Rain Of Stone (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 1)

by Lesley Woodral

  RAIN OF STONE

  Lesley W. Woodral

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and situations are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, and locales is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2014 Lesley W. Woodral

  All rights reserved.

  RAIN OF STONE

  Chapter 1

  The night before he buried his parents, Brandon Merryweather dreamt of the rain. In the dream, Brandon hung suspended in infinite darkness, aware of nothing. No sense of form or self, as if his mind was no more than just the sum of its parts. As if he was touching the very center of creation and all that he knew was peace. Slowly, he became aware of a rushing feeling within himself. A pounding pressure that sparked a thought within the vast nothingness that was his mind. He was falling. And with that awareness, he realized that he wasn’t alone. He was surrounded on all sides by his brothers and sisters, falling beside him. A sense of something that was almost joy stretched through his entire being. He WAS. And he wasn’t alone. But that joy withered as he continued to fall. With awareness, came fear. Fear of what awaited below. If he was falling, what was he falling towards? Somewhere within Brandon’s mind, a tiny voice told him that he wasn’t ready yet. That he was still too new to see what lay below. Gentle hands seemed to cradle him, lifting him back into the air, up to the cold embrace of emptiness, and he knew that something terrible waited below, something that would destroy him if he ever let himself touch the ground.

  Then he woke. And his parents were still dead.

  The funeral was one week after Brandon’s 16th birthday. His mom and dad died on a lonely stretch of highway, coming home from a night out. All it took was one stormy night and a little bad luck and suddenly Brandon was an orphan. There was no chance for him to say goodbye. No last words of wisdom before they were torn from his life. One moment, they were dropping him off at his friend’s house, and the next they were dead and his structured and orderly life was completely destroyed.

  He buried them at Hopeland Cemetery, only a few miles from their house in Braughton, a smallish city an hours drive from Seattle. It was where he was born and raised. They were placed in a family plot, between his mother’s parents and a great uncle who died before he was born. There were trees and cobblestone walkways cutting through the green grass, winding through the graveyard. It was a beautiful place, vibrant and glistening from the rain, and not what Brandon would have pictured for a cemetery. The funeral was an intimate affair, with only a few close family friends, some family from his mother’s side, his father’s brother, and the lawyer, Mr. Dagget.

  Of the adults there, Brandon knew lawyer Dagget best. He was a constant companion to Brandon’s father, traveling with him on book tours and to the various writers’ conferences that he seemed to always get invited to. He knew Dagget even better than his mother’s sister, Katie, who lived less than 5 miles from his house. She stood by her husband, watching Brandon with sad reddened eyes and a tremulous smile that was equal parts sympathy and encouragement. A handful of Brandon’s friends stood close by, nervous and unsure of what to do with themselves. Feeling guilty because of their relief that they weren’t going through what Brandon was. He understood their awkwardness. He felt guilty because a part of him wished that he could trade places with all of them. That he could be standing at somebody else’s parent’s funeral, feeling out of place and thankful.

  Lawyer Dagget put a hand on Brandon’s shoulder, giving it a squeeze of reassurance. As if he could hear Brandon’s train of thought and was offering support. Brandon glanced over and gave the older man a nod of thanks. He knew the lawyer was going above and beyond what any other man in his position would be expected to do. But he and Brandon’s father had been close. Closer than Lawyer and client. Best friends. It was Lawyer Dagget that he stayed with while waiting for his uncle to fly in from Matheson, his father’s hometown in Oklahoma, not his aunt. Dagget was a small well manicured man, dressed in black Armani. He had thick black hair, with a bald spot high on the top. He wore a pair of violet sunglasses perched on his face, which he pushed up constantly with his index finger when they dropped onto the tip of his nose. Or when he wanted to think before speaking. Lawyer Dagget always struck Brandon as being a tad prissy, mostly because of his appearance and the slightly aloof way he acted toward people. As well as the way that he dressed, all buttoned up and proper. His only relatable vice that Brandon could see was a love for computer games and online multi-player. There was nothing wrong with Dagget being a big video game playing nerd, at least as far as Brandon was concerned, but he was a Lawyer and Brandon’s father’s best friend. It seemed odd that his dad would be such good friends with a guy that looked and acted a lot like the 40 year old virgin. But anytime he brought the subject up with his dad, Brandon’s father would just laugh and say. “Next time you see Dagget, do me a favor and ask him about it.”

