Miracle in a Dry Season (15 page)

Y
OU
TALK
TO
P
ERLA
,” Casewell said to Robert. “She may not like this at first, but I’m betting she’ll come around.”

Robert gave him a thoughtful look. “Know her that well, do you? Well, I suspect you’re right. Delilah will get her to go along. Might not hurt if you asked her, too.”

“I doubt that’ll be necessary,” Casewell said.

But the next morning, as Casewell boxed up some dry goods and canned things his mother had left for him to add to the community food stores, the phone rang. It was Robert, saying that Perla refused to cook. “She says she’s caused enough trouble and suspicion around here, and she’s not inviting more gossip by cooking for the whole community. Neither Delilah nor I can budge her. You’d better come see what you can do.”

Casewell heaved the crate of food into the back of his truck and drove to the Thorntons’. He had no idea what to say and seriously doubted that he was the one to convince Perla of anything. Still, he found himself looking forward to talking to her.

She was sitting on the Victorian sofa in the parlor. Sadie sat on the floor, quietly arranging and rearranging the doll
furniture Casewell had made for her. The little girl grinned at him. He walked over and sat in a delicate side chair. He thought it might break. Perla sat with legs crossed, seemingly engrossed in watching her right foot as she jiggled it.

“Robert told me you won’t cook for folks.”

“Why should I? To give them more ammunition? I’ve hardly left this house in over a month just to avoid adding fuel to the fire. And now you want me to strike the match.”

Casewell thought she had a point. “I heard the Snowdens have just about run out of anything to feed their six kids. It’d be good of you to help, if only for the sake of those children.” Even as Casewell spoke, he felt that this wasn’t the right argument.

“Send the children to me,” she said. “I don’t owe their parents anything. They can stay home and go hungry.” A tear slid down her cheek.

Sadie came to lean on her mother’s leg and gazed up into her face. “Did they hurt your feelings, Mama?”

“Yes, sweetheart, but don’t you worry about it. I’m okay.” She cupped the child’s cheek in her hand.

“Aren’t you supposed to forgive people when they hurt your feelings?” Sadie asked.

Perla hung her head, and Casewell felt like he’d been hit with an electric shock. Perla had thanked him for forgiving her, but had he? Did he even have a right to? He suddenly wanted to fall to his knees and beg her to forgive him, but he wasn’t entirely sure what needed forgiving.
With what judgment ye judge . . .

“Perla, I . . .” Casewell began to speak. “I need to tell you something.” But he still didn’t know what it was.

“Yes?”

“I judged you,” he blurted. “I had no right to, but I did.” He
darted a glance at Sadie. “You’re a good mother and a good woman, and you have a remarkable gift that I think is from God. You said the other day that you felt like I had forgiven you. There’s nothing for me to forgive, but I think I need your forgiveness.”

Casewell hung his head and squeezed his eyes shut. He felt Sadie move to his side and lean against his knee. He opened his eyes and looked into the child’s.

“I love you, Mr. Casewell,” she said.

He looked up at Perla, who was crying softly but also smiling. She reached out to touch his cheek, and he felt peace fall on him softly, like rain.

Perla agreed to cook for the community, but only if Delilah, Robert, and Casewell helped. Casewell couldn’t imagine what help he would be, but he agreed. Somehow he thought he owed it to Perla.

Food had already begun arriving at the Thorntons’ store when the cooking crew showed up the next morning. Crates, boxes, sacks, and jars were stacked on the front porch, and people stood or sat on the porch and in the yard. It was quiet and there was a general atmosphere of unease.

Perla walked out ahead of her little group, chin up and eyes boring a hole in the front door of the store. She looked neither to the right nor to the left as she waited for Robert to open the door and usher her to the makeshift kitchen he’d set up in back.

“Bring me anything that will spoil first,” she said. “We’ll start with that.”

Not much more than an hour later, Casewell and Robert
began dishing out beef stew to anyone who was hungry. The hush that had met them when they arrived continued to hang in the air. Casewell could have sworn he saw one or two of the older ladies bob a curtsy as he ladled stew into their bowls. He and Robert had helped make beaten biscuits, pounding the dough after Perla’s arm gave out. Casewell wished folks would talk and laugh and make some noise, but he couldn’t find a way to get them started.

And then Frank showed up.

“I hear the best cook in the whole of West Virginia is dishing out a free supper,” he said, striding into the store. The silent, wild-haired drunk had been replaced by a dapper gent with a smile for everyone. “I could eat a bear, as Davy Crockett once said, and I aim to sample the victuals.”

People looked up in surprise, and Casewell could have sworn he saw a little fear on a few faces. But then smiles started to spread as Frank made his way to the stewpot and asked if there was an extra bowl lying about. Casewell filled one of his own handcrafted bowls and handed it over. Frank dipped two fingers into the stew and scooped out a bite. He closed his eyes.

“Lordy, manna from heaven wouldn’t taste half this good,” he said with a sigh. “’Course forty years of beef stew might get old, but I’d be willing to give it a shot.” He winked at Perla where she stood stirring a pot at the stove. She pushed strands of golden hair back from her perspiring forehead and gave Frank a tentative smile.

