I Will Send Rain (11 page)

“Your apron's untied,” Samuel said, reaching for the strings behind Annie's back. She had sewn it their first year in Oklahoma by lamplight in the dark dugout house. When he'd first seen the swoop of the embroidered canary yellow “A,” it was a flourish that had made him feel flush with buoyancy, a sign of her optimism and eagerness for their life.

Samuel finished the bow with a tug.

“Thank you,” she said, without turning from the sink.

*   *   *

T
HEY HAD BEEN
married only a week, had yet to spend a night alone together, when Samuel said let's just go, and Annie said yes. Her parents had given up trying to persuade them to stay. Samuel had settled up with Gramlin, the landowner of the farm he worked, and procured a wagon and a team, which they packed in the quiet early morning. The horses snorted, their exhalations visible in the chilly dawn.

Her mother came out from the house, a shawl around her shoulders, and held a small wooden crate.

“A tea set,” she said.

“I won't need that, Mother,” Annie said.

“What will you drink out of? Your hands?” It was a rare moment of levity from her mother.

Annie took the crate and shoved it into a small crevice she found along the side of the overstuffed wagon.

“I'll write,” she said, knowing she wouldn't, knowing she would relish the distance.

“You are married now. Before God,” her mother said. “You know—”

Annie hoped she might divulge something to her, some motherly advice.

“You can't come running back here when it gets hard,” she said. She stood with her feet perfectly together, her hands pulling her shawl tightly around herself as if she were trying to take up as little room as possible.

I never would, Annie thought.

“‘Wives, submit to your husbands as to the Lord.'” Her mother's mouth twitched, and Annie couldn't say if she'd seen a smile or a grimace. “You make it work.”

Samuel came from the house with the last suitcase and Annie felt herself swell with relief at the sight of him in his old work clothes, his felted hat.

“I do wish you well, Annie,” her mother said.

There were no kisses or hugs—her father never even came out to say goodbye—no waves as they set off, the two of them close on the buckboard seat, so ready for everything.

After they'd arrived in Cimarron County, at the end of a long rough ride, Annie looked in the crate to find the teapot in pieces, the saucers chipped, the sugar bowl's handle broken. Only two teacups made it. Months later, when the well had finally been dug, she and Samuel had toasted each other with teacups full of the coldest, sweetest water she had ever tasted.

*   *   *

W
HY
S
TYRON HAD
decided to hold this thing at midday in July was lost on him now. The brutal sun beat down on the crowd, which had swelled to upward of three hundred. The wind shook the tent he'd put up over the refreshment table, and underneath it, the churchwomen handed out cups of lemonade and water as fast as they could.

“We sent Betsy back with the truck,” Mable Helmsly said. “Block ice from Thurston's and water from the nearest well.”

Styron nodded, intensely aware of Hattie on his arm, but trying not to look like it. He took the glass of lemonade Mable held out to him and gave it to Hattie, who drank a greedy sip and then another, emptying the glass before they'd even moved beyond the table.

When he'd picked her up that morning, he'd felt great relief that she looked pretty good. She filled out her pink dress, but the fabric didn't strain. They drove to Mulehead with the windows down, which made it too loud to hear much of what she was saying. If today went well, he wondered if tonight he would get beyond the girdle.

“Good Lord,” she said, blotting her face with a handkerchief. “Seems like there're more people than there could possibly be rabbits.”

She took the handkerchief and rubbed his face.

“There,” she said. “You don't want your picture in the paper with a smudge on your face, now, do you?”

Sweat from his armpits soaked his undershirt. Styron parked her in the shade of a straggly juniper.

“Wait for me here?”

He walked away before she responded, eager to get the hunt going. Win Johnson's band launched into “Deep Elem Blues.” Dwight's sure hand with the fiddle was one of his few redeeming qualities.

“Hello, Mr. Styron,” Birdie said. She held Fred's hand, and he held up his other in greeting.

“Birdie,” Styron said. “Fred.”

“Say, you haven't seen the Macks yet, have you?”

