On Shifting Sand (50 page)

Already, I can tell, they are in love. After the service, they will take him over, build a wall between us with questions and compliments and offers to bake lemon cakes. If they accept me, it will be because they accept him. If they love me, it will be because they love him. Our afternoons are soon to be invaded by invitations to tea, or to speak at the ladies’ Bible study, or to pray over a loved one. Other churches will want to hear, other Bible studies, other charity circles, other Christians. Russ hasn’t been reborn upon our move to Baltimore, not like the children have. He has simply
resumed
, like he’s been blown in and dropped down on a higher, cleaner plane.

In the midst of all my predictions coming true, Greg comes home with an invitation that far exceeds anything we could have imagined.

“A series of hearings,” Greg says at supper, “as Congress debates a soil conservation bill.”

“I’m not a politician,” Russ says. “Nor a farmer. What could I possibly have to say?”

“Everything you said in church on Easter. People from my department will be talking about the science and the economics, neither of which are going to be embraced by the farmers. They’re not going to be happy when we tell them not to plant, or that we need to sow grass where they used to grow wheat. And if the farmers aren’t happy, the politicians won’t be either, but we need this to pass.”

“So he’d go to the Capitol?” Ronnie’s voice beams with pride. “Can we go too?”

“Sorry,” Greg says in consolation. “However, I do think it would be a fine idea for
you
to go with him, Sis. Make it a day. See the sights, go out to lunch.”

“Oh, yes, Russ.” My enthusiasm serves as a complement to Greg’s exhortation. “We haven’t had a chance to be tourists yet. Ronnie can see to Ariel in the afternoon, and we’ll make plans for all of us to go back once school is out.”

“Now wait a minute.” Russ holds up his hand to halt the explosion of conversation, which includes a dissenting opinion from Ariel, who wants desperately to go too, though she doesn’t know exactly where. “I’m still not clear about my purpose here.”

“Quite simply,” Greg says, “I’d like you to represent the spiritual toll the drought and the storms have taken on the people. You’ve worked with the sick, and you’ve buried the dead, and you’ve watched your whole community disappear. Tell them that. You make people believe in God, don’t you? I need you to make some men believe in the power of God’s destruction, not just in dollars, but in lives.”

“When is it?” Russ takes a small leather-bound calendar from his breast pocket and opens it, displaying his new commitments in little square boxes.

“Coming up in a couple of weeks. I can’t be sure of the exact date.”

“We’ll be ready,” Russ says, reaching for my hand, inviting me in. Quite a change from my usual relegation as the pastor’s wife. But then, at the moment, he isn’t a pastor.

The opportunity comes on the second Saturday in May, meaning Ronnie and Ariel will be left to their own devices for the entirety of the afternoon. Both react to the circumstances with minimal pouting, however, as Barney became pregnant immediately following her escape from her traveling basket, and a box of tiny kittens mewl in a corner of the washroom.

“Stay close to the house,” I admonish as I give myself a final inspection in the front hall mirror. Since arriving in Baltimore, I’ve gained at least ten pounds, the weight manifested in the softened planes of my face. My hair has recaptured the sheen of my youth and, having escaped the brutal weathering of the dust and wind, my skin glows in gratitude.

“But, Ma, there’s going to be a game at the park.”

My heart nudges at my protective reserve. Since arriving, the children have taken to the fresh air—no matter the cold of these early spring days—like a dying man for water. I’ve been sure to dress them in their best, clean clothes, and keep them scrubbed and fresh so nobody at school would think to call them “dirty Okies.” They both immediately made friends—Ronnie due to his ability to man third base, and Ariel due to her intriguing curls and fat, beautiful cat. Russ and I have made some fine acquaintances too, but I can only imagine the importance of the people we will meet this afternoon. My first instinct was to buy yet another new dress, but my Easter dress has not yet been seen in our nation’s capital, so I figure it will do.

“Well then,” I concede, “could you at least take her with you? Let her watch? I’ll tell her to behave, and if you both do, I’ll bring you back a prize from today.”

Ronnie takes a moment to weigh the possibilities and declares if Ariel isn’t perfect, he is going to take her prize and give it to the charity auction.

“Empty threats,” I say, ruffling my fingers through his hair. He is at least as tall as me these days, and will be taller by the end of summer when he starts high school. More and more he looks like his father, shoulders broadening along with his smile.

I repeat the instructions to Ariel, making her promise to be a good girl at the park, and no, she can’t take the kittens to the park because they are too little to be away from their mama, and Barney is too tired, but she can take a doll if she wants, though not a paper doll because it might blow away.

“Is it windy, Mama?” she asks, her eyes filled with fear for the first time since she got on the train in Boise City.

I glance out the window and gauge the motion in the newly budded trees.

“A bit.” I kiss the top of her head. “But nothing to be alarmed about. We’ve certainly seen worse.”

From outside, the honk of a car horn calls me to quicken my pace. Usually Greg takes the train, but today’s special occasion calls for a drive, and he and Russ are waiting, not quite patiently, for me to join them. I elicit one final promise from the children to behave, then go outside, nearly trotting down the walkway to the car.

It is ten o’clock in the morning, with Russ due to speak to the committee at one. Exactly when he will be finished, however, is anyone’s guess, so we’ve made no plans for the afternoon beyond finding someplace for a nice dinner. “On Uncle Sam’s dime,” Greg jokes.

