Weather Woman

by Cai Emmons

  Sitting by the river she tries to give herself over to her creature nature. She closes her eyes, thinking of blind sand scorpions who sense vibrations as small as a millionth of an inch. There are worms beneath her, nests of bees perhaps, thousands of ants. Hard as she tries, she does not feel their presence. Perhaps she hasn’t hit the right analogy yet. Where is the creature who sees the movement of electrons in rivers and clouds? What creature has spells that make her brain febrile with impossible heat? The meteorologist, confronted with confounding weather, says: Too tough to call. Is that what it is? TTTC?

  She rides a flume from glee to fear. There is so much to explore, so much that exhilarates her imagination. When fall comes she might be stopping hurricanes. She pictures herself on the beach, facing down the wind and rain and waves, smashing them into submission with her own fiery brain. Blizzards, too, could she tame them? Why not? The physical forces at work are similar. Perhaps she could bring on the rain and snow as needed, a dash here and there like a master hydrologist, replenishing the water table. She has no idea how far-reaching her efforts might really be, so she entertains all possibilities.

  The excitement is tempered by her experience with the river. It was scary to witness the water roiling by so raucously at her behest. She could so easily imagine disaster resulting, lives being lost. And once she got the river stirred up, it was not a simple project to stop it. Weather, she reminds herself is more than excitement. She mustn’t act rashly. However, as she considers her next move, she cannot help but feel excitement.

  The Saturday of Nicole’s wedding, July 14th, Bastille Day, is the tenth day of rain in July. When Bronwyn went to bed after her last Friday broadcast there were patches of clear sky, a few stars, and she harbored hopes of a clear day to come, but the National Weather Service was forecasting rain and they have turned out to be right. Nicole will not be happy.

  As Bronwyn lies in bed listening to the drops clatter through her gutters, foreboding spikes up her spine like a power surge. It shouldn’t matter to her whether it rains or not. It’s not her wedding. But on Nicole’s behalf, she cares. She wishes she hadn’t asked Archie to go with her. Would it be exceedingly rude of her to bow out? Nicole will have enough on her mind, maybe she won’t notice Bronwyn’s absence, and Archie didn’t seem all that driven to go.

  In the distance, far away, thunder rumbles. The rain drones on. How cocky of her to assure Nicole the weather would be good today. Faced with a specific task, she doubts her ability. And calling off the rain for such a frivolous reason as a wedding seems somehow wrong. If she could even do it.

  Archie arrives early. “I got the day right, didn’t I?” he says, seeing she isn’t dressed. He wears an orange and purple Jerry Garcia tie over a lavender shirt. His dark gray suit is too tight. He demonstrates that the jacket won’t button over his gut.

  “I’ve had this suit for twenty-five years. At least I can still get into it.” Bronwyn retires to the bedroom to change while Archie wanders to the porch to inspect her weather station. She stares at the ridiculous array of dresses in her closet. She doesn’t feel like herself in any of them. Though what can she honestly say is “herself” these days? Selfhood is turning out to be a far more fluid notion than she ever imagined. She selects a sleeveless navy blue dress with a matching jacket that is snug and short. It isn’t customary attire for a summer wedding, but given the rain it seems appropriate. She puts on the usual black pumps and assesses herself in the mirror. She might almost be going to work. Her hair, however, she leaves long so it rustles down her back and over her chest and makes her feel loose and free. No makeup except for a slash of bright red lipstick which makes her mouth unruly. Her divided self is perfectly encoded in her appearance: the demure navy clothing of someone with restraint; the hair and mouth of a renegade.

  Archie sizes her up. “If I were twenty years younger . . .” He shakes his head. “Hey, I had no idea what a geek you are.”

  She smiles. “Former geek maybe.”

  “All that equipment.”

  “I’m not looking at it now, don’t make me look. It’s my day off.”

  Archie eyes her strangely. “It’s fine. Relax. I’m not making you do anything.”

