Rain Song (4 page)
I’m not sure about modern technology. It took me five years to finally give in and get a computer. Mr. Vickers, our principal at Mount Olive Middle School, continued to tell me that owning a computer would enhance my life. I’d be on the way to my classroom, the soles of my shoes flapping down the hallway, not at all graceful like Iva’s glide, and he’d stop me. Certain he’d ask how I managed to always be late to class, the palms of my hands would sweat. I fought against biting every nail. But instead of issuing a reprimand, he’d smile and talk about an educational Web site he’d just visited or ask if I was aware that the Internet holds a world of knowledge “at our very fingertips.”
“That’s amazing,” I’d say.
“Do you own a computer?”
I’d tell him I really didn’t think I was the emailing type. He’d look seriously into my eyes and, with his coffee-stained breath just inches away from my face, say, “Nicole, emailing is only one aspect of the savvy computer. There are more ways it enhances one’s life.”
Whenever I have to call technical help because the monitor freezes or I get a virus, I wonder how I am being enhanced by my
savvy
computer.
A year ago I got an answering machine because Iva said I needed it in case she couldn’t reach me at school and had to leave me a message about Ducee. But that’s about it for me. I refuse to get a cell phone. I don’t think I need any more enhancing in my life.
When I get home from school on Thursday afternoon, there are three messages on my answering machine. One is from Bonnie, my stepmom, asking when I’m going to make the trip to Richmond to visit her and Father. She lets me know that Richard is welcome, too. I delete it, as I did the one she left three weeks ago.
Iva’s message is about the reunion. She wonders if I’ll create the same centerpiece I made last year. “It was the talk of the reunion,” she says.
All I did was stick olives in a large fresh pineapple. The piece was to represent Mount Olive—the pineapple was the mountain and the green olives spoke for themselves. Of course, everyone knows that Mount Olive has no mountains or olives. Just a company famous for its Mount Olive brand-name pickles.
The final message surprises me. It’s from Richard. I play his message six times just to hear his tenor voice, even though he has called only to ask that I return his Michael Bolton CD. “I know you borrowed it. Please give it back.”
I search my house by looking in the desk drawer where I keep my CDs. I shuffle through my meager collection: The Eagles, Sandi Patty, Stevie Wonder, Michael W. Smith, a local group called Jason’s Gospel Band, Brooklyn Tabernacle Choir, but no Michael Bolton. I feed my fish, watch their little mouths bubble open to consume the flakes, and it dawns on me that I don’t like Michael Bolton, so why would I have borrowed his CD? In fact, I don’t think I ever borrowed any CD from Richard. As usual, you are mistaken, Richard. I delete Richard from the machine.
It gives me a great sense of power to be able to delete with one touch of a button. Effortless.
Suddenly I start to feel an ache tugging my insides. A moment from my past crosses the lens of my memory—Richard and I are making snow angels outside his apartment as large flakes spiral from the evening sky. Later we go inside and drink hot chocolate with miniature marshmallows. He takes a sip from his mug and then kisses me with lips of chocolate.
I push away the growing ache by rubbing the palm of my hand over my heart. I will not cry. Not today.
Quickly, I make some Earl Grey tea and sit in Aunt Lucy’s chair, steadying the mug on the right armrest. I run my free hand over the chair’s soft fabric. Aunt Lucy had skin as smooth as this fabric, and yet this afternoon all I feel for her is sadness. Poor Aunt Lucy. Poor crazy Aunt Lucy. I was told she died the day before her forty-first birthday from some sort of liver disease because she drank bourbon with her morning orange juice and with her evening iced tea. Pretty soon she forgot the orange juice and the tea and just drank straight from the dark bottle. Ducee says she was trying to forget.