  After spending the weekend in Dagget’s apartment, Brandon had been inclined to go with his initial impression. From the action figures in their original packaging, to the comic book collection that took up an entire bookshelf, the apartment was a geek’s paradise. The lair of an eternal man-child, not the womanizing Legal Eagle that Stephen Merryweather had claimed his friend to be.

  But there were a couple of details that knocked Brandon’s theory askew. One was the leggy blonde that spent part of the last weekend with them, never more than an arm’s length away from the lawyer. Then there was the steady flow of women leaving tantalizing messages on the lawyer’s answering machine at all hours of the day. Both were enough to make Brandon reevaluate his opinion of Lawyer Dagget.

  The day was overcast. The rain had only just stopped, after a downpour that started the night his parents died, and the sun was hidden behind a gray curtain. In Seattle, the Duwamish Waterway had gotten so high that the city planners had ordered sandbags and workmen to be standing by. In Braughton, the rain had been like a living thing, lashing against the houses and blowing through the trees as if in mourning.

  Brandon looked at the matching black caskets and shivered. It was Tuesday, he realized dimly. There was something wrong with being buried on a Tuesday, Brandon thought. Tuesdays were for afternoon picnics and baseball games. For trips to the mall and to the movies. Not funerals. You don’t bury your parents on a Tuesday. It just wasn’t right.

  But bury them he did, despite the day of the week.

  Brandon stood between Lawyer Dagget and Gerrick, his father’s brother. Though he was 16 years old and already had his father’s height, Brandon still felt like a child standing next to his uncle. Gerrick Merryweather was huge, close to 7 feet tall, and as intimidating a person as Brandon had ever seen. He hadn’t seen or heard from his uncle since he was 4 years old, making it difficult to remember if the man had been as big or as scary on that long ago visit.

  Gerrick was a very different man than Brandon’s father. It was hard for Brandon to think of the two men as brothers. Where Brandon’s father had been lean and fair haired, Gerrick was broad and dark. He looked like a professional wrestler or a soldier. Though, when he had asked Lawyer Dagget what Gerrick did for a living, the lawyer had surprised him. He told Brandon that his uncle was a writer. Just like his dad.

  Brandon remembered the last time Gerrick paid his father a visit, though the memory was faint. The big man had shown up out of the blue one evening, hammering on their front door. Brandon remembered that much of it because he’d been playing on the floor, close to the front door, when the pounding started. The noise scare
d him and sent him scrambling to find his father. Gerrick had been on his way to a business meeting when he dropped by. Staring up at the overall hugeness of the man, it occurred to 4 year old Brandon that Gerrick was an example of what it would be like if a tree suddenly decided to uproot itself and started walking around like a man.

  On that long ago day, Gerrick had stood over his tiny little nephew, staring down from what seemed like a thousand miles away and did something with his mouth that made Brandon take a step backward. It took the 4 year old a moment to realize the man was trying to smile. The expression was so alien to his carved features that it was almost comical.

  “Well, aren’t you a little one?” Gerrick had said, his voice as hard as the rest of him. And that was all.

  Gerrick and Stephen had locked themselves in his father’s office and didn’t come out until after Brandon had gone to bed. They spent the night catching up, probably talking about work and old times, and when Brandon woke up the next morning, his uncle was gone. His father never mentioned the visit or what they talked about, but he was quiet, thoughtful, for the next few days. Brandon didn’t see Gerrick again, not until the funeral.

