Rain and Revelation

Rain and Revelation
© copyright 2012 by Therese Pautz. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form whatsoever, by photography or xerography or by any other means, by broadcast or transmission, by translation into any kind of language, nor by recording electronically or otherwise, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-0-9885605-1-2

eBook design by Ryan Scheife, www.mayflydesign.com

Published by Beyond Eden Press, LLC

To my mother, Elizabeth Jane Pautz

Prologue

The rain and howling wind drown out the sounds of life in Louisburgh, a small west-coast village forgotten on sightseeing tours of Ireland. No one occupies the village square at the corner of Long Street and Bridge Street. No lights are shining in the windows of the terraced, two-story buildings abutting each other and perched near the curb; only the faint glow from the streetlights. Curtains remain drawn. Only a few cars and emptied, steel kegs nestle the curbs. Even the dogs, normally roaming and looking for a friendly rub or a handout, take cover inside.

Not far from the square, tucked down a quiet road on the rocky, landscaped knoll, sits a cluster of holiday cottages. All are vacant except one, from which a light is barely visible through the four-paned window. Rainwater cascades across the slate roof that replaced the thatched one years ago and forms a muddy pool.

Inside, Annie Conroy worries about staining the white cast iron tub.

Earlier, she moved the bleach and a pile of neatly folded rags from the cabinet underneath the kitchen sink and put them in a plastic bucket. She folded yellow rubber gloves over the bucket’s lip. Then she put the bucket near the pedestal sink. It would be easier to clean up the mess. For years, she tried to bleach the tub, but it still looked like the discolored tap water. It should have been replaced years ago. But, she never asked for anything.

Except this morning, Annie asked her husband, Seamus, to sharpen the boning knife before he left to tend the sheep and then to drive to Dublin with his mate, Paddy.

Annie knows a clean cut makes all the difference.

Lying in the empty tub, Annie looks out the window. Her daughter, Eliza, won’t be home for hours. There’s time. The rain’s relentless drumming on the panes sounds a familiar lullaby. She closes her eyes and waits.

Death simply invited her home and she accepted.

Chapter One

I never told Ma I wouldn’t be home last night or answered her calls. Now there’s no time to stop home. I’m late in replacing the night attendant at my grandma and granda’s B&B, which is off the main square in Louisburgh.

The raw wind and rain slams my face and stings my bloodshot eyes as I squint and strain to see a few feet ahead. At the door to the B&B, I can hardly see the keyhole through the water assaulting my face and dripping from my unwashed hair. The lock finally turns, and I dash inside. It’s seven thirty. I’m a half hour late.

Maeve Cunningham, the night attendant, bristles past me. “Nice of you to make it, Eliza.” She unfolds a clear plastic cap that she digs out of the zippered outside pocket of her handbag that looks a lot like my grandma’s. She drapes it over her mousy, flat hair, and ties it under her second chin. As Maeve buttons the snug wool jacket, she says, “Oh, the guests need lunches. Bike tour at nine o’clock.”

“Too busy to make them?”

“Something like that.” Maeve juts her chin forward. Narrowing her beady eyes, she says, “Got kids to tend to. People who need me.”

My head throbs from too many pints, and my stomach recoils at the whiff of Maeve’s pungent body odor when she thrusts an envelope at me.

“This is for Mr. O’Donnell.” Maeve never referred to him as my grandfather.

“He’s on holiday, and I’m tending matters. What is it?” I can’t help adding a tone of self importance that I know will stoke the fire of her discontent. Despite my protestations, Granda hired Maeve for the night duty because he felt sorry for her with the twin babies and her husband, Bobby, not working.

“My hours.” Maeve waves the envelope at me.

I take it and toss it onto the counter. “I’ll see that he gets it.”

“You do that.” Maeve’s eyes, dark as coal, seem to disappear into her face as she glares at me. She reminds me of a bull, penned and ready to charge the ring. Her nostrils quiver. Then she turns, slings her bag over her shoulder, and slams the door behind her.

Maeve, six years older, talks to me only when she has to, especially since her brother, Mikey, took a fancy to me. That was two years ago, right before school ended and most of our classmates went to university. Mostly we’re off, but sometimes we can’t help ourselves. Always a mistake.

Taking off my raincoat, I go into the kitchen to prepare breakfast and the lunches.

Lace curtains hang over the vertical, deep-set windows. The sun, usually peeking out in the March sky by now, is hidden behind dark clouds.

My phone buzzes. Ma. Again. “When will you be home? Let me know.” Only Ma texts in full sentences. Sighing, I toss my phone onto the counter without replying. How many other twenty-year-olds have mothers who have to know their whereabouts all the time?

Taking the homemade bread from the metal bread drawer, I line up slices on the wooden cutting board. Using the serrated knife, I begin cutting off the golden, hard crusts. The sight of food causes my stomach to lurch. The knife nicks the tip of my thumb. A chunk of raw flesh is exposed. Blood drips onto the white bread. Sucking the tip of my thumb to catch the blood, I reach into the cabinet near the sink for a bandage. I secure it tightly. Blood discolors the bandage. I apply another one on top of it. My thumb throbs. The clock’s ticking echoes. Finally, grabbing a pair of disposable gloves from the box on the counter, I begin again, carefully holding my thumb up, trying to relieve the pulsating pain.

Heavy footsteps clomp down the wooden stairs as I finish making the lunches. The guests amble into the living room, and I hurry out to greet them.

They ask when the rain will end. Never, I want to say. Instead, I assure them it could stop anytime. Spring on the west coast of Ireland is like that. Things change. Sometimes without warning. Best to stay flexible and prepare for all conditions, I tell them with a wink and a smile.

