Miracle in a Dry Season (7 page)

“They’re lovely,” she said. “Probably the nicest toys Sadie has. Thank you.”

“Oh, well, like I say, it’s nothing much, just fiddling about with wood.”

Perla turned to her daughter. “Sadie, did you thank Mr. Phillips?”

Sadie stood and flung her arms around Casewell’s legs, squeezing as tight as her little arms would let her. “Oh, thank you, Mr. Phillips, thank you!”

Casewell felt an inexplicable lump rise in his throat. He lifted his hand and held it over the child’s head for a moment, hovering there like a hummingbird taking the measure of a flower. Then he patted Sadie awkwardly. “You’re welcome, Sadie,” he said. “Glad you like them.”

He turned back to Perla. “I’d best be getting on. I brought your basket back.” He nodded toward it. “Sure have been enjoying that good food.”

“I’m glad,” Perla said. “And thank you, again.” She stepped back inside and let the screen door shut with a small bang.
Casewell stepped backward onto the top step and stumbled slightly. He turned and hurried away, throwing a hand up over his shoulder in farewell.

Perla moved back inside the house, far enough to be out of sight while still having a view of the road and Casewell’s broad back as he strode away. She had been foolish to confide in him. She knew that now. He was a good man—too good, apparently, to make room for a woman who had such an obvious sin hanging around her like a five-year-old shadow.

Once Casewell disappeared and Perla could see that her daughter would play with her new toys for a while, Perla drifted toward the kitchen. Robert and Delilah would be home from the store soon enough, and she’d have a fine meal waiting for them. One of Robert’s customers had traded a leg of lamb for some supplies, and a bushel of spring peas waited to be shelled. Perla pulled the basket over to a kitchen chair and sat with a metal bowl in her lap. She began stripping the shells, soothing herself with the music of peas chiming against the bowl.

When the Thorntons arrived home that evening, Perla stood beside the table spread with a banquet. The roasted leg of lamb sat in the center of the table, herbs dark against the glistening browned flesh. Creamed peas cooked with torn lettuce sat alongside a bowl of roasted parsnips browned in butter. A basket of yeast rolls completed the feast.

“Perla, you’re the best thing that’s ever happened to us,” Robert said almost reverently.

Delilah eyed the table and then Perla, squinting a little into her face. “Perla,” she said, laying a hand on her arm. “Perla, are you all right?”

Perla gave herself a shake and smiled. “Oh,” she said, “you’re home. I thought I’d better do something with that leg of lamb and the peas. They won’t keep forever, you know.” She looked confused for a moment. “Did you bring Sadie in with you?”

“I did,” Delilah said. “She was asleep on the front porch with the most cunning little set of doll furniture scattered about her. Where did that come from?”

“Casewell brought it by. For Sadie,” Perla explained. “It’s for Sadie.”

“Of course it is.” Delilah smiled. “Casewell is so thoughtful.”

“Yes,” Perla agreed. “Now, let’s eat this food before it gets cold.”

6

C
ASEWELL
KEPT
TO
HIMSELF
THAT
WEEK
. He didn’t feel like talking to anyone, and considering some of the things folks were talking about lately, he didn’t care to listen, either. He worked in his shop during the day and spent his evenings reading the Bible or playing his mandolin. He could pick up his instrument, start strumming, and suddenly find that the day was gone and it was long past bedtime. Company was good, but sometimes being alone was better. And then the phone rang on Friday night.

Casewell was on a party line with several housewives. They’d learned they could pick up the phone and talk to each other without even dialing. Most afternoons there was a steady conversation going on, with women jumping in and dropping out as families and chores allowed. As a result, Casewell didn’t much use the phone. Its ringing took him by surprise.

“Hello?” he answered after the third ring.

“Casewell, it’s your father.” His mother’s voice was tense and urgent.

“What’s the matter?” Casewell hoped it was nothing, but knew his mother would only call in an emergency.

“I’m not sure. He seems to be in terrible pain, but he keeps telling me it’s nothing. I want to take him to the hospital, but he says he won’t go. I don’t know what to do—”

“I’m on my way.”

Casewell ran out into the yard and cranked his old truck. It wasn’t entirely reliable, but it would usually take him where he needed to go. Normally, he’d walk to his parents’ house, but tonight he wanted to get there as fast as possible. His father never admitted pain, and his mother never panicked. Something was wrong.

At the Phillipses’ farm, Casewell found his father doubled over in his recliner, moaning softly. Mom stood beside him, a hand on his back, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“C’mon, Dad, we need to get you to the hospital,” Casewell said.

“I won’t go,” his father gritted out, not raising his head or moving.

