Miracle in a Dry Season (26 page)

As Perla washed the dishes that evening, she remembered how good it felt to imagine, if only for a moment, that she offered comfort to Casewell. When she squeezed his arm, it felt like her fingers belonged there, touching his skin. Like she had a right to touch him, which, of course, she didn’t. But for those few moments when circumstance placed them side by side in
the pew while they celebrated the rain and Casewell mourned his father, Perla had felt a kinship, a closeness that she allowed to linger, even though she knew it was just her imagination.

As they walked out into the rain-fresh evening, she’d seen Melody Simmons laughing with some other young women. Casewell had glanced at her, and Perla thought it had been an admiring look. Why wouldn’t it be? Melody was lovely, though she’d never impressed Perla as being especially quick-witted. But maybe that would suit Casewell—a simple wife who didn’t fill his life with complications. She sighed and walked to the back door to throw out the dirty dishwater. Sadie and Delilah were there, examining a praying mantis.

“Don’t touch it,” Delilah admonished. “Just look.”

“Mommy, it’s a praying bug.” Sadie ran to pull Perla closer to see. “What is he praying for?”

“He’s probably giving thanks for the rain.” Perla caught Delilah’s eye over Sadie’s bent head. “Maybe he’s giving thanks for such a nice place to live.”

And maybe she should say her thanks—at least to the people who had been kind—and then move on. The people of Wise probably wouldn’t need her anymore now that the rain had come. Maybe it was time to go home. She missed her mother, and she hoped her father would be ready to forgive her by now. She’d seen the miracle of forgiveness between Casewell and John, so she knew it was possible. She kissed the top of Sadie’s head. Yes, going home was a good idea. It would save her having to see Casewell make a match. Closing her eyes, Perla tried to ignore the stone that was her heart.

18

C
ASEWELL
FACED
THE
DAY
with a mixture of dread, sorrow, and inexplicable joy. He wanted to honor his father with just the right words, but he didn’t know what they were. Casewell took a deep breath, like a man surfacing after being underwater. He could taste the air. It seemed cleaner, richer somehow. He supposed it was from the rain. Casewell headed for the kitchen where he smelled coffee. He trusted he would think better after a stout cup.

As he passed through the front room with its windows thrown open to the rain-freshened air, Casewell tried to put his finger on what was different about the morning. It was more than just rain and his father’s passing. A wren landed on the windowsill and sang with all her might.

Birdsong. The morning rang with birdsong. The drought had driven the birds away, hopefully to someplace greener, but overnight they had returned and seemed determined to celebrate. Casewell smiled and stopped to admire the wren’s soft brown feathers and watch her tilt her head back to warble. He thought the birds might be rushing things a bit—it would
take a while for the landscape to green back up, but he was glad just the same.

He stepped out onto the porch. The landscape was still desolate, but it looked somehow hopeful this morning. He looked more closely at a sugar maple growing off the corner of the porch and saw leaf buds swelling along the branches. Even as he watched it seemed like a burgeoning bud pushed a dead, shriveled leaf off the tip of a branch. It fluttered to the ground like a sigh at the end of a long, hard day. Casewell looked around the corner of the house at his parents’ garden patch—he didn’t much enjoy gardening—but the once parched rows called to him now. He had that spring feeling that it was time to get seed in the ground, time for a new season to unfold.

Casewell headed inside for a cup of coffee with his mother. He thought he might have an idea of what he wanted to say at the funeral.

That afternoon they held the viewing for John Phillips. Of course, the primary topic of discussion was the recent rain. Casewell had never seen a happier group gather for a funeral. Even his mother smiled as she placed a handkerchief embroidered with her initials in the casket beside his father. She leaned in and whispered something, then smoothed the hair back from his forehead. She turned and came to stand next to Casewell so the long line of mourners could clasp their hands and say well-meaning things.

The typical exchange ran along the lines of “I’m so sorry about John, but he’d been sick for a long time. What d’you reckon he’d make of this weather? He’d surely have something to say about it.”

Casewell and his mother nodded and agreed and marveled over the miracle that had watered the land. They were grateful when well-wishers moved along quickly and tried to be patient when they wanted to linger and talk. Time for the service grew near, and the line dwindled. Casewell took the opportunity to step outside for a breath of air. Perla appeared with Sadie just as he was about to go back in.

“We’re late.” Perla wrinkled her brow.

“No. I suppose you’re right on time.” Casewell was rewarded with a smile.

“We’ve been picking violets along the creek—I guess they never quite died back all the way, and with the rain . . . Well, I’ve never seen so many, and Sadie was having such a nice time.”

Casewell looked down at the child and noticed she was wearing a wreath of the flowers in her hair. He’d never noticed that violets had much smell to them, but there was the loveliest aroma in the air. He knelt down and admired Sadie’s halo.

