Miracle in a Dry Season (18 page)

“Why, Casewell, what in the world for?”

“I meant it to be a Christmas present, but with things the way they have been lately”—Casewell braced a foot on the bottom step and slapped at some dust on his pant leg—“well, I thought I’d bring it on over now. Where’s Dad? I’d like to show it to both of you.”

Emily bowed her head and knotted her hands in her apron. “He took to his bed the middle of last week,” she said softly. “He says he don’t reckon he’ll get back up.”

Casewell stepped back as though she’d pushed him. “Why didn’t you call?”

“He insisted I leave you alone. He said you didn’t need the distraction.” She turned wide, sad eyes on her son. “He said you were doing God’s work, and we should leave you to it. When he said that”—Emily choked a little—“it scared me worse than all the cussing and meanness.”

Casewell moved up the steps to pull his mother into his arms. “It’s a good sign, Ma,” he whispered. “I don’t know what it means, but I feel like it’s a good sign.”

They stood, holding each other for a few moments, but neither of them cried. Finally Casewell pulled away. “Now, let me show you what I’ve brought,” he said.

Carefully pulling away the dusty coverings, Casewell exposed the headboard with its elaborate flower carvings. He heard his mother gasp.

“Is it a bed?” she asked.

“It is. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at something like this, and with so little work coming in, the time seemed right. Do you like it?” Casewell felt like a little boy bringing home a clay ashtray from summer Bible school. He suddenly wanted to make his mother happy more than anything.

“Oh, Casewell, it’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I knew you were gifted, but I had no idea . . .” The tears that hadn’t fallen earlier now flowed freely. “And with your father staying in bed . . . if it weren’t for him, I’d think it was too grand for us. But now, somehow all this beauty will be a comfort.” She turned soft eyes on Casewell. “Thank you, son. Thank you so much.”

Casewell went in and explained to his father that he was bringing in a new bed. He expected to meet with resistance, but Dad was surprisingly docile and agreeable. He let Casewell help him into an armchair, where Emily tucked blankets around him in spite of the heat. Casewell was shocked at how much weight his father had lost. Just a week ago he’d seemed a little thin, but now he was almost emaciated. Guilt swept over Casewell. Had he been so preoccupied with Perla and their plans to feed the community that he’d forgotten his own family? He feared so. He would not let it happen again.

In short order, the old bedstead was removed and the new brought in. Casewell topped it with the mattress and helped Mom remake it with fresh sheets and her wedding quilt. The quilt had a double wedding-ring pattern in soft pastels, which seemed to lend color to the flowers in the headboard.

When they finished, they stood back and admired the beauty of the bed in the sunlit room. Sheer curtains at the window billowed on a gentle breeze, and Casewell had to admit he’d done a fine job. He was glad he’d decided to give his parents the bed early. He turned to check his father’s reaction and was shocked to see tears streaking the older man’s face. Dad made no move to wipe his face or to speak. Mom sat down on the arm of his chair and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as she dabbed at his face with the hem of her apron.

“Isn’t our son amazing?” she asked softly.

When his father nodded, Casewell thought his heart might burst. How could the barest movement of his father’s head feel like the greatest compliment of his life? He just stood there, trying to take it in.

The next morning, Casewell received an unexpected call. When he answered the phone, he recognized the voice of Angie Talbot.

“Casewell, I was hoping you might be able to come call on me this morning,” she said without preamble.

“I could do that,” he said.

“If it’s convenient, I’d like to see you promptly at nine fifteen.”

Casewell agreed and opted not to ask any questions. Angie rarely sounded warm, but this morning she sounded particularly stiff and formal. Casewell marveled that he always felt like a schoolboy around Angie, while Liza tended to make him feel like a favorite nephew. He assumed the sisters needed something done around the house. Well, he had nothing else to occupy his time.