The guests stare out the window and don’t seem to notice when I leave to get the place settings and food. A grey, colorless sky and sheets of rain shade from their view the rolling green hills, stone fences, and Clew Bay.

I notice that Ma sent another text, asking when I might be home. I reply, “When I am.” Then I fling the phone back onto the counter. It slides off and lands on the floor. The battery pops off. When I bend down to get it, my stomach flips and my head whirls. I grip the counter’s edge and wait for the room to stop spinning and my stomach to recede from my throat before I stand.

As I grip the counter, I smell Mikey. On me. In me. Musty and stale.

Pulling my thick, damp hair into a ponytail, I notice my reflection in the small mirror hanging near the back door. Hair the color of chestnuts. Large green eyes. Pale skin. Dark circles. Cheekbones jutting out. I stare for a moment. At least I don’t look as old as Maeve.

Relentless as the rain, the guests pepper me with questions while they eat breakfast. They can’t decide where to go next. Masking my face with a smile, I listen to them prattle endlessly about their “rich discoveries and experiences among such charming, hospitable people” while traveling around Ireland. Finally, they decide to pack, take the lunches, and move on.

My phone rings just as I finish cleaning up and saying goodbye to the guests. I know immediately by the ringtone and time who it is. “Hallo, Granda.”

“Everything go smoothly this morning?” Granda’s voice booms through the phone. In the background are voices. Grandma’s voice, like a squawking bird, dominates. They are on holiday in Italy, where they have another home near Naples.

I plop onto the couch facing the fake fire and close my burning eyes. “They’ve left. Shitty weather. Still.”

How I wish I had a smoke to settle my stomach. But I gave my last pack to Mikey months ago. All done, I told him. I couldn’t run with my lungs burning with each breath. Still, I missed the way my lungs filled with each long drag and then let the smoke out slowly, sometimes in circles that floated to the void.

Granda sighs. “I was counting on the long reservation. Anything new come in?”

“Not since we talked yesterday.”

“I’ve been trying to reach your father. He hasn’t returned my calls. Does he ever carry his phone with him? He needs to make sure the cottages are ready for the Americans. They will be here soon, you know.”

Granda says something else, but I can’t make it out. He has turned his attention to Grandma, who is trying to tell him something. I close my eyes and wait. There is always more.

“I need you to do something. Go to my house and get some insurance documents for the cottages and fax them to me here. The key to the fire safe, which is under my bed, should be at your house on the key ring I gave to your mother before I left. It’s the smaller key. Do this right off.”

“Can’t it wait until I get some sleep?”

“Night is for sleeping.” Granda tells me to wait and muffles the phone. When he comes back, he says, “I need the fax within the hour. Bye, love.”

I let the phone drop onto the cushion. For a few minutes I lay there, breathing deeply, trying to gauge whether the rain is letting up. My eyes feel heavy. I force my eyes open, sit up and hold my head in my hands. The room no longer spins, but I feel weighed down from too many pints and not enough sleep.

I debate only for a minute whether Granda can wait, but I know he can’t. He prides himself as the only successful businessman among farmers. Everyone knows him. Everyone jumps when he asks for something. He’s always polite and always smiles. He just does not wait.

Mikey picked me up last night so I have no car in town. I run into the biting wind and rain, barely able to see, but guided by feet that know the route by heart to the cottages that Granda owns just on the outskirts of town.

When I near home, drenched to the core, I don’t see any lights on in our cottage. Da’s pickup truck is gone. Only my car is there. Water spills over the empty planters under the window and onto the overgrown, weedy grass.

Entering the dark, dank cottage, I flip on the wall switch and the overhead light comes on in the kitchen above the wood-planked table. The whitewashed walls and fireplace are discolored by too many peat fires. The sink is empty, and the counters are bare, except for the teapot and cutlery block in the corner. The dish rag is neatly folded over the faucet.

There is no sign that anyone is home. There’s only the familiar scent of bleach. Ma’s been cleaning. Again.

Tossing my raincoat on the hook near the door, I flip off my knee-high wellies. They miss the mat, but I leave them where they land, scattered near the door. Cold from the stone floor rises through my feet and up my legs. Scurrying to the hearth rug, I don’t see embers smoldering. There are no peat turves stacked next to the fireplace. My breath forms in front of me.

Hollering for Ma, I walk toward my bedroom, down the narrow hall off the living room. I flip on the light in my room. Pushing aside my hair, I look into the mirror above the dresser. Two round hickeys. I brush my fingers over them. Still tender. I pull the sweater’s cowl higher. It reeks of lager and cigar smoke. I debate bathing before going to Granda’s. It might wake me up and get rid of the stench.

In the hallway leading to the bathroom, everything is dark. There is no light in my parents’ room, but I can see in the shadows their neatly made bed.

There is no sign of Ma. She’s not sitting at the kitchen table or lying on her bed, as she is when she’s not cleaning. She’s not cooking food that is filling but tasteless. She is not calling out to me, asking me where I’ve been and where I’m going.

There is a pale light coming from under the bathroom door at the end of the hall, but there is no sound of running water or movement. The only sound comes from the wind and rain battering the cottage.

“Ma?” No answer.

I knock on the door. It creaks open just a hair. I push the door open further. Grey light filters in through the glass block window, filling the bathroom that barely fits one person.

Then I see Ma slouched in the white cast iron tub. There’s no water. Her straight, shoulder length hair is pulled back in two slides. The grey streaks near her temples stand out against her black hair. Her eyes stare at me. Wide. Vacant. Her mouth, open, is speechless.

Blood is pooling in Ma’s sunken abdomen. Some trickles down Ma’s narrow hips. Her naked body, stretched but not filling the empty tub, blends into the porcelain except for her black, grey-streaked hair falling onto her shoulders.