Miracle in a Dry Season (4 page)

On Thursday Casewell loaded the finished piece of furniture into the back of his truck with the help of his father and carefully cushioned it with old quilts. He drove slowly over to the Talbots’, smiling to himself. It was a fine piece of work, and he was glad the twins would have it. He charged them less than he could get elsewhere, but the Talbots weren’t up on the current cost of handcrafted furniture, and he suspected they might faint if he charged what it was worth.

Liza and Angie were waiting for Casewell on their front porch, hands clasped and faces eager. Liza leaned out to see better as Casewell and his father began unloading the base of the cabinet. Angie frowned at her sister and stood up a little straighter.

As he lifted the furniture free of the tailgate, Dad stumbled slightly and Casewell had to lunge to take the bulk of the weight. Dad grunted and seemed to recover himself, so Casewell shrugged it off, supposing that neither of them were getting any younger. It was nothing.

“That’s the bottom part, isn’t it?” Liza asked.

“Of course it is,” Angie said. “The top is still in the truck. Open the door for them.”

The sisters got in the way only a little as they tried to help the men bring both pieces of the cupboard into the kitchen.
The two men settled the base into place and then centered the top against the wall. It fit perfectly and Casewell stood back, a twin on either side, to admire his work.

Liza sighed. “It’s perfect.”

“Well, nothing is perfect, but it’s mighty close,” Angie said. “Now let’s see how it works.”

The two women began placing rose-strewn china plates on the open shelves. A teacup in its saucer went in front of each plate. Then a teapot with sugar and creamer found a home on a doily on the far right side of the serving board. Once everything had been placed, the twins stepped back to check the overall effect. Liza sighed again but apparently did not feel the need to speak.

“Now,” Angie said, rubbing her hands together, “let’s check the workings.”

She sent Casewell to fetch a sack of potatoes from the cellar, and he poured them into the potato bin while Angie tried all the doors and made sure the latch on the pie safe was to her satisfaction. She stepped back to stand beside Liza again and nodded once.

“We are quite pleased,” she said. “Liza, fetch our purse.”

Liza disappeared upstairs and soon returned with a well-worn black leather purse. Angie took it and unsnapped the clasp. She withdrew cash and carefully counted out the correct amount onto the kitchen table. She paused, looking torn, and then pulled out an additional five-dollar bill.

“This is for you and John for your trouble in delivering the cupboard,” she said.

“Why, thank you, Angie, but that isn’t necessary,” Casewell said.

“I insist,” Angie said, tapping the stack of bills. “Your work is solid and you delivered on time. John, you raised a good boy.”

Dad grunted and nodded at Casewell. “Take it. You surely earned it,” he said.

The sisters offered coffee and molasses cookies, which the men accepted. Casewell’s father wasn’t one for socializing, but the twins’ cookies were legendary. They sat around the kitchen table while the women chattered on about how handsome the cabinet was, how it dressed up the room, and how nice it was not to have to go to the cellar for potatoes so often.

The talk eventually turned to the barn dance Delilah was getting up. The sisters were trying to decide what they would bring.

“Can’t go wrong with a batch of them cookies,” Dad said, making his first real contribution to the conversation.

“Oh, I know,” Liza said. “But sometimes I get the urge to try something different. I just ordered the new
Better Homes and Gardens
cookbook, and oh my, there are some lovely things in there. So fancy.” She looked wistful.

“Plain and good is better than fancy any day,” Angie said, brushing imaginary crumbs from the tablecloth. “A basket of fried chicken and a plate of cookies always get eaten up.”

“I suppose so,” Liza said, looking disappointed.

“I hear that Perla Long is a mighty good cook,” Angie said. “You’ve had her cooking, haven’t you, Casewell?”

“Yes, I guess I have,” he said. “And it was right tasty.”

“What did she make?” Liza asked, leaning forward.

“Well, now, she made a fine mess of greens along with roast pork. Oh, and an angel cake for dessert.”

Angie sniffed. “Angel cake only uses egg whites. It’s a waste of yolks. Extravagant.”

“It was good, though,” Casewell said. “She sent some home with me, and I ate on it all week.”

“Someone told me she always makes way more than is needed when she does the cooking,” Liza said. “They have more leftovers than they know what to do with over there at the Thorntons’.”

“No gossiping, sister,” Angie said, then made a
tsk-tsk
sound. “Wasteful, wasteful.”

“Time to go, son.”

Casewell was surprised his father had tolerated sitting and visiting with the Talbot sisters this long. He was probably itching for a cigarette. Dad stood slowly, pushing himself upright from the edge of the table. It seemed to take him a moment to straighten his back.

Once outside, Casewell said, “Hope that heavy furniture wasn’t too much for you, Dad. I’d hate to see you get down in the back.”

He shot him a pointed look. “That’ll be the day when I can’t help my son deliver a few sticks of furniture.” He pulled out his makings and built a cigarette, blowing smoke out the truck window in lieu of conversation.

Casewell pulled into his parents’ driveway and watched his father climb out, waving a hand in his son’s direction as he trudged toward the door. Casewell slid out of the truck and followed him in. Dad looked a little surprised but didn’t comment.

“Thought I’d say hey to Mom,” Casewell explained.