Casewell walked into the bathroom to tidy his beard before driving over and was surprised when brown water sputtered out of the faucet. He shut it off and walked out to the wellhead with a flashlight. He lifted the cover and shone the light down the stone-lined well. The rocks were shockingly dry, and his light glinted on what looked like little more than a mud puddle in the bottom. Casewell knew the well might go dry, and he’d been conserving water as best he could, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. There was an old well out back
of the house that had been shut up because the water had a sulfur taint. Casewell needed to get on to the Talbots’, so he’d try the old well when he got back. Poor water would be better than none.

Still scruffy, Casewell drove to the Talbots’ and arrived promptly at nine fifteen. Angie stood inside the kitchen door. She pushed the screen open and waited for Casewell to pass through, then ushered him into the sitting room. He was surprised to see that Liza wasn’t there.

“Liza is taking her morning constitutional,” Angie said. “She always returns after about an hour and a half. Normally, I wouldn’t invite a man to visit while I am alone, but you’re an elder in the church, and I have a private matter I need to discuss.”

Casewell realized his eyebrows had been climbing steadily higher. He made an effort to lower them a notch. “I’ll be pleased to help in any way I can,” he said.

“The Bible tells us to confess our sins, and although I have confessed over and over to God Almighty, I feel Him directing me to confess to someone who can help me discern His leading. I am not comfortable telling my tale to anyone but you.” Angie swallowed hard. “You have been kind to my sister and me, and I have seen how forgiving you have been of Perla Long. I hope that I can trust you.”

Casewell looked at his shoes and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Miss Angie, I’m honored that you have chosen to confide in me. I hope that I’m worthy of your trust.”

“Of course, what I plan to tell you is in the strictest confidence,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. I will keep it entirely to myself.” Casewell couldn’t imagine what a seventy-year-old spinster would have
to confess, and with the way folks had been acting lately, he was almost afraid to hear it.

Angie sat on the sofa opposite Casewell, who sat in an overstuffed armchair. She planted both feet firmly on the floor and placed a hand on each knee. When she was composed, she began to speak.

“The first time I saw Frank Post, I was little more than a child and smitten. I always assumed I would never marry. Papa was a fine man and I couldn’t imagine anyone ever comparing to him. Frank was nothing like Papa, who was serious and worked hard. Papa’s whole life was centered around God, his family, and his farm. Frank was fun-loving and full of himself. I thought he was frivolous. I thought he was often ridiculous. I doubted his faith and I doubted his intentions. But oh, how he made me laugh. No one made me laugh. I always thought hilarity was for the weak and foolish. And Frank Post made me feel very weak and not a little foolish. I’m afraid I enjoyed it, but I refused to let anyone—especially Frank—see how he delighted me.

“I think when he first began coming around, he intended to court me. In retrospect I think he found me to be a challenge. But I refused to be charmed, and he had his work cut out for him. Liza, on the other hand, was only too glad to laugh and cut up. The more I resisted, the easier it was for Frank to spend time with Liza. I think I was in love with him from the moment I saw him, but my stubborn pride drove him into my sister’s arms.”

Angie paused and hung her head, although she didn’t move otherwise. Casewell eased back in his chair. This was beginning to sound like it might take a while.

“Liza was utterly innocent. She enjoyed Frank and her heart was always so open. It was inevitable that she would fall in love
and that Frank would love her in turn. As I saw it happening, I told myself it was for the best. They would marry and be happy, and I would stay at home to take care of Mama and Papa. But my heart betrayed me. I began to resent Liza and was unkind to Frank as his affections were transferred to my twin.

“Just before Christmas that year, Frank came to help us gather greens to decorate the house. I was cutting holly.” Angie nodded out the rear window, where Casewell could see the old trees still standing, though parched and dusty now. “There was snow on the ground, and it was so beautiful, and I was full of the spirit of Christmas. When Frank came around the corner of the house, I called out to him. I suppose I smiled and maybe was more welcoming than I should have been. His eyes lit up and he walked over, swept me into his arms, and kissed me on the mouth. When he stopped, he said that he’d always loved me and hoped my heart was softening toward him.”

