roses. The wood had been sanded and polished to a high sheen. He ran his hand across the curve of the footboard and traced a rose with his finger. It was lovely and he felt a swell of pride. Suddenly he wanted to show the bed to Perla more than anything. He wanted her to admire it, touch it, and exclaim over its workmanship. But of course she would never see it. Casewell had made the bed for his parents, and it would be inappropriate to show a bed, of all things, to a single woman.

He shook the feeling and turned his attention to the tea table beside it. He was proud of his work there, too. The tray clicked into the top smoothly, making it easy to lift out and carry from room to room. The inlay was intricate but not gaudy. He thought it would somehow suit Liza Talbot, who managed to be dignified and homey at the same time. Not like her sister, who had always struck Casewell as a little stuck-up—a little too formal with everyone who crossed her path.

Casewell sat and looked at his work. Satisfaction spread through him. This was the kind of thing he had been made to do. Playing music pleased him, and most any work he could do with his hands satisfied, but this shaping of wood into useful and beautiful objects—this was what God intended for him to do. At one time, Casewell had thought God would have a grander plan for his life, but it seemed like woodworking was to be his lot. And that was just fine.

As he walked outside, Casewell felt like he was waking up from a deep sleep. He looked around at what was suddenly an alien landscape. He realized that the grass in the yard was brown, and there were bare spots of nothing but dirt. Some of the trees had lost their leaves, and those that remained looked sad and shriveled. A stand of pines close to the road was coated in a layer of dust, as was the mailbox. And it was hot. The sun beat down on the cracked earth, and Casewell noticed an absence of birdsong. He had emerged from his work into a wasteland. Fear rose in him, a foreboding tide that somehow seemed greater than the drought they were facing.

Casewell walked down to the Thorntons’ store. He went with the pretense of buying something for his supper, but he also
hoped he would hear the latest news. He wasn’t disappointed. He walked into the store and found George, Steve, and some other men gathered around the counter, talking in low voices.

“Hey, fellers,” Casewell said, “what’s the news?”

“Not good,” George said. “Word is some cattle down toward Indian Ridge have died for lack of water. Creeks are dried up, ponds are nothing but bottom muck, and even the springs are giving out. Most of us around here have deep wells, but we’re gonna have to use those for our own selves.” He shook his head and looked at the toe of his scuffed boot. “It ain’t good.”

Roger spoke next. “Some folks are getting low on food, too. Not everybody stocks a cellar the way your ma does. Shoot, even Robert here is running short on stuff.”

Casewell looked around the store and saw that shelves were thinly stocked. “Why don’t you get more stuff in here?” he asked Robert.

“Nobody’s got money to buy anything, and my local suppliers are hard up. I’ve called more than sixty miles around trying to get some fruit or vegetables, and everybody’s been hit hard by the drought. I’ve got some canned stuff, but like I say, nobody’s got money for it, and it costs extra to bring things in from so far.”

The men shifted uneasily and looked at each other’s shoes. “What are we going to do?” Casewell asked.

“Just what we’ve been discussing,” George said. “We were thinking it might be good to pool our resources, bring supplies down here to the store, and feed the whole community that way.”

“I’ve been saying we need to let Perla do the cooking,” chimed in Robert. “She’s got a way with food, makes it stretch further than you’d think.”

The men looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know as my wife would eat what Perla cooked,” Roger said slowly. “I don’t mind myself.” His eyes darted from face to face. “But some of the women seem to think there’s something strange about that one.”

“Are you men?” Casewell asked more loudly than he planned, but he didn’t soften his tone. “Are you going to let the women bully you out of letting the best cook in the county stretch what food we’ve got to feed the whole town? Maybe there is something a little different about Perla Long, but I say we treat it like a gift, not a curse. We’re in a fix here and I, for one, aim to do what it takes to get through.”

As Casewell spoke, the men seemed to stand a little straighter—to stick their chests out a little further. One of them said, “They’re probably just jealous because she can cook and she’s easy on the eyes. Can’t let that sway us.”

There were nods of agreement and soon a general consensus was reached. They would go out and suggest to their neighbors and families that they bring everything they had down to the Thorntons’ store and start a community kitchen. Robert said he’d haul his stove and Frigidaire over so they could set up a work area in the back of the store, where there was already a deep sink for cleaning. They made tables out of crates and some old doors Robert had stacked out back, and soon they were ready to put their plan into motion.

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