  They take his truck. The wedding and the reception are scheduled to take place at the elegant Shady Hill Country Club, an unexpected choice for working class kids like Nicole and Mike. Bronwyn suspects this is one of those foolhardy weddings where the couple is taking out loans to make it happen. One unforgettable, magical day and hefty payments for years after. Is that what love makes you do? What a cynic she’s becoming.

  The wide driveway that leads to the clubhouse is lined with sentry-like old growth firs and maples with boughs stretching to the road like the servile arms of butlers. Acres of irrigated emerald grounds fan out in all directions. The rain is still coming down, not hard but steadily, so women are being dropped off under a green-and-white-striped awning that leads to the front door. The men, heads bent, rush back from the parking lot through the downpour, arriving at the door with plastered hair, shaking like dogs, trying to recover their composure. Bronwyn and Archie don’t recognize a soul.

  “Shall I drop you off?” he asks.

  She agrees.

  “We could share a joint first, if you want. We might need it.”

  Today she is tempted. Maybe getting stoned would alleviate her anxiety. But then again, it might exacerbate it too. She declines, and he lets her out by the awning and takes off to park. Surrounded by dressed-up strangers, Bronwyn gives in to an urge and veers onto a path edging the first fairway. The golfers have been chased away by the rain, so she is alone with the squirrels. It’s a stunning location. The well-tended grass and the grandeur of the trees make it feel manorial. She drinks in the view, not minding the light rain, until she realizes Archie will be looking for her.

  “Where did you go?” he asks. He’s waiting in the foyer, looking dismayed.

  “I was checking out the grounds. They’re pretty impressive. Now I have to use the ladies’. Why don’t you get us some seats—I’ll find you in there.”

  Before he can answer, she turns down a long carpeted hallway, passes through swinging double doors, and finds herself in a large sitting room with chintz-covered easy chairs, a fireplace, landscape paintings on the walls, windows giving out to views of the golf course.

  There, standing at the window gazing out, is Nicole, clad in her Cinderella gown with the beaded bodice and train, sobbing. She is flanked by a black-haired bridesmaid in pink who holds a box of tissues and comforts Nicole, stroking her arm almost aggressively. Both women turn toward Bronwyn. Nicole’s mascara has smeared her round cheeks so she resembles a child-like, jilted-at-the-altar bride, but Bronwyn knows better.

  “Excuse me?” says the pink bridesmaid, her tone conveying get out.

  “No, she’s fine,” says Nicole, rushing to Bronwyn and hugging her spontaneously. “You said it wouldn’t rain. You promised.”

  Nicole’s sadness penetrates Bronwyn’s chest. She feels like a mother, flattened by her daughter’s distress. “I told you if it rained you’d have a great day anyway. Didn’t I say that?”

  “Well, I’m not having a great day. I’m horribly superstitious.”

  “Where’s Mike?” Bronwyn looks around. He must be somewhere close at hand. This is his problem, not hers.

  “We aren’t supposed to see each other until we get to the altar.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “It’s time, Nic,” says the pink bridesmaid. “Beyond time. You have to clean up.” She inserts herself between Bronwyn and Nicole, but Nicole reaches around the bridesmaid and grasps Bronwyn’s hand.

  “Oh, Bronwyn, I want sun. Sun means everything will be good. A good future. A family. A good life.”

  Bronwyn does not make a decision, her body’s empathy decides for her. A vessel, she floods with potential energy. “Can I talk to you for a minute, Nicole?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Privately,” B
ronwyn says.

  “Look,” says the bridesmaid sharply to Nicole. “You are walking down the aisle in thirteen minutes. You don’t have time for private conversations right now.” To Bronwyn, “Whoever you are, your timing sucks.”

  “She’s Bronwyn,” Nicole says. “The weather woman and my friend. Don’t be mean to her.” She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand, making a worse mess of her face. “Is it important?”

  “I think you would think so, yes.”

  “Kathy, I’ve got to talk to her. Get lost for a minute.”

  “I don’t believe this,” Kathy says, stomping out, her high heels and floor-length dress huffing objections.

  By the time the door is closed Bronwyn’s heart is chugging so fast she isn’t sure she can speak. “I think I—if you’re really upset—I—”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “This rain is really upsetting you? I mean really, really?”