Once inside, Dad headed straight for the living room and settled onto the sofa with the newspaper. Emily was in the kitchen baking her homemade white bread.

“I’m so glad you came in,” she said with a smile. “Let me get you something to eat.”

Casewell laughed and stopped his mother from raiding the Frigidaire. “I had molasses cookies with the Talbot sisters,” he said. “I’m fine.”

“Well, you can take one of these loaves home with you as soon as they come out of the oven,” she said, settling for feeding him later.

“So, Ma,” Casewell said, hoping to sound casual, “everything all right with Dad? He seemed a little tired today.”

“Did he?” Emily turned away to finish wiping down the counter where she’d kneaded her bread.

“Yeah. I figure it’s nothing, but I wanted to check with you.”

“Oh, I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “Probably didn’t sleep well last night, and he’s not as young as he once was. Scoot in there and read the paper with him. This bread will be out in ten minutes.”

Casewell stuck his head in the living room and saw that his father was snoring softly with the paper open across his chest. Casewell stepped back into the kitchen.

“He’s napping. Don’t worry about the bread. I’ll get some next time.”

“Napping?” Casewell thought he heard a note of alarm in his mother’s voice, but she quickly smoothed it over. “Well, then, I’m sure he just had a restless night.” She nodded emphatically and Casewell wondered which of them she hoped to convince.

Perla was grateful Sadie was such an easy child. The little girl rarely fussed and fit in with adults better than most children. She had an easygoing, cheerful way about her that somehow put grown-ups at ease. Perla noticed that people talked to Sadie without resorting to a high-pitched voice or silly questions. Sometimes Perla caught herself talking to Sadie about things the child had no business knowing—things about her father and their situation. Perla tried to remember that Sadie was
five and needed protecting, but she had no one else to talk to. Sadie was a comfort, and Perla hoped that coming to Wise and removing them both from everything they knew hadn’t been a mistake.

Robert and Delilah were lovely. They hadn’t asked a lot of questions when Perla wrote to ask if she and Sadie could come stay for a while. Delilah just called and said of course they should come and stay as long as they liked. Perla had offered to pay a little rent or help out in some way, but the Thorntons refused adamantly. Perla missed her mother, but the looks and the whispers had gotten to the point that Perla knew the only thing to do was to go where no one, except Robert and Delilah, knew her story. Perla’s mother, Charlotte, had protested but not very much. She came around much too quickly to the idea of her daughter and granddaughter leaving, and Perla thought maybe she sensed a certain level of relief.

The sisters had always been close. Just thirteen months apart in age, they had been mistaken for twins a time or two, and it was a comfort for Perla to have someone so like her mother fussing over her and Sadie. And then again, there were times Aunt Delilah reminded her so much of her mother that Perla would have to find a quiet corner to cry over missing her mother and regretting what she had done to shame her. Mother always said the shame wasn’t on Perla, but the way the folks in Comstock acted, there was no doubt where they laid the blame.

The one thing the Thorntons had allowed Perla to do was to take over almost all of the cooking. With Robert and Delilah at the store most days, it helped to have Perla bringing them lunch around noon and having supper ready when they came home in the evening. Delilah used to come home an hour early to start dinner, but now she could take her time and help Robert
close up each evening. Perla hoped that she was truly a help to her aunt and uncle. And she did have a knack with food.

Sometimes Perla’s way with food unnerved her a little. She would take a chicken or some potatoes into her hands, and it seemed as if she didn’t decide what to do with them—they decided for her. Almost before she knew what she planned, she’d have enough chicken and dumplings to feed half the county, or so many potatoes au gratin she couldn’t find a pan big enough. And the food was good. People often told Perla she should write her recipes down, but she wasn’t sure she could even remember what she put in them half the time. When she cooked, it was almost like she went into a trance and the rest of the world didn’t matter; just transforming raw ingredients into something delicious and life sustaining was the closest Perla got to being happy.

No, Perla realized, not happy. She was happy when Sadie laughed or cuddled close. What she felt when she cooked was a deep, abiding peace. She might have preferred to cook all the time just to retain that feeling, but sometimes when she put a meal on the table, she realized that she had lost a chunk of time. She knew she’d been in the kitchen preparing food, but she could no more recount her movements than she could fly. Serving dinner was like waking up from a deep and restful sleep. And Perla worried that she neglected Sadie at those times.

4

A
T
CHURCH
THAT
S
UNDAY
it soon became obvious that Delilah had succeeded in stirring up interest in a barn dance. Within a week or so farmers would have their spring planting done, and barns were mostly empty with the past winter’s hay having been fed out by now. After some lively discussion, it was decided that George Brower’s barn would be the best spot. His barn had a large open room with the cowshed on the upper side where the hill behind offered some protection. Well into his fifties and never married, George kept the barn neater than his house. His being the banjo player clinched the deal, although there had been some muttering that George kept his place a little too “dry” for some of the men who liked a nip now and again.

They set the next Saturday as the date. The way the ladies buzzed around the churchyard after the service sent most of the men scurrying to bring cars around in hopes of getting Sunday dinner sooner rather than later. Even so, quite a few meals were late that day.

Casewell made arrangements with George and Steve to
hold practice that week so they’d be up to snuff for the dance. Robert caught wind and said he’d join them with his harmonica but not to count on him to play the whole time.