Rain Song (2 page)
A moment passes and the silence eats at her. “Nicole, dear? You okay? Anything else you need to tell me?”
Can she see into my mind?
“No.” I can’t tell her that I’ve received a beautiful poem from a carp owner in Japan. Surely when she looks at me she doesn’t know that, does she? I have also dreamed of him, although I have no idea what he looks like in real life.
Since the death of my mother, Ducee has practically raised me. Although I lived with Father until I graduated from high school, during those years, my summers and school breaks were always spent at Ducee’s house. She knows I have a mole the shape of an apple on my lower back and that even at age thirtyone, I continue to sleep with a cloth kimono doll.
But there are still lines I draw. She doesn’t get to know everything.
Sometimes, though, on chilly, dark nights when the only sound in my house is the humming fish tank, it would be nice to sit in Aunt Lucy’s wingback chair, curl my legs up under me, and just spill it out.
I stop at the Friendly Mart on the way home and buy a pint of Chewy Caramel Chunk. At the local park, I eat the ice cream with a plastic spoon, running the heat in my car as high as it will go. I shiver, warm my hands on the blowing air vent, and dig in the carton for another spoonful. The ice cream melts on my tongue as I taste the chocolate bits and the thick caramel syrup.
Two children in matching plaid jackets take turns racing down the slide. An elderly man in a Durham Bulls ball cap watches. When they sail off the slide, he catches them in his broad arms. Even though the heat is raging through my car’s vents and the windows are up, I can hear the children giggle. They break from his arms and rush again to the slide. For a moment I ache with a longing to join them.
The last time I was here was after three of my students failed an English test on Hemingway. I couldn’t believe they did so poorly when I’d gone over almost every single question two days prior to the written test. I was in a slump—it did something to me to see those low scores. I questioned my ability to teach and their desire to learn. Had I not been enthusiastic enough; had I omitted passion in my instruction? What was wrong with me?
Seated in my car that day, I ate a pint of Raspberry Almond Delight, watched a pudgy toddler play peek-a-boo with his mother, and heard Ducee’s familiar line, “
You aren’t in control of everything or anybody. Remember that.”
An hour later, when I left the park, I concluded that things weren’t so bad.
Sometimes all you need is ice cream and a little time. And Ducee’s sayings, whether I want to admit it or not, do make sense.
Yes, that’s it, yes.
The sun sinks lower in the sky, and I know I must leave the park soon, go home, and feed my aquarium of hungry fish. They’re probably at the top of the tank, opening their miniature mouths along the water’s surface, tasting only wisps of air.
I’m baffled because I can’t remember ever going to a park as a child. Father never took me. Maybe he thought I’d throw up on the swings like I did on my plane trip coming back from Japan. But I do recall sitting in his car on a winter’s day, eating ice cream from the container, with the heater blasting warm air throughout the musty Buick.
Father said that this was life—cold, warm, and hot. I laughed because that sounded funny to me, an impossibility for something to hold the characteristics of all three adjectives. I threw my head back and laughed like Uncle Jarvis. Swing your head back, open your mouth, and let laughter flow like a rushing waterfall in the North Carolina mountains. It sounds like sunshine in your ears. I eagerly waited to be joined, but Father has never been one for laughter, or even a good chuckle.
Richard said he heard Father laugh once. But I can’t trust Richard. He said we would be together
always
. Funny how Richard decided to end
always
last night at the Lucky Golden Chinese restaurant. I understood his reasoning too well. We’d been over his list, written on the back of a sales receipt from the shoe store he manages, about fifty times.
Last night he crumpled the list, as Aunt Iva does with her empty pack of Virginia Slims, and said, “It’s over, Nic. It’s over this time.”
I stared at my congealed plate of Hunan beef.
With obvious frustration, he bellowed, “Do you even know what you want?”
It’s all Mama’s fault. It all goes back to her. If she’d lived, I’d be normal. Married, with two or three kids and a husband fiercely in love with me. We’d live in that old Victorian house off East Maple Street. I would get my nails painted at Lady Claws each Saturday like Grable does because I wouldn’t be ashamed of my short, bitten nails. My tapered long nails would be glamorous, and the envy of all. I’d also be graceful, full of poise. I wouldn’t snort when I laugh loudly. I’d probably be a piano player like Mama; she would have taught me to play. If Mama were here, I wouldn’t be anxious, wondering what went wrong and why she had to die. I would have had a proper mother to raise me and teach me about pantyhose, makeup, and shaving my legs.
I finish the ice cream and wait for tears. None come. I stare into the empty container and then toss it on the floor by the passenger seat. Opening the glove compartment, I push the plastic spoon between a crumpled map of North Carolina and the car’s owner’s manual. I like to keep a spoon in my car—like a spare tire—because you never know when you just might need it.
