Lullaby for the Rain Girl (41 page)

“An old girlfriend?”

“Just an old friend. That’s all. Look, remember all that stuff we bought for making cookies? Why don’t you make them while I’m gone? How about that? And watch TV. Really, honey...it’ll be okay. I promise. I
swear.”

We pulled apart and she gazed at me.

“Two hours?” she said. “That’s all.”

“Two hours.”

She seemed to think about it. “Will you call me from there?”

“Call you?”

“So I know that you got there okay.”

“Um...sure. Sure, I’ll call. Yeah.” I nodded. “Good idea.”

I took her hand. It was clammy and cold.

“Are you okay now?” I asked.

She looked glum. “I don’t know.”

It was a risky move, but I decided to chance it. “Look—if you really don’t want me to go, I won’t.”

“You won’t?”

“I’ll get in touch with my friend. I’ll tell her I can’t come.”

She brightened. “Okay!”

Well, I thought, so much for reverse psychology. I sighed. Total failure.

“All right,” I said, standing wearily and pulling off my coat. “I’ll send her an e-mail. I’ll stay here with you. Okay?”

She nodded enthusiastically. I went to the closet and hung up my coat, feeling utterly defeated. I smiled slightly as I passed by her and went into the bedroom, double-clicked to go online. I waited as the computer did its work.

A few moments later she appeared in the doorway.

“You really want to go,” she said, “don’t you?”

I looked at her. “Well, yeah, honey. But not if you’re not okay with it. I can stay here with you. It’s no big deal.”

She glanced at me, then moved slowly to the bed and sat on its far corner. “I guess you should go,” she said.

“Are you sure?”

She took a deep breath, and nodded.

“You’ll call when you’re there, right?” she asked.

“I sure will.”

“And you’ll only be gone two hours?”

“Two hours.”

She chewed on her lower lip.

“You promise?”

I held up my right hand. “I promise.”

Finally she nodded. “Okay.” She left the bedroom.

I turned off the computer and made my way to the closet again, got my coat out once more.

She was looking out the window. Without turning around she said, “I’m sorry, Dad.”

“Don’t be, honey. It’s okay. I understand. It’s all right. Two hours. Tops.” I turned the switch for the deadbolt and pulled open the door.

At that moment, quicker than I would have imagined possible, she darted to where I was standing and threw her arms around me again. I returned the embrace, but slightly. I patted her back. As I tried to pull away I realized she was very strong—remarkably strong. Her arms were like vice grips.

“Two hours?” she whispered.

“Two hours.”

At last her arms loosened, and I stepped out. The door clicked gently shut behind me. I made sure to check my watch. It was 7:42.

It wasn’t until I had the hotel in view that my mind shifted back to Sherry O’Shea. Oddly, I wasn’t in the least nervous—or, at least, I didn’t think that I was. I suppose my mind simply hadn’t processed the enormity of seeing her again. And yet, I wondered, what enormity? We were meeting for a drink, that was all. She was an old girlfriend in town for a few days. A drink. One drink. Say hello, catch up. A quick hug, a peck on the cheek, a “so nice to see you again,” and I was on my way home again. Rae occupied a much bigger place in my mind, as our discussion led me to wonder about things I’d tried not to think about: exactly what
would
it be like, living with her day after day? How would I explain her to people? I could scarcely explain her to myself. A thousand complications and confusions seemed to loom before me, before
us,
and I didn’t know how I would resolve any of them. Since I’d gotten out of the hospital I’d mostly known nothing but simple happiness with the girl. But soon...

I checked my watch as I stepped through the automatic sliding doors of the hotel’s lobby. 8:09. Not bad. I’d agreed to meet Sherry at eight o’clock. Fashionably late, maybe.

But as I looked around the lobby’s marble and polished-oak interior—it was a huge, high-ceilinged place, much of it covered over with festive holiday decorations—I didn’t see her. The long registration counter was to the right, staffed at the moment by two blue-uniformed young women. Big overstuffed leather sofas and chairs everywhere. At the rear of the lobby were the elevators. To the left, an entrance to the lounge and restaurant. Few people were milling about on this weekday night close to Christmas; I looked, but no one who might be Sherry O’Shea seemed to be there.

I stepped into the lounge, which was very dim. I didn’t want to go hunting around every table and booth. Surely she would keep herself easier to find. I stepped out again.

I wondered if I’d come too late; checked my watch again. 8:12. I dropped down into one of the fat and not particularly comfortable sofas, keeping my eye on the bar entrance and the elevators. I’d have to be sure to leave by 9:10 in order to keep my promise to Rae. And somehow I knew it was important to do that. Important to her. Maybe crucial. I sighed. The minutes ticked by. My nerves were jumping. Good grief, where
was
she?

Finally I got up and moved to the registration desk. There was a heavyset woman speaking with one of the clerks, so I stepped up to the other and said, “Excuse me, but I wonder if I could get you to ring a room for me? It’s Miss Sherry O’Shea, her room number is...” And as I fished in my pocket for the slip of paper where I’d recorded the information I realized that the heavyset woman next to me was asking her clerk if there were any messages for her—“From a Mr. Fall? Benjamin Fall?”

I looked at her. “Sherry?”

She returned the look, blankly. “Yes?”

I’m sure that by the clock the moment lasted no more than a single second, but it seemed as if a minute or two elapsed as we stared at each other. My instantaneous, overwhelming impression was that Sherry O’Shea had gotten
old.
Old and heavy: she’d put on thirty pounds, surely. Her hair was short, almost boyish, brushed back from her face in a very ’90s professional-woman look. The hair itself, still splashy orange, had a few white streaks in it. Her face, rounder and puffier than I remembered it, was familiarly freckled. Her outfit was a black pants suit, well tailored to her form. Still, it was her eyes that made it clear that this was, truly, Sherry. They were unchanged. Long-lashed, very blue, with those curiously heavy lids that gave her that sleepy look—Sherry. My God. Sherry O’Shea.

