On Shifting Sand (17 page)

I
DRIVE HOME, SOMEHOW,
watching the road beyond the white-knuckle peaks of my grip on the steering wheel. Beside me, Ariel babbles incessantly to the kitten, leaving me guiltily grateful for the small creature. Had I been alone, I might have cried, but every time I feel the threat of tears, I imagine having to give an explanation, and they turn to frost within me.

For a brief moment—well, for a mile, at least—I consider the possibility of staying in the car. Driving forever. Through the year past, I’ve been watching friends and neighbors drive away, never to be seen again, and I know no reason why Ariel and the kitten and I couldn’t do the same. After all, haven’t I lost two homes in the course of an afternoon? Behind me, Pa’s farm, the place of my memories, no matter how bitter, is as good as lost to the bank. The kiss I shared in his kitchen—the first of such a thing to occur there—has killed a bit of the home that lies ahead. The three of us barrel somewhere in between. Lost.

“What kind of a cat did you say it was, Mama? California?”

“Calico,” I correct absently.

“Calico,” she repeats, stretching each syllable. “What shall we name it?”

“That’s up to you, sweetie.”

“I’m going to name it Barney, because it came from a barn.”

It strikes me as funny, and I relish the small laugh. “That’s a boy’s name.”

“Maybe it’s a boy kitten.”

“No, she’s a she. Boys don’t come in that color.”

“Why not?”

I shrug. “The way it is. The way God decided.”

“I’m still going to name her Barney, because that’s where she came from. And where you come from is what you are. That’s what Paw-Paw says.”

“It is, indeed.” And I hear nothing else for the rest of the drive.

Home.

I bring the car around to the alley, park it, and instruct Ariel to entrust the kitten to me so she can carry her paper dolls inside. Somewhere in the store, I say, we must have a shallow crate to make a sandbox.

Her eyes go wide. “What for?”

I wink. “You’ll see. We’ll send Ronnie out to dig some up for us.”

“Because it’s everywhere?”

“Because it’s everywhere.”

She hands the tiny creature over to me and my hand closes around its body. We walk into the store together through the back door, Ariel with instructions to go right upstairs, change her dress, and wash her hands and face. The instant her foot hits the first step, I set the kitten on the floor and watch, mesmerized by its slow, cautious movement.

“New addition to the family?”

Russ’s voice gives me such a start, he gets only a strangled gasp for a reply. He stands behind the counter, three ledgers open in front of him, taking a handful of coins from Merrilou Brown in exchange for a new set of gardening shears. It is a purchase born of pity, as none of us have
anything to cut down, but she is faithful to buy at least one small item at intervals regular enough to measure.

My eyes fix on my husband, and my heart nearly bursts with the irrational relief that he is actually
here
. As if my betrayal could have made him disappear. Every ounce of essence within me swarms with grains of confession, and I know only his embrace can bind me. Return me to something solid and true. Heedless of my neighbor’s watchful eye, I run to him, throwing myself into his surprised arms.

“Hey, there.” He sounds cautiously amused, but he holds me tight against him, one hand steady on my back, the other buried in my hair. I cry hot tears into his strong shoulder. He makes soft, deep hushing sounds, and then I feel more than hear him tell Merrilou that he is sure everything is all right before wishing her a nice day.

Whatever she says is lost to the rushing in my ears, but the sharp ding of the bell above the door rings through. Russ doesn’t let go. Not even a bit, and with each breath, I feel closer to being whole.

“You’ve been out to your dad’s?”

“Mm-hmm.” I’m not ready, yet, to open my mouth or show my face.

“The house. Is it worse? I thought Jim wouldn’t mind trying to clean it up a bit. See what we could salvage.”

I pull away, just enough to speak, but keep my eyes trained on the floor. “No, it’s not that. He—Jim—actually did a fine job.” There, I didn’t burst into fire at the saying of his name.

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t even know where to start.”

Russ steps back and grips my shoulders. “Nola.” The power of his voice forces my eyes to meet his, blue and open as a promise. “It’s over, isn’t it?”

