(2005) Wrapped in Rain (27 page)

WE PULLED INTO WAVERLY IN THE LATE AFTERNOON. The sun skimmed the fuzzy green tops of the hay that danced beneath a cooling waltz of a breeze. The waves started in one corner, spread like spilling sand, and shifted the colors from sunset yellow to spring green to fire-engine red and high-noon orange.

Mutt hopped out of the back of the truck and studied Waverly from a distance. Weeds filled the front yard; the once-white fence, now green with mold, needed painting; and more than a few boards needed replacing. Vines grew up and down the brick and the crevices of the windows, moss painted the tiled roof and the copper drain spouts, and leaves and twigs spilled from the gutters. It looked more haunted than occupied.

Mutt walked around back, past Miss Ella's house, and stopped just long enough to sniff the air. He walked into the old barn, studied Glue, and walked to the corner where the batting machine leaned against the wall, covered in dust and cobwebs. He cleared off the webs and ran his fingers along the smooth metal feed tube. He looked around the barn, at the unrepaired holes in the back wall and the fresh hay that Mose had spread for Glue that morning. He stepped outside, stood beneath the water tower, and looked up at the underside of the tank, studying the wooden and metal structure that led to the top. Pulling on the bottom rung of the ladder, he lifted himself and slung his right leg over the first support beam. Standing on the beam, he stepped onto the ladder and climbed the twenty rungs to the top. At the top, he wedged himself between the ladder and tank and turned to see the view back over the pasture, over St. Joseph's, and down toward the quarry. He opened his fanny pack, took out a plastic bag, removed a bar of soap, and started to dip his hands into the tank but stopped short once he saw the water. Not having been drained in several years, the murky water swam with algae and bacteria. He returned the soap to his fanny pack, climbed back down the ladder, and hopped onto the ground. Walking over to a valve bolted to one of the six support posts of the tank, he gripped it with two hands and pressed his weight into it. He grunted and it squeaked. After one full turn, it broke loose, and he spun it open. Water rushed out the twoinch pipe and began spilling onto the ground around his shoes. It was black with sediment and algae. The water soon puddled and began trickling, then draining, away from the barn down toward the groves.

Mutt put his hands in his pockets and stepped between the rungs of the fence into the pasture, where he brushed the tops of the waist-high grass with his fingertips. We followed him from a distance. Mutt walked out the other end of the pasture, through the pine trees, and down toward the quarry. He reached the rock ledge and cranked the zip handles up. They were rusted, locked shut, unmoving. He peered over the edge, around the rim, and settled on Hook's Jolly Roger resting at the bottom of the quarry. Back toward the house through the trees, he turned northwest, through the taller pines, around the pasture, pointing his face in the general direction of the slaughterhouse. Midway to the pasture, he came upon the cross he had made for Miss Ella. It was standing as he'd left it, alone, towering, and now covered in blooming confederate jasmine. Katie saw the cross, looked at me with wide eyes, and sat down in the pine needles, holdingJase in her lap.

Mutt rubbed his hands against the smooth wood, smelled the jasmine, and stood silently for several minutes. The pine trees around him had grown to sixty or more feet, and the light broke through in strong but filtered rays. Mutt looked like he was standing alone within the walls of a great Gothic cathedral. A weed had snaked upward through the jasmine and climbed the cross. Painstakingly, he unwound it from the jasmine, careful not to disturb the blooms, and pulled it out by the root.

Mutt pitched the weed, walked out of the pines toward St. Joseph's, and across the pasture. When he got to the graveyard, he hopped the wall and disappeared. I led Katie and Jase through the narrow entrance and found Mutt clearing the leaves off Miss Ella's grave.

Mutt left the cemetery, walked along the fencerow, and climbed the back steps to the statue of Rex. He stood for a minute, respectfully studying the horse and the rider. He circled it, scratched his head, and then turned to Katie, searching for the words. He didn't even have to ask. She opened her purse and handed him a rather large bottle of red polish. Mutt returned to the horse and carefully painted the horse's nose. Jase watched, his nose turning up and showing the growing curiosity, and then ran to his mom. "Mom, can I have some?" Kate pulled a second bottle from her purse and handed it to him. Jase ran up alongside Mutt, who pointed to the horse's hooves. Moments later, the two were on their knees, painting the horse's feet bright red.