  “Duh.”

  “Okay, that’s all I need to know.” She turns to leave, already overcome by vertigo.

  “Wait, where’re you going?” Nicole rushes after Bronwyn, follows her through the swinging door and down the hallway. She catches up outside the front door under the awning.

  “What’re you doing? You have to tell me.”

  Bronwyn stares at her and shrugs. Words are out of reach. The pink bridesmaid is standing in the doorway behind Nicole, yelling. “Nicole, are you fucking crazy?! No one is supposed to see you yet.”

  Bronwyn gives a quick nod and steps out from under the awning into the rain. She stumbles toward the fairway, high heels piercing the soggy grass and soil. She must work quickly, but first she must get out of view. Someone calls after her, Nicole maybe, but the sound is muffled and indistinct. She travels on legs only partially under her control. The rain makes snaky strings of her hair. Every ounce of her energy is caught in an updraft, electrons doing double, triple, quadruple duty, resolving together in molecular euphony.

  She comes to a triumvirate of majestic fir trees and steps off the path into the lap of their shelter. She sees the red flag of the first hole and centers her gaze past the veil of rain to the perfect circle that is the green. The heat has vanquished her chest by now. She coaxes it further up, to her head and brain, until her frontal cortex seems to contain flammable gas. It ignites, and she struggles to condense the flame into a ball. Her gaze lengthens, spirals. A bitterness floods her tongue. The world falls away and with it all sound but breath. She thrusts the heat forward, finds a rhythm. Rising over the fairway, she sees it undulating beneath her, a verdant ocean of grass. Time has vaporized. She is alone, surrounded by a vast emptiness, a profound silence. Gradually, the rain turns in on itself, contracting to a mist, then taking leave altogether.

  Sometime later, Bronwyn finds herself leaning against the trunk of a maple tree, soaked, so weak she can scarcely stand. The fairway, still saturated, glistens in the afternoon sunlight. The air smells fresh. She has no idea how much time has elapsed.

  She sinks into the sodden grass, utterly still, all her kinetic energy dissipated. She is neither happy nor sad, neither proud nor disappointed. She is in suspension, dormant. She could exist here forever until the Earth received her back, cell by cell, molecule by molecule, atom by atom. The sunlight is yolk-yellow. It fills her eyes and blinds her. To live in this day is to be at the bottom of an immense gold bowl, museum-worthy, hand-wrought by the ancients.

  A golf cart stops on the path in front of her. She was scarcely aware of its approach. Nicole and Archie step off, Nicole gathering her train.

  “Oh my god, Bronwyn, I’m so glad I found you. What did you do? I saw you out here, at least for a few minutes until they dragged me inside.” She rushes to Bronwyn, oblivious of her elegant dress trawling the wet grass.

  Archie follows. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  She blinks up at Archie and Nicole as if she’s emerging from surgery. Nicole’s face is polished with joy. She crouches.

  “What time is it?” Bronwyn asks.

  “Time for the reception. I’m all married up. And it’s sunny. You made it sunny, didn’t you?” Nicole’s face, inches away, smells like flowers. “You did something. I know you did something. What did you do?” Behind Nicole, Archie, in his too-small suit, looks stricken.

  Bronwyn shakes her head. No words emerge. Then, “Not really.” She reaches for breath.

  Nicole keeps her face very close to Bronwyn’s, the fabric of her gown billowing around her hips, filling Bronwyn’s view like a cloud. Nicole remains there for some time, pondering something.

  “Your dress—” Bronwyn says.

  “Fuck the dress. You’re like—there’s no word for it—it’s, like, supernatural. You’re blowing my mind. I honestly can’t believe it. Can you walk? We have to get you inside. Get you something to eat.”

  The men and women who greet them at the door—Mike and seven or eight other people who Bronwyn doesn’t know—are aghast. Nicole’s gown carries a fringe of grass around the hem and, on the front where she knelt, there’s a fecal-looking splotch of dirt. Bronwyn looks as if she’s been swimming. Is she drugged? Drunk? Having a psychotic episode? She can see them wondering and disapproving.