As darkness starts to pull its heavy blanket across the sky, I shiver in spite of the warmth blowing through the car vent. I guess I’ll just go on home. Everyone else has left the park.
———
At home there are English papers to grade. One of my pet peeves is the frequent improper usage of the English language.
Your
for
you are
.
It’s
for
its. There
when it should be
their
. My middle school students like to groan, “Aw, Ms. Michelin, you’re too hard on us.”
That’s when I tell them rules were made to follow and the best way not to repeat my English class is to follow those rules.
When they laugh and say I can’t make them take the class again, I look into their eyes and without a grin tell them, “Oh yes. Yes, I can.”
They squirm in their seats, study my serious face, grip their pencils tightly, and look as if they’re going to concentrate.
It is then that I know just how young and impressionable they are. They believe me still. One day, they will look upon me as they do their own parents, doubting nearly everything I tell them.
When the room becomes too dark to see, instead of turning on a light, I abandon the papers, leave my antique desk—one of the items I inherited from Great-Aunt Lucy—and check my email messages.
My desk chair is an overstuffed swivel, purchased for a bargain at the Raleigh flea market. Ducee got the vendor to accept ten dollars instead of the sticker price of thirty.
She went on and on about how the chair was flawed a little on the back, looked a bit threadbare on the seat, and didn’t swivel as well as it should. “My, is one of the wheels on the bottom bent? Look here, Iva, what do you think?” I think the vendor was so glad to get rid of her that he accepted the wrinkled tendollar bill she withdrew from her bra and even helped us lift the chair into Ducee’s red truck.
The chair, unfortunately, has never been comfortable. I’ve added a yellow cushion for padding, but I still feel as though I’m sitting in an object about to topple over. But it was a bargain, so what can I say?
Ducee says that a real southerner knows the value of a bargain, just like Robert E. Lee knew. I’ve studied American history and never read anything about Lee enjoying bargains. I suppose that tidbit of information is only in Ducee’s mind, in the file she keeps of her Southern Truths.
There is nothing new in my email inbox, not even spam, so I read the familiar messages from Harrison, the carp owner. This is getting to be a ritual for me. I am creating a new habit. Ducee says she read somewhere that a new pattern only takes thirty days to become a habit.
It was three weeks ago, right after my newest column at the Pretty Fishy Web site was posted, that I heard from this stranger. My column was on plants to stock in an outdoor pond so that larger fish, especially koi, won’t eat them. As usual, I’d researched the topic at the library and also consulted my own collection of books on tropical and saltwater fish. The editor of Pretty Fishy had my column on the site within two days of my sending it in. And the next day, I heard from a reader. His letter was simple and the closest I’ve ever had to fan mail.
Dear Ms. Michelin,
I read your interesting and helpful article on plant life at the Pretty Fishy website. I have a pond with six koi and am having trouble with the plants. What kind of plant life do you think does best in an outdoor pond with koi? Mine seem to eat everything. It’s costing me a fortune.
Harrison Michaels
I responded the next day after school while eating a bowl of hot grits loaded with butter. I believe grits is one of God’s finer creations.
Harrison,
Thank you for reading my column at the Pretty Fishy site. You are right; koi love to eat the roots of lots of plants. As for the answer to your question, maybe your local pet store might have a better response, but mine would have to be to get some water lilies. I like the Colorado and Pink Sensation.
Cattails are nice, too. Some fish owners have built underwater fences to separate the plant life from the fish so that the plant life can stand a chance. Perhaps you will just have to expect to replace your plants often. Good luck!
Nicole
I finished the grits, read what I’d written, used spell check, and when no spelling mistakes were detected, pressed the send button.
Three mornings later, there were two new messages.
The first was from Uncle Jarvis with a joke about how many teachers it takes to change a light bulb. Uncle Jarvis has a large supply of jokes he circulates around the Internet. Ever since he dressed up in a clown suit as the entertainment for one of his daughter’s birthday parties, he’s felt he should continue being funny, always ready with a joke. No one laughs as loudly at his own jokes as my uncle.
The second message was from Harrison. To my fish I read,
Nicole,
I took your advice and went to my local pet store. The guy there said if I just bought all my plants at the temple at the foot of the mountain, I wouldn’t have to worry because the plants sold at the shops there are protected from all ailments including destructive koi in ponds. This is just a common belief among Japanese based on superstition.
I think your comments about just being willing to replace plants often or separate the fish from the plants are really good ones. I will opt for the first and in time may realize the second is well worth the hassle.
Thank you for taking time to write to me.
Harrison
That night, as light snow fell, I dreamed about a carp named Harrison.
In the dream, I was in the warm ocean, swimming in a sapphire one-piece suit. Bright coral and fat pagodas sat at the bottom of the waters. I was a child, about two years old, and my frizzy red hair stuck straight out from my ears, dancing with the strands of seaweed beside me.