Lucy had a baby at the age of sixteen and her parents, my great-grandparents, made her give it up for adoption. She wasn’t even allowed to look at it or hold it after it was born. The baby was whisked away minutes after Aunt Lucy nearly died giving birth to it. And, Ducee tells me, that day when the baby entered the world was the day Aunt Lucy lost a part of herself, a part never to be restored again. Maybe that’s why she bought the haunted house on James Street and turned its basement into her art studio, where she drew dozens of oil paintings of mother and infant.
Ducee can never tell Aunt Lucy’s story without tears forming in her eyes. She’s told the story over a hundred times and each time has to blot her eyes with a tissue. I know she loved her crazy baby sister. I can see the love in every tear.
Aunt Lucy—whom I never met—was trying to forget. I am the opposite of her—trying to remember. Sometimes on rainy nights I shut my eyes to recall a smell or sound that will take me back to a memory of my early childhood with Mama. Although I’ve spent countless moments believing I can remember, I have yet to do so.
I force myself to do some lesson planning for my middle school students before I check my new email messages. But I have trouble concentrating because I remember last night’s beautiful dream where I swear fish were dancing in the ocean to Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” Harrison was swimming under a tall, shady palm tree. I didn’t want to wake up, and even after my alarm sounded, I closed my eyes to continue the dream. It didn’t work. I pulled the fabric-softener-scented sheet over my head and waited, hopeful. No peaceful ocean; instead, I saw a classroom filled with rowdy students. It was time to get out of bed to teach them.
With one finger in my mouth, I check to see if any new messages were deposited into my computer while I was at school. I hold my breath, the finger still in my mouth. Sure as the sun, I have new mail, and yes, one of those messages is from Harrison.
———
The dreams, the email messages—maybe even the cold weather and the breakup with Richard. I can stack this all up as my own rationale for what I do that night when Grable calls to apologize for Monet’s throwing Sazae. “I know that doll is priceless to you,” Grable says.
This is true. Sazae is no ordinary cotton doll. She is the only gift I have from Mama. “She is.”
“I’m sorry.” Her voice is weak, strained. “Remember that doctor I told you about at UNC?”
There have been so many doctors, I wonder which one she’s referring to this time. I don’t ask that, just simply say, “Yes.”
“Well, last week he changed Monet’s medicine. He says he thinks she has trouble concentrating along with hyperactivity. I don’t know if the new medication is doing a bit of good.” She speaks so slowly I fear she might fall asleep in midsentence. “He also says she’s autistic.”
“But I thought they ruled that out last year.”
“She’s only three. Sometimes it takes a while to diagnose.”
“Really?”
“I don’t know. I’m no medical professional. People tell me to go on the Internet and search.” Her voice trails off.
I know she can’t go on a computer. As simple as it might sound to the people encouraging her to do so, my cousin, like most of my relatives, doesn’t own a computer.
I’ve invited her to use mine, but whenever I do, she just murmurs, “It’s a tad confusing,” and dashes my hope for any further discussion.
Dennis should be more proactive in regard to his daughter’s condition, all the relatives feel, but none of us ever tells Grable that. It’s amazing how we can talk about someone we love behind his or her back, so certain of what he or she should do to make his or her life more manageable, yet we don’t ever tell that person. Wisdom, we think we have so much. Yet why can’t we freely disclose our ideas? Instead, we smile and nod and cringe inside. Never showing how we really feel.
I wonder if Dennis has left for his business trip. This question I can freely ask.
“Not yet,” says Grable. “He leaves early tomorrow morning.”
“And what are you and Monet going to do?” I wonder why I care.
She sighs—one of those that lifts up from the very depths of her lungs. “I guess we’ll make do.”
“Eat ice cream,” I suggest. I know my cousin is fond of Chocolate Nutty Chocolate.
“Oh, I don’t know.” She pauses. “I don’t think I have any in the house.” She sounds so tired, as if she couldn’t possibly go out to the Friendly Mart and pick up a carton herself.
And so I say, “Why don’t you come here for ice cream.”
