On Shifting Sand (37 page)

I
N HIS OBITUARY,
Pa is described as a successful Oklahoma rancher, survived by a son, a daughter, and two grandchildren. It runs five lines in a narrow column and is wired to every newspaper within a hundred miles. Greg and I both know only of the existence of distant cousins, practically nameless, from scattered comments throughout our childhood. Where they live—
if
they live—is as much a mystery as the details of their connection to our family. Neither of us have any reason to think long-lost kin will show up for Pa’s funeral. Still, Greg says, we need to post the notice of his passing, lest anyone wants to lay claim to what is left of Pa’s estate. Any legitimate heirs, and we won’t be able to sell the land for whatever pittance the government is willing to give.

Greg explains all of this to me while I work an iron over Pa’s best shirt. Russ is out taking care of the burial arrangements, and the children are downstairs in the shop helping Mrs. Brown prepare it for tomorrow’s reception.

“None of this would be necessary if Pa had left a decent will,” Greg says. “We could sell it tomorrow.”

“I don’t know that he ever intended to die.”

“You don’t think he might have one out at the house?”

I sprinkle starch along the sleeve. “Could be.”

“We need to go out there to look.”

The iron hisses against the fabric. “You don’t want to go out there, Greg.”

“Sounds more like
you
don’t want to.”

“You’re right. I don’t.” I drape the shirt over the back of the chair, a towel underneath and over to protect it from the dust.

“I understand if there are painful memories for you there,” Greg says. He’s taken on the task of shining Pa’s good shoes, and it occurs to me that the only people in this town with clean shoes are the ones in their graves.

“Do you?” I set the iron on its cooling plate and fold the board. “Because you were never around much after you got out.”

“I know. I should have been. I knew you had it rough there, but I couldn’t just
take
you, even if I wanted to. Remember, I was pretty young myself, and once I’d gotten away—”

“I understand. I wouldn’t have come back either.”

“I fought a war, Nola.”

“So did I. Against
him
.”

“And you survived. You got out. Maybe just not the way we planned.”

I brace my hands on my hips and look around the tiny room dominated by the bed, now stripped of its soiled linens. “And look how far I’ve come. I could have gone to college, you know.”

“Of course you could have.” No hint of condescension in my brother’s voice. “You’re brilliant.”

“That’s what I tried to tell him. Not that I was
brilliant
, but that I was smart. As smart as any boy. As smart as
you
.”

Greg gives a final buff of a shoe, then carries the pair over to where the rest of Pa’s burial clothes are laid out.

“That was your mistake, comparing yourself to me. He never forgave me for leaving.”

“No, he never forgave you for not coming back.”

“Look, I’m sorry.” He hugs me, and I let the weight of days fall against him. “I shouldn’t have stayed away. At least not from you. I should have done something. Fetched you myself if I had to, but Russ beat me to it.”

“Fetched,”
I repeat, mimicking him. For the first moment since his arrival he sounds like his Oklahoma roots—something I’m sure he’s worked hard to erase.

He laughs, gives me a squeeze, and kisses the top of my head. “I always thought you were happy. Love, marriage, kids, home.”

“I am happy,” I say, trying to convince myself as much as him. “And there’s no reason you shouldn’t have a family of your own.”

“Someday.” His wistfulness matches mine. “But not here. I could never live here again.”

To say that Pa’s funeral is sparsely attended would do the occasion a kindness. As expected, no distant relatives make the journey, though they’d hardly have had time to do so, since we bury him a scant two days after his passing. With summer turning into fall, the frequency and violence of the winds is increasing, so we dare not waste a window of stillness to gather at the cemetery.

This morning, my brother, my husband, my children, the Browns, and a handful of the faithful from the church stand with us, including Ben Harris, who came to offer his condolences, having seen the notice in the scrap of a town where he and the baby now live with his parents.

Afterward, we set up the luncheon along the gleaming store counter, which seems almost disrespectful, as Pa always scorned the foodstuffs distributed from this place. There are sandwiches made from the government’s ham, pickles, a macaroni salad, and pie. A modest spread by any estimation, more so than I ever remember for a funeral. I know, however,
that if it weren’t for these people’s loyalty to Russ, I would have buried my father alone. In that light, I attribute the frugality to the shortness of notice and the limitations of time.

As we all know one another, there is no need to stand in a formal receiving line, but I do meander throughout the room, reacquainting our church family with my brother. When they learn of his position in Washington, the room rings with questions: What’s to be done? Is there any relief in sight?

Greg, for his part, speaks reassuringly.

“They know,” he says over and over again. “They are watching, and they are listening. The best we can hope for is that God will send rain. But until that time, believe me, Congress is working to send ideas. And help, where they can. You pray; they’ll work.”

At every conversation, Russ is at my brother’s side, lending his particularly comforting presence, thereby endorsing Greg’s promises. Together, they make the same demand. Faith.

Under Russ’s watchful eye, I nibble at the corner of a sandwich throughout the afternoon, insisting that I want our guests to have their fill before I indulge in more. By the time everybody leaves, the trays are largely empty. I allow Ariel to take scraps of ham upstairs to feed Barney, and tell Ronnie he can listen to as much of the radio tonight as he wishes, leaving Russ, Greg, and me in the empty store, picking at the rest of the feast’s remains.

