Chapter 2

The Boy and the Woman 

It was the summer of 1938 and the tail end of the dust that smothered the South began to crawl back into the Hell from which it came.  The stream of displaced that swept through the western towns slowed to a trickle and lives approached normalcy. All were well-worn and it was time to move on.

In '29, the penurious wave that was conjured when the stock market crashed into its sea of bleak fate grimly hung like a brooding shadow over all of America.  It was then that the dust came.  Years became centuries as the shadow cascaded into a suffocating current of transience, hunger and injustice. They were hard times and no man survived wholly untouched.

'38, the dust was receding but the wave that began in New York had not. Whether by divine intervention or luck, if there is such a thing, my wife and I were not forced to taste the sere destitution of the dust. Some days, I felt as though I were Noah and my ark was my land. We had traded very little with our neighbors. On special occasions, we might fancy a bit of corn, perhaps some wine, but most often we kept to our eggs, chicken, and steak. That said, when the wave from New York finally did reach us, we simply sat atop our little ark-life and tried to keep as many friends afloat as we could. It may sound cold. It may sound selfish. But in times like those, you have to know your limits, you have to know your family, and you have to hold them both as tight as you can.

It was December and the rains nourished our land like a glorious blanket that covered the prairie in inarticulate divinity. A farmer and his land are one. He can sense before they come, the flush greens and dried yellows, of his charge. It was a good season and every night, as I lay in my bed, I could smell the fruits of my labor; perhaps even taste them. The dirt would never leave my hands. It was always in me, keeping me ready for another day of plowing, rock moving, digging, sweating and loving.

I loved my land. I loved my cattle. I loved my wife. I loved the damn stench of cow patties that stretched across every inch of it all. I loved my life. It wasn't much but it was mine. I thought nothing could take it away from me. That was when they arrived.

It had been over five months since last we had seen any of the displaced. Things were settling and my wife and I were beginning to live again. I was in my bed. The sun had set three hours before and my mind had finished its wanderings before sleep. My wife was always long into slumber before I and I found comfort in her safe little snorts. My habit was to kiss her on her nose when I sensed my own sleep approaching. It was my way of making tangible the life I had and my appreciation thereof. Peculiar, how one remembers such things. I loved her.

The night brimmed with discord. The rain was colder and more heavy than was usual. My mother was a superstitious woman and when the rain came in such a way she would gravely explain, “Now Henry. Everything speaks when it's scared, just like you and me. The cattle moo. The pigs squeal. And the rain hisses.” It had been years since my thoughts had crossed paths with her fear mongering personifications. But something, superstition, I judged, was raising chills from my spine. I pushed these unsettling agitations from my mind and readied for sleep. I rolled to my side, feeling the weighted aches of another long day tightly claw through my body, and made to kiss my love in her sleep.

A muffled crash called from my front porch through the harsh clatter of rain. My eyes snapped wide. My wife snorted through her dreams but did not wake. It was superstition that brought me to my feet.

I crept out of bed, making sure not to wake my wife. No need to involve her in my midnight jitters. I dug out my shotgun from the closet. I used it but rarely on the lame cows. I was unsure even of its operability.

I edged lightly to my door. Even then, I was unsure whether my caution was a product of embarrassment or fear. Likely, both. I suppose it doesn't matter. I arrived at the door and silently turned the knob. I tore it open and quickly aimed my shotgun into the mist, letting the door crash against the wall.

The dim moon light, the crash of thunder, the raging barrage of rain, the rattle of gutters as they spewed the overflow of water from my roof all hit me at once, nearly causing me to jump back to gain my bearing.

It was a moment before I realized what was before me. A young woman lay sprawled on her back. The awning of my stoop kept her face from the rain, but her legs, limply swinging over the edge of the stairs leading to the porch, were battered unrelentingly, wrapping the drenched skirt around her thin legs. Her eyes were closed and her lips hung open as though gasping for air.

Beside her, coughing small chirps of what seemed were tears was a small boy, perhaps ten years old. He was just outside the rain and the moonlight hung strangely around him, in an attempt, it seemed, to escape his touch.

When he became aware of my presence, he swung his eyes into mine. I continued to hold my shotgun though I was unsure why.

I believe it was his eyes. They spoke in dialects foreign to my own. Something old. Something ancient. Something...

They closed and I returned to reality. The tears I heard him shedding a moment before materialized and cloaked my apprehensions in a curtain of humanity.

“Please, help,” he croaked opening them again, though something had changed.

“What in the hell,” I muttered. I set the shotgun down and as I did so, felt an awkward longing for my weapon. I pushed through my uneasiness and reached down to bring the woman inside. I hauled her, on my shoulder, to the kitchen table and laid her there.

I retrieved my lantern and hung it above the limp figure. There were no marks. No bruises, scrapes. Nothing but a twisted expression. I moved my ear to her lips to listen for her breathing. I stuffed my index finger into the ear opposite her mouth to silence the shout of the storm outside. In that half muffled world, my heart skipped as a near inaudible whisper creaked, “He is...”

I turned my head to face the woman's. Her body remained limp, her eyes remained closed, and her lips still hung open in a gasp for air. I could see now that the contorted expression I had noticed earlier was frozen.

“Sonofabitch,” I said. “She's dead.”

I turned to the boy who stared blankly in return.

“Henry?”

I turned to see my wife, Laura-Lee, sleepily shuffling into the kitchen.

“What's goin' on, Henry,” she asked, her sweet face furrowing into innocent concern.

“I don't have a damn clue,” I said.