Rain Reign

by Ann M. Martin

  grown/groan

  fined/find

  wrapped/rapped/rapt

  patience/patients

  One thing about the last pair of homonyms that is both interesting and boring is that you can use the nce/nts pattern to find other homonyms. For instance: independence/independents, presence/presents, innocence/ innocents. It’s interesting because the pattern makes homonyms seem even more worthwhile, but it’s boring because the pattern also makes finding new homonym pairs too easy.

  But I still like all homonyms.

  On school day #34 Josh Bartel says to me, “Rose, how come you go to the trouble of thinking up homonyms by yourself? You know, you can find hundreds of them by looking at Janice Joyner’s List of Homonyms. All you have to do is Google ‘homonyms’ and you’ll get to the list. It goes on forever.”

  I think about this. There are two problems with what Josh has said. 1. My father and I didn’t have a computer before, when Josh suggested that I keep my list on a computer, and we still don’t have one. 2. Another of my homonym rules is that I have to think of the homonyms myself. What is the point of looking at someone else’s list and copying it? My list is original.

  But what I say to Josh, as I stare into his eyes, is “I’m glad you’re interested in homonyms.”

  13

  At the End of the Day

  The routine for after school is that Uncle Weldon picks me up at 2:42 p.m. and drops me off at my house between 2:58 and 3:01. Rain always greets me by jumping up and down when I open the door, licking my hands and face, and sometimes barking. Usually after that, we sit on the porch for a while. But if it’s rainy or chilly, then we do not sit on the porch. At the end of school day #35 we do not sit on the porch. It’s foggy and cool so we take a walk that lasts only 6.5 minutes. Rain pulls at her leash when I try to turn her around, and I know she would like a longer walk, but it’s too damp and muddy for that.

  “I’m going to look through the box,” I say as Rain reluctantly follows me back to our yard.

  On a shelf in the coat closet is a box, a hatbox. The top and bottom are held together by a white satin braid. The braid is fraying, which leads me to believe that the box and the braid are old. Also, the box used to be blue, but over the years the blue has faded to a lighter and lighter shade. Now it’s pale gray.

  Inside the box are things that belonged to my mother, before she left. My father doesn’t care if I look through the things, so I look through them approximately every four months, which is three times a year. (4 × 3 = 12)

  I drag a chair to the closet, reach up high for the box, and lift it down carefully. I set it on the kitchen table. Before I open the box I study the outside of it to see if I can find any clues to my mother. But there’s nothing. The box always looks the same, except that the color gets lighter and the braid gets fuzzier. I wish my mother had written something on the box, something like These things are important to me or Gifts for Rose or even just Treasures. But there are no words or clues of any sort. I don’t even know if the box belonged to my mother or if it’s just some box my father found for storing her things. My father won’t talk about the box or its contents anymore.

  I slide the braid aside, remove the top of the box, and look in at the familiar items. One by one, I take them out. I set them on the table in a row from left to right. I always start with the necklace that has a silver bird’s nest hanging from it. Inside the nest are three pearls (purls) that are fake and are supposed to be bird’s eggs. What does the necklace say about my mother? Maybe that she’s a person who likes birds or birds’ nests or birds’ eggs.

  Next I take out the seashell that looks like a tan cone and is called an auger. My mother must like augers too. She likes birds, birds’ nests, birds’ eggs, and augers.

  The third item I take out is a photo of a black cat. Written on the back of the photo is Midnight. I don’t remember having a cat, or any pet before my father brought Rain home. I study the cat some more. My mother likes birds, birds’ nests, birds’ eggs, augers, photos, and black cats named Midnight.

