Lullaby for the Rain Girl (9 page)

“I feel kind of stupid now,” I admitted.

“Well, I think that’s appropriate.” She smiled.

“Still—I don’t understand…”

“What don’t you understand?” She drew a female form with short hair jutting out this way and that. She drew the choppy waves-tops of an ocean.

“When I saw you—that first day—afterward—I was coming out of the café across the street and you were standing there in the rain.”

“Yeah?”

“There—there was no rain on you. On your hair. It was dry. You were standing there without an umbrella and the rain was pouring down and your hair was dry. I
saw
that.”

She shook her head, mock-exasperated. She put down the chalk and reached into her coat pocket, drew forth some kind of crumpled thing, unfolded it and put it over her head. It was a clear plastic hood.

I chuckled. “Are you kidding me?”

“Some people just aren’t
observant,”
she chided, folding it and replacing it in her pocket.

“How did you read my novel so fast?”

“I’m a fast reader,” she shrugged. “I came early to school and sat in the library reading it.”

“But you didn’t check it out?”

“I owe them some fines.”

“But—but what about the rain? I never see you except when it’s raining.
Never.”

“Really? Look out the window, Ben.”

I did. The rain had stopped. Patches of blue sky showed through the gray.

“Now can I ask
you
a question?” she said.

I looked away from the sky, at her. Everything was explained. And yet, I knew, nothing was.

“Go ahead.”

She stood close, looking down at me. “Why did you say you thought my name was Rachel?”

I felt the black wing slice through my mind. “I just—thought it might be.”

“Why?”

“Rachel was—somebody I used to know.”

She said gently, “The one who left you for somebody else? Or the one who killed herself?”

“The—um, the one who killed herself.”

“You thought I was her ghost?”

“Something like that. I don’t know.”

She shook her head. “I’m nobody’s ghost, Ben. Do you mind that I’m calling you Ben?”

“No, but—but that other name—in the e-mail…”

“I just made it up, that’s all. Benja-me-me. Sounded funny.”

“Don’t—honey, don’t use that name, okay?”

“You don’t like it? Don’t tell me you think it’s ‘disrespectful.’ You’re cooler than that.”

“No, it’s not that. Just—just don’t call me that name, okay? Please?”

She studied me for a long moment, then shrugged. “Whatever you say.”

“What do you want here? Why have you come?”

“Well, jeez, I dunno,” she said, turning away. “Why not? Just to hang out.”

“That’s all? Really?”

“Sure.”

“What about what you wrote in the e-mail?”

She smiled. “I was just messing with your head. Don’t take everything so
seriously
.
”
She wandered near the door.

“But…I have—questions…”

“Ben,” she said, turning to face me again, “you shouldn’t ask too many questions.”

“Why not?”

“See, that’s another question.”

I chuckled. After a moment I started gathering my things. “I have to go,” I said, standing. “It’s late.”

“Mind if I walk with you?”

“No, not at all.”

“Of course since I’m a
ghost,
I guess nobody will
see
me.” She laughed. So did I.

She stepped out of the room first and skipped down the hall. I turned to switch off the light and looked once more at the drawings she had made on the board. A girl with short, unkempt hair. Ocean waves. And then the last one she’d done—a building, tall, with a kind of tower at the top and a clock drawn over it. The clock was frozen at what looked to be some minutes past four. The black wing slid through me, then vanished again.

# # #

The late afternoon was cool but surprisingly pleasant, patches of blue opening up everywhere in the sky and bright sunbeams pouring down onto the streets. She was ahead of me as we came out. I watched her hair bounce as she hopped down the steps, surprised again at her claim to be sixteen; anyone would have taken her for twelve. I was studying her so absorbedly that I didn’t notice Vincent coming up the stairs at me.

“Ben.”

My eyes found his bird-of-prey face. “Oh—hello, Vincent.”

“We need to talk, Ben.”

“Can’t it wait?” I said. “I’m running just now.”

“No, it can’t. Ben, you can’t keep ducking out on this.” His hand touched my arm.

We stopped at the bottom step. I watched her as she moved down the street. I wanted to call out to her,
Wait, wait,
but then she looked back and realized I wasn’t with her. She stopped and stood some distance away, watching us.

“Vincent, take your hand off me.”

He scowled, but he moved his hand away. “Ben, what is it with you? What’s wrong? Why are you acting like this?”

“Like what?”

“You ignore everything about this proceeding. You ignore me. You don’t return calls. Now you act like I’m threatening you.”

“Aren’t you, Vincent?”

“I’m offering you a chance to get a better deal than you’re going to get if Mom has her lawyer really kick into high gear on this.”

“Fifty percent of my literary earnings? Twenty percent of my teaching salary? That’s what you call a better deal?”

