Red Rain: A Novel (5 page)

Mark forced himself to turn away from Autumn. Jo-Ann was waving him back. This time there was no applause. He could feel the tension in the room.

Lightning flickered in the skylight above. People shifted their weight, sat up straighter, squeezed the books in their laps. The couple in the second row tucked their phones away.

Somewhere in the back, a baby cried. Mark suddenly realized there were several babies on laps, swaddled like tiny mummies.

Mark placed his hands on the sides of the podium. The microphone was a little too low. He leaned into it. “Good evening, everyone. Thanks for coming out on such a lovely night. Instead of
a reading tonight, I know you all probably have a lot of questions. And I thought we could begin by discussing—”

Several hands shot up. They were too eager.

Here we go again.

“Are you Dr. Sutter or Mr. Sutter?” From a chubby, coppery-haired man standing behind the seats, wearing an ugly chartreuse turtleneck and gray sweatpants.

“I’m Mr. Sutter. I have a BS degree in child psychology. You can call me Mark.”

“So you’re not a doctor?” Accusing.

Before Mark could answer, a woman in the front row, her arm cradling a swaddled baby. “Why do you think children don’t need parents? Why do you think they should grow up wild and undisciplined and untrained?”

Mark forced his smile to grow wider. He had learned a lot at the other bookstore appearances. The trick was not to get flustered. Remain calm. Be quieter and saner than the audience.

He glimpsed Autumn, her brightly lipsticked lips pursed, eyes narrowed with concern.

“Have you read my book?” he asked the woman in the front row.

She nodded. “Some of it.”

A few people snickered.

“Well, I think you are misrepresenting what I wrote. I believe children need parents,” he said. “My problem is with
too much
parenting.”

“There can’t be too much!” a man yelled from somewhere in back. The outburst drew some short applause.

Mark ignored it. “Basically, what I have found is that children thrive and grow happier and more creative with
less
parental supervision. I’m not saying we should ignore our responsibility to teach them the basics of what’s right and wrong. We all must instill a good moral sense. But we all know about helicopter parents these days, who hover over their kids wherever they go. These control-freak parents hinder the natural creative growth—”

“Kids
need
to be controlled,” the same man shouted.

“Kids
want
to be controlled,” the woman with the baby contributed. “They don’t
want
the kind of freedom you are talking about.”

The audience seemed to erupt. Mark kept his smile, waited for them to settle down, tapping his hands on the sides of the podium.

“I appreciate your point of view,” he said finally. “But for my book, I studied my patients and their parents for five years. My observations led me to believe what I wrote here. I believe parents should act like guides—but not like cops. Children need their parents to be warm and loving. But they also need to be independent from them.”

The woman with the baby spoke up again. “You mean parents should act like friends—not like parents?”

“Friends love and support you,” Mark replied. “What’s wrong with that?”

Another eruption of angry voices.

Autumn was shaking her head, her hair shimmering like a silver helmet in the light. She stared at him wide-eyed, concentrating, as if sending him a psychic message of support. His one fan.

She has nice tits. How come I’ve never noticed? Because she’s twenty-three?

“Let me give you an example from the book, the boy named Sammy. Sammy is ten. His parents treat him as an equal. They let him decide what to eat. They let Sammy decide when to go to bed and when to wake up. They let him decide how much time to spend playing video games or watching TV.

“As a result, Sammy is not only happy but well behaved. Mature. He has a confidence that I don’t see in most ten-year-olds. You see, the extra freedom given Sammy by his parents has allowed him to—”

A vibration against his leg stunned him, and he stopped in midsentence. It took him until the second buzzing tingle to realize it was the phone in his jeans pocket.

Probably his sister, Roz, wanting to know when he’d be home.

He ignored it. It buzzed three more times before it shut off.

“A lot of doctors don’t agree with you,” a woman against the wall spoke up in a raspy smoker’s voice. “I read a review by a psychologist in the
Times
who said your ideas are dangerous.”

The phone buzzed again. The vibration sent a tingle up and down his leg. Roz wouldn’t call back. Someone was being insistent.