The farther we get into Washington, the narrower the streets become, or so it seems with the congestion of so many automobiles threatening to pile on one another. The national grandeur of the city is lost until the moment the Capitol comes into view, with its white dome and green lawn, all seen as we drive past the glistening Potomac.

“I wanted you to get a good look at it,” Greg says, as both Russ and I press our faces against the window. “The parking garage doesn’t present nearly as fabulous a view. I’ll circle around, drop you off, and you can give your names to the security guard. I’ll meet you in the Rotunda. Or you can wait on the steps.”

“Steps,” Russ and I say simultaneously, sharing our children’s thirst for air. All I want to do is raise my face to the sky and thank God for his deliverance. Who would have imagined only a year ago, when I buried my friend who drowned on dry land and took in the living ghost of my father, that someday I would be here? Living in a home purchased with
my inheritance. The wife of a man about to address our nation’s leaders. None of it, I am sure, would have happened if not for the keeping of my secrets.

This is your mercy, Lord,
I pray before adding aloud, “Show your mercy on us today.”

We walk hand in hand up the endless, shallow steps.

“Are you nervous, darling?” I ask, unable to read his passive expression.

“I’ll be talking about how much I love my home. I can talk about that all day long.”

It gives me a pang to think that he doesn’t yet consider this place to be his home, but I know that will come in time. I like to think that we are each other’s home.

“Incredible, isn’t it?” he asks. We’ve arrived, at last, surrounded by powerful white stone, making both of us seem insignificant.

“It is,” I say, drawing myself closer to him. “Are you nervous
now
?”

“I have to believe God brought me here for a reason. This might be it.”

I smiled, tight-lipped, and nod. For Russ, I know, it will never be enough to consider that God may have brought us here solely for my sake. To rescue me from the temptations I was powerless to deny, or even to make a home in a place where our children can live without the constant threat of illness and death.

A gust of wind drives itself into my back, familiar in its strength, and I barely get my hand to my hat in time to save it from flying off my head. It carries with it a familiar scent that tickles at the back of my throat. Perhaps I will be forever haunted by the storms of Oklahoma, like the soldier who cannot bear the sound of a banging cupboard or a slamming door. If my husband is not willing to accept our displacement as nothing more than a means to save our family, I will do so on his behalf.

“I think,” I say as Greg comes into view, “I’m not going to go in with you.”

His face registers surprise rather than disappointment. “Why not?”

“Russ.” I step closer to him, pulling us into an invisible space where we can ignore the hundreds of milling people. “Will I ever be enough for you?”

“What do you mean?” He touches his lips to mine, and nobody seems to notice. “You are my life.”

I know he will never ask me the same question; it isn’t his way to seek such confirmation.

Greg joins us and loops my arm through his. “Are we ready, kids?”

“I’m not sure, all of a sudden,” I say, “if it’s my place to go.”

“Of course it’s your place. You’re my wife.”

“They won’t care that she’s your wife,” Greg says, quietly coming to my defense. Then, to me, “You should go because you survived this too.”

And so I do.

How anyone ever learned to navigate the labyrinth of passages and stairways I’ll never know, but Greg proves the perfect guide, never condescending to speak directions, but keeping enough of a lead to allow us to follow both his conversation and his steps. He leads us to a room that might be smaller than I imagined, if I had the wherewithal to imagine anything at all. Two rows of long tables stretch across the front, elevated, and a row of tables face them with a bank of seats filling out the rest of the room. After giving a sheaf of papers to a young boy in a crisp blue suit, Greg instructs me to sit in the bank of chairs, three rows back, while he and Russ move toward the tables.

There are, perhaps, thirty people in the room at the time, with me the only woman, a fact that makes me all the more thankful that my dress is new, my hat in place, and my skin radiant. More than one appreciative glance comes my way, not the least from the men coming to sit at the tables at the front of the room. These, I know, are elected officials. Powerful men who decide the fate of what is quickly becoming a desert back home. I uncross and cross my legs to see if their eyes follow, and to no surprise, they do.

Greg glances back, and I send him a withering, humor-filled glare. So much for my presence being powerful because I am a survivor who
matters. Greg wants me there because I am a beautiful woman, in a place where such creatures are all the more valuable for their rarity.

All around me, chairs fill, and I realize Greg’s strategy in getting us into the room at the hour he did. My seat is front and center in the gallery, just as it used to be in church. Only now, my husband speaks with his back to me, while the others at their long stretch of pulpit look on. Sitting alongside Russ, one man after another speaks, extolling the need for replanting the wild grasses, rotating crops, allowing fields to lie fallow for years to come. Buying farmland and paying farmers not to work it. All of this in the name of healing the land and restoring the soil that will remain once the wind stops and the rains come.

When it is Russ’s turn to speak, I hear for the first time the distinctness of his accent. Though his diction is strong, his vocabulary elevated, he comes across as a humble man, wise despite his relative youth. His is a voice of hope, someone who speaks
for
the bedraggled men and women pictured in the newspaper reports about the drought, yet not one
of
them.

The committee members lean forward as he speaks, as do I, resting my elbow on my knee. Every time I move, I distract the decision makers from their duty, so I decide on a single pose, and hold it throughout Russ’s speech. When he finishes, he turns in his seat to introduce me as his wife, saying, “We brought our family here for the sake of our children, and we are so thankful for the opportunity to speak for all of those whose voices you cannot hear.”