  “She’s fine,” Nicole says. “She had a dizzy spell. She’ll be alright. I’m fine too. It’s just a stupid dress.”

  The group finally disperses, and Archie and Nicole escort Bronwyn to a small room to recover. They bring her a plate of finger food and a glass of champagne. Nicole is summoned back to the party, but Archie stays with Bronwyn. She sits in an easy chair looking out at the reworked day. It is undeniably beautiful. Peaceful even. And her workmanship. She should feel proud, and privately she does. But she also feels raw and exposed.

  “Are you going to tell me what happened?” Archie says. “Nicole is saying crazy things.” His hovering presence tells her he is not only worried about her, he pities her.

  She can’t look at his face. Pity is something she has no use for.

  “You just took off,” he says.

  She sips the champagne and it goes straight to her head. She floats. She thought Archie, of all people, might understand, but now she thinks differently. Despite his apparent openness and curiosity about the world, there are places his imagination will not take him.

  “I’m really tired now,” she says. “And it’s hard to explain.” She closes her eyes, overwhelmed by the day’s piercing beauty. “Maybe someday.”

  12

  Sunday is quiet and sunny, and Bronwyn lolls around in a daze, straightening her cabin, sitting by the river, speculating about everything, ignoring the plethora of texts and emails coming in. Can this sunny day be her workmanship, or has the effect of yesterday’s effort already faded? How far afield does her range of influence extend exactly? Did it clear up in Boston? In Rhode Island? In Caribou, Maine?

  Curiosity sends her to her computer. The weather in Boston yesterday began with rain, but sun took over in the late afternoon. In Rhode Island and Connecticut the rain also stopped in the afternoon. Caribou, Maine, almost four hundred miles north, cleared too, but not until the early evening. Her work, or not her work? Impossible to say.

  Excitement perforates her exhaustion. She emails Lanny. You won’t believe . . . And Lanny emails back. You’re going to be famous! But Tom thinks we’re both crazy. What is it, Bronwyn wonders, that makes a believer of someone? Lanny and Nicole were so quick to conclude she had done something, but Archie was clearly skeptical. If she were on the other side of this experience wouldn’t she, too, be skeptical? This thought takes her immediately, uncomfortably, to Diane.

  She must choose a song for Monday’s broadcasts. According to the National Weather Service more rain is on the way. “Rainy Day Mondays” is an almost irresistible option. Or the Doors’ song “Waiting for the Sun.”

  She steps outside. The night could not be more perfect. Seventy-five degrees and cloudless, 20% humidity. It has been a long time since she’s seen so many sta
rs. Even the gossamer swath of the Milky Way is clear. Is it really possible that rain is on the way? She moves closer to the river and closes her eyes. There is no wind, but the air swaddles her in sensuous Brownian motion. No, if her body is the accurate receptor it has always been, she is quite sure tomorrow will be clear.

  She is borne away by a long, solid current of sleep and awakens with a start. It is indeed sunny. In fact it is a day meteorologists call severe clear. Not a smidgen of a cloud. The entire troposphere is visible. She was right. She knew it. She leaps from bed, happier than she’s been for days, since the breakup with Reed and even before. She drives to the beach for a walk and treats herself to a late breakfast at the Blue Skiff, eradicating thoughts of Reed as she devours a cheese omelet and home fries with hot sauce. She decides Diane was right about Reed having no spark. She pushes through the WVOX doors humming a sunny Sheryl Crow tune.

  An exceedingly young and nervous-looking temp with a nametag saying Hi, I’m Chelsea sits behind the front desk. A sub for Nicole during her honeymoon. Bronwyn greets the girl warmly, but sees no need to linger for chat.

  “Excuse me?” Chelsea says. “Are you the weather lady?”

  Bronwyn pauses, nods.

  “Mr. Snyder wants to see you.”

  “Stuart?”

  Chelsea nods and glances back toward Stuart’s office. “He said to go back right away. As soon as you get in. And so, I guess—” She looks as if she might cry.

  Stuart hasn’t even laid eyes on her and he wants to talk. She stands defiantly in his office doorway for close to a full minute before he decides to look up.