When It Rains: The Umbrella Collection (8 page)

The only unfortunate part of my journey was that I had to walk past Mr. Garrison’s house. I avoid him as much as possible because all he does is recount what happened that night with my parents as if he isn’t speaking to their daughter.
  He will get specific and graphic at times.  I believe he does this so he can watch my reaction, then go and tell everyone in the neighborhood about it.  He is the town’s gossiper, always in the know and spreading it around. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with him, so as I approached his sidewalk my stride quickened.

His house looked like it was out of a TV show; everything neat and clean.
  The lawn and hedges were perfectly manicured, there was a tire swing hanging from a tree. It was nice to look at, but it was all too perfect; like a facade. “Leave it to Beaver” shit always bugs me and leaves me wondering what is going on behind closed doors.

I was just about past his house before I heard, “Hey Nora! How are you?”
 and Mr. Garrison, who was outside washing his BMW, came walking down his driveway towards me.

While my eyes rolled to the back of my head I said, “I’m really good. Hope all is well with you,” as I waved in his direction but never making eye contact with him. I thought it was pretty obvious that I was trying to end the conversation since I didn’t ask a question nor did my feet halt its movement. It wasn’t obvious enough, since the next thing I know I heard rapid footsteps coming up behind me and I felt him grab my elbow to stop me.

“Hey, slow done, missy. I haven’t seen you in a long time. How is everything? Are you good? How’s the family?”

“They are all fine, along with me. I’m sorry. I am kind of in a rush to get somewhere,” I lied to get out of there.
  I was in no rush at all. 

I started walking and he started to also right beside me.
  I stopped once more just so he would and stood there with my hands in my pockets, rocking back and forth excitingly waiting until I could walk away freely.

“Oh come on, you can give your Uncle Jack a minute or two
, can’t you?” 

He was not my Uncle is any way, shape or form. Before, he never acknowledged me and referred to me only as ‘the kid’.
  “Does that kid have to come?” “The kid is in my way.” 

“Sorry, I really have to go.”

“I just want to make sure you are okay. The anniversary of your parents dying is coming up. You think about them a lot?”

“What do you think asshole? Do you think that that day is erased from my memory? I thi
nk of them all the fucking time. You want to tell everyone the inside scoop and say how I am still falling apart over it.  Well, here’s a scoop, GO FUCK YOURSELF!” is what the
voice
told me to say to him.  However, I fought the urge to repeat it and I replied instead, with tears welling up in my eyes, “Yes, yes I do. I’m gonna go.”

At this point, I saw Miranda was making her way down the driveway to where we were standing.
  “Hello, Nora,” she said yelled with her sweet tone when she was half way here.

I raised my hand in order to wave and say hello back but before I was able to, Jack interrupted, “Miranda, you can go back inside, now,” and he gave her a stern look.

I looked shockingly back and forth between the two of them, waiting for Miranda to put him in his place.  But, nothing of the sort came to form.  She just turned on her heels and headed back up the driveway into the house.

“You know, I remember that day like it was yesterday.
  I replay it in my head all the time.  Do you?  The look on their faces as I came up to the car is always popping up,” he said as he turned his attention back to me.  He looked straight into my eyes waiting for a reaction, but nothing came. “It has been so long now and I feel that it is time for you to move on,” he said as my watery tears sunk back in and my dry eyes stared daggers into his out of anger. “If you want to talk about it, ever, I am always free and I know this preacher that would be willing to talk to you if you wanted to bring God into your life.  HE has helped me so much.”

I was angry now, angry that he had the audacity to say that, to imply that God wasn’t already present within my life.
  How would he know?  I moved in closer, an inch from his face I pointed my fingers directly at him. 

“You, a preacher or anyone else for that matter will never tell me how to grieve or will give me a time period in which to get ove
r my parent’s death. What, do you want me to do bawl my eyes out on your shoulder, so you can run and tell everyone?” I said as my face grew redder with rage. Then I inserted the before mentioned thought, you know, the one the
voice
said about maybe it would be good for him to go do something to himself. He didn’t seem to like it that much since he took a few steps backwards with the look of shock on his face.  His mouth fell open then he started making his way back towards his house.

I began to continue my walk then stopped and turned back at him, “Oh, and Mr. Garrison.”
 I yelled and he stopped where he was and turned towards me, “My Mom fucking hated you!”

I turned on my heels and started off down the road with a smirk appearing on my face. It wasn’t nice to say, but well deserved I thought.
  I pictured Mom cheering and clapping up where she is and Dad probably stood with his arms crossed at his chest shaking his head. With those visions in my head, it took me no time at all to get to Marty’s.

I entered the small store stocked with shelves of food and candy in the middle and refrigerators along the back with and sides filled with sodas, waters, beers and any other type of refreshing liquid.
  The cashier stands behind a small counter that is filled with random pieces of gum for sale for a nickel and to the side of that are counters with coffee pots brewing a different kind in each, along with a hotdog and sausage cooker beside them.  As I opened the door I was embraced by the typical sound of a bell which was attached to the door ringing each time a customer opened it. 

“Hello, Mr. Jones,” I said as I walked up behind him as he was filling the water bottles in one of the refrigerators. He was wearing the usual tan polo shirt with one pocket and the brown pants I remember him wearing when I was younger. He is a good friend of Pops. Mrs. Jones passed away two years ago and he hasn’t really been the same since.
  He used to be extremely outgoing and now since her passing he is more introverted and sullen.

“Nora, looking as beautiful as ever, it has been too long since your last visit. Are you here for your usual?” he asked with a smile.

“Yes sir, the usual and you do know that I was here last week, right?”

He stood there thinking for a few seconds, “Ah, yes I remember. Nora, I’m an old man, sometimes it takes me awhile to get the wheels spinning.”

