flashquake Fiction - To Fight Again, Another Day by Roger Paris

flashquake
To Fight Again, Another Day
by Roger Paris

A hot breeze danced through patchy grass. The shallow roots barely held the topsoil to the ground. From the second story window of the old house, Martha thought she could almost draw a portrait of the wind as it pushed the brittle thatch in its wake. There was not a cloud in sight unless she counted the dust rising above the field of failed corn.

"God, we need rain," she whispered in a voice as dry and reedy as the landscape before her eyes.

"God's not listenin', Martha." Gene's tone sharpened the bitterness of his words.

"Best get on with this job. We need to get what you mean to take, tied to the pickup. That banker fella will be here with the sheriff any minute."

"Got any twine that can tie some hope to that mess on the bed of the Ford?" Her voice cracked like an ill-tuned radio as she tried to put a smile in the words. The ruse was further foiled when she had to daub at her eyes with a hankie from her apron pocket.

Gene pretended not to notice. "This the last box up here, then?"

Martha didn't reply. She knew Gene's question was his way of putting a manly face on tender emotions. But she could see the weight of his feelings in the slope of his shoulders as she followed him out of the bedroom and down the stairs.

"You go on and get that stuff tied down. I'll be there in a minute."

The screeching hinges sent a shiver up her back and the sharp hollow sound of the screen door slamming caused her to cringe. An angry fire rose in her eyes, but quickly faded to resignation. "Too late to fix that, now," she mumbled to herself as she headed for the kitchen.

The room was stripped of homey touches and the black purse on the floor was the only spot for her eyes to light in the naked white space. For a moment the empty leather pouch seemed a damning symbol of their misfortune. The sound of her mother's voice rattled in her head, "Waste not, want not!"

Shaking off the unreasonable sense of guilt, she headed for the back door. On the porch, reaching for the broom that was leaning against the wall was a reflex. She began sweeping the persistent layer of dust from the weathered, gray-painted floor. The straw bristles yielded to urgent strokes as she tried to banish her foe one last time from her doorstep.

"Martha? They're here," Gene's voice came from behind her. He spoke softly but the words caused Martha to stop sweeping and lean heavily on the broom. It took her a moment to conjure some strength in her legs.

"I always knew dirt was the enemy," she said in a defeated tone. Being right about something, anything, seemed to put the spine back in her posture. "Don't want the new owners to think we're pigs." She recaptured some pride.

"Come on now. We'll need to find a place to camp before nightfall."

Martha followed Gene back into the kitchen. She took a keyring off the nail at the edge of the woodwork that framed the door. She turned the key in the lock with difficulty but the bolt finally slipped into place with a loud click.

"I always wondered if that key worked!" Martha folded the keys into her palm. Glancing at the open purse on the floor she decided she had no use for it, and followed Gene out the front door. She repeated her ritual with the second key on the ring. Without a word, she handed the keys to Mr. Clement who looked like an undertaker by the Sheriff's side. Gene opened the passenger door on the truck and she climbed in, her eyes fixed on some distant and unknown horizon.

"Let's get outta here," she said as soon as Gene was in the truck. "If I look back, my eyes'll turn to salt."

The battered vehicle raised a thick cloud of dust as it made its way down the gravel road toward the highway. Gene and Martha stared straight ahead. The defeat they shared squeezed what air there was, out of the cab of the truck. Breathing was difficult and speech was impossible for a long while.

Finally, Gene said, "I ain't never lost before. Not like this." The words were difficult and he bit at his trembling lower lip.

"Yes. Well, it wasn't a fair fight. You're no rainmaker."

At the highway, he seemed not to know which way to turn. He looked left then right. His eyes kept drifting toward the field of swirling dust that spread endlessly in front of the truck. Pulling a deep breath into his lungs, he made a left off the gravel. There wasn't another vehicle in sight. The road was straight and long and aimed directly for the magnificent display of colors created by the setting sun.

"So, where we headed?" Martha found her voice as she settled into the seat.

"To find a fight I can win."