Miracle in a Dry Season (16 page)

Casewell took two steps toward Perla, stretching out his hand, not sure what he meant to do with it.

“Come help me,” she said. “God will see that it all comes out the way He intends.”

Casewell’s hand closed over Perla’s wrist where she braced herself against the table. He held on to her as though she might run away if he let go. She looked up and into his face, her eyes so clear and wide and blue. Casewell felt something flutter in his chest. It might have been an angel’s wings, or maybe it was just his heart. He began opening jars.

Only two women came for food that day. Casewell knew one was a widow with four children under the age of twelve. The other was Liza Talbot.

“Angie had a fit when I told her I was coming, but I came just the same,” she said to Perla. “I will confess that your cooking ability makes me a little uneasy, but who am I to question a miracle?”

“You think this is a miracle?” Perla looked at Liza with such hope.

“Well, I know folks have talked about how the devil can do
things that look like miracles to fool people, but your feeding people is such a good thing right now. Isn’t there something in the Bible about how the devil can’t work against himself?”

“That’s in Matthew, chapter twelve,” Casewell said.

“Exactly,” Liza nodded emphatically, as if that were all the argument she needed. “Whatever’s happening here, the Lord will use it for good.” She patted Perla on the hand and took a bite of chicken pie. “Oh, my stars, this is good,” she exclaimed. “People will cut off their noses to spite their own faces, won’t they? Yes, indeed. If you’ll make me up another bowl, I’ll take it home to Angie, and if she won’t eat it, then I surely will.”

“Of course!” Casewell cried, startling Perla and Liza. “If folks are too afraid to come get this food, we’ll carry it to them.” He called for Robert, and the men began planning.

Robert and Delilah would deliver the food. Perla wanted to go, too, but Casewell and Robert agreed that she was a little too polarizing at the moment. So she stayed at the store with Casewell and Sadie in case any customers came by. None did.

Toward evening, Perla asked Casewell to watch Sadie playing on the porch while she disappeared behind the shelves where the makeshift kitchen was set up. Casewell sat in a rocking chair and watched the little girl play with her doll and empty thread spools. Sadie’s absorption in her play left Casewell time to think. He didn’t often just sit and think. He was almost always working, and while he often found that he didn’t need to think about tasks like hoeing or sanding, he didn’t use that time for deep contemplation, either.

Rocking and listening to Sadie carry on a soft conversation with her toys, he found himself filled with something like yearning. He wanted something with every fiber of his being—what was it? He felt peaceful and contented, which was completely
unexpected. His father was dying, his mother was suffering, the drought had a death grip on the land, and Perla was being ostracized. Things were not going well. And yet, sitting with a child at his feet and a woman in the kitchen at his back, he felt happier than he had in a very long time—maybe ever.

Casewell closed his eyes and lifted a prayer to heaven. He asked that God help him understand the gift of peace and help him hold on to it. He asked that his heart’s yearning please God and benefit his fellowman. He asked for wisdom.

Casewell was about to open his eyes when he felt Sadie place a hand on his knee. He looked at her clutching her doll in the crook of her arm and smiled.

“I love you, Mr. Casewell,” she said and then returned to her game on the porch floor.

Casewell nearly choked as tears rose in his throat, and he fought to keep from sobbing aloud. This child loved him. Why would she love him? Because he’d made her some toys? Because he’d talked to her a time or two and now sat with her on the porch? There was no real reason for a little girl to love him. But even as he marveled that she did, he realized that he loved her right back. More than he would have ever thought he could love someone not his own flesh and blood.

By sunset Robert and Delilah had carried chicken pie to most of the houses within a five-mile radius of the store. They’d been turned away by some, but most folks were glad to get the food. When they pulled up to the store, Casewell was saved from spending any more time with his suddenly overwhelming emotions. Robert and Delilah climbed out, looking worn but happy.

“We have enough left for our own supper,” Delilah said. “I just love how that works out.”

“Folks were accepting?” Casewell asked, hoping they didn’t hear the catch in his voice.

“More than one hinted they wouldn’t mind if no one else knew they took the food, and I think the rest pretended they didn’t know who did the cooking,” Robert said. “All’s well that ends well. Let’s eat. I’ve been smelling this good chicken all afternoon.”

Just then Perla stepped out of the store, a smile like a sunrise lighting her face. “Come on in,” she called. “I fixed up something special for the delivery crew.”

