Mrs. Owen perched on her famed Louis Quatorze sofa and gestured for me to join her. “The city council meets in a few hours,” she said. “I’d—”
“I don’t want to talk about Indian Camp, at least not yet,” I told her, surprising myself. Even my run-on mouth usually knows better than to run over a grown-up.
From the photographs, Galen’s eyes seemed to stare at me from all sides. Galen as a baby, as a toddler, as a little kid. The images looked blankly at me. Then I spotted his most recent school photo—Galen as he’d be remembered forever. That did it.
Before I could even think about anything else, I had to talk to Mrs. Owen about him. No matter what I’d told myself on the way over or on the front step, we had to start with Galen. “People are saying you told me I couldn’t come to my best friend’s funeral.”
Mrs. Owen moved from the sofa to sit on the bench of her baby grand piano. She turned on the brass pole lamp behind her, and her blond hair took on a golden hue. “Tell me, Cassidy Rain,” she began, “why weren’t you there?”
“I couldn’t,” I answered. “I couldn’t make myself.”
I didn’t know where Queenie had gotten her information. But in all those times Mrs. Owen had called and texted, she’d never left a message to say I wasn’t welcome.
For a long time, I didn’t fully understand why I’d stayed home. But now it made sense. I hadn’t gone to Galen’s funeral because that would’ve made his death seem real. Final. I hadn’t been ready to deal with that. I didn’t want the image of him in a casket to replace the one of him that night, waving good-bye, in the snow.
Mrs. Owen reached for her necklace and began twisting it back and forth, a bit too hard the last time. It broke. “I’m sorry,” she said as the thin chain snaked from her neck. For a moment, she looked like a poor orphan, lost in someone else’s mansion. And then she once again became granite in tailored gray. “Cassidy Rain,” she said, “do you mean to say you went out with my boy that night without something on your mind?”
I hesitated, remembering my itchy lips.
“My son deserved better than that,” she announced. “Galen was an honor-roll student. Polite. He respected his mother.
“After Pastor Robinson’s sermon, Bernadette Rae was whispering to anyone who’d listen that she’d seen you and Galen running around, you know, in the middle of the night. It was awful. People were still crying. The pastor’s wife warned her to show respect for the dead. Since you hadn’t shown up, the story caught on. People are still talking. My son’s memory deserves better than that.”
Yes, I thought, we went street-prowling. Yes, Galen ran home instead of getting a ride from Fynn. No, we weren’t supposed to have been out that night.
That didn’t make us terrible people, did it? Considering what happened, why would anyone care if we’d become more than friends? If somebody spotted us running down the street, how could she have even known?
It felt like I was missing something. But I couldn’t imagine what had been so scandalous that it distracted Mrs. Owen from her grief.
She must blame me, I thought. Galen and I had been partners in crime that night, but I was the only one who got away. And the way I had it figured, Mrs. Owen was right. I could’ve done something to prevent Galen’s death.
I almost started to apologize. It was something I’d been wanting to do for a long time. But then I thought about how Mrs. Owen had described Galen: an honor-roll student, polite, and, his worst fear, a mama’s boy. I remembered his golden eyelashes, his tempting freckles, and our birthday pledge. “About Indian Camp—” I began.
“Cassidy Rain,” Mrs. Owen said, standing, “perhaps it’s time you ran along.”
On her dinner break, Natalie had come home to work on the nursery. She’d turned the green garage-sale rocking chair so the outside of the back faced up, and she’d propped it level with a cardboard box. Natalie was using stickers to decorate. Smiley faces. Peace signs. Sparkly flowers. A Hello Kitty or two.
I leaned against the open doorway and asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Tell you?” Natalie repeated, sitting cross-legged on the floor.
“About the rumors,” I answered, glancing at the hanging dreamcatcher, “the ones about Galen and me and the funeral.” I knew I didn’t have to specify.
“I didn’t know what to do”—she wiped sweat from above her lip—“or, for that matter, if you could handle it. Fynn said that at least until you started . . . talking about Galen again . . . that we should try to keep our lives as separate from Mrs. Owen’s as possible. I almost didn’t run her letter in the paper, but cultural education is a hot topic, and ignoring it because of you . . .”
