“Didn’t we have enough money?” I asked, wondering how people could insist on hard metal in exchange for life.
“They didn’t have water enough,” said Father. “Others were waiting, too. This is the last they can let us have.”
We took care of the horses but left the water barrels on the wagon. That was as good a place as any and the shelter of the barn would keep it-well, not cool maybe, but below the boiling point.
It wasn’t until we started back to the house that we thought of Timmy. We saw a head rising from the hole Timmy was digging and Father drew back his foot to keep it from being covered with a handful of dirt.
“What’s going on?” he asked, letting his tiredness and discouragement sharpen his voice.
“Timmy’s digging,” I said, stating the obvious, which was all I could do.
“Can’t he find a better place than that?” And Father stomped into the house. I called Timmy and helped him up out of the hole. He was dirt-covered from head to heels and Father was almost through with his supper before I got Timmy cleaned up enough to come inside.
We sat around the table, not even reading, and talked. Timmy sat close to me, his fingers on my wrist.
“Maybe the ponds will fill a little while we’re using up this water,” said Mama, hopelessly.
Father was silent and I stared at the table, seeing the buckets of water Prince and Nig had sucked up so quickly that evening.
“We’d better be deciding where to go,” said Father. “When the water’s all gone-” His face shut down, bleak and still, and he opened the Bible at random, missing our marker by half the book. He looked down and read, “‘For in the wilderness shall waters break out, and streams in the desert.’” He clapped the book shut and sat, his elbows on each side of the book, his face buried in his two hands, this last rubbing of salt in the would almost too much to bear.
I touched Timmy and we crept to bed.
I woke in the night, hearing a noise. My hand went up to the cot and I struggled upright. Timmy was gone. I scrambled to the door and looked out. Timmy was in the hole, digging. At least I guess he was. There was a scraping sound for a while then a-a wad of dirt would sail slowly up out of the hole and fall far enough from the edge that it couldn’t run down in again. I watched the dirt sail up twice more, then there was a clatter and three big rocks sailed up. They hovered a little above the mound of dirt then thumped down-one of them on my bare foot.
I was hopping around, nursing my foot in my hands, when I looked up and saw Father standing stern and tall on the porch.
“What’s going on?” He repeated his earlier question. The sound of digging below stopped. So did my breath for a moment.
“Timmy’s digging,” I said, as I had before.
“At night? What for?” Father asked.
“He can’t see, night or light,” I said, “but I don’t know why he’s digging.”
“Get him out of there,” said Father. “This is no time for nonsense.”
I went to the edge of the hole. Timmy’s face was a pale blur below. “He’s too far down,” I said. “I’ll need a ladder.”
“He got down there,” said Father unreasonably, “let him get out!”
“Timmy!” I called down to him. “Father says come up!”
There was a hesitating scuffle, then Timmy came up! Straight up! As though something were lifting him! He came straight up out of the hole and hovered as the rocks had, then he moved through the air and landed on the porch so close to Father that he stumbled back a couple of steps.
“Father!” My voice shook with terror.
Father turned and went into the house. He lighted the lamp, the upflare of the flame before he put the chimney on showed the deep furrows down his cheeks. I prodded Timmy and we sat on the bench across the table from Father.
“Why is he digging?” Father asked again. “Since he responds to you, ask him.”
I reached out, half afraid, and touched Timmy’s wrist.
“Why are you digging?” I asked. “Father wants to know.”
Timmy’s mouth moved and he seemed to be trying different words with his lips. Then he smiled, the first truly smile I’d ever seen on his face. “‘Shall waters break out and streams in the desert,’” he said happily.
“That’s no answer!” Father exclaimed, stung by having those unfitting words flung back at him. “No more digging. Tell him so.”
I felt Timmy’s wrist throb protestingly and his face turned to me, troubled.
“Why no digging? What harm’s he doing?” My voice sounded strange in my own ears and the pit of my stomach was ice. For the first time in my life I was standing up to Father! That didn’t shake me as much as the fact that for the first time in my life I was seriously questioning his judgment.
“No digging because I said no digging!” said Father, anger whitening his face, his fists clenching on the table.
“Father,” I swallowed with difficulty, “I think Timmy’s looking for water. He-he touched water before he started digging. He felt it. We-we went all over the place before he settled on where he’s digging. Father, what if he’s a-a dowser? What if he knows where water is? He’s different-“
I was afraid to look at Father. I kept my eyes on my own hand where Timmy’s fingers rested on my wrist.
“Maybe if we helped him dig-” I faltered and stopped, seeing the stones come up and hover and fall. “He has only Merry’s spoon and an old knife.”
“And he dug that deep!” thundered Father.
“Yes,” I said. “All by himself.”
“Nonsense!” Father’s voice was flat. “There’s no water anywhere around here. You saw me digging for water for the stock. We’re not in Las Lomitas. There will be no more digging.”
“Why not!” I was standing now, my own fists on the table as I leaned forward. I could feel my eyes blaze as Father’s do sometimes. “What harm is he doing? What’s wrong with his keeping busy while we sit around waiting to dry up and blow away? What’s wrong with hoping!”
Father and I glared at each other until his eyes dropped. Then mine filled with tears and I dropped back on the bench and buried my face in my arms. I cried as if I were no older than Merry. My chest was heavy with sorrow for this first real anger I had ever felt toward Father, with the shouting and the glaring, and especially for his eyes falling before mine.
Then I felt his hand heavy on my shoulder. He had circled the table to me. “Go to bed now,” he said quietly. “Tomorrow is another day.”
“Oh, Father!” I turned and clung to his waist, my face tight against him, his hand on my head. Then I got up and took Timmy back to the cot and we went to bed again.
Next morning, as though it was our usual task, Father got out the shovels and rigged up a bucket on a rope and he and I and Timmy worked in the well. We called it a well now, instead of a hole, maybe to bolster our hopes.
By evening we had it down a good twelve feet, still not finding much except hard, packed-down river silt and an occasional clump of round river rocks. Our ladder was barely long enough to help us scramble up out and the edges of the hole were crumbly and sifted off under the weight of our knees.
I climbed out. Father set the bucket aside and eased his palms against his hips. Timmy was still in the well, kneeling and feeling the bottom.
“Timmy!” I called. “Come on up. Time to quit!” His face turned up to me but still he knelt there and I found myself gingerly groping for the first rung of the ladder below the rim of the well.
“Timmy wants me to look at something,” I said up to Father’s questioning face. I climbed down and knelt by Timmy. My hands followed his tracing hands and I looked up and said, “Father!” with such desolation in my voice that he edged over the rim and came down, too.
We traced it again and again. There was solid rock, no matter which way we brushed the dirt, no matter how far we poked into the sides of the well. We were down to bedrock. We were stopped.