“One of them in particular you looking for?” Styron smiled, and wished, as he had before, that Birdie Bell were a few years older.

“I suppose I am. Yes,” she said.

“I haven't seen Cy,” Styron said, “but I'll keep my eye out for him.”

*   *   *

S
TYRON CLIMBED UP
onto the flimsy stage. His hand trembled as he lifted the megaphone. The mayor stood off to the side, his arms crossed, bemused.

“Hello,” Styron said. No one could hear him. Someone motioned to the band to stop playing.

Styron shouted, “Hello, hello, hello,” until people quieted some.

“Welcome to Mulehead's first annual rabbit drive!”

The crowd clapped lethargically, ready to get on with it.

Birdie and Cy hadn't set a meeting place—no one had any idea people from all over three counties would be here—and now in the glare and the crowd, it seemed they might not find each other.

She and Fred moved closer to the stage as Styron went on. Bodies pressed in around them, everyone charged up and eager for action.

“But they don't call these the Great Plains for nothing. This is God's land,” Styron bellowed, so lifted was he by his own speech. “And we're tough enough to make the Plains great again. So I pledge to you today, I will stay on. And darn if we're going to let some rabbits make it harder for us. Am I right?”

The whoops and hollers rose.

Fred tugged Birdie's hand as the crowd surged forward.

“You want to go up?” she asked. Their mother had instructed them that they were only there to watch, but when she looked over, she saw the mayor talking to her parents. They wouldn't notice.

Fred nodded and jumped twice in excitement.

Styron pointed the gun in the air like he had practiced, and he fired three shots, sending the throng of people running toward the hill.

“Let's do it,” she said.

They joined a group moving up the far side of the line. Jackrabbits scooted this way and that, jumping into the shrubs. Birdie swept the faces but didn't see Cy among them. She had washed her hair and left it down long, just as he liked. She had used the last of her powder on her neck. Afterward they would walk together and she would tell him. Or she hoped she could.

Fred ran off with a boy from school. Birdie stood next to Gladys Abernathy, the librarian, and took her small hand with a smile. On her right, an older man touched his cap in her direction. He shyly held out his hand and she took the knotty fingers in her own.

*   *   *

A
FTER
S
TYRON'S SPEECH,
Jack Lily had come right up to Annie and Samuel, clearing his throat, she supposed, to steady himself. When their eyes had met it was too much, so she'd focused on the space above his shoulder. He and Samuel talked, but she couldn't concentrate enough to get the details. His hand, only a foot from hers. She had kissed that mouth. She felt like hot wax was spilling down her limbs.

“I'm going to get water,” she said, sensing both men watch her as she walked away.

Jack forced his gaze away from Annie, though he could barely look at Samuel. He had designs on the man's wife, for Christ's sake.

“Maybe you can help me with something,” Samuel said.

“Sure, whatever I can do.” Jack checked himself for sounding overly solicitous. “What's it you need?”

“Lumber. But I can't afford to get it green.”

“How much are we talking?”

“Enough to build a boat.”

“A boat?” Jack leaned closer. “To go on water?”

Samuel smiled. “I think there will be rain enough, when the time comes. I've had these visions.”

Visions? Jack thought. Bell thinks there's going to be a flood in the middle of this drought?

“It was Fred's idea, really. The boat. He's going to help me with it. Need to get him a little stronger first.”

“Good to work on something together,” Jack said, unsure about how to proceed. He'd never been comfortable with the spiritual fervor that sometimes took hold out here, and he hadn't seen it before in Samuel Bell. “Know anything about boats?”

“Not a lick,” Samuel answered, laughing a little.

It was a crackpot idea. Jack Lily was amazed that Samuel had no qualms about telling him. So sure he was in his faith.

The shots from Styron's gun rang out. The two men watched most of the town head up.

“If I think of any leads on wood I'll pass them along,” Jack said, eager to extract himself.

“Obliged,” Samuel said.

Jack had walked away with a wave. What must Annie think of this boat business? Before he could stop himself, he thought: This might not be such a bad thing for me, for us.