I heard a faint whisper. Unless you become like one of these, you will not enter into heaven.

I looked at Katie and nodded at her purse. "Got any more in there?" She shook her head and smiled. "Sorry, all out."

Mutt handed the empty bottle back to Katie and then turned and scanned Waverly. He studied the house for several minutes, stuffed his hands back in his pockets, and walked hack to the barn. By the time I climbed the ladder into the loft, he had spread out a wool blanket and laid out his chess set on the hay next to him. He was almost asleep. The moon appeared early, filtered through the cracks in the holy wall, and shot across Mutt's pale face like prison bars. His eyelids were closed, and the veins around his eyes looked dark, deep, and throbbing.

Mutt looked dead. I leaned in and felt his breath on my face.

"I'm here," he whispered.

"Gibby told me you hit a nurse."

Mutt nodded.

"Did he deserve it?"

Mutt nodded again without explanation.

"I want you to make me a promise." Mutt's eyes turned toward me, bloodshot whites surrounding dilated emeralds. "I want you to promise me that you will tell me before you hit or hurt anybody."

Mutt thought for a minute, nodded a third time, and didn't question me. "You've never lied to me. Matthew Mason has never broken his word."

"Rain. Matthew Rain." I smiled. "Agreed?"

"Agreed." Mutt closed his eyes and crossed his hands over his stomach.

"Oh, and you're supposed to take these two pills." Mutt opened his mouth, I dropped in one of each, and he swallowed with little effort and breathed deeply, letting the smells of the blanket, the barn, the hay, and Glue fill his mind. I left the containers next to his pillow and said, "One of each, morning and night." Mutt nodded. He'd been through this drill before. "'Night, pal." Mutt blinked once, let his eyes fall closed, and moved not a finger, his stomach rising and falling with each deep, nostril-flared breath. Beneath the water tower, putrid water gushed out, turning the weeds and clay black. Beached tadpoles flopped, tossed, and struggled under the moonlight. Given the size of the tank, the water would run all night, well into tomorrow, and maybe even the next day before it was empty.

At 2:00 a.m. my cell phone rang. I pressed the "end" button like Bessie and her remote control. Three seconds later it rang again.

"Yes!"

"Tucker?"

"What?"

"This is Mutt."

"No kidding. What are you doing?"

"Well ..." He paused, evidently to look around. "I'm standing in the barn, next to the coffeemaker, talking on the phone that hangs on the wall near the bulletin board."

Maybe I shouldn't have asked such a concrete question. "Mutt ..." I rubbed my head and worked on the wording of my question. "Why are you calling me?"

"You know how when you picked me up today, I touched the door handle on your truck. Well, it's dirty. I'd like to clean it. Do we have any cleaning supplies?"

I didn't have time to argue or talk him out of it. "Look in the cabinet beneath the coffeemaker. Mose has got a few things in there. And behind you, in that other cabinet, there are some rags and stuff like that." I was edgy and short, and I knew it. I hung up the phone and knew it was coming.

Child, that's your brother! He's only asking you because he's afraid to clean your truck without your permission.

I grabbed her picture and turned it facedown on top of the Bible.

What good is that?

"Go away," I said aloud. "I need about a week's worth of sleep."

Not until you acknowledge me.

I sat up, clicked on the light, and picked up the picture. "Yes, you're right. But can't we deal with this in the morning?"

Tucker, Mutt deals with this every second of every hour of every day. He never escapes it. If you're tired, then what is Matthew?

I put down the picture, pulled on my jeans and T-shirt, and stomped upstairs. The air outside was growing cool. Mutt had pushed my truck inside the barn entrance and turned all the spotlights on it. When I got there, he had washed it, dried it, and started applying the wax. The handle on the passenger's side door was faded and now showed deep scrub marks-a recent discoloring. Mutt glanced up, splatters of soap and wax paste spotting his face, and looked at me blankly. I shook my head, glanced at my watch, and grabbed a towel. I tore it in two, knelt down next to Mutt, and followed in behind him. He put on the wax and I pulled it off.

