One Hundred Days of Rain

  

one hundred days of rain

  

one hundred days of rain

carellin brooks

BOOKTHUG

DEPARTMENT OF NARRATIVE STUDIES

TORONTO, 2015

FIRST EDITION

Copyright © Carellin Brooks, 2015

The production of this book was made possible through the generous assistance of The Canada Council for the Arts and The Ontario Arts Council.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

LIBRARY AND ARCHIVES CANADA CATALOGUING IN PUBLICATION

Brooks, Carellin, author

One hundred days of rain / Carellin Brooks. -- First edition.

Issued in print and electronic formats.

ISBN 978-1-77166-108-9 (EPUB)

I. Title.

PS8603.R6593O64 2015     C813'.6     C2015-900471-3

PRINTED IN CANADA

About This Book

In prose by turns haunting and crystalline, Carellin Brooks'
One Hundred Days of Rain
enumerates an unnamed narrator's encounters with that most quotidian of subjects: rain. Mourning her recent disastrous breakup, the narrator must rebuild a life from the bottom up. As she wakes each day to encounter Vancouver's sky and city streets, the narrator notices that the rain, so apparently unchanging, is in fact kaleidoscopic. Her melancholic mood alike undergoes subtle variations that sometimes echo, sometimes contrast with her surroundings. Caught between the two poles of weather and mood, the narrator is not alone: whether riding the bus with her small child, searching for an apartment to rent, or merely calculating out the cost of meager lunches, the world forever intrudes, as both a comfort and a torment.

In elliptical prose reminiscent of Elizabeth Smart's beloved novel
By Grand Central Station I Sat Down and Wept
,
One Hundred Days of Rain
exposes the inner workings of a life that has come apart. Readers will engage with Brooks' poetic and playful constraint that unfolds chapter by chapter, where the narrator's compulsive cataloguing of rain's vicissitudes forms a kind of quiet meditation: an acknowledgement of the ongoing weight of sadness, the texture of it, and its composition – not only emotional weight, but also the weight of all the stupid little things a person deals with when they're rebuilding a life.

After the neighbour calls the authorities. Reports the fight she overheard. Sets into motion the procedures for arrest and charge. The processes that will eventually bar our heroine from returning to her home. Then it begins to rain. She is not fallacious enough to connect this with her circumstances. She confines herself strictly to the facts. She leaves. It rains.

There's one thing, though. Despite how reliably it appears each day, the rain is never exactly the same. At one moment there might be a patter, as of little scrabbling squirrel paws on the roof; at another, a windblown torrent will fling itself against the panes of her room, rocking the window in its frame with sudden violence. She thinks that her own senses must deceive her. Surely there cannot be this many separate sorts of rain. But, as it turns out, there are.

1.

All of the noises of the jail are unfamiliar ones. She is surprised by how the procedures resemble those she's seen on TV, especially the invasive ones. Bend over, say the kindly impersonal guards – guards! – and she realizes, smiling disbelievingly, that they are serious.

Other things that she could not have predicted. The stamping of her hands, which are covered with rich black ink and pressed onto a special sheet, with sections. Everything has its place and is neatly organized: there's a sink afterwards, and a special kind of soap, to wash.

She poses for photos also, side and front, and at intervals is led to a telephone within a giant hood, like the sort of dryer they place over your head in an old-fashioned salon. When she picks up, at the end of the distant echoey line is a voice: a lawyer. There are two charges, two separate ritual calls, but his advice is invariable. What are you charged with? he demands, at once, and when she tells him: Don't say anything. For he must know that she is bursting to talk to anyone who will listen: I am innocent, you are mistaken.

The heavy steps of the guards measure out the hallway beyond. There is the reassuring murmur of conversation and, behind that, a patter as of rain, dying slowly away with the distant clanging and clicking of doors closing, so faint that perhaps she has only imagined it. It was sunny when they took her, but hours have passed since then. Someone is screaming in another cell. At times the voice of a guard rises, shouting back. Someone in uniform brings her a bag: inside is an apple, a baloney sandwich, a box of milk. She drinks the milk, eats the apple. More hours pass. She is taken to the telephone again, shuffling, holding her blanket. They have given her a pair of jeans to wear, surprisingly decent ones, and taken away her shoes.

A justice of the peace is at the end of the line. He will release her but. She cannot return to her own home, own any knives but for cooking, contact her spouse. She questions these strictures. Perhaps, he suggests, she should wait and see a judge in the morning. No, that's fine, she murmurs hastily, the conditions are fine.

Now the opposite of what has come before: more forms to be completed, the ceremonial return of the belongings ceremonially removed upon her arrival. Your wife left you a message, the cop at the desk tells her as he hands back her purse. She says to call your psychiatrist, he's worried about you. Oh, and she says she loves you. She notes, grimly, these misrepresentations. Says nothing. Who here has believed her so far, who cares?