So many answers race through my mind. Yes, it’s over, my facade of being a good and worthy woman. Yes, it’s over, this dangerous journey, this trap. And it ended badly, and I should never have gone there alone, but it’s over. Never again. Not a moment. Just forgive me, please. Forgive me.

I don’t know how long it takes me to realize he’s been talking during my unspoken revelation, but bits and pieces begin to make their way through. Two growing seasons without a crop. Anywhere. The last of his cattle sold for a dollar a head and killed. Even the babies. Nothing left in the land or in the barn. Nothing but walls, dirt, and taxes.

A new, open door.

“Wh—what are you saying?”

“Your pa’s farm. He’s lost it, hasn’t he?”

I’d dropped my handbag on the counter in my haste to unite with my husband, and without releasing myself from his touch, I reach for it. With shaking hands I pull out the gritty bundle of papers. “It’s all here.”

Russ takes them from me, and I stand back to watch him set each document side by side on top of the already-cluttered counter. “Tax bills . . . extensions . . .” He wraps an arm around my waist and draws me close. “Looks like there’s nothing left to do. It’s gone, darling.”

“That’s not possible. He owns that farm outright. No mortgage.” He’s always been so proud of that.

“You know that’s not enough.”

“But what is he going to do?”

Russ leans in, kisses my temple. “He always has a place here.”

“In a storeroom?”

“We’ll see what more we can do. Knock down a wall, maybe. Put in a proper washroom. Make it something better.”

I allow myself to get caught up in that vision. All of my family—save my brother—gathered under one roof. My father, dependent on me, humbled to a place where he would have to accept my husband. Perhaps the blowing sand will chip away the sharp edges, softening him to be the man I’ve always needed.

“But then,” I say, as the vision becomes more clear and complete, “how could we possibly keep the store? It’s one thing to have our family upstairs, but we couldn’t very well conduct business . . .”

As I speak, Russ looks away, and not even my most intentional maneuvering brings me back into his line of vision. This, my confirmation that
he is hiding something too. Just like Jim said. A measure of my own burden lifts, and I take my first shaky step on an undeserved higher ground. In this moment lives a mutually acknowledged deceit, and I invite it into the light with a single word.

“Russ?”

“Honestly, Nola. How much business are we doing? Merrilou’s been our only customer all day.”

“Times are hard for everybody.”

“But we’re sinking, darling. Deeper than anyone should have to. People can’t afford to buy, and we can’t afford to give it away. Less stock to feed, no crops, no rain, and everybody picking off the bones of what others leave behind.”

“It can’t be that bad. We’re still here.”

“It’s that bad. We’re owed thousands of dollars.”

“These are good people, Russ. They’ll pay when they can.”

“Not if they’re gone. Every time someone comes in here and walks out with anything, it’s money walking out the door. And our creditors don’t care. It’s all blowing out from under us. We’re wise men who didn’t know we were building our house on shifting sand.” This he says with the sweet smile he gets whenever he can take a clever twist on Scripture.

“So, wise man.” I touch his face with the backs of my fingers, hoping to send comfort and assurance, seeing he is consumed with nervousness at what he is about to say. There would, after all, come a time when I would be dependent on such grace. “On what rock are you going to build?”

“No more building.” He gathers up the stack of my father’s papers and sets them aside, revealing to me a vast array of lists and numbers, and one particular clipped bundle of papers with neatly typed columns. “This is what Jim’s been working on, this whole time. A complete inventory of everything we have. Down to the number of nails.”

“Minus one set of gardening shears?” I ask.

“Exactly.”

“And then what?”

He closes his eyes, gathering his thoughts, and blows out one long breath before opening them again. “I haven’t been exactly honest with you, Nola.”

I lean in, touch his arm, prepared to forgive whatever he will say.

“There’s been times, a few in the past weeks, when I haven’t exactly been gone on church business. Not the whole time, anyway. I went to the school and used their mimeograph to make some copies, then into the library in Boise City to look up addresses . . .”

He speaks in snippets, making it hard for me to follow what he is confessing to, or how I should react.

“Russ, what are you saying, exactly?”

“I’ve been trying to find a buyer.”

“For the store?” My resolve to forgive falters. “This is not your decision to make. Not alone. This belongs to us—my brother and me—left to us by our uncle. This belongs to my
family
.”