“Excuse me,” he said, grabbing the phone from his pocket. He squinted at the screen.
Lea?

“I’m really sorry. I have to take this.” He backed away from the podium. “My wife—she’s on an island. . . .”

He turned away from the audience. Behind him, mumbled voices and grumbling. He raised the phone to his ear. “Lea? Are you okay?”

A deafening howl made him jerk the phone away. Then he heard her voice, high, shrill. “Mark—the hurricane . . .”

He could barely hear her over the static and whistling. “What? What did you say?”

“Ernesto . . . It . . . It’s
horrible,
Mark.”

She was screaming over the roar. She sounded frantic.

“The hurricane? Are you okay?”

The howling stopped.

A jarring silence.

He pressed the phone to his ear, so hard it hurt. “Lea? Are you there? Lea?”

M
ark’s hand trembled as he set the phone down on the podium. His whole body tensed. He tried to swallow, but his throat had closed up.

She sounded terrified.

He kept his eyes on the phone.

Call back. Call back. Call back, Lea.

The baby in the front row started to cry. The woman shifted it in her lap and stuck a plastic pacifier in its mouth. The crowd had grown quiet. Maybe they could sense that he was shaken. He found a bottle of water on the shelf inside the podium, twisted it open, and took a long drink.

“Sorry about the interruption.” He stared at the phone. “My wife is on a tiny island off the Carolinas. I think she’s in the hurricane. We were cut off.”

He raised his eyes to the skylight. Waves of rain rolled over the glass. Jo-Ann leaned against the bookshelf on the wall, arms crossed tightly in front of her sweater. Her eyes were closed.

“Where were we?” Mark tried to start again.

They slumped in their seats now. The tension had gone out of the room. It was as if he had absorbed it all. His mouth felt dry.
He tasted half-digested cheeseburger in his throat. He took another swig of water to wash it back down, spilled some on his shirt.

Call back. Call back.

“I know what people call me. They say I’m the opposite of the Tiger Mom. They call me the Teddy Bear Dad.”

That got a few snickers. The crowd seemed to relax just a little.

“But I’m not talking about
no
parenting. My idea is
less parenting
. The examples in my book show that children can be nurtured without being bossed, guided without realizing they are being guided. My theory is that parents who are
friends
to their children will be friends for life and will not encounter—”

An explosion of thunder, close enough to rattle the skylight window, ended that thought. The lights flickered. A few people gasped and cried out.

This was a problem of living on Long Island’s East End. The power lines were all strung through the trees. He wondered if Route 114 was flooded. The drive home could be longer than he had hoped.

He was talking without really hearing himself, wishing he could wrap it up, sign their books, go home and try to reach Lea. But they had come with questions and he couldn’t cheat them of a chance to spout their disapproval.

Do you raise your own children this way? Are you always their friend and not their father?

Can you tell us some firsthand examples of parents who tried your way? Didn’t some of the kids become spoiled brats? Total monsters?

You really think kids should be raised like wild animals? Were you raised by wolves?

That question was greeted by laughter. It made Jo-Ann open her eyes and seemed to break the tension. Mark let out a long breath. A good place to end.

He thanked everyone for their opinions and for coming out on such a dreadful night. He could sense disappointment. They had come for the kill, but he was too distracted to do battle. They hadn’t even wounded him.

About half the crowd left, funneling down the creaking stairway without having a book signed. Those who lined up for his autograph were quiet and polite, except for a small, frail-looking woman in a ragged gray trench coat, who glared at him through square spectacles and said, “You could do a lot of harm with this book.” She then asked him to sign the book “To Megan.”

By his count, he sold thirty or forty books. When the last customer, the man in the Yankees gear, made his way to the exit, Jo-Ann patted his shoulder. “Good job, Mark. That wasn’t easy.”

He sighed. “This is my last stop on the tour. Now I’m going to stay home for a while.”

The phone, secured in his jeans pocket, remained a silent hunk of metal and plastic. Scenes of Cape Le Chat Noir rushed through his mind, fragments of photographs Lea had emailed him. He saw the wide yellow beach. Fishing boats bobbing in the calm water offshore. Small, square white cabins with red clay roofs . . .