Suddenly fish joined me, large as fully grown humans. Koi— red bellies glistening in the seawaters. One of them, the shiniest one, directed me over to a garden with rows of purple and yellow irises and trees with pink blossoms, the color of my cotton doll Sazae’s kimono sash. This fish even spoke. “Hi, I’m Harrison. Harrison Michaels.”
I watched him swim, his strokes gliding his body through the water. I was amazed at the beauty of the garden, grateful he had taken me there. This was a tranquil place; I even wondered if it was a taste of heaven.
Even though the garden was bright from the sunshine, I kept anticipating that something horrible was going to happen. Since I was a child, dreams haven’t been kind to me. I’ve had some ferocious nightmares; Ducee knows about those.
But when I woke, it was morning, just minutes before my alarm clock was set to ring. And I felt light and excited, a rare combination for me.
At school that morning, Kristine Buxy, the science teacher, talked to me for fifteen minutes in the teachers’ lounge about the new gym teacher, Salvador. She asked if I’d noticed his long eyelashes and smooth skin. “He’s from Puerto Rico,” she told me. “I’d love to go there, wouldn’t you?”
On most days, even good ones, Kristine’s voice bothers me. Beautiful as she is with her endowed chest and tiny waist, her southern twang is an annoyance. Generally, I find southern accents like Iva’s, Grable’s, and Ducee’s to be quaint and comforting. Kristine’s has a whiny, nasal tone.
However, I listened this particular day, or gave the impression that I was following her every word. Yet my mind was still in that carefree ocean, replaying the dream of a human carp named Harrison. Would I dream of him tonight? More importantly, why was I dreaming of him? Surely, at last, I was headed off the deep end and ready to join Aunt Lucy, about whom everyone said—“
The craziest of the relatives. Oh, yes, absolutely crazy!”
It was a week later that Harrison sent a poem.
Cherry blossoms scatter over warmed pond
abundant like God’s generous grace
Koi and I eager to view open lilies
beauty handmade each spring
by a Creator whose face is hidden
yet whose love abounds.
He added that every spring he wrote a new poem and this was last year’s production. I read the poem aloud to my tank of five fish and one black eel. It sounded serene as the words fell over the surface of my aquarium.
I’ve told no one, but I’ve printed his poem, and I read it each day. I guess I’m hopeful that by reading it, I’ll know how to respond. Of course, I could easily reply with something like, “It’s a beautiful poem.” But does that mean he’ll write back again? How long will this correspondence continue? Who sends a poem to a stranger? Who is he?
I suspect he lives in Japan.
Tonight, after I eat two boiled eggs for dinner, an idea of what I could write to Harrison pops into my head. Finally, a logical way to respond. But as I walk toward my computer to compose an email reply, the phone rings and my thoughts are scattered.
“Nicki?” Iva coughs and sputters like a faulty vehicle.
“Hi, Iva.” I carry the cordless phone from the kitchen into the living room and sit on Aunt Lucy’s chair. When Iva calls, the conversation is never short, and comfort is vital for listening to her. Aunt Lucy’s wingback chair is the epitome of comfort. I’ve taken many naps in this chair of peach velvet fabric.
“Ducee seems to be slowing down, don’t you think?”
We were just with her this afternoon making chutney. She seemed healthy to me—lifting the ladle, spooning the mixture into mason jars, singing a few off-key lines from her favorite Irish ballads.
Before I can answer, Iva carries on. “She’s looking pale and lacking her zestiness. She was short of breath, I could tell. You could tell, too, couldn’t you?”
I settle into the chair, resting one hand on the armrest. I hear Aunt Lucy’s skin was once as soft as this velvet. Imagine having skin like that. I say, “I think she’s doing really well for eighty-one.”
“Oh, Nicki.” Iva’s sigh is loud. “What will I do?”
“She’s fine, Iva.”
“Why won’t she stop being so stubborn and go to the doctor?” Iva coughs, clears her throat, and inhales. I know she has a Virginia Slims in her right hand. “Do you know why she won’t see a doctor?”
“She has her prescriptions. That’s all she says she needs.”
“No, you know what it is. She hates going to the doctor.
She flat out told me that. I can’t blame her. All they ever do is complain about me. Telling me I shouldn’t smoke.” She inhales loudly. “Why would they take away a girl’s only pleasure?” I wait as she coughs. When she gains control again, she says, “Nicki.”
“Yeah?”
“Do you know that of all my siblings, she’s my favorite?”
My voice becomes soft. “Yes, Iva. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“You’ve told me.”
“I have?”
“Only about a hundred times.”
“If she dies before me, I’ll kill her.”
When I laugh, Iva joins in and sputters, which makes me laugh even more until I let out a snort. After telling her good night, I place the phone in its cradle. As I run my fingers through my hair like Iva does, I ask God to keep Ducee strong and well. If she dies before I do, what will I do?