Miracle in a Dry Season (27 page)

“A few days ago, my father asked for my forgiveness, and then he died. I don’t know that I said the words out loud, but I want you all to hear it. I forgive my father. The rain ushered him into heaven. And now it’s like spring out there—trees budding, grass coming up, birds singing—God’s gift to all of us.” Casewell kneaded his hands. “John Phillips was not perfect. He was a father and a husband, and I loved him. John Phillips is sitting at the feet of God, forgiven. Hallelujah.” The last word came out a hoarse whisper. Casewell bowed his head and dropped his shaking hands to the pulpit. Silence reigned.

19

T
HE
CONGREGATION
SAT
as though holding its collective breath. And then Robert leapt to his feet and clapped Casewell on the back.

“George, Steve, get on up here and let’s have a song. What’ll it be, Casewell?” He turned to his friend.

“Are You Washed in the Blood,” Casewell said without having to think. Someone handed him his mandolin, and George started them off.

“Have you been to Jesus for the cleansing power?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?

Are you fully trusting in His grace this hour?

Are you washed in the blood of the Lamb?”

The song swirled around Casewell. He played it with scarcely a thought for the tune. The congregation began clapping their hands in time to the lively music. Casewell felt washed cleaner than he had ever been in his life. Guilt, shame, anger—all sluiced out through his fingertips as he plucked the strings.

When the song ended, George whispered, “Trust and Obey.” And Casewell knew that this song was also the right one.

By the time they finished the second song, most of the congregants had risen to their feet and were singing with arms raised and throats tilted heavenward. The last note died away along with the upraised voices, and the congregation sat without being asked. Robert stepped back up to the pulpit.

“Friends, we came today to bury a man many of us have known for a long time. But I think what we’ve done is resurrect our own spirits in the assurance of a forgiveness that brings life everlasting. John Phillips may have left this world, but we’ll be seeing him again. ‘Weeping may endure for a night, but joy cometh in the morning.’

“I don’t think I’ve ever been to a more joyful funeral. I thank you all for coming to honor a good man’s life. Now please join us in the cemetery for the burial.”

Casewell, Robert, George, Steve, Frank, and Marvin stepped forward to carry the casket out to the cemetery. They moved slowly over the uneven ground until they reached the gaping hole that Casewell and other men had dug the day before. The job would have been nearly impossible in the midst of the drought with the sunbaked dirt. But thanks to the rain, their shovels slid through the dirt and clay like a child digging in sand. Even now, there was a little water puddled in the bottom of the grave, and Casewell imagined it would be like a baptism, dropping the casket into that water.

Everyone gathered around the grave site. It was customary to say a few words, but Casewell felt his had run out. The men placed the casket over ropes arranged on the ground. He looked at the other pallbearers and nodded. They seemed to understand that he wanted them to go ahead and lower the casket.

Casewell watched the box containing what was left of his father descend into the cool brown earth. He had no sense
that his father was actually in there. It seemed only that he was honoring the temple that had housed the man he loved most in this world, tucking it away now that his father was done with it.

Once the casket was situated, Casewell drew his mother forward, and each of them took up a handful of dirt to rain down on the closed lid. The clods of dirt hit with hollow thuds. Traditionally, the family would leave before the grave was filled in, but Casewell took up a shovel, handed it to Robert, took another for himself, and began filling in the grave. Other men stepped forward to help. George began singing.

“Some glad morning when this life is o’er,

I’ll fly away. . . .”

His sweet tenor was punctuated by the sound of dirt hitting the casket and then, dirt hitting dirt lending a rhythmic sort of beat to the song. The rest of the group joined in until the whole crowd was singing verse after verse of “I’ll Fly Away.”

Casewell could hear Perla’s sweet soprano and his mother’s alto mingling. He imagined his father was flying about now. And it was good.

After the funeral, people went back to the Phillipses’ farm, bringing what food they had. Although the land was beginning to heal, they still didn’t have gardens or much left in their cellars. But Perla took over the kitchen, and Casewell knew there would be more than enough.

Neighbors and friends stayed all evening—eating, talking, laughing, even singing. The funeral had been better than any
revival. Eventually Casewell eased away and closed himself in his parents’ bedroom for a moment of solitude.

He ran a hand over the woodwork on the headboard he’d made for them. Joy swelled his heart at the thought that his father had enjoyed his craftsmanship right up until the last moments of his life. He noticed that the window he opened at his father’s request just a few days earlier had not been adjusted since. The night air held an unexpected coolness. Autumn would come soon.

Casewell heard the door ease open and turned to see his mother slipping through. She gave him a tired smile and sat down in a rocking chair near the window.

“Some of those folks may stay the night,” she said. “I’ve never seen people linger over a funeral so long.”

