On Shifting Sand (24 page)

I wipe the accumulating steam off the mirror and lean in close to study my face, certain there will be telling signs of betrayal. My lips still feel swollen from his kiss. My neck burns with the memory of his rough, unshaven face moving against it.

But nothing.

With shaking hands I untie my dress, letting it drop to a puddle on the floor. Undergarments follow. I dip one foot into the scalding water and watch the dirt float away from my skin. When I pull it out, a clear, clean line divides pink, scalded flesh from gritty brown. Already the bath is clouded, making it a fruitless endeavor to become truly clean from revisiting it. Still, I brave the pain and step over the edge, sitting down to bring the water level up above my waist. Dirt flees, turning the bath to the color of weak tea. My legs are bent, bringing my knees up like twin peaks of bony rock. I scoop water into my hair and feel something near to mud between my fingers.

Every inch of me burns. Fire and water combined, refining. Cleansing. Purging.

I remember what Greg said about the soil carrying the color of its
home. I can’t say for sure what lands I wash away, but in the end my skin shines through, pure Oklahoma red.

When I stand, the water roils and laps above my ankles. I reach down and pull the metal stopper out of the drain and watch it swirl away, leaving a brown rim around the porcelain walls of the tub. I turn on the water again and pull the chain to bring it trickling from the showerhead.

Standing under the warm spring, I lather my hair with shampoo, trying to forget the feel of his fingers gripping the back of my head, pulling me into his kiss. I rub the bar of Ivory soap against the washcloth and scrub every inch of my skin, erasing his touch. And when I feel it still, I scrub again. Turning, I lift my face to the water, open my mouth, fill it. Spit, fill it again. Spit. By now the shower has turned cold, bringing with it a new sting more punishing than any heat.

I’ve been a fool.

I am an adulteress. I am nothing but a filthy, whorish wife. Everything my father suspected. Everything that lured my husband away from his original, sinless path. Rubbish. The ruination of this family, destroyed by my offense.

The shower, now nearly icy cold, threatens to take my breath, and with clumsy hands I twist the tap. The noises I make sound like the cries of some wounded animal as they echo off the walls of the tub. I never want to leave this hole. I cling to the sides wishing—only in the next breath—to die. To take my secrets straight to the seat of judgment. Spare Russ the necessity of passing his own.

But I cannot die. Not at this moment, anyway. Because somewhere, on the other side of the tub, on the other side of the bathroom door, I hear the voices of my family. My husband, my father, my children. They are still mine, and they are hungry.

  CHAPTER 16
  

I
SURVIVE THE REST OF THAT NIGHT
by caring for my family—whipping up a late supper of eggs and biscuits before all of us collapse into stripped-down beds. I let Russ hold me, my cheek against his chest, rising and falling with his breath, until he falls asleep, and then I slip out and away. If Pa weren’t living in the storeroom, I might sneak out to the alley for a cigarette. A few are still stashed away under the cash register—a trick I learned from my uncle. Back in the good days, when the farmers were bringing in money like laundry in a rainstorm, he used to offer them a cigarette right before they paid for their purchases. A good smoke and conversation, and they might be persuaded to buy something else. Another ax blade, just in case. Or some new seeds for the wife’s garden. He kept the cigarettes in a long, flat box, laid out so the customers would know there was plenty to be had. More to smoke, more to buy.

Of course, by now they’d be stale. Like setting fire to paper and dust. And I’d made my promise.

I survive the next day only because we—meaning nearly everybody in town—gather for the Harris funeral. From the pulpit, Russ speaks of the strength it takes not to question God’s wisdom. His choices. I can feel eyes burning clear through me, turning my flesh to lace. Why did Rosalie drown in dirt while I sit here whole?

And her little boy.

“Always so hard to lose a child,” Russ says. “I’ve buried two of my own. And we look to God for answers, thinking such a thing will bring us peace. But his answer is always the same. . . .”

I don’t hear God’s answer. In truth, my mind drifts in and out through most of the service, and I have to be nudged by Ronnie when it’s time for us to rise and follow the procession to the graveside. Here, God shines down his mercy on that good woman and her little boy, granting us clear skies and a soft breeze.

Back at the Harris home, we feast on each other’s generosity. I pinch and nibble from Russ’s plate, and that only out of politeness to the women who have brought such bounty from their kitchens. Nobody can know how sickened I am to see the mismatched stack of plates at the head of the table, each having been carefully wiped down by a loving sister. I whisper in Ronnie’s ear to take double portions, giving to him what I cannot take. I keep a glass of water in my hand, making way to refill it whenever somebody seems intent on cornering me in conversation.

I endure their pitying looks. Their whispers about how she doesn’t look well at all. Too skinny, they say. And frightened because—poor thing—it could have been her.

More than once, Russ catches my eye from across the room and gives me an encouraging smile over the shoulder of one of his sheep. Any other time, I would have sidled up next to him, laid my hand on his arm, and made an excuse to go home. A headache. Or Ariel’s needing a nap. But this day, standing upright and alert, listening to a dozen distorted conversations, feeling my body turn into a knot within itself—all of it serves as a buffer between my sin of yesterday and the inevitable confession.