Angie kept her head down, but Casewell could see the furious blush rising in her cheeks. She clasped her hands together, twisting her fingers.

“I slapped him,” she said finally. “I slapped him and told him he could not woo both of us. I said some hateful things to him—told him that he was a sinner and a vain rooster. Then I ran away. Liza saw me come around the corner of the house, and I can only imagine what she must have thought. The next day Frank proposed to Liza, and Liza was overjoyed. Papa said they would have to wait two years until Liza was old enough, but she still talked and talked about what their life would be like together, and I let her. She thanked me later for letting her go on and on. I suppose I would have normally cut her off at some point. I wasn’t a very good sister before Frank, and I got worse after him.

“I did my best to seem happy about the engagement. I avoided Frank as much as possible. I tried to hate him for transferring his affection so easily. Then he ran off with that fool show. Liza wrote him letters almost daily, and he wrote back a time or two. She continued dreaming about the wedding—it wouldn’t be anything fancy—but she was so excited. I came to dread the mention of his name. I thought my feelings would subside with him gone, but they grew stronger.

“I imagined what it would be like watching my sister and the man I loved making a life together. I simply could not bear it. I wrote a letter to Frank.” Angie stopped and gripped her knees so hard her knuckles turned white. “I’m so ashamed of what I did, Casewell. I dread telling it, but it hangs so heavy. So very, very heavy.”

Casewell tried to think of something to say. He could see where the story was headed, and it broke his heart, too. He remained silent. There wasn’t anything to say.

Angie took a deep breath and began speaking again. “In my letter, I told him that I would never forgive him and Liza was courting a wonderful man I was sure would make her an excellent husband. I told him that I was sorry, but life goes on, and Liza suspected his affections were weak. I said that she probably sounded just the same in her letters, but it was because she found it too hard to tell him that she loved someone else. I told him he should make a life for himself somewhere else. Oh, I said so much. I think I could quote that letter to this day. I hoped that Frank would be angry enough to never come home. I hoped that by banishing him, I could find some peace.”

She looked directly at Casewell with eyes that seemed dark and almost hollow. “He didn’t come home—not for a long time. And instead of peace, I found my sins weighing heavier and my
love festering inside. The day he came home and learned about my lies”—Angie looked out the window as if it were a door to the past—“I felt like the angel of the Lord had appeared with a fiery sword to cleave me in two. I was almost grateful when he took to drinking. I figured even if he told the truth, no one would believe him.”

Casewell was riveted. “But didn’t Liza keep writing to Frank?”

“She did for a while. I thought she’d give up if he didn’t write back, but I began to worry that she wouldn’t give up and Frank would become suspicious. So I wrote another letter and mailed it to myself. I made sure Liza knew I’d gotten mail, but I didn’t let her see it. I told her it was from a friend of Frank’s who thought someone should let us know that he had taken up with a woman over there in Europe and that he might have to marry her because she was with child. I said the letter made me so angry I burned it. Liza always trusted me . . .” Angie trailed off. She looked exhausted.

Clearing his throat, Casewell said, “Angie, I’m not sure what you want from me.”

“Forgiveness,” she said. “Punishment.”

“I don’t think it’s mine to give,” Casewell answered. “Have you told Liza this story?”

Angie crumbled then. “I can’t. She would likely forgive me. She’s such a good, loving woman, and I . . . I’m coldhearted and mean. I don’t know if I could stand her forgiveness. I deserve to be punished, and loving-kindness from my sister would be a kind of torture.”

“Angie.” Casewell leaned forward. He felt the urge to reach out and touch the older woman’s hand, but he wasn’t sure she would allow it. “Maybe you’ve been punished enough these
last fifty years. Maybe the person you need forgiveness from is yourself.”