On Shifting Sand (21 page)

I might not have recognized Ronnie right away if not for the way the sunlight brings out the peculiar tint of his hair. Dark like mine, but with the tint of Merrill cinnamon from his father. His face, like those of the other boys, is obscured by a white kerchief, and I can picture his eyes furrowed in concentration above it. My little man, the man Rosalie’s son will never grow to be. Never before have I felt such an intertwining of guilt and pride and fear.

The biggest boy, Clarence Wallis, I know only from following Russ’s disapproving glare nearly every Sunday morning. The undeniable leader in labor and mischief, his muffled voice carries as he orders the boys to drench the earth with water from the dozen buckets—carried from who knows where—waiting on the side. They obey, adjusting their sloshing at his intermittent instruction. Then, after the boys take a single, collective step away, my Ronnie strikes a match, touches it to a long-handled torch, and hands the torch to Clarence, who in turn ignites the first of the tumbleweeds along the fence.

I hear the crackle of the fire before I see the flame. On either side, two boys stand holding between them a blanket, heavy and dark with water, meant to be a deterrent should the flames decide to jump the muddy path and devour the dry grasses that protect our dead.

My throat burns with warning. He is but a child, after all. They all are. And my eyes burn with tears—not from the acrid tendrils of smoke
beginning to drift my way, but from the thought of our children being given over to such a task.

A slight shift in the wind lifts the corner of my skirt, and I bat it down, mindful of how such a little thing could pick up the smallest spark. I know the fire is louder at its source, and my words will never carry. Still, I cup my hands around my mouth to shout, “Be careful, boys!”

It captures Ronnie’s attention, and he lifts his arm to wave.

I wave back, shouting again, “Be careful!”

He sends back a gesture of assurance before returning his attention to the growing fire, and I know I’ve been dismissed.

Back home, Russ has a sign in the shop window:
CLOSED DUE TO DEATH IN THE FAMILY.
I know that’s how he feels. Every soul who ever sat in our pews is as important to him as his own people. Perhaps because he has no more than a few cousins scattered around the panhandle to call his own, and I haven’t given him much more.

Wearily, I climb the steps up to our apartment and open the door. A thin wall of music greets me, followed by Ariel, wild curls flying, bounding into my arms.

“Paw-Paw made a toy for Barney!” She brandishes a long, thin twig with a length of string tied at one end. From it dangles a jumble of frayed scraps of cloth. “Watch!” She whips it like a wagon master, bringing the kitten to perform all manner of acrobatics in an attempt to capture the elusive prey. “Paw-Paw says this is how she’ll learn to hunt.”

“Indeed.” I look around the room. “Where is your paw-paw?”

She remains absorbed in the kitten’s antics. “Downstairs. He says that’s where he lives now. And that’s where he’s a-stayin’.”

“And he left you up here all alone?”

“No. I was playing in the store and saw you through the window. Didn’t you see me? I waved.” Her words hold no hurt or accusation, and I accept my shortcoming and move on.

“Did he fix you any lunch?”

“No.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes.”

“Run downstairs and ask if he’s hungry too.”

“But I’m playing.”

“Take Barney with you.”

Satisfied, she picks up the kitten and tucks it against her side. I search the cabinets and icebox for something small and suitable. We have a few slices of baloney, and in the bread box, half a dozen of Merrilou Brown’s yeast rolls. Both would be best saved for supper, especially if I fry up the baloney with eggs. For lunch, a can of soup—cream of celery, Pa’s favorite—and a stack of buttered crackers. I open the can, dump the contents in my smaller saucepan, add water, and stir, nibbling on a single cracker throughout each step.

I suppose the thought has been niggling at the corner of my mind since Merrilou voiced it, but when I open my cabinet to take out two shallow bowls, it hits me again.

“Plates.” I speak the word aloud, giving it legitimacy.

I bring a spoonful of soup to touch my bottom lip, testing its warmth. Satisfied, I add a bit of precious cream and a dash of black pepper before pouring it, steaming, into the bowls and calling Pa and Ariel up for lunch. They appear together, a most unlikely pairing, but her presence at his side softens my heart. It is the first my father and I have seen of each other since yesterday’s ugliness, and if nothing else, my baby girl serves as a buffer against any repeat of the conversation.

“Lunch is on.” I accompany my announcement with a grand gesture.

“You eating?” Pa seems almost concerned.

“I’ve already had mine. You two eat up, I have a short errand to run.”

Before there can be any questions, I go back into our bedroom and shut the door. No, I change my plan and dash across the hall into the bathroom. Bending over the sink, I ruthlessly run a brush through my hair, attacking it from all angles, and shake my head for good measure, hoping to dislodge any particle of dirt that might be clinging there. The resulting dust proves my efforts fruitful, and when I stand straight again, the wild mass of dark waves makes me look every bit the savage
my father claims me to be. Running warm water in the sink, I wash my face, rinse it, and wash again, scrubbing until I’ve coaxed a bit of pink into my cheeks. Instead of drying my hands, I run them damp through my hair, smoothing it into a gentler version of itself. The calm visage of the woman in the mirror does not match the woman whose hands clutch at the basin.

“You need the plates,” I say to her, and she speaks back to me.
“You need the plates.”