For the first time since our marriage, I don’t resent watching Russ minister to his people, healing their hurts while I nurse my own. Let them tell him of their troubles. The bills they can’t pay. The weakness they feel with every passing breath. Their hunger and hopelessness. Let them talk of a better life in California, or Texas. When I see him smile, I know he is listening to a story of the good old days, when the land was green, then gold, then moist and rich and brown. I watch women weep into his sleeve and more than one man poised to do the same. Others point dirty, gnarled fingers in his face. Accusing, almost, because our prayers aren’t enough. Our faith has faltered, somehow. These are the ones who still resent having a piano next to the pulpit.

Most, though—the women—stand calm and peaceful in the shadow of his strength.

They love him, and he loves them. Always before, that love left me off to the side, jealous of the time and attention it took from me. Today, though, it gives me comfort. Aren’t I a member of his flock as well as his wife? Don’t I deserve at least a measure of the grace he seems always ready to give to them?

After a time, my legs ready to give way, I spy poor Ben sitting alone on the threadbare sofa beneath the window. His precious little girl is in the arms of a well-meaning woman who cuddles and coos the poor thing in an effort to put in an early bid for mothering. Ben seems not to see or hear a thing, not of her nor me as I sit beside him, sliding in just ahead of another woman who approaches with a plate of food, probably in an effort to put in an early bid for marriage.

He and I sit for a while. He stares forward, I stare at him, both of us shells of the people we were a few days before.

Finally he turns toward me. He is a big, dough-faced man, and I can tell his demeanor would not change if we all were to pick up and go away at this very moment. Tentatively, I reach my hand out to touch the sleeve of his too-small jacket. He blinks no fewer than ten times, not saying a word, and I know his mind is as far away from this place as mine is. I am tempted to pull him close and unburden my soul, rehearsing the
very confession I have to give my husband. He wouldn’t hear a thing. I go so far as to lean over and, pitching my voice in such a way as to cut through the din, say, “I wish I were half as good a woman as Rosalie.”

“Cain’t never be,” he says, before standing up and leaving me alone.

The day after the funeral, I attack our home with new fervor, dumping buckets of mud-brown wash water into the street and consuming two entire bedsheets as cleaning rags. I take on the bulk of the labor myself, leaving Ariel to play endless games of jump and chase with Barney, and giving Ronnie leave to spend the day playing baseball with his friends after contributing nothing more than a wipe-down of his room. Pa stays downstairs; much as he insists on having a clean house, he’s never been one to watch exactly how it gets that way. And when Russ comes upstairs and volunteers to pitch in, I practically chase him away with my broom.

“Go mind the shop,” I say, shooing him away with comic exaggeration. “For all we know, people are lined up right now ready to pick the shelves clean. Or maybe pay a little on their accounts. Wouldn’t that be nice?” Never mind that he’s been downstairs all morning and I haven’t heard the bell ring once.

I feel his eyes on me with every move, and I keep my line of vision confined to the bucket of fresh water into which I pour half a bottle of Lysol, swirling it in with my bare hand, mindless of the toll it might take on my skin. I plunge in the rag, wring it out, and begin a methodic washing of the kitchen countertop.

“Nola.”

I make a small sound of acknowledgment, avoiding his eyes as I’ve managed to do since coming home. Always there was a reason. I was exhausted, I was mournful, I was busy. I’ve spoken as little as possible, too. Every time I open my mouth, even to ask if he wants a second cup of coffee, I feel a confession ready to spill from my lips. But I haven’t had the words yet to make him understand. And I don’t have things in order,
not with the house in this sort of state. The time will come to reveal my failings as a wife—that I’ve given my body over to another. I’ll tell him everything tonight, all those little moments that led up to my betrayal. Maybe even the first moment of betrayal. The first storm. Byron’s riddle. Fifty cents. I’ll tell him right here at our table. Late, with the children in bed and the kitchen cast in shadows. I’ll tell him, and as I speak, he’ll see the kitchen glimmering in candlelight, and he’ll know I love him. Love our family. That there’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Cleaned. Scrubbed.

“Stop. Look at me.”

I stop.

“Look at me.”

I turn.

“There’s something I need to show you,” he says. “Downstairs.”

“I need to finish—”

“Downstairs.” His note of finality compels me to lay the wet rag across the rim of the bucket and wipe my hands on my apron.

I find Ariel, tell her to be a good girl and come find us if she needs to, and follow my husband downstairs. Perhaps
follow
isn’t the best word. He waits at the door and stands aside as I proceed down into the shop, his purposeful step behind me. To my surprise, Pa sits behind the counter; I can’t remember ever seeing him there before. Lately, if he spends time in the store at all, he spends it whiling away an hour or so with one of the other men—often Mr. Brown—playing checkers and narrating Oklahoma’s slow descent into hell.