We finished as the horizon began to glow. My eyes were heavy, and all I wanted to do was put my feet up and my head down. Mutt took one long look at the truck, grabbed the wax container, and immediately began applying a second coat-something my truck had never had. I had no chance talking him out of it, so I put on the percolator and grabbed a second towel.

An hour later, the first rays of sunlight hit the body of my white truck and glistened like a half-moon. It was beautiful. Mutt had even applied a thin coat of 30W oil to the sides of the tires. The truck looked brand-new. Scattered on the ground around us were the remains of almost twenty used hand towels, three rolls of paper towels, four empty squeeze bottles, and three cans of car wax. Mutt bagged up the trash and I fetched two cups of coffee. "No thanks," he said. We leaned against the barn, looking at the truck and saying nothing, but feeling satisfied. Content, Mutt climbed back into the loft and lay down.

I heard him talking, but not to me.

AT 7:00 a.m., KATIE STEPPED THROUGH THE DOOR AND onto Miss Ella's front porch. From my perch in the northwest corner of the pasture, I squinted and peered through my 300-millimeter telephoto. She arched her back, stretched her arms, yawned, and then smelled the three-hour-old coffee wafting from my percolator. She floated off the porch, under the covered walk, into the back door, and emerged a few minutes later nursing a steaming hot cup between both hands. When the cup grew too hot on her palms, she pulled the sleeves of her sweatshirt over her palms and hid her fingers inside. Standing six feet from my truck, she noticed I had parked her Volvo just on the other side of it. She circled the car and seemed pleased with the work, but she did not seem happy.

Guarding the heat, she leaned on the fence, looked out across the pasture, and scanned the horizon. Midscan, she noticed the trail through the dew-soaked hay and followed it out to me where I stood watching her like a Peeping Tom. She shielded her eyes against the sun, craned her neck, and climbed through the fence.

"Good morning," she said after a five-minute hike across the pasture.

I peered around the viewfinder, straightening my Georgia Tech baseball cap, and attempted to look professional, like I hadn't been caught peeping.

"Hi."

She eyed the camera, raised both hands to her lips, and sipped. The end of a tea bag hung suspended over the side of her cup. "What're you doing?"

`Just looking."

She nodded suspiciously. "Taken any good ones?"

"Nope," I said, looking out at the house and trying to avoid eye contact.

"Come on," she said, smiling. "What're you shooting?"

I clicked open the back of the camera and held the film door open. The camera was empty. No film. She looked confused and suspicious. "You stand behind one of these long enough and it becomes your window to the world."

She nodded, but the suspicion never left her face. I waved my hand across the pasture. "I used to come here way back when. I'd set up with black-and-white on a tripod like this and shoot a timed frame every five minutes throughout the last hour of sunup or sundown. Then I'd develop the negatives and study the contrasts." I shrugged my shoulders. "It gave me perspective." I tapped the viewfinder and said, "When I need to switch lenses, I do it here."

She walked behind me and looked out over the pines and down in the direction of the quarry. "I'd like to talk with you."

The tone and sudden shift sounded serious. "Okay," I said, placing the camera between us.

"I want to talk about what we're not talking about."

"Okay," I said, uncertain as to what we weren't talking about and where this was going.

She walked around me in a circle, making me feel a bit measured and hemmed in. "Out there, somewhere, is a man who's very angry that I've taken his son, even though he never really cared much for him, and I need a safe place to stay for ..." She paused again. "A while." She turned, took two steps in my direction, and looked up at me. When she spoke I could feel her breath on my face. It was warm and sweet and smelled like Darjeeling tea.

Out of nowhere, Miss Ella came roaring over the inter com. She must not have had much sleep either, because she was in a foul temper.

Tucker.! To the extent that you did it to one of the least of these, you did it to me.

"You don't let much go unspoken, do you?"

"Not if I can help it," said Katie.

"I ..." My voice cracked and I cleared my throat, "I don't think Miss Ella would mind at all."

She took a step closer and invaded the invisible bubble of my personal space. I took one step back, as if pushed, and she took a step closer, reaching up with her right index finger and tipping the brim of my baseball cap out of my eyes.

"I didn't ask Miss Ella. I asked you."

"That'd be fine."

`Just `fine'?"

I shrugged, stepped back again, and put one hand on top of the camera, bracing myself.