Rain Song

by Alice J. Wisler

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  “We brought you back a gift from the beach!” says Kristine, wearing a jewel-studded pink tank top and a pair of tiny white shorts. She holds a striped orange-and-teal paper bag in her hand. Her tanned skin is now almost identical to Salvador’s.

  Salvador, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, takes off his helmet, exposing a head of thick hair. His smile shows rows of pearly teeth and a tiny dimple in his left cheek. “Kristine wanted to bring you a souvenir.”

  I figure the proper southern etiquette thing to do is to invite them inside.

  We stand in the cool hallway as Kristine hands me the bag. She then lifts her helmet from her head and swings her hair, spilling the scent of peach. I open the bag to find a metal wall plaque in the shape of a clownfish. The stripes on it are painted orange and white. The two eyes are tiny bleachedwhite seashells. “Thank you,” I say.

  Kristine gushes, “Isn’t it cute? I know how much you love fish. Your students tell me that all the time in science class, you know.”

  I had no idea. I figured my students wanted nothing to do with me once I was away from them. Out of sight, out of mind.

  “We found the fish at a cute little store where we had lunch on the way home from Emerald Isle.” Kristine’s jade earrings jingle as she speaks. “We ate the best chicken and dumplings. Salvador had never eaten that before.” She squeezes his arm.

  Salvador looks as if he isn’t sure they were the best.

  I wish I could gush in the style of Kristine, going on and on about this gift they’ve brought me. Tell them it was thoughtful and kind. But the more I look at the bleached seashell eyes, the less I can find to say.

  Salvador looks at my suitcase arrangement, picks up the passport, and asks, “Where are you going?”

  “Oh . . .” What do I tell them?

  “Overseas?” asks Salvador.

  Kristine giggles. “How fun!”

  “Well,” I murmur. “Yeah.”

  “Where to?” asks Salvador.

  I take a breath. I guess telling them isn’t really exposing the secret. They aren’t family; they won’t tell anyone expected at the reunion. “Japan.”

  “Way cool! When?” Kristine flashes a smile.

  “I’m supposed to leave tomorrow.”

  “Are you going by yourself ?”

  By myself. I feel like a little kid sitting at the big people’s table. “Yeah.”

  Kristine giggles. “There must be a guy involved. Someone you’re going to meet once you get there.”

  She says it like a statement, not posed as a question, so I don’t feel I have to answer.

  “Japan.” Salvador says with a wide smile. “There’s a potter there named Miyako.” He nudges Kristine. “Some of his pottery was for sale at that shop in Asheville we went to, remember?”

  Kristine does remember the shop they found during their trip to the mountains over Easter. With a frown, she recalls the teacups costing over two hundred dollars each. “Except for that toothpick holder. It was thirty dollars, but it was so small.”

  “It was a sake cup,” her boyfriend reminds her. “It’s really nice stuff,” he adds. “Bizen.”

  I have no idea what bizen means but can tell he’d like to be able to afford one of this Miyako’s pieces, even if it is only the tiny sake cup.

  “Is the boy cute?” Kristine asks as Salvador returns my passport to the top of my suitcase.

  I want to say, “I knew you’d ask. I knew all along if I told you about Harrison, you would want that question answered above any other.” I take them over to my computer and soon they are looking at a photo of Harrison on my screen. Harrison seated beside his outdoor pond. So many times I have wondered what it will feel like to be seated right next to him on that stone bench, the summer sun in my eyes and the smell of the koi pond beside me.

  Kristine bends closer to get a better look. “He is cute. Nice eyes.”

  Cute? I want to shout. He’s traffic-stopping gorgeous. He has become simply one of the most handsome men I have— Salvador interrupts my thoughts. “So when are you leaving?”

  “I have a flight from RDU tomorrow . . . but . . .” I hesitate and stick a finger in my mouth. “Well . . .”

  “What’s wrong?” asks Salvador.

  “My grandmother was going to take me to the airport, but she’s in the hospital.”

