Everything was getting out of hand, and I felt helpless as to how to get it back under control. As a glass crashed in the kitchen, I scanned the porch floorboards, noticing fragments of silver plastic. Broken and scattered, much like life on Nolia Farms. Rooted on the porch under the weight of a debilitating fear of what was to come, I held Raleigh tighter and begged God to hold us together.

The tobacco season, Pa, each of us Fosters . . . everything was rapidly unraveling. We’d not only reached our limit, but we’d all picked up some of Pa’s symptoms and made them our own.

Boss seldom talked.

Raleigh often cried.

Peg continued to grow moodier and would lash out in a blink.

Charlotte had withdrawn from us, basically moving in with Miss Wise.

Knox and Nash had taken to wandering off.

I battled a constant burn in my stomach and stinging in my chest.

As for Pa, his clarity became more muddled. His silence grew louder. His shadows, more vibrant.

Chapter 14: NO CALM
BEFORE THE STORM

July 1988

Drought was one cruel companion during the summer of 1988, leaching the life out of anything it could dig its craggy fingers into. It was ravenous, gulping every last drop from the swimming hole and sucking the nutrients from Nolia Farms’ vulnerable crops to the point of decay and despair. We couldn’t get rid of the destruction any more than we could the dust, which had become a permanent accessory to the hems of our jeans and the brims of our hats, while dark lines of grit wriggled into the sweaty creases of our skin. The barren season seemed to have no exit in mind.

It was because of this unwanted guest that had worn out its welcome that I didn’t realize a storm was brewing. Or maybe I chose to ignore it, considering we’d just barely managed to make it through another year since Pa ruined our crop and made the newspaper. But things had started unraveling faster than I could knit them back together.

Folks like to say there’s always a calm before the storm, but that never seemed the case out on Nolia Farms. What started out as a normal suppertime that night ended in an explosive outburst. Nothing calm about that.

Just as we were about to dig in, Pa heaved a clipped sigh. “Raleigh, stop leaning on the table. You’re making it rock.”

All eyes wandered to Raleigh, who looked downright confused, seeing as how he was sitting back in his chair with both his elbows away from the table.

“Sorry, Pa,” Raleigh apologized, even though he’d done nothing wrong.

Forks resumed clanging against plates, but I kept side-eyeing Pa when he didn’t return to eating. He had an edginess about him, hands shaking and eyes wildly roaming around the room.

“Boss, now you’re doing it,” Pa snapped.