  After the photo I examine two pins. The first is a little silver R for Rose. I wonder why my mother didn’t take that with her. But maybe she didn’t want to be reminded of me. After all, she left my father and me, so why would she want to think about us? The second pin is the kind called a hatpin. I know these things about the pins because when I was very small sometimes my father would look through the box with me and tell me about the items in it. He won’t do that now, but he used to, and that is how I know that the R stands for Rose and that the second pin is a hatpin. It looks like a very big needle, and attached to the end, where the head of a pin should be, is a tiny clock. The clock doesn’t work; the hands are just painted on. They point to 7:15. Once I asked my father if there was any reason the clock reads 7:15. He said, “No.”

  I wonder if my mother likes homonyms. I wonder if she likes prime numbers or rules or words.

  I wonder if she left because I like those things.

  The last items in the hatbox are a nickel with a buffalo on it, a tiny square of newspaper announcing that Elizabeth Parsons wed Wesley Howard in the First Presbyterian Church in Hatford, the hospital bracelet I wore when I was born, and a scarf with a picture of a rose on it.

  I wish I knew (new, gnu) more about my mother. I do (dew, due) know (no) what she looks like. There are two pictures of her on the table by the couch. But I wish I knew something else besides the fact that she likes birds, birds’ nests, birds’ eggs, augers, photos, black cats named Midnight, pins, the letter R, clocks, 7:15, nickels, buffalos, her wedding announcement, my hospital bracelet, scarves, and roses.

  I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. I have three worksheets for homework tonight. It’s time to start them and then start dinner. I put my mother’s things back into the box in reverse order, starting with the scarf and ending with the necklace, and then I put the box back on the closet shelf.

  It’s later, when I’m adding Rain’s My Pet dry food to her My Pet wet food, that I turn on the radio and hear the weather forecaster say, “… approaching storm. Hurricane Susan is expected to make landfall in three days” (daze), “and will be of epic proportions, a superstorm that could become the storm of the century.”

  II

  The Part About the Hurricane

  14

  The Storm on the Weather Channel

  On the day I hear about Hurricane Susan, my father comes home from work at 5:43, which is an interesting time because the numbers are in reverse numerical order. Also, it’s a good time because it means my father probably had only one drink at The Luck of the Irish after the J & R Garage closed.

  For dinner I have fixed frozen chicken legs from a box, rice, and milk. Rain has already eaten her My Pet dinner. My father and I sit down facing each other at the kitchen table. Rain squeezes herself under my chair. I look directly into my father’s eyes and do not say a word about homonyms.

  “Why are you staring at me, Rose?” he asks.

  “A superstorm named Hurricane Susan is coming,” I tell him.

  “Where did you hear this? From Weldon?”

  “From the weather forecaster on WMHT. Eighty-eight point seven on your dial.”

  My father shrugs.

  “It will be a storm of epic proportions,” I add.

  “And what are these epic proportions?”

  I didn’t hear the details, so I reply, “A superstorm that could become the storm of the century.”

  My father shrugs again. “We live inland, Rose. Well inland. A hurricane isn’t going to affect us. Hurricanes stick to the coast. Sometimes they never even get to the coast. They turn around and head back out to sea.”

  I think for a moment. “Eighty-eight point seven on your dial is our local station.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Our local station is talking about the superstorm.”

  Sometimes my father grunts. It sounds like unh. He grunts now. “Unh.” Then he takes a swallow of milk and says,
“All right. We’ll look at the Weather Channel later.”

  As soon as we’ve finished dinner and I’ve washed the dishes, I turn on the television in the living room. I tune it to the prime number channel of 83, the Weather Channel. Two people are sitting at a desk. Their names are written on the screen: Monica Findley and Rex Caprisi. Monica and Rex have serious looks on their faces. Behind them is a map of the United States and to the right, swirling around in the Atlantic Ocean, is a big red-colored ball that is supposed to be a picture of Hurricane Susan. It takes up a lot of the ocean.