I could tell he was lying, but I let him slide.  I headed towards the candy aisle after Gary, the cashier, yelled for Mr. Jones and he headed to backroom to receive a phone call he just received.

I found my sugary lollipops and was perusing the rest of the sweets when I spied someone across the store, someone whom I have been dreading running until for the last year. He was wearing a blue hooded sweatshirt with some sports teams logo on it, must be a college team because I didn’t recognize it. He had a white baseball cap on backwards and a scar above his left eye that he got while in a fistfight in the 10
th
grade. I have been lucky so far and our paths have not crossed up until now. It was Darren Levington and he was standing in the potato chip aisle. As I searched his face more closely, he had a pondering look on his face. Probably something asinine like rippled potato chips or plain ones. I guess my gaze started to burn a hole through him because he looked right at me and I ducked as fast as I could. I was kneeling down with my back against the shelves unsure of what to do. Do I run out the door? Do I confront him? Do I walk over to him and start beating him with two bags of potato chips?
“Here you want rippled?” and whip his head with the bag. “Oh, you want some non-rippled. Here you go!”
and beat him until there were no bags left and chips were covering the tiled floor. 

I wanted to take another look
, so I slowly inched my way back up the shelves and with my chin resting on the Skittles, I peered over in his direction to spy on him. He was no longer evaluating the snacks; he was now headed towards the opposite side of the aisle, where the beer was. With each one of his steps, my heart began to beat more rapidly. I spun back around and hit the floor to where I was a few moments ago.

If he reaches for a beer, I’m not sure if my angel side will be able to control my devil side. He killed my parents because he couldn’t stop himself from ingesting beer after beer and then jumping behind the wheel of his truck and there he is about to purchase a major factor in the accident
, I thought to myself as the speed of my pulse quickened and anxiety manifested within.

I had to know if he would buy some beer or not so I willed myself to get back up. But after I convinced myself just to get back up and take a peek, he was no longer where he stood. I swiveled my head around, eagerly searching for him throughout the store and he was nowhere to be seen. I began desperately looking for him, walking up and down each aisle thinking maybe he was crouched down looking for something on the bottom shelf, but he wasn’t.

I stood at the front of the store near the hallway to the bathrooms in a state of panic.  Then I heard knocking and someone say, “Hey Dare, I’ll be in the car” and a reply “Alright man. I’ll be out in a sec.” 

I looked to where the conversation was taking place and a tall, lanky guy, wearing a blue T-shirt with the same sports team logo as Darren, walked from the Men’s room door out the front.

My head turned back to the bathroom.  It felt like my feet were cemented into the spot where I was standing with my stare fixated on the handle of the door, willing it to move so it will open and he will see me, the child of the people he killed, staring at him with pure hatred.

A few moments went by and the scene that I was picturing in my head became a reality. However, as he walked by me and our eyes met, his head just nodded and he kept on walking. His scent that was engrossed in cigarette smoke lingered in my area infiltrating my senses and I picked up a slight odor of alcohol, too. There was no acknowledgment of who I am. No wonderment strewn across his face about whether or not I was the little girl crying her eyes out in the back of the courtroom as his verdict was read.
  No apology just a nod in acknowledgement that a person was standing in his walking path.

He walked to the same
aisle that I saw him in before.  He grabbed a bag of rippled potato chips, then turned his attention to the refrigerator behind him, reached in and grabbed a six pack of the cheapest beer there was. He was done picking up his supplies and headed towards the cashier, but he had to pass me one last time. He noticed that I was still in the same place and watching his every move, so this time he added a smirk across his mouth along with his nod and preceded to the check out.

I was stunned and completely grossed out that he looked at me like that. I stood wondering what I should do. Thoughts of a confrontation ran through my mind and immediately were pushed out and the only thing I could bring myself to do was to leave. I stormed out of the store and onto the sidewalk outside, desperately trying to rid myself of the hate that was flowing through my veins. I hated him, of course, for what he had done and that it seems like he has gone on with his life and repeating the same mistakes. I hated myself, too. I didn’t do anything. I couldn’t bring myself to utter a word to him or to even hit him with a bag of potato chips. That was my chance and I let it float by without a fight. I walked around in circles outside the front door of the store and still in disbelief.
  I  was about to take a step and begin my walk back home when something stopped me in my tracks, something I had seen on only one other car. It was a “Honk if you love Pussy
cats
” bumper sticker. Thoughts of the courtroom riddled my mind; how the prosecutor repeated that phrase over and over again and pictures of the crushed up cars. One was a close-up shot of that bumper sticker with a hue of canary yellow as a border.

“This has to be hi
s car.” I thought to myself.  Then my instincts kicked in and before I knew it I had bent down and my fingers were wrapped around a rock that was simply lying there as decoration inside of a planter’s box that was around a small tree. I took aim of the car, drew back my arm and launched the rock into the back windshield. Smash!

“This is for my M
om,” I said and threw it through the passenger side window. Unfortunately, for the car there was more than one rock in the box. I walked around to the other side of the car.

“My Dad!
”; through the driver’s side window

“Pops!”; the back driver’s side window

“And this is for my fucking childhood!” and the front windshield crumbled to pieces.

This all happened relatively quickly. No other thoughts ran through my mind other than destroying that piece of shit’s car. As the final piece of glass fell, my head became clearer and I glanced around at the scene of destruction that I caused. Everyone that was driving on the road stopped and watched and the people on the sidewalk halted probably out of fear that they would step into my line of fire. One of which just happened to be Mr. Garrison and I am sure I gave him enough material today to fill up his arsenal of gossip to spew around the neighborhood to anyone that will listen. Just my luck.