“Pa, either you’re getting into that truck, or I’m carrying you. Now, what’ll it be?”

His father shuddered and seemed to slump even lower. “Help me, son,” he said. And Casewell did—half supporting, half carrying his father, who seemed not to weigh nearly as much as he should.

The three of them jammed onto the bench seat of Casewell’s truck. Dad sat in the middle, grunting softly each time they hit a pothole or rough patch of road. Casewell drove, trying to focus on the road and the hour-long trip to the nearest hospital. He thought if he stared at the center line of the winding two-lane road hard enough, he might keep the fear at bay.

St. Joseph’s was a Catholic hospital, and a nun met them at the door. She ushered them in as Casewell helped his father
hobble toward a chair. A nurse in a crisp white uniform with a perfect white cap perched on her perfect brown hair came to them and asked some questions. Dad was taken into an examination room, and Casewell helped his mother fill out forms.

Sitting on a weirdly modern chair in the waiting room, Casewell felt like he’d just woken up from a terrible dream, only to discover that it wasn’t a dream at all. His mother leaned hard into his right arm and seemed to be breathing heavily—as if she’d been running.

“You okay, Ma?” he asked.

“Oh, I don’t know.” She looked surprised by the question. “He’s all right, isn’t he? They would have told us if he weren’t all right?”

“Yes,” Casewell said, not at all certain that they would. “Probably something he ate. They’ll have him right as rain in no time.”

“Yes, of course.” Mom straightened a little. “Right as rain.”

“Cancer,” said the kind-faced doctor with shaggy gray hair and faded blue eyes. Casewell thought there were tears in the doctor’s eyes, but maybe it was just the effects of age and long hours. There were definitely tears in his mother’s eyes, though. Tears that spilled over and streaked her cheeks.

“We’ll need to do some more testing, but I’d say he’s pretty far advanced. Has he been complaining about pain? Feeling tired?”

Mom said no immediately, but Casewell thought about the times his dad had seemed tired or weak and the day he fell asleep after helping him move furniture. He started to contradict his mother, but instead he caught the doctor’s eye and nodded his head once.

“I’m betting John’s not a complainer,” the doctor said. He’d introduced himself, but Casewell had immediately lost his name. Now he saw it embroidered on his white jacket—Dr. McNeil.

“No,” agreed Casewell. “He pretty much keeps his feelings to himself.”

Casewell thought he should be asking some questions, learning what the prognosis was, but he couldn’t formulate the words. He was impressed that he’d thought of the word
prognosis
. He turned pleading eyes on Dr. McNeil, hoping he would somehow understand.

The doctor must have, because he began speaking. “I know the two of you have some questions and want to know about the treatment and possible outcomes, but I’d like to wait to get into all of that. When those other tests come back, I’ll be able to give you better answers. I don’t want to scare you unnecessarily,” he paused. “Or give you false hope.”

“Can we see him?” Mom asked in a small but steady voice.

“Absolutely,” the doctor said. “Follow Sister Agatha. She’ll show you his room. We’ll want to keep him at least until the tests are back, and then we’ll plan accordingly. I gave him something for the pain, so he may be a little groggy.”

“To be in so much pain,” Casewell started, “that means . . .”

“We’ll figure out what that means,” Dr. McNeil said. “Just go on in there and see him.”

They turned and followed a plump nun through the stark halls to room 218.

“Get me outta here,” Dad growled as soon as he saw Casewell. “I’ve had enough of this nonsense. Take me home.”
He struggled to swing his legs over the side of the bed and began tugging at the IV in his arm. Sister Agatha swooped in to push him back.

“Get this penguin off of me. I feel fine,” Dad yelled as he pushed at Agatha. The nun kept her hold with a tenacity that surprised and impressed Casewell. Or maybe his father really was weakening. Casewell stepped forward to help, placing a soothing hand on his father’s shoulder.

“Dad, just settle back there and let’s talk for a minute. We can sort all this out.”

“You’d better believe we can. You’ve got five minutes to get me situated and on my way out of here.”

Casewell took a deep breath and waited for his dad to settle back against his pillow. Maybe he was imagining it, but Casewell could have sworn his father was relieved to rest for a moment. “You feel better because the doctor gave you something for the pain. If the medication wears off, I doubt you’ll feel so spry.”

“Don’t need drugs. No one asked me if I wanted ’em. I could probably have that fraud’s license for slipping me something without asking if I wanted it.” John crossed his arms across his chest, batting at the IV as he did so.

“Dad, looks like you may be sick, after all,” Casewell said, wondering how much the doctor had told him and hating the idea of being the one to speak the word.