Silence. Then, “Really?” There is a brightness in her tone. “Really?”
“Sure.”
Slowly, she adds, “I’d have to bring Monet.”
“Of course,” I tell her with too much enthusiasm.
“Are you sure?”
Never. “Yeah.”
“When?” Eagerness fills her voice.
When? When? I look at my kitchen clock as if that will help me decide. “How about tomorrow night?”
“Okay. Okay.”
“Great! See you then.”
I am about to hang up when she asks, “Nicole, what time?”
Time? “Seven, eight.”
“Monet goes to bed at eight.”
Suddenly I know I have lost my mind because I suggest she and Monet spend the night. “I have the spare bedroom with the double bed.”
I feel sunshine pouring through the receiver. “Oh, Nicole. Really? That would be wonderful. Are you sure?”
“Yes.” I try to match her happiness. “Of course. Come over at seven. We’ll have pizza first. And hot dogs for Monet.”
Monet hates pizza but loves hot dogs, another lesson I learned the hard way. The first time I served her pizza, she took the gooey slice covered in cheese and smashed it onto the tabletop. “Hooot doooo!” she demanded about fifty times until I caught on.
Hooot dooo
means hot dog. She likes them sliced with a little pool of ketchup on the plate. Using a fork, she submerges each slice into the ketchup, laughs, and then, quicker than a crocodile swallows a pesky fly, pops the hot dog into her waiting mouth. She chews about a dozen times, swallows, opens her mouth, and repeats the entire experience again.
When I place the receiver in its cradle, I hear the pounding shrieks of Monet in my mind. I have just invited the wild one over. Voluntarily. I think I’d better stop spending so much time sitting in Aunt Lucy’s wingback chair. Her crazy behavior is rubbing off on me.
I have no hot dogs or ice cream or even a bottle of ketchup. I jot down these items on a slip of paper with plans to head to the store tomorrow after school. I add fish food. Naturally, with Monet around, I will keep the container of flakes hidden. And this time I will also secure Sazae inside my closet.
The next day, while Kristine and I are standing in the teachers’ lounge, she flips back her dark brown hair that smells of peaches and coconut and asks if I’m still dating Richard. Kristine reminds me of being at a slumber party. She doesn’t talk about the science classes she teaches or her students; guys are the only topic she cares to address.
I tell her Richard and I broke up. I don’t let her know that he wanted someone committed to marriage and that I am not ready to have a ring on my finger and pick out a wedding dress. Kristine, longing for marriage, would drop her mouth wide open and let her pretty eyes bulge. She might even faint if she knew I had a prospect of marriage and refused it.
“Well,” she begins, “I know this guy.” Kristine knows many guys. I can tell by her tone of voice that this particular one is from the lineup of men that are either skipping out on child support or running from the law. I am not surprised at what she asks next. “How about me setting you up with Eduardo? He’s cute. We could double-date.”
“Double-what?”
“Double-date.” She smiles, flashing her pearly whites.
“Didn’t I tell you?” Edging closer to me, she says, “Salvador asked me out last weekend. We rode his motorcycle to an Italian restaurant in New Bern. He has a red Harley.”
Motorcycles! I need to add motorcycles to my list of fears. I hate planes and motorcycles, especially those large Harleys.
“We had the best time. Did you know Salvador collects pottery?” She fingers a strand of hair. “Salvador, me, you, and Eduardo.” She peers at my eyes, expecting a response. When I give her nothing but a blank stare, she tosses her head, giggles. “It’ll be fun.”
My mind wanders to Harrison’s latest email message. He answered my questions, every single one. He lives in an old traditional Japanese house in Kyoto with a rock garden that surrounds his outdoor pond. One bonsai he keeps in a ceramic pot and, during the winter months, brings it into the warmth of his house. He hopes it will live to see spring, but it’s looking a little
peaked
lately. For eight years he’s been an English professor at a local university. His parents, former medical missionaries, are coming for a visit in a few days, and he may get his dad to help build a retaining fence under the pond’s surface to separate the lilies from the fish, just as I suggested in my message to him. Harrison says that his best friend Jurgen, from Germany, might even help with the task. Jurgen is in love with Tomiko, but there is no future in this relationship because she refuses to marry a foreigner. Her father says he’ll disown her if she does.
