Free On Shifting Sand by Allison Pittman Page B

plate harder. “Man who can carry his life around in a duffel bag. Blowing into town like the wind, stirring everything up.”
    Russ asks, “What has he stirred up?” and I turn the tap on stronger to rinse the dish.
    “We’re stretched thin enough already. I suppose taking him in will mean breakfast and supper. Inviting him upstairs to listen to the radio of an evening.”
    “Gee, you sound like Paw-Paw,” Ronnie says, and the very tone of his voice makes me too ashamed to face him. “It’s a matter of hospitality.”
    “We have enough,” Russ says, now behind me, reaching around to take the too-clean dish from my hand and set it on a towel to dry. “We’ll always have enough, and since when are we unable to share our blessings with those in need?”
    I will myself to relax in his embrace and lean my head back against his chest. “You’re right, of course.”
    “That’s my girl,” Russ says with a kiss against my temple. “So if you can round up some sheets and blankets, I’ll get him settled in the storeroom. He’ll need help setting up that cot.”
    Ronnie closes his math book and his pencil rolls across the tabletop. “I’ll help too. If that’s okay.”
    Russ and I both turn to look at him, surprised at his willingness to do anything unprompted.
    “He’s interesting. He’s the only person I know who isn’t from here.”
    “Don’t ask him about the war,” I say, wanting to protect them both. “He might not feel comfortable telling those stories, and I don’t know that I want you to hear them.”
    Russ skirts my instruction. “Just tell him we’re on our way down.”
    And with a scrape of a chair Ronnie’s gone.
    I glance back at Ariel, ensuring that she is still engaged in her play, then lead Russ back into our bedroom, where a tall armoire holds our extra linens.
    “Why is it so important to you to help this man?”
    Russ stands back, ready to take whatever I hand to him. “It’s a hurting time, Nola. We have to do what we can.”
    “No.” I run my hand down the neatly stacked sheets, wanting to avoid giving him those that have been overused of late as nothing more than protective covers. The cot, I know, is narrow, and not made to be fitted with proper bedding, but I want him to feel comfortable. And welcome, no matter how much I protest to my husband. How much I protest to myself. “It’s more than that. This town is full of people, some from our church that you’ve suffered right alongside, and we’re not taking any of them in. Or feeding them every day for doing nothing.”
    “He’s watching the store.”
    “There’s nothing to watch and you know that. I can’t remember the last time so much as a nickel went into the till. We may as well prop open the door and let the whole town loot us like we do every other abandoned home.”
    “We’re keeping an account. Things will turn around.”
    “Why him?” Satisfied with a faded set of blue sheets, I hold them to my face and breathe in, ensuring they are clean. Nothing these days is ever as sweet and crisp as in the days before the storms, but I still take in a hint of borax and last week’s sunshine before handing them over to Russ and returning to look for a blanket.
    “He needs help.”
    “Everybody needs help.” It takes far less time to find a thin afghan, crocheted myself the previous winter.
    “He went to war.”
    “Lots of men went to war.”
    “I didn’t.”
    And there’s the truth of it.
    “Oh, Russ . . .” He tries to look away, but as he is somewhat trapped against the linens, arms full, I take his face in my hands. It is soft, even at this time of night, when other men might have cheeks shadowed withstubble. “You don’t owe him for that. He didn’t go in your place. It’s not right for him to come here and make you feel . . . uneasy.”
    Russ shifts his bundle to one arm, captures my hand in his, and draws it away, kissing the tips of my fingers. If that were the only gesture of affection