“Aren’t they nice?” The child tilted her head this way and that to give Casewell a better look. “Can I give them to Mr. John to say good-bye?”

Casewell raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I don’t see why not. Let’s take them in.”

Sadie wrapped her tiny hand around Casewell’s third and fourth fingers, which was all she could manage. They approached the casket, and Casewell worried that seeing a dead man might disturb the child.

“Do you want me to put them in for you?” he asked.

“No. I can do it.”

Casewell saw that she couldn’t, so he lifted Sadie as she removed the wreath from her hair. She laid it on his father’s
chest and gave it a little pat. “Good-bye, Mr. John,” she said. “I love you.”

Casewell knew it was only his imagination, but he heard his father’s voice whisper,
“I love you,
too.”
Casewell knew who his father was talking to.

Setting Sadie back on the ground, Casewell turned to Perla and took her hand. He kneaded her fingers between his own. “I,” he began. But Marvin walked in and said they’d better get on in there and start the service.

“We’ll talk later,” Casewell said to Perla and followed Marvin into the chapel.

Robert opened the service with “Sweet By and By.” Casewell listened to the words, confident that God was even now holding his father’s hand.

“There’s a land that is fairer than day,

And by faith we can see it afar;

For the Father waits over the way

To prepare us a dwelling place there.

“In the sweet by an by,

We shall meet on that beautiful shore;

In the sweet by and by,

We shall meet on that beautiful shore.”

Casewell watched his mother cry as she sang, but in spite of the tears she somehow looked happy. She smiled and seemed to be looking up at something that pleased her. Seeing her like that made Casewell glad.

Steve came up and read the Twenty-third Psalm. Then Robert called Casewell to the front. He stood and felt unsteady for a moment. He had been so sure of what he wanted to say that he hadn’t felt the need for notes. Now his mind was a blank. Then the image of his father asking for Casewell’s forgiveness just the previous Sunday came to mind. That was it. Casewell stepped up to the pulpit, pausing to lay a hand on his father’s now-closed casket.

Casewell gazed across the crowd. Everyone was there. Frank sat between Liza and Angie, the trio looking pleased just to be in one another’s company. Delilah sat with Perla and Sadie. Casewell thought he’d never seen three prettier girls lined up in a row. His mother sat on the other side of Delilah, and in spite of the sorrow she carried, there was a softness to her face that had been missing for a long time. Casewell supposed it was the absence of worry.

The rest of the crowd looked more like they had gathered for a tent meeting than for a funeral. Casewell credited it to the drought ending and the land beginning to heal. The rain had eased fears people didn’t even know they carried. Casewell became aware of the wind rustling the branches of a dogwood outside the open window to his left. It was a relaxing sound, and he closed his eyes for a moment to enjoy it better. Then he opened his eyes and began speaking.

“I reckon most of you were as glad as me when that rain came. Seemed like Dad could hear it coming before anybody. Maybe that’s because he was on his way home.” People shifted and a few sat up a bit straighter.

“Last Sunday those of you who were here saw my father stand up in that pew right there.” Casewell pointed to where a family of four now sat. They looked a little uncomfortable,
as though they shouldn’t have taken the dead man’s seat. “He stood up and asked me to forgive him for being less of a father than he thought I deserved.” Casewell bowed his head and gripped the sides of the pulpit. “He was wrong. He was more of a father than I deserved. Who among us”—Casewell’s head swung up and his eyes shone—“really and truly deserves a father who would . . .” He paused, feeling the tears rise in his throat, and he cleared it before trying again. “My father was not one to show much emotion. I don’t think he told me he loved me until just a few days ago. But I knew he did.” Casewell looked at the congregation and let the silence stretch a moment. “He showed me every day of his life. He showed me in the hard work he did, the sacrifices he made, the way he treasured my mother.” She beamed through her tears. “He showed me in a thousand ways, and while I will always be glad he
told
me he loved me, I did not doubt it.”

“Look out there.” Casewell gestured to the windows. “A week ago it seemed like the end of the world. If it hadn’t been for the food dished out at the store, some of us might have starved. We likely would have been forced to leave this place just to find enough to eat and water to drink. A week ago, it looked like God hated us. It looked like He was finally giving us what we most likely deserve—the hard back side of His hand.

“My own father gave me that a time or two over the years. I don’t blame him a bit.” Casewell smiled at his mother. “I reckon I was a handful coming up.” She smiled back and gave her head a little shake.

“I guess I needed to be kept in check by a firm hand. A hand like John Phillips’s. I deserved to be taken down a notch when I was a boy full of mischief. Just like maybe we all deserved a
season of drought. But my father showed us what God requires when he stood up here last week. We have to ask for forgiveness, and what’s more, we have to give it.” Casewell hesitated, then looked out and met Perla’s gaze. She smiled and he felt a surge of energy enter the general area of his heart. He smiled back.