“Would’ve been a conflict of interest?” I asked. Apparently, the Flash hadn’t yet told Natalie about my demolition of the pasta bridge at Indian Camp.
“Kind of,” she answered. “Besides—and don’t repeat this—Mrs. Owen sends the Examiner two or three letters a week, sometimes the only ones I get. This year, she’s brought eleven petitions to the city council and called six emergency meetings of the downtown merchants. The woman is on a tear.”
“So Bernadette Rae saw us,” I began, “running downtown, and she decided we were—what?”
“Everybody knows,” Queenie had said. What baffled me was the sizzle to the story, what had made it headline news.
Dragging herself to her feet, Natalie informed me, “That’s not all people were saying, but Rain, it’s been months now. Nobody . . . nobody with a life cares.”
“Queenie does,” I said. “Mrs. Owen. Me.”
Natalie set aside her box of stickers and said, “Okay. But in case you’re wondering, it was Mrs. Burnham who first told me, not like ‘wait till you hear this,’ just like ‘I thought you should know,’ and it’s not . . . If Mrs. Owen hadn’t been such a control freak and Galen hadn’t died, nobody would’ve thought anything about two kids fooling around.”
Natalie blushed, shrugged, and it hit me. The gossip wasn’t just that we were a couple or that we were out late on the town. She hadn’t meant “fooling around” like goofing off. She’d meant . . .
“Rain,” Natalie told me, “they say you had your sweater off.”
“Sweater. Off?” I asked, positive I’d heard her correctly.
That explained a lot. Natalie’s pregnancy, for example, would cause a fuss, but that’s just because there’d always be those jealous types gunning for an out-of-town girl who “took away” one of our best-looking boys. But for the most part, nobody bothers to chat about single moms over age eighteen. I can point out at least one in almost every family. It’s younger girls messing around that really gets tongues wagging.
I could see where some people would especially want to believe that about me.
In my going-into-ninth-grade class, Missy O’Dell is eight months pregnant, and both Julia Mayland and Tammy Jo Steward have baby boys named Milo.
Of course, they’re all Blue Heaven girls. They aren’t from an Old Town family like me. Or Galen. Whether it’s fair or not, people expect that kind of behavior from them. And, to make things worse, Mrs. Owen had made a whole lot of “my child would never” comments around town about Missy, Julia, and Tammy Jo.
A supposed, scandalous sighting of an Old Town girl with Mrs. Owen’s dead son—that was practically poetry.
Now I knew what had been dished about me at Bernadette’s Beauty Salon, whispered about me behind open lockers in the halls of Hannesburg Middle School, and debated about me under the walnut tree beside the parking lot of the First Baptist Church.
The whole time, I’d thought people were saying I was dangerously depressed, maybe self-absorbed, never scintillating. I wondered if this was how it felt to be Lorelei.
Natalie took an unsteady step. “I’ve heard all kinds of things,” she added. “One story goes that the sheriff hauled you both back here and Grampa kicked Galen out.”
“Who said?” I asked. “Bernadette Rae?”
“I don
’t know,” Natalie answered, placing her hand on her belly. “People talk.”
Natalie shuffled out to the bathroom, and I figured the morning sickness had returned. A couple of minutes later, I heard the toilet flush and the faucet sound full blast.
Natalie called, “Do you know when Fynn is coming back?”
“I don’t even know where he went,” I replied.
“Call Aunt Georgia,” Natalie said. “I need a ride.”
Her converta-Bug was chugging fine. It was a quarter to six, and Aunt Georgia had to be at the city council meeting by 7:30. “Where to?”
“The hospital,” she replied.
Natalie still hadn’t emerged from the bathroom.
Aunt Georgia stood next to me in the hallway. “What happened?”
I touched the ties of my necklace. “I think it has something to do with the baby,” I said, figuring Aunt Georgia would’ve found out soon enough anyway.
She drummed the bathroom door and called, “I’m right here, little girl. Open up.” Bending closer to me, Aunt Georgia whispered, “Where’d your brother take off to?”
“Probably a meeting,” I said, trying to keep the fear out of my voice. “Maybe out running.”
