On Shifting Sand by Allison Pittman

Author:Allison Pittman
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781496403896
Publisher: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.
Published: 2015-04-01T04:00:00+00:00

Thine hands have made me

and fashioned me together round about;

yet thou dost destroy me.

Remember, I beseech thee,

that thou hast made me as the clay;

and wilt thou bring me into dust again?

Hast thou not poured me out as milk,

and curdled me like cheese?

JOB 10:8-10

CHAPTER 18

UNTIL THIS SUMMER, we only thought we knew misery. Never before would I have imagined that a season could attack with such a vengeful spirit, but as the weeks wear on, the wind and the heat and the dust meet each other midair in battle, and our very lives fall victim to their hate.

I can’t take a single step outside without feeling my skirt twist and wrap around my legs, crippling my progress in the shortest journey. As time wears on, however, there prove to be fewer and fewer reasons to leave home at all. The number of church families dwindles so low as to leave more than half of the pews completely empty, so Russ’s ministerial visits become little more than weekly social calls, kept up to encourage the remnant to remain. I go with him these days—a decision of my own making, claiming a need to get out of our stifling apartment even if it means an hour spent in another home no less oppressive. We always venture out early in the day to capture the coolest hours and to better the odds of escaping a storm.

Back at home, the melancholy sets in. The unrelenting monotony of waging war against the stirred earth. Windows kept closed against the dust manage only to trap the heat. Fans moving to cool the air kick up miniature storms within the walls.

And the thirst—the dryness of our bodies keeps us from making spit or sweat or tears. The ever-present dust in our hair, our nostrils, our eyelashes. Caking in the folds of our skin. Coating our tongues; splitting our lips.

I’ve given up on all but the basest of housekeeping: Running a damp mop over the floors every morning. Storing the dishes upside down under a wet towel in the cupboard. Folding all our bedding and stashing it in a trunk, leaving our beds with nothing more than a barren, striped mattress during the day.

It has been six weeks since Jim and my father drove away, truck and trailer laden with the lost promise of profit. Five weeks since Pa came home, alone, with only terse answers to all of our questions. Ariel wanted to know if there were dust storms in Tulsa, to which Pa said yes. Ronnie wanted to know if the Civilian Conservation Corps camp looked like fun, to which Pa said no. Russ wanted to know if Jim decided to stay behind and get work with the CCC, to which Pa said nothing.

I took a chapter from Pa’s book, holding my silence until later, when I had a chance to get him alone.

“Is he in Tulsa?” I asked, only for my own sense of comfort.

“Don’t you bother ’bout where he is.”

I didn’t eat a thing during the week I waited for their arrival.

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