There is no mention of Harrison having a girlfriend or wife.
“Want me to get Eduardo to ask you out?” Kristine’s question breaks into my thoughts of Harrison.
“Uh . . . no.”
“You don’t like Hispanic men?” She frowns.
“No. I mean, it’s not that.”
“I know!” Her frown now becomes the widest smile. “You’re still getting over Richard!”
“Well. . . .” I doubt Harrison is married. He would have said he was. Some line like, “My wife and I have lived here in Kyoto for eight years.”
Kristine nods with sympathy. “I understand.” When she leaves the lounge as the bell for the last period rings, a faint trail of coconut and peaches stays in the air.
I breathe it in. Maybe when I get home there will be another message from Harrison.
———
As I shop for hot dogs, ketchup, and ice cream, a smile does find my lips. This could be a nice night—once Monet goes to bed, that is. Grable and me, girl talk. I toss in a brownie mix and a bag of peanut M&Ms. After reading the directions for the brownie mix, I gently add a carton of eggs to my shopping cart. We can sit in the living room, and I’ll let Grable have Aunt Lucy’s chair. I’ll light the vanilla candles Iva gave me for Christmas. She gave everyone candles as gifts—I think to cover the odor of her cigarettes. Over the years, she’s grown tired of the way some of the relatives complain about “that nasty smell.”
I make a mental note that pint-sized Bell mason jars are on sale. If I had a cell phone I could call Ducee and ask if she’d like me to buy some for her next chutney-making event. But even if I could call, I wouldn’t be able to talk with my grandmother. Ducee doesn’t answer her phone. She hears it ring; at least I think she does. She just doesn’t ever pick it up. I don’t know why she owns a phone. Iva says it is in case one of us walks into her house, finds her having a heart attack, and needs to call 911.
That did happen once. Mrs. McCready, Ducee’s neighbor with the streak of silver hair, entered my grandmother’s house one autumn afternoon, bringing over her renowned applecinnamon-walnut pie. She dropped the pie onto the hardwood when she found Ducee slumped over in her La-Z-Boy recliner. After calling Ducee’s name and patting her face, Mrs. McCready dialed 911. The ambulance whisked Ducee away, and Mrs. McCready sat in the recliner to catch her breath. Then she called Iva, who panted all the way to Wayne Memorial. That was eighteen months ago. Ducee says she’s fine now. Iva isn’t so sure.
On my way home, I rush into McGuire’s for fish food and a new net. I love the smell of the dingy pet store and the way the floorboards creak as I walk the aisles. It’s always a treat to be greeted by Flannigan, the one-legged macaw who sits in a metal cage by the entrance. I can’t stay long; I don’t want the gallon of Chocolate Nutty Chocolate to melt in the trunk of my Ford. But I do tell the bird he is beautiful.
“You’re beautiful,” repeats Flannigan. He hops on his perch, raises one green wing, opens his beak, and says it again.
I smile.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell Flannigan.
To which he mimics, “You’re beautiful.”
I swear I could keep this up all day. Flannigan is a real egobooster.
“How is your grandmother?” asks Mr. McGuire, clad in a pair of patched overalls. His hat is emerald green and has the phrase “Thank God I’m Irish” stitched above the rim. Mr. McGuire and my grandmother are extremely proud of their Irish heritage, whereas Iva wishes she was Italian, because then she’s certain she’d have dark, thick,
killer
hair. “Every man would turn to see me,” she once told us with a seductive smile. “Me—dark, killer hair and red lipstick. I’d knock their socks off.”