When Natalie opened the bathroom door, Aunt Georgia wrapped an arm around her and started down the hallway. “Rain,” Aunt Georgia said, “you wait here in case Fynn comes home or calls. Tell him I took Natalie to Lawrence Memorial.”
“I’m going with you,” I answered, following them into the family room. Aunt Georgia is wrong, I thought. They can’t just leave me like this.
At the front door, Natalie reached for my hand. “I need Fynn,” she said. “Do me a favor. Call the Flash. Tell him the printing company is closed tomorrow for the holiday, so we have to get the paper to them tonight. I’ll try to get back to finish the layout, but he might have to handle it by himself. All that’s left is plugging in the city council story and sending out the file.” On the porch steps, she added, “My editorial!” She was babbling something about running a piece before versus after and being distracted and kicking herself for letting Fynn’s ideas about small-town dynamics get in the way.
No matter what she was saying, I knew the deadline wasn’t what was scaring her.
“Hush now, little girl,” Aunt Georgia said, guiding Natalie. “It’ll all get done.”
As Aunt Georgia’s station wagon pulled out of my driveway, the wind chime rattled, and Chewie began to bark. I stepped back inside, retreated into the kitchen, and gave him a bone-shaped dog treat.
My fingers curled through Chewie’s soft fur. “Don’t worry, boy,” I said. “They’ll be okay.”
When I’d tried calling, nobody answered at the newsroom. The receptionist, Mrs. Grubert, usually goes home at five.
My laptop hummed on the table. When I touched the mouse, the fireworks screen saver was replaced by Natalie’s unfinished editorial.
Subject: Native American Summer Youth Camp
Pros: (1) self-esteem building; (2) team building; (3) educational; (4) need to support equity and inclusion; (5) mayor ran on youth programs.
Cons: (1) serves small population; (2) city broke.
Context: $ for (1) city hall renovation; (2) mayor’s junket to Tahiti; (3) Bierfest; (4) July 4 Carnival & BBQ cook-off; (5) swimming pool.
Before powering down the laptop, I saved the document and prayed, “Dear God, please take care of Natalie. Thank you and amen.” I hoped all of the times I’d skipped church wouldn’t count against me, and I added, “PS: What am I supposed to be doing?”
The phone vibrated. I accepted the call and said, “Go to Lawrence Memorial.”
“What happened?” Fynn asked. “I’m in the Jeep, just crossed town limits.”
It hit me all at once. If my brother had been helping Natalie instead of sticking his ostrich head into work, she might not have been on her way to the emergency room. “It’s your fiancée,” I said, “and the baby you never bothered to tell me about.”
Fynn ended the call.
I counted the thirty-nine roosters line-dancing across the stenciled border of my kitchen and verified that total eleven times. I reached for the phone.
“It’s a beautiful eighty degrees today here at Andersen Air Force Base,” Dad said.
I bit off the hangnail on my pinkie and confided to him what was happening. About Natalie and the baby. That Aunt Georgia wouldn’t leave Natalie and Fynn by themselves at the hospital, but without her, the Indian Campers had little chance of defeating Mrs. Owen at city hall. I kept to myself the part about the pasta bridge and my camera. And I kept to myself the part about Galen’s birthday.
It was only a few hours until the Fourth of July.
“The hardest thing about being overseas,” Dad told me, “is that I don’t always understand what’s going on at home. But I guess you kids would have to fly some solos, even if I were there.”
Not wanting him to worry more than necessary, I said, “I’m okay. Really.”
“So I gathered,” Dad replied. “You’re getting out more. Shooting again.” When I didn’t answer, he added, “Believe me, Rain, I understand. If it hadn’t been for you and Fynn, I would’ve probably headed for the hills when we lost your mom.”
“You know,” I answered, my hand tighter on the phone, “I thought about that when I stayed home instead of going to Galen’s funeral with Grampa and Fynn, and . . .”
Just like that, we started talking about how I’d been since Galen had died. It doesn’t really matter, all the things we said. What matters is this: For all the land and ocean between us, Dad had understood more than I ever would’ve guessed.