  But now he was back in Brandon’s life. In a dark gray suit and aviator sunglasses, he looked more like a Secret Service Agent than a grieving brother. He arrived after the funeral started, cutting across the grass and walking up to the small group of mourners. He drove a red Mercedes Benz, a rental sticker on the back window, and barely looked at Brandon as he took his place at the boy’s side. Lawyer Dagget glanced at the man and nodded. The two men were acquainted but had never really gotten along, according to Brandon’s dad.

  The service was short and, for that, Brandon was thankful. Like his father, Brandon never had much use for organized religion. It was kind of like organized line dancing. It was fun to watch and people who were afraid to do it alone could use it to get out on the dance floor. But it didn’t really help any more than booze or drugs or the internet, not that Brandon could tell.

  The pastor was from a Church of Christ, his mother’s religion. He had the droopy jowls and big sad eyes of a basset hound and a deep wavery voice. Brandon didn’t know his name, he’d never seen the man before. He read from Ecclesiastes. “One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh. But the Earth abideth forever. The sun also ariseth, and the sun goeth down, and hasteth to his place where he arose. The wind goeth toward the south, and turneth about unto the north. It whirlith about continually, and the wind returneth again according to his circuits. All the rivers run into the sea. Yet the sea is not full. Unto the place from whence the rivers come, thither they return again.”

  If there was more, Brandon didn’t hear it. He wasn’t really there at the funeral at all, standing on the mushy graveyard grass, listening to a stranger pretend to know his parents. He was deep inside of his head, playing golf with his dad on a lazy Saturday afternoon. Or with his mom, Christmas shopping at the mall, looking for the perfect gift for his dad. He barely saw the headstones surrounding them or the mound of dirt, piled not far from where the coffins rested. Covered in a green tarp, as if to camouflage it from the mourners. As if they didn’t know what the wet green plastic hid beneath it, just waiting to be dumped into the open graves.

  Everything was still soaked from the storm the past weekend. The hard rain stopped a few hours earlier and a mist hung thick in the air, brushing at Brandon’s face. Most of the mourners carried umbrellas. Brandon was among them, though his umbrella was collapsed and hung from his wrist, bouncing lightly against his leg. Letting the mist settle onto his face and hands, he felt his anger rising, threatening to wash away his grief. Brandon hated the rain.

  He’d never really liked the rain, even before his parent’s accident, but now he absolutely hated it. Growing up in the wettest state in the Union, he learned to ignore it as best he could. In the best of times, it was an annoyance. But when things went wrong or he was sick or hurt it seemed to come just for him. It was a hateful presence, haunting his entire life. All of his worst moments, he associated with the rain. It was raining the day he found his dog, Skip, dead in the street. Ran over by a faceless driver. They never even stopped to see if anyone was watching when they hit the poor little dog. Brandon sat on the front porch of the house and watched as his father went out to the street to collect Skip’s remains. The rain was coming down hard and his father was soaked by the time he came back to the porch, the wrapped bundle held gently in his arms like a swaddled infant. The rain never bothered Brandon’s dad. He would walk around in it, letting it soak through his clothes and drench him from head to toe.

  Brandon never saw his dad hold an umbrella.

  Sometimes his dad would just stand in the rain with his head thrown back, staring up into the sky. He would stand like that for hours if Brandon’s mom let him, letting the water fall into his eyes and run down his face. Brandon never understood it.

  Another time, Brandon was at school when the rain began coming down. Just before he got into his very first fight. He and an older boy fought over who would get to go down the slide next. The slide was tall and silver, looming up higher than the swing sets on the playground. Brandon won out, getting to the ladder first and climbing quickly to the top. But before Brandon could slide down, the other kid caught a hold of his ankle and yanked him off of the ladder.