“Ducee’s fine,” I say to Mr. McGuire, although Iva wouldn’t agree. Iva would go on and on about how Ducee is lacking zest and looking pale.
With a wide net, Mr. McGuire takes a goldfish out of a tank and slips it into a plastic bag for a woman in a pink jacket. “I don’t see her much these days. Getting things ready for our family reunion?” He can call it
our reunion
, even though he’s not biologically related to us. All of Mount Olive remembers that my great-grandparents loved him like a son.
“Yeah, she and Iva keep busy with all that reunion planning.”
He hands the bag to the woman, who grins at the fish as though she’s just won it in the lottery. I hope she enjoys her new goldfish for a long time; she seems like she’ll be a good owner. If her fish does happen to die, I beg her to please not flush it down the toilet. Fish deserve a proper burial. I’ve had sixteen pet fish die over the course of my life, and I am honored to say that each one got not only a ground burial but a eulogy.
The woman debates about fish food while Mr. McGuire says to me, “Actually, I don’t see much of any of your clan. They must not love fish. Not like you do.” His smile, which covers his wrinkled face, warms my heart.
“Except you did see Monet and Grable the other day. Or maybe you heard Monet the other day.”
He laughs. “Monet is an energetic lass, isn’t she?”
I do love the way his accent rolls off his tongue. Some days I think I’d like to speak with an Irish accent. Ducee says everyone has a story, and I’ve heard the pet store owner’s many times. At eighteen, Mr. McGuire came to New York City from Dublin in search of a better life. Although the city held many of his relatives, he chose to leave and head farther south. North Carolina beckoned him, and he was hired to work the tobacco farm of Mount Olive’s Seven Arches. This was Ducee’s parents’ farm, and being Irish, they accepted Joseph wholeheartedly as one of the family.
At the age of twenty-five, he saved enough to make a down payment on a tiny feed shop on Main Street. Born with a fascination for fish, he added fish and aquariums to the inventory. Soon he was selling more fish than feed. That was when he changed the name of his store from Mount Olive Feed to McGuire’s Pet World.
I watch Mr. McGuire ring up the cost of the goldfish and fish food on his cash register. He won’t go modern; he has used the same ancient register for decades. And I know he will never get a computer.
The woman thanks him; the bell on the door chimes as she walks out.
Remembering why I’m here, I pick out an orange cylinder container of fish flakes and search for a net.
After he rings up my purchases, a solemn look encompasses Mr. McGuire’s green eyes. “Monet’s father was here.”
“Oh, really?”
Mr. McGuire is silent, as though contemplating whether or not to continue talking.
I stick a thumbnail in my mouth and wait.
“Monet’s father wasn’t with Monet.” A significant pause. “Or with Grable. He wanted minnows. Appeared to be going fishing early this morning. A canoe was on top of the SUV.”
I wonder why Mr. McGuire’s voice is getting lower. I step nearer to the counter so I can hear better.
That’s when he says, “A young thing was with him.”
“With Dennis?”
Joseph McGuire holds my eyes with his gaze and nods.
I feel my mouth dry up like water evaporating under a scorching sun.
“I don’t mean to be nosey, but the two were acting all cozy together.” He wriggles his eyebrows. “Like they were headed to the Southern Belle Motel. A wee time out in the canoe and then some time under the covers, if you know what I mean.”
I can’t find my voice. I want to dismiss everything he’s told me. Perhaps this is a dream and my alarm will go off soon.
At last I say, “Don’t tell anyone.” I repeat this line twice, just like Flannigan would. As I head out of the store, I am faced with a huge dilemma. Do I tell Grable tonight that her husband was seen with another woman? That her mother’s image of him as a playboy is correct?
In my car, it hits me—Dennis had an early flight to Boston this morning. Or did he?
I don’t bother turning the heat on; my car is toasty. Or maybe it’s me. I am sweating with sheer disbelief.