“It’s what I call fair. You could do far worse. Have you studied the papers I gave you?”

I gritted my teeth for a moment, overcoming my sudden desire to punch something. Not Vincent. Just something. I let it all out in a sigh. “No, Vincent, I haven’t studied them. They’re sitting on the table in my apartment where I left them on Friday afternoon. I haven’t even glanced at them. I don’t want to. The whole subject makes me sick.”

“You’ll be a lot sicker if you don’t settle with Mom now.”

“And you claim to not be threatening me?”

“I claim to be telling you the truth.” His face softened a bit. “Ben, come on. Let’s go get some coffee. I brought copies of everything. Let’s just sit down and do this. I don’t mean you any harm. I think you know that. Mom doesn’t, either.”

I felt my eyelids narrowing. “Your mother doesn’t mean me any harm? Vincent, are you serious? Do you really believe that? Sitting there in her lovely suburban home with the car and all the money and investments and plenty of income and still trying to bleed me dry? Do you actually think your mom doesn’t want to hurt me?”

“Why would she want to hurt you? She was married to you, wasn’t she?”

“That’s why she wants to hurt me.”

He shook his head. A teacher’s aide jostled my shoulder as she left the building, calling out, “Oops, sorry, Ben! See you!” I waved to her.

“Ben, this isn’t the place to be discussing this.”

“You came here. I didn’t come to you.”

Vincent sighed. “Ben, if you don’t enter into negotiations with Mom, I’m telling you, there’s going to be trouble. It’s in your own best interest.”

We moved a few feet from the building’s steps. I wanted a cigarette. “Vincent,” I said quietly, “this is wrong. It’s all wrong. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be involved in this at all. It doesn’t concern you. Have Mom’s lawyer get in touch with me. That’s the way to do it. My stepson shouldn’t be harassing me at my workplace. Or anyplace else.”

“Mom wanted to keep it in the family. As much as possible.”

“Don’t you see how wrong that is? To involve you?”

“I’m trying to be fair to both parties.”

“I’m not a
party,
Vincent, and neither is your mother.”

Vincent scowled and looked away. “This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

“No. You’re right. It isn’t.”

He sighed. “I’ll tell Mom I tried one last time.”

“You do that.”

He looked at me for a long moment, then shook his head and walked away.

I stared after him, feeling nothing but emptiness, loss. I’d lived with that young man at one point in our lives. I’d gone to his basketball games. I’d given him advice about schools. I’d tried to be—not a father, which he already had, but some kind of support system for him. I
had
tried.

Looking up I half-expected the girl to be gone, but she was still standing there. I walked over to her, tiredness settling into my bones, my spirit.

“Who was that?” she asked.

“Him?” I looked after the retreating form. “Just somebody I used to know.”

“You’re getting a divorce, right?”

I nodded.

“That was your wife’s son, wasn’t it?”

I glanced at her. “You’re quite a detective, Sherlock.”

She smiled. “I’m
observant.”

“Okay,” I said, sighing, trying to shake off my encounter with Vincent. “I’ll tell you what. How about we go over to Dugan’s there and have some hot chocolate or something? My treat.”

“Are you sure you have money?”

“What do you mean, am I sure I have money? Of course I have money. What makes you ask that?”

“Well...” She eyed me up and down. “No offense, but to be honest, you look sort of like a homeless person.”

“What? How dare you!” I played it lightly, but the comment hurt—because I suddenly realized that it was true, or at least partly true. My clothes—when was the last time I’d washed my shirt? Glancing down, I saw that a button was missing from its middle, and the part of the tail was hanging out over my belt and protruding gut. Further down I noticed a rather obvious oval-shaped grease stain on my left pant leg. And one of my shoes was untied.

I tucked in the shirt as best I could and knelt to tie my shoe. It wasn’t much, but it helped. “There,” I said, standing. “Am I acceptable to Your Highness now? ‘No offense,’ she says.”

She giggled. “I calls ’em like I sees ’em, Ben. By the way, it wouldn’t kill you to shave once in a while.”

I ran my hand reflexively over the stubble on my face. “C’mon. Less talk and more hot chocolate drinking.” We crossed the street and stepped into Dugan’s. I ordered us two steaming mugs of cocoa with marshmallows and then, reaching into my pocket, realized with a sinking sensation that her suspicion had been right. I had no money on me after all. Not even a credit card. Nothing. She watched me rifling my pockets with a bemused expression, finally reaching into her own coat.

“No, wait,” I said, trying to will through sheer mind power alone an unexpected five-dollar bill to materialize somewhere on my person. Ignoring me, she brought out a bill and handed it to the girl behind the counter and got change.

“C’mon, Ben,” she said, taking her mug and heading to a table.