“I’ve eaten from your hand before, but I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced,” he said.

“This is my niece, Perla.” Robert came forward from where he’d been sitting on a keg of nails. “She’s spending some time with Delilah and me, and this evening she’s been kind enough
to tackle feeding this unruly crowd.” Robert nodded at the silent group gathered around the store.

Frank leaned in close to Robert and spoke in a stage whisper. “They’d best try and look like they’re enjoying this tasty grub, lest Miss Perla take offense and refuse to feed ’em anymore. The gods on Mount Olympus might get tired of ambrosia, but I sure could eat this stew another night or two before givin’ it up.”

George Brower was sitting not far off, and he quirked a smile. “You ever hear tell about Joe Cutright’s old dog Sloomer? The dog what ate a whole bucket of pig slop afore anybody noticed?”

Robert grinned. “Seems like I mighta heard that one, but Frank here probably ain’t. Go ahead and tell it.”

And with that, the whole lot of them were off and telling stories, eating more stew, raving over the biscuits, and laughing until their sides hurt. Even Perla began to smile as folks came around to thank her for cooking and to compliment her on the food. Casewell felt something ease deep inside him. Maybe it would be all right after all.

But the next morning things were far from all right. In the night someone had slipped up on the porch of the Thorntons’ store and painted a pentagram in whitewash across the front door. A cardboard sign hung from the knob. It read, “I am against you,” declares the Lord Almighty. “All because of the wanton lust of a harlot, who enslaved you by her witchcraft.”

As soon as he got to the store, Robert called Casewell, and the two men did their best to scrub away the evidence before anyone saw it. But news traveled fast, and they were only half-done when a crowd began to gather. Pastor Longbourne soon
made his way to the porch steps. He stood with one foot on the ground and one two steps up. He leaned on his knee and considered the work being done.

“Washing it away won’t change anything, son,” he said to Casewell. “Sin is sin, and it will always come to light.”

Casewell ignored him as he worked at the stain.

“These good people”—Longbourne waved an expansive arm at the crowd that had gathered—“don’t need the help of an evil idolater to see them through these difficult times. God will see them through.”

Casewell suddenly had a vision of himself standing in the crowd behind the preacher. He saw himself nodding along with what Longbourne said, agreeing and condemning without hesitation. He saw himself judging Perla Long to perdition for sins no worse than his own.

Turning, scrub brush still in his hand, Casewell glared at Longbourne. The pastor returned the look for a moment and then stepped back, putting both feet on the ground. Casewell stepped forward. He felt Robert place a hand on his arm, but he shook it off. He had no idea what he meant to do until he stood on the edge of the porch. He looked at the group of people, holding one eye and then another until no one would meet his gaze.

“‘Judge not, that ye be not judged. For with what judgment ye judge, ye shall be judged.’” Casewell turned his back and resumed scrubbing.

“Don’t you spout Scripture at me, boy,” yelled Longbourne. “God has turned His back on Wise just as surely as He did on Sodom or Gomorrah. We must root out the evil if we have any hope of winning God’s favor.” The pastor stood, chest heaving. Then he raised an arm and pointed a bony finger at Casewell.
“Spellbound, that’s what you are. You and anyone who’s eaten from that witch’s hand.”

There were gasps from the people standing about—most of whom had enjoyed Perla’s stew the day before. Longbourne turned to those standing behind him. “Repent,” he cried. “Go forth and sin no more. Do not partake of this evil again.”

People began drifting away, and Casewell knew that within fifteen minutes the entire community would be aware of what had just happened at the Thorntons’ store. After the previous day’s success, they had invited everyone to come back for a noon meal. Perla was due to arrive and begin cooking in about an hour. Casewell had a bad feeling.

12

C
ASEWELL
WAS
PACING
ALONG
THE
PORCH
when Perla arrived, walked inside, and tied on an apron. She began making pastry, mixing, lightly kneading, and rolling out piecrusts.

“I thought we’d have chicken pie today,” she said to Casewell. “There’s canned meat and plenty of vegetables. This flour and lard should stretch far enough to feed a crowd.”

“There may not be a crowd.” Casewell stood back, as though Perla might lash out at him if he got too close.

“Because of the preacher?” she asked. “Because of the hateful things out front this morning?”

“Well, yes. How did you—?”

“Oh, Casewell. There were half a dozen women just itching to tell me what was painted on the door and printed on that sign. I was pretty upset when I heard.”

“But you came down here, anyway.” Casewell’s confusion mounted.

“Yes. You said something to me. You said that I have a remarkable gift from God.” Perla stopped rolling out dough and
leaned on the table, head down. “For a lot of years I considered this ability a curse. I hid it as much as I could. When people did notice, it usually brought me grief. It never occurred to me that this . . .” She hesitated, searching for the right word and finally giving up. “That this thing I can do with food could be a blessing. There are folks who will scorn me and abuse me, but I think it’s my duty—my calling—to feed the hungry. The only thing that would be worse than what happened out front this morning would be my refusing to use my gift to help people.”