In my bedroom I strip off my apron, only to discover my housedress bears the telltale scorchings of my ineptitude. With shaking fingers, I unbutton it, let it drop to the floor, and toss it into the hamper with the apron. From experience I know I have a ring of dirt around the back of my neck, as well as at that place where my collar meets my throat, so it’s back across to the bathroom, back to the sink. More water, more soap. This time, something with a sweeter scent, and a dusting of powder to follow.

Ariel calls out as I am midstep in the hallway. “Are you all right, Mama?”

“Yes, baby.” I step through my bedroom door. “Just washing up.”

From my closet I pull a clean, pressed dress. Just a housedress, its fabric soft and thin from years of laundering. It wraps around my body with a sash that ties at the waist. A dab of cream from my pretty pink jar brings life to the dullness of my skin, and after a moment’s hesitation, I sit at my mirror to apply color to my lips, then my cheeks. For balance, I lick the tip of my pencil and trace it lightly around my eyes.

I grab a handbag, pull a hat on—low—take a deep breath, and attempt a sprint past the kitchen and out the door, breezing a promise to be back soon.

“Where you goin’?” Pa’s question reins me back.

I don’t turn around. “An errand. Something we need for tomorrow.”

“What do you need, ’xactly?”

My hand grips the door in defiance. How can he possibly know? “It’s nothing for you to worry about, Pa.”

“Take the girl with you. I didn’t sign on to be a nanny here.”

Now I do turn around, and Ariel’s face lights up. “You look pretty, Mama.”

Pa’s eyes narrow. “Maybe she should get herself dolled up too.”

“I won’t be long. If you don’t mind, wash up the dishes? Then Ariel can lie down for a rest. No problem at all. I should be back—” I glance at the clock, but the face blurs, senseless. “I will be back. Probably not more than an hour.”

That would serve as my promise to return, even if the timing is a gross exaggeration. If I told Pa the truth, he’d guess my destination. For now I can fool myself into thinking I’ve fooled him.

Outside, I run down our steps, fearing somehow the force of my father’s suspicions might yank me back like the wobbling mass at the end of the string on Barney’s toy. Truth be told, I almost wish he would. I even slow my steps near the bottom, but nothing arises to impede my journey. Even Russ grants silent permission, having driven Ben’s car into Boise City, leaving ours parked in the alley at my disposal.

At the first turn, I see Ronnie walking away from a smoldering train of ashes. His face is black with smoke and half covered with the mask. He might be fresh from doing a man’s job, but he looks like a tired, hungry little boy—one who is about to track insurmountable dirt and soot on my floor.

I should stop the car, turn around, and go home. Make him strip in the shop and come upstairs straight to the shower while I make him a baloney sandwich on one of Merrilou’s fresh yeast rolls. It’s what Rosalie would have done—what any mother would do. At the corner I slow down, lower the window, and raise my hand to beckon him to me. The breeze fills the car with the scent of my perfume, mingling with the pungent odor of the burning weeds, and one desire trumps another.

With a wave, I shout the ingredients for lunch and orders for bathing. Then, with my window once again sealed against the smoke, I drive on.

  CHAPTER 14
  

O
NCE, MONTHS BEFORE,
when we all lived with a lingering hope of rain and life, Pa showed up for Sunday dinner thirty minutes earlier than usual. He left at the same time. Drove at the same speed, but said it was the darndest thing. He couldn’t remember a bit of the drive. Said he set his mind to get where he was going, and just went. Didn’t recall a lick of the road.

I remember worrying, then. Sending him home with his plate of leftover food, watching his every step from the front window like I was the mother rather than the child.

“He’s getting old,” I told Russ. “It’s dangerous, having him out on the roads like that.”

Russ put a comforting arm across my shoulder as we watched. “He’s fine. It happens. Used to happen to me all the time driving back and forth from school to visit you.”

I’d leaned myself back against him, not only feeling safe, but somehow thinking that my safety would cover my father, too.

This afternoon, as the dust rolls behind me on the drive to Pa’s house, I don’t feel safe at all. I sit ramrod straight in the seat, hands gripping the wheel, my head filled with a fuzzy image of my mission. The plates, at least two dozen of them, stacked and irregular. A noble mission, to feed our church family as they gather around these wounded souls. I don’t consider my actions as anything but innocent and noble. And if I encounter Jim, what better opportunity to let him know that what transpired between us the last time I visited must never happen again.

If
I encounter him.

The deepest part of my mind wrestles with the possibility that he might have left. That’s what drifters do, isn’t it? Over and over since that afternoon, I’ve imagined the scenario wherein he delves into his belongings, looking for the photograph, only to find it missing. And he would know. The missing picture speaks of my intentions more powerfully than I could ever hope to.

“Go away.”

“You shouldn’t have come.”

Still, in case there is any doubt, I want to give him that message myself. So he can look at me, straight in the eye, and know. I pray that God will give me the strength to tell him.

The car barrels along, seemingly on its own power. No, not its own. Mine, but nothing of my feet or hands. Something at the core of me compels it forward. Like I could let go, close my eyes, and safely arrive at my father’s house.

Slowing at the gate to his property, it seems like such a phenomenon has taken place. As I get out of the car to open the gate, a gust of wind comes on strong enough to nearly knock me off balance. But the sky is cloudless and clear in all directions. Once I’ve driven to the other side, I get out again to close and latch the gate behind me. No reason. Stalling, I suppose. Or forcing myself to carry through with my errand.

On the slow drive up to the house, I rehearse everything I want to say. About the funeral and the supper and the plates. If I say only that and nothing more, I will escape.