  “Is she okay?” asks Kristine.

  Such a good question. Is she? “I could drive to the airport and leave my car in the parking lot while I’m gone.” I add, “But my car is acting up. I don’t think it’s safe to drive that far.”

  “Salvador,” says Kristine, tapping his arm, “you could take her to the airport.”

  He nods, runs fingers over his chin, and asks, “What time tomorrow?”

  “My flight’s in the afternoon. Two-twenty.” I’ve memorized the departure time for all my flights, including the length of time for each layover. Harrison says there is bound to be some delay or change of airlines along the way; never has he flown across the ocean without at least one, what he calls, glitch.

  “I can pick you up at ten-thirty or eleven,” Salvador says. “That should get you to the airport by one. Will that be enough time?”

  I realize I am smiling ear to ear.

  But the relief leaves when Kristine says, “You’ll love riding on his motorcycle.”

  Motorcycle?

  In the hallway, Salvador takes another look at my luggage. Running a hand through his dark hair, he notes, “This suitcase is too big to carry on the back. My luggage rack won’t hold it. Do you have a different type of bag?”

  I don’t. My attic holds a gigantic green suitcase with a broken handle and a straw beach bag with a frog on it, and that’s it for luggage.

  He turns to Kristine. “Do you have something?”

  “Besides a suitcase?” She twists a lock of hair. “I don’t think so.”

  The three of us cross the lawn to Hilda’s. She’s in her lit garage, as usual. I’m convinced the woman lives inside it. She looks up from a box of plastic insects to greet us. Spiders, grasshoppers, crickets, and worms sit motionless inside the cardboard. I know people donate all kinds of things, but who would donate a box of toy insects?

  I ask if she has something I can borrow for a trip. Something to carry my clothes in that’s more flexible and compact than a suitcase.

  Hilda stands and adjusts one of her pink hair curlers. “Let me see . . .”

  We all stand in her garage, waiting as she thinks. The air in the garage is stuffy and thick, with a mixture of odors—from old shoes to insect spray.

  Hilda takes her hands from her hips and then points to a large row of metal shelves to her left. On the very top is a silvercolored duffle bag. “Is that what you had in mind?”

  Salvador stands on a crate and pulls it off the shelf.

  “Will that work?” Hilda asks.

  Salvador examines the bag. He nods. “This should fit on the cycle. We can strap it on the back along with that other small bag you have.” He looks at me for approval.

  In the warm night, I feel a chill rise up to my neck. Am I really going to ride on a motorcycle? And get on an airplane? And go to Japan? Lord, my faith is only a seed in the ground. . . .

  I thank Hilda. “I’ll bring it back in about two weeks.”

  “You can have it,” says my neighbor. “A woman from Hickory donated it. It’s in good shape. The china dishes, silverware, and linens she also brought by a month ago are in those boxes over there.” Hilda waves a hand at a stack of brown boxes in a corner of her garage.

  “She donated a lot,” says Kristine.

  Hilda brushes her nose against her sleeve. “She did. She has breast cancer and doesn’t think she’ll be around much longer. Ah, they say you can’t take it with you. . . .”

  As Hilda’s voice trails off, we just stand there looking at each other.

  “I’ll go see her soon,” Hilda continues as she sniffs. “I’ll stop a
long the way at a group home in Winston-Salem to deliver some blankets and jackets.” She fingers a plastic green caterpillar. “Maybe they’ll like these things.”

  “What are they?” Kristine exclaims.

  Hilda lifts a spider and squeezes it. “Fun,” she cries. “Silliness. We all need more of it, wouldn’t you agree?”

  You are a saint, Hilda. You are a saint.

  Kristine eyes the plastic creatures inside the box and exclaims that they look too real for her to think about fun.

  I express my thanks again and then follow Salvador and Kristine back to my driveway. My driveway where the Harley sits, shiny and scary.

  “See you tomorrow,” says Salvador, handing me the silver duffle bag. He places his helmet back on his head and smiles. I see his dimple in the moonlight.