They all trooped inside, Casewell taking Sadie’s hand and wondering at how it fit so snugly into his palm. At the rear of the store, a door had been placed across two sawhorses to make a worktable. Perla had found a rose-patterned cloth to drape over it and had dragged the chairs from the potbellied stove over to their makeshift dinner table. She had placed a chicken pie with a fancy crimped crust in the center of the table. Casewell’s bowls sat at each chair, with spoons resting on tea towels in place of napkins. Perla had rounded up a few stumps of candles and set them in china teacups on either side of the pie. There was a peach cobbler, still bubbling hot from the oven, sitting on the stovetop. Coffee mugs and a tin pitcher of water finished off the setting.

Casewell breathed in the aroma of roasted chicken, peaches, and butter. He grinned. Robert elbowed him and the two men exchanged delighted smiles. Delilah exclaimed over how beautiful it all was and clapped her hands. Sadie found the seat with an upside-down crate on it and tried to climb up. Struggling, she turned to Casewell and raised her arms to him. He lifted her, and as her feet left the ground, he found himself tossing
her into the air and catching her before setting her as gently as the finest china onto her seat. Sadie’s laughter seemed to fill them all with a joy beyond understanding. They sat and joined hands to give thanks for this food.

The next morning Casewell went to his workshop to hammer together a couple of extra crates for food deliveries. He was almost surprised to see the finished bed and tea table sitting exactly where he had left them two days earlier. He needed to let Frank know his commission was complete. He doubted Frank had a phone, so he wrapped the table in an old blanket and carefully wedged it into the front seat of his truck. He drove out to the Rexroad place, whistling absently through his teeth and thinking about nothing in particular.

Frank sat out front in an old kitchen chair with a frayed bottom. He wore threadbare dungarees and a thin undershirt. His feet were bare and his white hair gleamed in the morning sun. Casewell stopped well back of the house to keep the dust down. He’d driven over with the windows up to protect the table, and he could feel sweat gathering where his back pressed against the cracked seat.

Climbing out of the truck, Casewell raised a hand and called out. “Brought your table.”

Frank nodded and waved him on. Casewell unwrapped the table and carried it over to set in front of the old man. He thought it made an interesting picture—the barefoot man in his broken-down chair and a handcrafted tea table, all sitting in a dusty, shadeless yard.

“Hope you like it,” Casewell said, taking a step back and giving Frank room to make up his mind.

Frank lifted the tray out and clicked it back into place. He ran a hand over the inlay and stroked the scalloped edge. He nodded one time, emphatically.

“Son, you have earned your pay and then some,” he said at last. He fished in his front pocket and pulled out a roll of bills. He peeled off what he owed and handed it over. Casewell took the cash, wondering that a man with no shoes would have a bankroll handy.

“I hope the lady you plan to give it to likes it,” Casewell said.

Frank’s head jerked up. “I didn’t say I planned to give it away,” he said sharply.

Casewell reddened. “I guess you didn’t. I made an assumption there. My apologies.” He began backing toward his truck. “Guess I’d better be getting on. Thanks for the work.”

Frank laid a hand on the table again. “It is a gift,” he said softly. Casewell stopped. “But I don’t suppose it will make a bit of difference. There are some things you can never apologize for.”

Casewell cleared his throat. He had the feeling Frank wasn’t talking to him. “It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness,” Casewell said. “Even if you don’t get it, I think it’s worth asking.”

“I don’t know. It’s been a lot of years since I tampered with not one heart but two.” He pulled his hand back from the table. “Three, if you count mine. At first I was too mad to come home, so I traveled the world, nursing what I told myself was a broken heart. Then when I came home . . . well, what I found gave me the ammunition I needed for some good ol’ righteous indignation. Crawling into a jug of moonshine seemed the answer back then. Now I tend to think the answer might be owning up to my part in the whole thing. Can’t hardly change anyone but me, so thought I’d start there.”

Frank nodded his head and patted the table. He looked up and seemed to shed his pensive mood like brushing away cobwebs. “You bring me some of that good food Perla’s cooking down at the store.” Casewell thought he saw a twinkle in the old man’s eye. “I reckon I’m going to need my strength.”

Perla needed to get away. She’d been cooking all week and she was exhausted. By Friday, a few folks were coming to the store to pick up their daily meal, but Casewell and Robert were still delivering most of the food. Perla wasn’t complaining—she loved every minute, from the time she stepped into the kitchen area each morning until she sat down at the end of the day to consider the inevitable leftovers. Delilah kept Sadie occupied and the time flew like startled doves. But even so, Perla was tired.

Delilah stopped Perla as she started out of the house on Saturday morning.