“I am your family.”

“Of course you are.” Another touch, this time with a reassuring squeeze, to make up for the fact that twice today, in so many hours, I’d abandoned such loyalty. “I’m thinking more along the lines of the names on the papers. This all still belongs to Greg, doesn’t it? Shouldn’t he be the one to decide to sell?”

“It’s just the inventory. I’m trying to find someone who will buy us out. Everything in one purchase. A reasonable price, too. Enough to satisfy what’s owed to us by our neighbors, and give us a little left to live on.”

“And then?” As idyllic as the fantasy of setting up house with my reformed father in an apartment downstairs might be, even better is the idea of leaving Featherling altogether, free from this millstone. Away from gossipy women and whatever fodder I might generate for them to gossip about.

“And then, what?”

“Where do we go?”

“Go?” He looks genuinely confused. “Why, we don’t go anywhere.
There’s still the church. I couldn’t just leave. Now when so many people are hurting.”

“Doesn’t seem like anybody else is willing to do you the same courtesy.”

“I’ll stay until I’m called by God to do otherwise. That’s what I signed up for when I became a minister. What if every preacher left his post because things got a little rough? These are my people. My family.”

“I am your family.” I try to match his tone.

“You’re my wife. If I stay, we stay.”

We are distracted then by the appearance of little Barney, clawing her way up Russ’s pant leg. He winces at the digging of her tiny razorlike claws and plucks her off somewhere below his knee. “Care to explain this?”

“Ariel wanted her.”

“Ah.” It is enough. Our daughter rarely doesn’t get what she’s set her mind to, if it’s within our means to grant it.

I pick up the typed list and run my fingers down the evidence of Jim’s handiwork. Perfect, precise entries. “This is everything?”

“Everything.”

“Have you found a buyer yet?”

“Not yet.” He hesitates long enough for me to have my doubts.

“Would you tell me if you did?”

“Not yet.”

I find the last shred of righteousness within me. “It isn’t right that you didn’t tell me. This place is more mine than yours.”

“And when have you ever expressed the least interest in it?” His indulgent tone matches my petulance. “You resented having to mind the counter when you were in high school, remember? You hate this place. Always wanted to get away.”

“Exactly.” I take the kitten from him, indulge myself for a moment in her purrs, then set her on the counter to bat her paw at the pages before I turn to Russ, grabbing his hands to bolster my plea. “Which is why we shouldn’t waste this opportunity to go. Use whatever we get to start all over. Put this—all of this—behind us. Someplace exciting. Chicago,
maybe? You’ve always wanted to study at the Moody Institute there. We could forget everything. Make a fresh start.”

“Nola, darling. I don’t have anything I want to forget. We haven’t failed, and God hasn’t failed us. This is just—” he shrugs and looks up for the proper word—“not even a setback. More like a set-aside. Buying some time, and a little cash. You know, my church salary isn’t what it was, but I still need to be able to fully focus on those who remain here.”

“How could you possibly do more than you are now? I already feel like I have to share you with every other family in town.”

He tucks his knuckle under my chin and raises my face to look at him. “I told you that before we got married. When I first knew that I loved you, I said I was afraid there’d be a day when I would have to prioritize my loyalty. Divide my affection.”

“And now?” I fight to keep my chin from quivering against his touch. “Have I lost?”

“Ah, sweetheart.”

He kisses me soft, then deep as I cling to him, pulling him closer, wanting to meld ourselves together. Because I know, as much as I know anything, this could be our last kiss. He will taste my betrayal, pull away, and never touch me again. I move my body against his, diverting his attention, banking his passion in my favor. Finally, with ragged breath, and against my whimpering protest, he pulls away. His eyes are hooded with desire—a look I’ve come to know well after thirteen years of marriage. He loves me. With his body and his soul and his heart. He loves me, as I do him. Never more so than this moment. We regard each other, our breath in sync, each wishing we were somewhere—anywhere—else. He, upstairs in our bedroom. Me, back in my father’s kitchen, so I could have a chance to walk away unscathed.

“Remember this moment,” I say at last, punctuating my command with a soft kiss. When I draw back, he is smiling.