  Monica and Rex are shuffling through papers and talking to each other, and Rex turns around and points to the swirling red ball. Then a face pops up in a little box on the left-hand side of the screen and now Monica and Rex are talking to a third person whose name is Hammond Griffon. Hammond Griffon is a storm expert. A second map appears on the screen and now there’s so much going on that I can’t follow it all. I put my fingers over my eyes and stick my thumbs in my ears and this is when I hear, faintly, my father come into the room and say, “Rose, don’t start. Just turn the TV off if it’s bothering you.” Then he adds, “What’s the matter?”

  “You turn the TV off,” I tell him, without moving my hands.

  I hear the TV go off. “Now what is the problem?”

  I uncover my eyes and unplug my ears. “There was too much on the screen.” I try to think how to state my problem clearly.

  My father sighs. “What?”

  “Three people and two maps. And too much noise.”

  “I’ll watch the weather later when you’re asleep,” my father says at last. Then he asks, “Were you scared about the storm or did you get confused?”

  “I wasn’t scared,” I say.

  He frowns at me and then he grunts. Unh. “Look, the storm won’t get this far. The weather people just like to make a big fuss so everyone will watch their show. We might get a little wind and rain. That’s all.”

  “Okay.”

  “Why don’t you go to bed now?”

  “Because it’s too early.” My routine calls for walking Rain in forty-five minutes, then changing into my pajamas, and after that going to bed.

  “Well, don’t think about the storm.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think I’ll go out for a while.”

  “Okay.”

  15

  Where We Live

  While my father is back at The Luck of the Irish I think about the superstorm named Hurricane Susan. I wonder how many miles Hatford is from the Atlantic Ocean. I need to see a map, but I don’t want to turn on the Weather Channel again. I sit on the couch in our quiet house and pat Rain for a while. Then I remember that there used to be a map of New England in our garage. I put on my sneakers and use a flashlight to shine my way across the yard to the square white garage. Rain comes along, walking so close to me that I can feel her shoulder against my leg.

  I turn on the garage light and find the map. It’s on my father’s workbench and is not folded up properly, the creases going in the wrong directions, which makes the map puffy, not flat. I spread it out on the workbench, fold it back up the right way, then spread it out again. I put my finger on Hatford. All of the state of Massachusetts and a little of the state of New York are between my finger and the Atlantic Ocean. Maybe my father is right. Maybe we live too far inland to be bothered by a hurricane. But why was the newscaster on WMHT warning us about the superstorm?

  I refold the map, making sure the creases are in the right directions, and Rain and I leave the garage and walk back to the house. I sit on the couch again. I think about Hud Road and my neighborhood.

  Here are some facts about where I live:

  1. The buildings on Hud Road are The Luck of the Irish, the J & R Garage, the house where I live with my father and Rain, and our garage. That is all.

  2. Our house is on a little rise of land. The yard slopes from the house down to Hud Road, and Hud Road runs downhill to the J & R Garage and The Luck of the Irish at the bottom.

  3. There are eight very tall trees in our yard. Four of them are maples, two are oaks, one is an elm, and one is a birch. Behind our house are woods.

  4. There are a lot of small streams in our neighborhood. They do not have names. The biggest of them runs alongside Hud, in between our yard and the road. It flows underneath the little bridge at the bottom of our driveway. I have never seen more than 10.5 inches of water there. The other little streams begin farther up Hud Road and feed into the one in front of our house, which rushes down toward the bottom.

  These facts are not as interesting as homonyms or prime numbers. They are informative only. But you will need to understand them when you read later chapters, such as “Chapter 19: Rain Doesn’t Come When I Call,” which takes place the day after Hurricane Susan.

  I finish thinking about Hud Road and our neighborhood. It’s time to walk Rain. Later, when I’m in bed, listening for the sound of my father’s car in the driveway, I hug Rain to me. We live inland, I say to myself. This must (mussed) be (bee) good. I say it over and over.

  We live inland, we live inland, we live inland.