“Good people here,” Greg says, glancing around the room, admiring the ghosts.

“The best,” Russ says. “I wish you could have seen this place five, six years ago. It was a thriving place.”

“I remember working here sometimes when I was a kid. You remember that, Nola?”

I pick at the crust of my sandwich. “I do. And I hated it. But I think back to how forward-thinking Uncle Glen was, letting a girl work here at all. If I recall, he never even wanted us to have the vote.”

There is a brief moment of levity before Russ clears his throat.
“I haven’t had the chance yet, Greg, to tell you how sorry I am that this place—”

Greg holds up his hand, deflecting any further apology. “Look around you, Russ. Can’t even keep a chicken alive here, let alone a business. Now, I’ve been telling Nola, and I’ll tell you, too. You all have got to pull up stakes and get out of here.”

“Greg, please,” I interject. “This isn’t the time.”

“It’s the perfect time. You’ve got nothing holding you here. It’s time to save your family.”

Russ’s face remains a placid field. He will not take umbrage with what Greg said, but I know my brother is sowing his protests in rocky soil.

“My church is holding me here. And now, my work at the hospital.”

“Nola says that’s temporary.”

“It was,” Russ says. And now he looks away.

“Was?”

“Darling, I didn’t think this was the right time to tell you, but since it’s come up . . .” He casts a meaningful gaze—almost a glare—at Greg, then turns his body to block him out. “Earlier this week, before we knew about your father, the director called me in. They want to hire me on full-time. I’ll start drawing a paycheck after the hospital bill is paid off.”

I give myself a moment to recover from the feeling of betrayal at having to learn the news in this fashion, not to mention that Russ has obviously accepted the position without even consulting me. A job. In the city. Maybe not a city, exactly, but a town. With schools and a library and a movie theater.

“Oh, Russ!” I wrap my arms around him, unashamed of such a display in front of my brother. “I’ll need a few days to pack up some things from Pa’s place, and maybe we can store them here, depending on how large a house we can find.”

“Nola—”

“Oh, I know it won’t be anything grand at first. We can find something small for now. I don’t mind. But think—a
salary
.” I glance at Greg and notice immediately that he does not share my enthusiasm.

“I’ll leave the two of you to hash this out,” he says, grabbing one more sandwich. “Think I’ll go upstairs and see if either of your children are interested in beating their uncle at a game of checkers.”

Russ waits until he leaves before speaking. “We can’t do anything right away, Nola. Right now things are the same as they’ve always been. I won’t draw a salary for a while yet, and even then, it won’t be enough to start up a new household.”

“So what will we do?”

“Exactly what we’ve been doing. For a while longer.”

“How much longer?”

He breaks a little then and rubs his hand across his face, the way he does when we find ourselves venturing into a conversation he never intended to have. “Until God tells me, clearly, that it’s time to leave this place. To leave this church.”

“It’s not enough that you hear me?” My question rages thick with accusation, but he does not back down in the face of it.

“No, of course not. We can’t rely on our own wisdom; you know that. We are to trust in the Lord with all our hearts, and lean not on our own understanding.”

Now he accuses me, even if unknowingly, and I wither. “I
do
trust God.”

“Do you? You didn’t rest five seconds with this possibility before launching into plans. No prayer, no consideration, just a leap into what you desire.”

“You make it sound as if I haven’t been
desiring
this all my life, Russ. Have you thought that maybe God took my father away right at this time to free both of us up from our obligations here? And to give us somewhere to go?”

“I still have obligations here. Or have you forgotten about our church?”

I cross my arms, press them close against me to keep my heart from exploding. “How could I? You’ve never given me a minute of our life to forget about it. But haven’t you noticed, darling, that they’ve forgotten
you? Why else are our children hungry? What other explanation is there for the fact that I’ll have to make Ariel’s school dresses out of the curtains left behind in the houses they abandoned? Are you proposing that you’ll drive back here on the weekends to stand behind that pulpit and preach to me and the children?”

Somewhere in the midst of my diatribe, I’ve crossed from sarcasm to cruelty, and I watch Russ’s jaw work to hold in the words that would pay me back in kind. If he only knew what hidden stones he cannot throw, how little right I have to mock his fidelity, I wouldn’t have the strength to stand against him, let alone speak down from some ill-gotten morality. That reminder alone stills my tongue, and I turn to leave.

“Stop.”

My father said the same thing to me once, when I told him that I was going to marry Russ. I was holding a secret then, too, deep within my body. And, like that afternoon, I do not obey.

Russ returns to Boise City that night. It is the first time he leaves without so much as a kiss, let alone some longer, promise-filled embrace. Not ten minutes after he drives away, I fall into our bed and into an exhausted sleep.

I wake to find Ariel curled at my side. It is her first day of school, and I hate that it has been tainted by the loss of her beloved Paw-Paw. Still, her enthusiasm has not waned, and her insistent demand that I “wake up wake up wake up” proves to be as effective as the smell of coffee wafting through the house.

I am still wearing the dutiful black dress from the previous day, and gratefully strip it off, getting some relief for my stifled, sweat-sticky skin. Wrapped in my robe, I scuttle across the hall, splash myself with cool water, and don a cool, thin housedress. In the kitchen I find my brother at the stove, spatula in hand, stirring a pan of scrambled eggs.