She dresses again in the clothes of the morning: her dark grey woolen skirt, her pearls, a little cream crewneck sweater. Once again she dons her dead-black tights, and the thick wedge loafers. Her red coat with the blonde fur collar is a beacon, the sharp colour of love in a cartoon; her translucent purse nestles under her arm, a friendly ghost. Today might never have happened. Everything is as before but for the passage of time, and the stain on her, invisible to anyone else. Now you're sure you'll be okay? a female constable asks her anxiously, unlocking the door to the outside world. You don't want to call someone to pick you up? It's a rough neighbourhood, you know. Several replies occur to her but as with the message she stifles them. She has learned her lesson.

The rain tonight is her favourite kind: drops so widely spaced as to convince you, until one plops on your forehead or lands on your arm, that you are only imagining them. The sky appears clear but for a few drifting clouds: here on earth, a sudden dollop of liquid rides her skin before flattening and disappearing. A few raindrops speckle the pavement and the fabric expanse of her coat but the wet is indeterminate: at any moment it might stop or begin in earnest. She has always liked that, the uncertainty of it. Rain you can ignore, until it resolves itself into something else. The next morning is clear again.

2.

She has been left without the majority of her belongings now more than once. Careless, really. How does she find herself, she asks in her motel room, in these situations, with these people? The last man she dated, her son's father, went too. After he'd gone crazy she returned to her home to find it wrecked, everything sprayed and crushed and dribbled, a ruin. She fled to M and now this.

So, an accounting. A short one, for practically speaking she owns only what she carried away with her yesterday morning. A sturdy pair of shoes, ideal for walking, and a good thick coat. The wool sweater and skirt to keep her warm in all weathers. As if she'd planned it, this being left with what's on her back. They were fighting for days and nights. It went on and on with breaks. Maybe she knew.

Then the weather. Puffy clouds in an azure sky, as if they're in the tropics, as if it isn't still winter and near freezing outside. Brightness sparkles everywhere: on the carapaces of cars, on the metallic chips mixed into the concrete of a pair of giant planters outside the 7-Eleven she can see from her window, even on the rather dingy travellers, with their open guitar-cases, standing between them. Nobody has consulted her on the weather, she thinks with an air of injury only partly assumed. She would have preferred a lowered ceiling of leaden grey, the clouds swollen with their burden.

It's not all bad. Travelling soothes her and here she is travelling in her own city. Sometime she will have to call her friends and tell them what's happened. She puts off the task, unable to describe precisely this catastrophe. Once there, now here. Stunned, blinking. She will have to call her lover
S
in Seattle who has stuck by her all these years, a love partial and distanced, nonetheless surpassing all others. Maybe. Valentine's Day is coming. In her datebook she finds a postcard she meant to send
S
: a photograph of a pole at an intersection with two old-fashioned street signs. Love, they read, and Desire.

Looking again at the sky, she leaves her motel room a last time. Card in the box. The cheap motel room, like a photograph, a snapshot of everyone who's ever passed through. The place smells of old dry smoke, curling up from the walls. Its anonymity aggressive, in its own way. Saying: you know there'll be nothing left of you here, when you go.

3.

Manhattan and Vancouver have this in common: looking down an ordinary city street you see, at the end of it, empty sky. Go a little down one of these streets and discover that the sky belongs to water, a thin band of it shining flatly there, like a mirage.

When the rain comes this water that surrounds her city changes again. Grey and sullen but no less captivating for that, a pretty woman in a sulk. The sea comes in around the city, reaching cautious exploring fingers east: False Creek, Burrard Inlet, Indian Arm. Go out in a boat late in summer and see how salmon leap in the waters. Freighters loom higher than the land in the distance, a trick of perspective, giant shipping containers stacked up on their open decks like multicoloured blocks. Their bridges twelve stories high and stupid in their proportions, tall and thin like skyscrapers affixed to hulls. The men who work these ships enter the city only for short, unscheduled visits: hospital, police station, swimming pool (briefly). The newspaper prints a diagram, a cross-section of a container with its cargo of illegal immigrant. Stuffed toys, sneakers made in China. Nobody gets to go into the port. From afar you can see the orange-painted giant stackers, the lights that blaze all day, the road cresting a hump and then falling again, beyond, where it's impossible to see.

Along the edge of the bay is a path that skirts the shoreline. She has plenty of time to walk today. Her schedule with a hole in it, one she's fallen into, like Alice. The droplets today are fat, if as far between as those of the other night: sudden little explosions, unmistakable. They fall onto the walkers as if the cloud cover, strained to breaking by the effort of holding its watery suspension, has been unable to retain these lone harbingers. Rain like this an advance guard, warning of a squall to come. The raw wind sweeps in from the west. There, though they can't see them, are islands, and beyond that nothing, so they are told, until Japan. The wind buffets everything impartially: the water, the rocky shore, the few pedestrians she passes. It worries them and flings the drops into their exposed faces. She lowers her head and blinks, repelling the onslaught, caught. Go home it says. If she had one she would.