*   *   *

I
T WAS BEAUTIFUL.
All of them linked like a chain of paper dolls against the blazing sky, hand in hand stretched out along the rise. As he watched his neighbors banded together, Samuel was sorry he'd been such a stickler about not wanting to be a part of the hunt. He took Annie's hand.

“I saw Birdie and Fred go up,” she said.

“Ah well,” he said. “Good for them.”

She nodded. “Styron will shoot again, I imagine. To bring them down. He looked in rapture firing that gun.”

Samuel snorted. “So he did.”

“The mayor seemed a little distracted, didn't he?” he asked.

“I don't know,” Annie said. “I guess I didn't notice.”

They heard the crack, crack, crack of the gun—Styron somewhere at the top—and the wave of people started to move.

“Here they come,” Samuel said.

Annie watched them all walk together, like sleepwalkers, she thought, jackrabbits trying to outrun them. The two ends of the line pulled in to form a semicircle, a giant net of humanity.

*   *   *

F
RED AND
J
EB
Claren broke off and tried to catch rabbits by their ears. The animals were everywhere all of a sudden, herded downhill, scared out from shrubs and holes, a hopping blur. Fred forgot his breathing and delighted in the chase, got hold of a tail only to lose it, and laughed silently as his shoes slid on the packed dirt. “Get them, get them!”

*   *   *

C
Y WAS NOT
here, that much was clear. Birdie had gone down the entire row. She sighed, disappointed, but also relieved to keep her secret another day. Rabbits kicked up dust before her as the crowd closed in. She felt bad for the critters, even though she knew they dug out crops and ruined gardens and gnawed anything, even tree trunks. They were still soft and cute, still alive. As the group approached the pen, rabbits ran in, flinging themselves against the fences, piling on top of each other in a bawling crush. No one held hands anymore. The circle drew tighter, sending a multitude of rabbits into the squared-off fence.

“Birdie, Birdie, over here.” It was Mary Stem from school. Birdie waved but no longer felt so festive.

“We got you now!” a man jeered, while others laughed in response.

Birdie looked around for Fred, ready to get away from all of it. Styron and Garland Mitchell tried to close off the fence with a fourth side, but something had shifted, and they could not make their way through the crowd to pen them in. Anger rippled through the desperate men. They had no intention of backing away.

It was, she saw, the man McGuiness, the scavenger from the Woodrow house, who lunged first, a piece of wood suddenly in his hand as he whacked the frightened animals, crushing skulls and spines. He held up an armful of carcasses like the spoils of war. Birdie backed away as the mob cheered. She called for Fred, but it was useless.

*   *   *

T
HE RABBITS SOUNDED
like babies crying, a horrible wailing. Men took up whatever stones or sticks they could find and slaughtered the rabbits, charging into the cage with glee and fury. It took only minutes. By the time it was over, heaps of limp furry bodies were piled in the blood-spattered dust, spoiling quickly in the wretched heat.

Samuel shook his head at the brutality. The devil, he knew, could only take what you give him.

Two men began shoveling dead rabbits into a trailer. Samuel closed his eyes. He would begin in earnest on the boat tonight. He and Fred together.

“Where are the children?” Annie asked, her eyes darting about.

“They'll find us. They know where to find us,” he said.

Birdie came up to them then, her face ashen, and Annie took her in her arms and kissed her forehead.

“I don't feel well,” Birdie said. She leaned over and threw up, splattering her shoes. “I couldn't find Fred,” she said, wiping her mouth on her sleeve. “I lost him up there.” She could not take care of a baby. She couldn't even keep her eye on Freddie, and now it was her fault he was lost in this vile mess. Her stomach rolled, a burning in her throat.

Annie spun away, in a panic. Two steps one way, two steps another, trying to find Fred in the chaos of bodies and heat and death, her arms slack at her sides, limp and useless.

*   *   *

W
HEN THE GROUP
had cooled, the bloodlust passed, there in the corner of the pen, hunched over the last rabbit quivering in his lap, was Fred, blood on his clothes and caked in his hair. Annie heard his warbling, a feeble high-pitched moan, before she saw him.