The Personal History of Rachel DuPree_ A Novel - Ann Weisgarber [2]
He maketh me to lie down in green pastures.
The dust devil buckled like a bedsheet on a clothesline, gathered itself, and made for the house. It blew up onto the roofless front porch and then petered out, tumbleweeds sticking to the windows and the door.
He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul.
Tears burned the backs of my eyes. The South Dakota Badlands wore everything down, even children. But I had my wood house. Just two years old and already it was scraped raw. Sprouts of prairie grass grew on the roof where the tin plates shifted and dirt had blown in. Dust sifted through the edges of the glass windows and the door, and no matter how many times in a day I swept, I couldn’t keep the grit out. Now there was this tumbleweed mashed up against our house, making it look shabby, like nobody lived there.
He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake.
Sweat ran from Isaac’s hair even though his hands were loose on the well handle. Dripping circles darkened the front of his shirt. It was so hot I was sure I felt the hard earth cracking under my feet. My mouth was swelled up as if I’d been eating grit. The cottonwood tree over by the dried-out wash swayed, most of its leaves already gone. My hand went to the back of my neck, knowing the ache that must be pinching Liz’s arms and shoulders as she scooped water.
Lord Jesus, have mercy. Lord Jesus, have pity.
A low-slung cloud, flat on the bottom and puffed at the top, slid under the sun. Its shadow spread out on the ground, darkening the house, the barn, and the well. The coolness brought by the shadow set my heart pounding even faster. It’d been over two months since it’d rained; we were long past due. I waited, hoping, knowing I was foolish to expect anything from this cloud. It passed on, opening up again the hard-edged glare of the sun.
“Dad-dy,” a faint voice called.
“Pull it up,” Isaac said to John. “Help him, Mary. Keep it steady.”
When the bucket was up, I willed the shaking out of my hands. I undid the knot and then tied the rope to the second bucket. John sent it down to his sister.
I let Rounder, our cattle dog, have a gulp before pushing him away. John said, “What about me? Don’t I get some?”
“No,” Isaac said. “Not yet.”
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of—
I turned away from the well and looked up at our house.
It had been the winter of 1915 when Isaac figured it was time to build us a wood house. For twelve years I had kept house, and before it was all over, I had birthed seven children—Isaac Two and Baby Henry were laid out in the cemetery—in a four-room dugout. Its walls were nothing but squares of sod. The ceilings sagged. The floors were dirt. Summers, grass grew on the inside walls and I’d take a match and burn the shoots to keep the prairie from staking a claim on the inside of our home.
Most folks in the Badlands that stayed longer than three years built themselves wood houses. These houses weren’t grand, far from it. Most of the houses were low to the ground and not all that much bigger than a dugout. But Isaac held off for twelve years, not wanting to spend money on lumber. I imagined that gave folks around here something to talk about. But likely they talked anyway. We were the only Negroes in these parts.
I will fear no evil for thou art with me.
The second bucket came up out of the well, and John sent the third one down. That morning he had begged to go down in the well. He was the boy, he’d said to Isaac. No, Isaac said. You’re too big, son. I can’t hold you. And the rope might break.
Mary came over and stood beside me. She took my hand.
Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.
It had taken me and Isaac all spring, summer, fall, and part of the winter to build our wood house. We did it between tending to the wheat crop and the garden and seeing to the cattle. When time allowed, Al McKee and Ned Walker, neighbor men, came by to help. That July, Emma was born. It was an easy birth, not like some of the others. Four