“Your raincoat is in the office. I’ll get it for you.” Jo-Ann made her way to the stairs.

Mark stood up, then froze for a second, surprised to see Autumn lingering near the back row of seats. She had a shiny violet-colored slicker folded over one arm. She smiled and hurried toward the podium.

“I . . . didn’t expect to see you here,” Mark said.

She giggled. “I wanted to surprise you.” The blue eyes flashed. The smile suddenly became teasing. “Did I surprise you?”

“Well . . . yes.”

She swept her hair back with a quick toss of her head. “You were very brave.” She squeezed his hand.

Just a light squeeze, but it seemed strange to him. Like a rehearsed gesture.

“Brave?”

“Well, yeah. I mean, when I proofread your book, I didn’t really know it was, uh, so controversial. I couldn’t
believe
tonight. It totally made people angry. But you handled every question. I was—wow—so
impressed
.”

“Thanks, Autumn. Nice of you to come tonight.” She lived in
Hampton Bays with her sister, he knew, nearly an hour’s drive from the bookstore in Easthampton.

He started to the stairwell. “Are you coming to work tomorrow? There’s mail to answer. And a few things . . .”

She shifted the raincoat. The white tube top had slid down, revealing the tops of creamy-white breasts. “Mark? Would you maybe . . . um . . . like to get a coffee? Or a drink?”

She’s flirting with me
.

He felt a flash of heat in his cheeks. “N-no. I mean, I really can’t, Autumn. I haven’t been home in so long. And I have to call Lea. We were cut off and . . .”

She nodded. He couldn’t read her expression. Her face went blank, revealing nothing, except that the light faded from those deep blue eyes.

She nodded. “Just wanted you to know I’m here for you. You know. If you need anything?” Her pale cheeks turned pink. “See you tomorrow morning.” She spun away, swinging the violet slicker onto her shoulders, and hurried to the stairs.

Mark watched her go. The coltish legs in the black tights. The silver-blond hair disappearing under the shiny rain hood.

She was definitely coming on to me. If I had gone for that drink with her . . .

Don’t even think about it.

He tried phoning Lea from the car. Rain pelted the windshield. He let the engine run, waiting for the cold air from the heater to turn warm. The long row of stores were mostly dark. The street was empty.

The call went right to her voice mail. He left a short message. “Call me back. Where are you? Love you.”

Why didn’t she answer? Why did she sound so frantic when she called?

Maybe Roz would know. Maybe Roz had heard from her too.

The wipers set a tense rhythm. He pulled away from the curb and guided the car down Main Street through the torrents of rain. In the mirror, he glimpsed three or four people, huddled under black umbrellas, stepping out of the movie theater across the street.
In front of him, the Ralph Lauren store windows were brightly lit. Cruise wear on display.

He made the right onto 114. His tires sent up waves of rainwater on both sides of the car.

Maybe Roz will know what’s up with Lea.

His poor sister. Five years older than Mark, she had shown up on his doorstep nearly a year ago with the one-year-old kid in tow and nowhere to go.

Talk about bad luck with men. Only it wasn’t bad luck. It was poor choices. You didn’t need a psychologist to see Roz had a problem in that area.

Mark could see the black eye she had tried to cover up with makeup. And the nervous tic with her eyes . . . that was something new.

“I’m giving up men,” she had said as he and Lea helped carry her bags into the house. “Maybe I’ll try women.”

“What does that mean?” Ira had asked.

“She’s making a joke,” Mark told him.

Her son, Axl, with the bush of curly brown hair and the pudgy cheeks and freckles, started to cry.

“Naming your son Axl is looking for trouble.” Yes, Mark had really said that to her over the phone the day after Axl was born.

Of course, Roz had laughed. She always laughed at Mark when he was too earnest. “If Axl has problems, I’ll send him to you, Doc,” she said.

They had a strange relationship, he thought. She was the older sister but in many ways he played the older brother. Not the older,
wiser
brother. Her razor-sharp sense of humor would never allow him to be that. She always cut him down to size even when he was helping her.