“A lot has happened this week.” Casewell scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Probably they just want to be together right now.”

“Can’t say as I’m looking forward to being alone myself. It’s well and truly alone I’ll be now.”

“I’ve been thinking, Ma. What if you came to stay with me?” Casewell wasn’t entirely sure he wanted his mother to move in with him, but he’d been thinking it would be the right thing to do.

His mother reached out to take his hand where he stood looking out the window. “No, thank you, son. I’ll confess it’s tempting, but this is my home. This is where my memories are stacked up like kindling for the winter.” Her eyes twinkled, surprising Casewell. “And anyway, I’ve never cottoned to living in a house with another woman.”

“What are you talking about? It’s just me.”

“Today maybe, but I have high hopes for the future. You
need a good woman who will fill your house to overflowing with love. Seems to me there’s more than one young lady in these parts who would be glad for a man like you.”

Casewell took a breath to speak, but Mom squeezed his hand and gave it a little tug. “No, hush now. This isn’t the time to discuss it one way or the other. It’s time you settled down. I think I’ve maybe held you a little too close, discouraged your marrying. Just know it won’t hurt my feelings if you find someone.” She released his hand. “Now go on out there and see if you can’t get at least half that crowd to go on home. I’m going to rest my eyes for a spell.” She inhaled deeply and closed her eyes, letting her breath out slowly, as though reluctant to release it. She smiled and Casewell thought she might be asleep already.

He eased the door open and then shut it with a soft click. He wondered if his mother’s tune would change if she knew who haunted his dreams.

The living room had already thinned out a good bit without his having to ask anyone to leave. If the exodus had begun, surely the momentum would continue, and they would have the house to themselves again soon.

Casewell shook a few hands, suffered shoulder pats and squeezes, and finally saw the last guest off the front porch. Just Robert, Delilah, and Perla remained in the kitchen. Sadie lay curled on the sofa, sound asleep with her doll strangled in the crook of her arm. Casewell tugged the afghan his mother had crocheted off the back of the sofa and draped it over the child. The tenderness he had experienced in church on Sunday rose in him to a degree that he could hardly absorb. He confessed to himself that he wanted this child for his own, and he wanted her mother with her. The need for these two females to belong
to him was almost overwhelming. Casewell dropped to his knees next to the sofa and began a whispered prayer.

“Lord, you know the depths of my heart. You know the desires of my soul. You know what is good and right and proper. Father, I beg you to grant me this. And if you choose not to, please take this longing from me. I can’t bear it much longer. Amen.”

When he raised his head, Sadie blinked at him sleepily. “Are you talking to God?” she asked.

“I am.”

“Tell Him ‘hey’ for me,” she said and closed her eyes again.

Casewell squeezed his eyes shut. “Your daughter says ‘hello,’” he whispered. “Please make her my daughter, too.”

Casewell stood and moved into the kitchen where Robert slouched in a chair at the table while Perla and Delilah finished drying and putting away the dishes. Perla slid a cake of gingerbread out of the oven.

“We pooled ingredients to make cakes,” she explained. “This is the last one. Would you like a piece?”

Casewell realized he was ravenous. He thought back to the day he met Perla, when his stomach growled in church. She’d been feeding him ever since. She’d been feeding them all.

“I’d be pleased if you’d help me some,” he said. Robert shot him a look, and he thought he saw Delilah smirk.

“Robert, I think it’s time you and I went and sat on the porch a spell,” she said to her husband.

“But I was going to have some of that cake,” Robert protested.

“You’ve had plenty. Get on out there and enjoy the cool of the evening with me.”

Robert grumbled but pulled himself to his feet and ambled out onto the porch. As he passed Casewell, he slapped him on the shoulder and said, “Reckon she wants me to romance her a little. Women.” He winked at his friend and grinned.

Perla cut out a hunk of the warm gingerbread and put it on a plate for Casewell. “Wish I had some lemon sauce to go with this, but lemons are scarce these days.” She set the plate in front of Casewell, and before she could bring him a fork, he picked up the cake and sank his teeth into its warm spiciness. He sighed and smiled.

“You are the finest cook I’ve ever met.”

Perla blushed and sat opposite him at the little kitchen table. Casewell realized that he was sitting in his father’s chair and Perla was in his mother’s.

“Seems like I’ve always been able to cook. I just wish my food didn’t . . . didn’t go on like it does. I don’t understand it and some people . . .” Perla trailed off.

“I know. But a lot of folks would have gone hungry this summer if not for you.” Casewell finished his cake in two huge bites. He swallowed and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Seems to me you have a talent just like anybody else. I have a knack for making things out of wood. George can play the banjo like a miracle. Marvin somehow makes folks feel all right when somebody they love dies. Your knack is just a little less . . . common than most.”