  16

  How to Get Ready for a Hurricane

  It’s Monday when my father says the people on the Weather Channel just like to make a fuss so that everyone will watch their show. On Tuesday he frowns a little and says why can’t the Weather Channel people be more specific about the path of the storm? On Wednesday he says unh, he doesn’t ever remember losing power for more than four days.

  Today is Thursday and my father is at home and out in our yard when Uncle Weldon drops me off after school. My father is checking to see if our gas cans are full. Rain is watching him from the couch on the porch. Her head is resting on her front paws (pause), but her eyes are alert.

  “Bye,” I say to my uncle, and because I like him, I lean back into the truck before I close the door, and I look directly into his eyes. “Thank you for the ride,” I say clearly.

  Uncle Weldon smiles at me. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Finger crosses, heart touches.

  My uncle waves to my father through the windshield and turns the truck around.

  “You’re not at work,” I say to my father.

  “Nope, not at work. Very observant.”

  This might (mite) be (bee) sarcasm, which is like mockery.

  Rain jumps off the porch to greet me and my father says, “I’m going into town to get supplies. Do you and Rain want to come with me?”

  “Supplies for the superstorm known as Hurricane Susan?”

  “Yes. Do you want to come with me?” he says again, and this is my reminder to answer his question.

  “Yes, I do,” I say.

  I sit beside my father in the cab of our truck. Rain rides in the back. We drive down Hud Road. As we pass the J & R Garage my father waves to Jerry, who’s one of the owners. I don’t know why my father isn’t working today, but I don’t ask him any questions.

  At the bottom of Hud Road my father turns left without using his directional.

  “Hey, you didn’t—” I cry.

  But my father says, “Can it, Rose,” without looking at me.

  We drive into Hatford and my father angles the truck into a parking place near the hardware store. The inside of the store is very crowded. So many people are shopping today that it’s hard to walk down the aisles.

  I wring my hands. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen,” I chant. I look at the ceiling.

  “Stop it, Rose,” says my father.

  “Rose/rows, toad/towed, or/ore/oar.”

  “Rose, that’s enough. What’s the matter? Are there too many people in here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you need to go back to the truck?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because I could use some help.” My father drags me to a quiet corner of the store. “Everyone is out getting supplies and I’d like to get ours now before there’s nothing left. So could you just se
ttle down and help me?” He’s taken me by the shoulders and is holding them a little too tightly. Also, his face is very, very close to mine. “Rose? Can you give me a hand here, please?”

  Please/pleas.

  “Okay,” I say.

  My father finds a cart and I focus on what we need. Paper plates and paper cups in case our dishwasher doesn’t work, paper towels in case our washing machine doesn’t work, water in case our water pump doesn’t work, AA batteries and C batteries and D batteries for a radio and flashlights and tools.

  I help my father carry our supplies to the truck. Then we drive to the grocery store and buy cereal and bread and dog food and canned soup and other things that won’t go bad if our refrigerator doesn’t work.

  After the grocery store we drive to the Exxon station and fill up the gas cans.

  * * *

  That night Sam Diamond calls my father at 6:21 p.m. and they decide to go to The Luck of the Irish, so Rain and I are left alone. I realize that I could listen to the Weather Channel without looking at it. With my back to the TV I hear Rex Caprisi say that Hurricane Susan is expected to make landfall in a couple of hours and then travel up the coast.

  Up the coast.

  We live inland, we live inland.

  I think of all the space that was between my finger and the Atlantic Ocean on the improperly folded map of New England. Even so, I turn on WMHT. The newscaster says that Hurricane Susan is an extremely large storm and will reach our area by the next night.

  Isn’t it funny that right has three homonyms and night only has one?

  I stand in front of the cupboards where my father put away our supplies. I begin to count.

  16 rolls of paper towels

  24 rolls of toilet paper

  2 large packages of napkins

  4 packages of paper plates

  2 packages of paper cups

  I look at our food. I wonder if we have enough supplies for a power outage that lasts two days, four days, a week.

  I wonder what will happen if a tree falls on our house.