As the conversation wound down, he said, “Make sure somebody lets me know what happens with Natalie and the baby ASAP.”
Despite everything, I straightened my shoulders and answered, “Yes, sir!”
That’s when I realized I wasn’t helping anybody by counting stenciled roosters.
Rising Rain
FROM MY JOURNAL:
I was seven and it was summer and my mom was still alive. We cruised south on Highway 169, Oklahoma-bound, windows down, listening to country music, NPR, and static. Just Mom and me in her ’68 Mustang coupe.
We pulled over—at maybe it was a Dairy Queen?—for chili dogs with cheese and icy pink lemonades. Then we ran across the busy highway to this antiques store with a Lucky Strike pinball machine and a jukebox playing rock and roll records for a cigar-store Indian. When I crawled back into the shotgun seat of Mom’s car, the vinyl seats toasted my rear end through my jeans shorts and seared the backs of my bare thighs.
It was a pretty near perfect day.
JULY 3
The first raindrops struck the concrete walkway behind me as I pushed through the front doors of city hall. The main meeting room was empty except for the flags of Hannesburg, of Kansas, and of the United States. Tarps covered the podium, floors, banisters, and moldings. I smelled sawdust, wood stain, and cigars.
It took me a moment to notice the arrow sign: MEETING, THIS WAY.
The finished basement had been converted into a makeshift conference room. Not that I’d ever bothered to go to a city council meeting before, but without the flags and podium, the setup seemed more like a get-together. Less like a sermon, more like Sunday school. I would’ve been more worried if Uncle Ed didn’t represent Aunt Georgia’s district on the city council. The way I figured it, he wouldn’t vote against us.
Indian Camp financing was the first item under “New Business.” I slipped into the room as Marie finished answering the council’s questions, just in time to raise my hand and be counted among the Indian Campers.
Then Uncle Ed excused himself, covering his gold tooth with one hand, saying that voting on a program that would directly benefit his niece would be a conflict of interest.
Last summer, the council had voted to send the mayor to visit Hannesburg’s sister city on the tropical island of Tahiti. That’s why he ran for reelection on youth deve
lopment, instead of on fiscal responsibility. That’s what inspired Mrs. Owen’s campaign committee to dub him “Tahiti, the Piña Colada Politician.” He did go with the nickname and began always wearing tropical shirts and shades.
And at the meeting Mayor Rummel did support our financing request for Indian Camp, at least in the discussion before the vote. But the vote itself was two to one against.
Because I’d joined Indian Camp, Uncle Ed had stepped down. Because Uncle Ed had stepped down, he hadn’t been able to tie the vote. Because Uncle Ed hadn’t tied the vote, the mayor didn’t have to vote at all. (In Hannesburg, mayors only cast tiebreakers.) Because the mayor didn’t vote, he couldn’t look bad for voting one way or the other.
If Mrs. Owen had been trying to save the city money, she’d won. If she’d just been trying to make the mayor look bad, it had all been for nothing.
As for me, I’d joined Indian Camp to support Aunt Georgia and my friends. But, figuring the mayor would’ve voted yes if he’d had the chance, there was at least a possibility that my hand going up had blown the whole deal.
Then Queenie turned in her chair and smiled at me the way she used to when we were second-best friends. She must have appreciated my showing up. She probably thought it was my way of apologizing for the broken bridge and maybe even for our ridiculous feud. That would be just like Queenie, embracing the feeling of the moment.
I waved back.
From behind the head table, Mayor Tahiti Rummel pushed up his sunglasses, pounded his gavel, and called a five-minute recess, probably figuring nobody in the audience wanted to sit through round thirteen of the Great Swimming Pool Debate. The topic of the day was location: whether the downtown site should be revamped or whether another hole should be dug in the new subdivision.
I rushed past the three rows of fold-out chairs—past the Indian Campers, Mrs. Headbird, Mrs. Burnham, and the Washingtons—to the Flash, whose front-row seat was five chairs to the right of Mrs. Owen.
Chin high, she passed us on her way out, and I let her go, wondering if she’d ever manage to boot Tahiti out of office and whether that would make her feel better.
Rain Is Not My Indian Name Page 8