  The rain was falling even before he hit the ground. Landing hard, he thought that his arm must have broken, it hurt so bad. But that didn’t stop him getting to his feet and facing the boy, who was already at the ladder, getting ready to go up. The boy and Brandon got into a push fight, then the kid threw a punch, hitting Brandon in the nose, bloodying it. Brandon hit the kid back. He must have been lucky, or slipped, or something, because his punch broke the other boy’s jaw. There were plenty of witnesses who saw what the other boy did. Mrs. Agnus, the blue haired old teacher who was supposed to be watching the kids on the playground, saw it as well. She was hustling across the playground, intent on stopping the fight, when she saw Brandon get pulled off of the slide, so Brandon didn’t get into any trouble. He was taken to the nurse’s office, where she looked at his arm and his nose. She told him that he was very lucky not to have broken any bones.

  The other kid went to the hospital.

  It seemed like bad things always happened to Brandon when it was raining. Or the rain would come soon after. Like a bad omen.

  It was raining when the police came to tell him that his parents had died in a car accident. Brandon was at his friend Mike’s house, hanging out, while his parents went into the city for a charity dinner. Brandon, Mike, and three other friends were in the living room, playing Mike’s X-Box, when the squad car pulled into the driveway. The rain had been coming down hard for most of the night and Brandon knew that something bad was on its way. He just had no idea how bad it was going to be.

  Brandon stood on the porch, not quite meeting the policeman’s gaze as he told him that his parents had lost control in the rain and that both of them had been killed. Water was dripping off the brim of the man’s hat. The hat was wrapped in a clear bag that looked like a shower cap. The cop tried to be comforting, but mostly looked uncomfortable. Brandon had just nodded and told him that he would stay at Mike’s until he heard from someone in his family. Lawyer Dagget was the one that came and picked him up. His friends supported him by just being there for him. None of them tried to pretend like they knew what he was going through. Or offer lame advice on how to get over his grief. They were too good of friends to do that sort of thing.

  They were at the funeral now. Mike, standing with his mom and dad, dressed in his good black suit. His other friends, dressed the same or close to it. As the pastor finished his sermon, lawyer Dagget leaned forward, whispering into his ear. “They’re about to lower the caskets. If you want, you can say something. But only if you feel up to it.”

  Brandon shook his head. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to run forward, push the heaps of flowers from the two caske
ts, and throw open the lids. He wanted to slap his parent’s cold dead cheeks. To wake them from this false sleep. He wanted to scream. He wanted to kick someone’s ass, but didn’t know where to start. He wanted to do a lot of things.

  Instead, he did nothing. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He hadn’t cried at all. Not yet. He didn’t feel like crying. He felt like fighting.

  A picture of his parents sat on a small stone pedestal between the coffins. In the picture they were smiling. Brandon didn’t remember where the picture was taken, but they looked happy in it. Brandon could only remember a handful of times when he hadn’t seen his mom and dad smiling when they were together. It was usually when he did something wrong. Or gotten hurt somehow.

  It always rained when they were unhappy. When they frowned.

  Finishing the sermon, the pastor looked at the two men standing to the rear of the pavilion. They gave brisk nods and walked forward. One of them worked the wench device, while the other guided the straps supporting his father’s coffin. It slowly dropped into the earth.

  Brandon said nothing as the casket disappeared into the darkness. He stood there, watching it fall. It would be real now, once his parents were under the dirt. They would truly be gone.

  Gone forever.

  Gerrick Merryweather spoke for the first time since arriving. “It’s not right. Putting him in the earth this way. He should go into the sea, like his father’s fathers.”

  The big man spoke quietly and Brandon was pretty sure that only he and lawyer Dagget heard what was said. Brandon didn’t know what his uncle was talking about, he knew nothing about his father’s family, but as the two men began to lower his mother’s casket into the ground, he felt that the big man was right. It felt somehow wrong that his parents were going into holes in the ground. It felt demeaning to them, like once they were buried, it would be easier to forget them.