I followed her with my mug and sat. “I’m—I’m not usually like this. So disorganized, I mean. I’ll pay you back. Tomorrow. I’m awfully sorry, kiddo.”

She blew on the marshmallow foam at the top of her cocoa. “Just drink your hot chocolate,” she said, a small smile on her face.

We sat in silence for a minute or two, sipping. Finally she said: “You’re not a very happy person, are you, Ben?”

“Me?” I glanced out the window at the darkening afternoon. “I don’t know. I get by all right.”

“Do you?”

“Sure.”

She looked at me. “So what are you writing these days? When is your next book coming out?”

“Well, I don’t know exactly. I’m in the middle of something right now.” Of course it was a lie. I was in the middle of nothing.

“Can I see it?”

“See it? You mean the manuscript? No. It’s not finished. It’s too rough. I never show my in-progress stuff to people, anyway.”

“I won’t criticize. I’d like to see how a writer works.”

I shook my head.

She scowled and drank her cocoa. “Ben, that man—your stepson?”

“Yes?”

“You don’t get along with him, do you?”

“It’s—” I thought about it. “It’s a complicated situation. I like Vincent just fine, but—well—it’s complicated.”

“You always use that word when you’re talking about—that. Your divorce and all.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s because it’s true. Human relationships are always complicated.”

“Why?”

I shrugged. “I guess because humans are complicated.”

“Oh.” She seemed to consider it. “Do you still love your wife?”

“Kate? Um…Sure I do. As a friend. We…” I stopped, felt my head begin to throb lightly. “I, um…No. Truthfully? The answer to that question is no.”

“People say that love never dies. I’ve heard that.”

“Mm. People are wrong. It dies, all right. But it can be a long time dying. And it can be—confusing.”

She nodded.

“Gosh,” I said, “this is kind of a heavy conversation, isn’t it? Why don’t we talk about something nicer? Why don’t you tell me some things you like to do?”

“Me?” She shrugged. “I like to read. And I just like to go out and see things. Lots of things. It’s all kind of new to me.”

“New? Are you new to the area?”

“Mm-hm. Brand-new.”

“Where are you from?”

She looked at me, then giggled again. “You’ve never heard of it.” She took a sip of cocoa. “But
you’re
from California.”

“How do you know that?”

“You told me, dummy. And it says it on the back of
Leprechauns Can Be Murder
.”

“Oh.” I laughed. “You’re right, I did. And it does.” I noticed how deftly she switched the subject from herself back onto me, but I didn’t pursue it. It can be an art, talking to a teenager. Too many personal inquiries can shut a kid down completely; and she’d already told me not to ask too many questions. So be it. As long as we kept talking—talking about
something,
even me—the lines of communication remained open, at least.

“So do you like teaching?” she asked me.

“I think I do,” I said. “Maybe—maybe not as much as I once did.” The image of the kids in the back of the room, totally disengaged, crossed my mind. “The thing about teaching—and I’ve been doing it for ten years now—is that everybody in your classroom stays the same age, year after year. You’re the only one who gets older. It wears you down.”

“You seem tired.”

“Well, today…”

“No, I mean all the time. You always seem tired.”

“I guess I
am
always tired.”

“Don’t you ever sleep?”

“I sleep,” I said. “Sleeping is something I do well. Too well.”

We drank our cocoa.

“There’s something very strange about you, you know,” I said finally.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

“Only—everything.”

She laughed. “Well, there’s some pretty strange things about you, too.”

“Oh, I’m sure of that.”

The little bell on the door of the café jingled and I saw a woman in her mid-twenties—trim, dirty-blonde, very presentable in her rain slicker and slacks—holding the door for someone. In the moment before her companion appeared I found myself thinking—it was sheer force of habit—about how I should stand, grab the door for her, engage her in some witty, nonthreatening repartee. I could have her number in minutes, I knew—or, I corrected myself, I
could
have, a dozen years ago. Back then I would have had her number, her address, I would have been going out with her that evening and stripping her naked and fucking her brains out a couple of hours later. 

But then the person she was with came shuffling under the step and into the room. He was a white-haired, stoop-shouldered old man in a faded trench coat. For a moment he looked confused as to where he was; she leaned close and said a few words to him. She ordered drinks for them and they took a table at the other end of the room. The woman helped him off with his coat. His vein-choked, liver-spotted hands were shaking.

“What are you thinking about?” my friend asked. “You look sad.”

“Do I? I wasn’t thinking about anything, really.”

“I guess that’s just the way you always look. When you forget that other people are looking at you.”

“That man over there reminded me of my dad,” I said softly. “He lives with my sister. He’s old, too. He’s starting to have a lot of—problems. You know, like old people do.”