“Ben,” she said, her voice lower than I remembered it. She smiled, a smile that looked very familiar to me. She reached out her hand. “Hello.”

I took the hand. She had a good, firm, professional handshake.

“Hi, Sherry.”

The moment was, of course, awkward, embarrassing. How could it not be? Fifteen, sixteen years did not just melt away in an instant. In fact, those years were all too obviously standing there between us. I suspected that her eyes had combed the lobby numerous times, just as mine had, and she had failed to recognize me, just as I’d failed to see her. What did I look like, after all? Where had the slender, long-haired boy she remembered gone? And who was this fat, balding stranger with his name?

“It’s great to see you,” she said.

“It’s great to see
you.”
I found myself wishing I’d dressed a bit better. I was presentable enough in my teacher shirt, khakis, and loafers, but Sherry was business-formal. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Oh no, that’s okay. I just got down here myself.” I was sure that wasn’t true. “The conference ran later than scheduled.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

“Let’s—” She looked around uncertainly. “We can’t stand here. Do you want a drink?”

“Sure. I wouldn’t say no.”

“Okay.” She smiled again. “C’mon.” To my surprise she took my hand, exactly as she used to all those years ago, and led me to the lounge. When we stepped into the cool semi-darkness she glanced down at our entwined hands and suddenly dropped mine.

“Sorry,” she said. She didn’t have to say:
Force of habit.

We found a booth near the back. Our faces were illuminated flickeringly by the burning candle in its little red globe on the table. A young man wearing a bowtie came and took our order. Sherry ordered Diet Coke. I had a beer.

“So,” she said finally.

“So.”

We were quiet for a time. The drinks came.

“What are you doing here, Sherry?” I asked. “In D.C., I mean. You said work...”

“Yeah, it’s a conference,” she said. “I work for IBM now, did you know? I’m a marketing consultant. Once a year they have this conference, usually in D.C. or New York. This year it was D.C.” She smiled, sipped at her drink. “Obviously.”

“Marketing consultant. Wow.”

“Well, it sounds—
grander
than it is.”

“Marketing—computers? That kind of stuff?”

“Yeah.”

“Wow.” I thought for a moment. “There hardly
were
computers, back when—you know. Back then.”

“Yeah.”

“So have you been in D.C. before?”

She nodded. “I was here two years ago for the conference. But I didn’t know you were here.”

“How’d you find out?”

“Google. You know it?”

“That search engine thing? I’ve used it, I think, yeah.”

“I searched your name. Found a couple of interviews with you. And some stuff on your school’s website. That was where I found the e-mail link.”

“Wow. You’re a regular Philip Marlowe.”

She scoffed. “It took ten minutes. Anybody can do it.”

“Where do you live now, Sherry?”

“San Francisco. Well, actually Oakland. But ‘San Francisco’ sounds cooler.”

“Yeah. Visions of Steve McQueen in
Bullitt.”

She smiled. “What about you?”

I shrugged. “What about me? You know where I teach.”

“And you’re a writer. You made it as a writer.”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“It was about five years ago,” she said, “that I was in this bookstore near where I live, not searching for anything in particular, you know. Just looking around. And in the mystery section—oh my gosh, I see the name ‘Benjamin Fall.’ I about fell down! I yanked it off the shelf and bought it right then and there.”

“Well, thanks.”

“Is that your only book? I mean, so far?”

“So far.”

“Wow, that’s—that’s wonderful, Ben. Really. I’m so happy for you. That you made it.”

“Thanks.”

A contemplative silence fell between us.

“Sherry,” I said at last, “do you mind if I slip out to make a very fast phone call? I’m sorry, I promised I’d call someone. I won’t be a minute.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Do you know where there’s a pay phone?”

“I think there’s one in the lobby.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“It’s okay.”

I didn’t mean to say it, but I couldn’t mistake the unhappiness on her face. “It’s—my daughter,” I said finally. “She worries.”

She cocked her head curiously. “You have a daughter?”

“Yes.” How odd it felt to say it. “It’s—I have to promise to call her when I’m out in the evening like this. She’s as bad as a parent.”

She smiled, warming to the idea. “How old is she?”

“She’s—a teenager,” I said.

“Nice to have a teenager who worries like that,” she said. “Not like most teenagers.”

“No, definitely not. She’s a smart kid. Likes to read.”

“Like father, like daughter.”

I smiled. “Yeah.”

“Here,” she said, opening her bag. “Use my cell.” She brought a bulky phone out, pulled its antenna up, pressed a button. She handed it to me. “I’ll go to the ladies’ room,” she said, taking up the bag. “Okay?”

“Well, okay,” I said, looking at the phone. I’d never used a cellular phone before. “Thanks.”

She stepped away and I punched in the numbers.

She picked up on the first ring. “Dad?”

“It’s me, hon.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m at the hotel. With my friend.”

“Are you okay?”

“Of course I’m okay. I’ll be home soon.”

“Promise?”

“Promise. Everything okay there.”

“I guess.”

“What are you doing?”

“Watching TV. I don’t feel so good.”

“Well...I’m sorry, honey. I’ll be home soon. We’ll see what’s wrong. Okay?”

“Please come home soon.”

“I told you, kiddo. Two hours.”

“Okay.”

“Just take it easy, okay?”