  “You are gonna love riding on the Harley,” Kristine tells me as she buckles her helmet’s strap under her chin. “After the first thirty or so miles, your heart won’t beat as fast.”

  I run my teeth over a thumbnail and clear my throat. I can’t smile; I don’t even bother to try.

  Sure as the sun, tomorrow is going to arrive, whether I’m ready or not.

  Removing my thumbnail from my mouth, I take a long look at the moon. Tonight it is a moon of flickering shadows.

  Perhaps I will get to see if a rabbit is visible inside.

  Harrison says the Japanese don’t see only a still rabbit. Oh no. There is more. The rabbit is pounding rice into mochi. For them, that is what lives in the moon.

  Clutching my new possession, the duffle bag, I head up the brick steps and into my house. The next time I enter this house I will have seen Japan. Again.

  ———

  In my dining room, I watch my fish swim peacefully, wishing my stomach would quit spinning. What a long way I have come, I think, as I study the pagoda at the bottom of the tank, the gift Aaron gave me years ago. I kept the pagoda because it was a gift given in kindness, even though Aaron held the hope it would make me want to connect to my past. All these years I managed to deny the Japan part of my life. Now I am ready to accept it.

  These thoughts make my stomach spin into a knot.

  Rubbing my scar, I make a cup of Earl Grey to calm me.

  At midnight I repack the items from the Samsonite into the lady-with-cancer’s duffle bag. I spend a few minutes debating about what to wear tomorrow. I choose a green cotton shirt and a pair of khaki pants instead of a sundress because I can’t see myself on the back of a red Harley in a dress. Face it, I can’t picture myself on the back of any color motorcycle in any kind of clothes.

  As I stroke the velvet of Aunt Lucy’s chair, I think of Ducee dreaming of heaven in her hospital bed, Clive out of commission with his arm in a cast and anger boiling inside him, and Grable exhausted from another day of being the sole caregiver to a child with high needs. It is as though an Irish ballad is playing beside my thoughts, a soft melancholy tune.

  Then I think of Father.

  I wish he would call.

  Strange as it may sound, I want him to give me his blessing for this trip across the sea. Ducee wants me to go. Why can’t he just relent and tell me I have his permission to go?

  Closing my eyes and sinking into the chair, I pretend I hear him say, “Nicole, it’s okay to go. I am just afraid you’ll be too overwhelmed. But you are not me. You don’t have the guilt I live with. You didn’t leave a pregnant wife and toddler to go to a conference. Nicole, don’t blame yourself. You walk a different path, so Japan won’t be the frightful demon of my nightmares for you. Go child. You want my blessing; I give it. Go to Japan with my blessing.”

  It’s a little peculiar and hard to explain, but somewhere in my heart I do believe he could say those words. He never will say them to me. But he could. Just like he could get off the sofa and go back to being a respected physician at any hospital of his choice.

  Wishful thinking?

  Maybe.

  I compose a short message to Harrison, my last one before meeting him.

  Harrison,

  I have been busy. Ducee’s in the hospital and I’ve debated whether or not to even continue on with my travel plans. But she insists I go, and like I’ve told you before, my grandmother is a tough cookie to fight.

  I will see you soon. It will be easy to spot me at the Osaka airport. I will be the redhead with her fingernails all bitten off.

  Nicole

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  The shiny red Electra Glide Ultra scares me so much that at first I don’t know how to move my legs to actually get on it. Salvador turns the engine off and says I can practice a bit, get used to it without the electrifying noise. After a few minutes, I feel foolish seated on the back of a silent motorcycle, like a child pretending to drive in a parked car. I hope my neighbors aren’t peering out their windows, observing me in my driveway.

  Salvador holds a black helmet in his hand and asks, “Are you ready?”

  Are you ready to see the big wide world?

  I take the helmet from him, reluctantly strap it on under my chin, finally buckle it after three tries, and swallow. “I will be,” I say. “I will.” Sweat forms on my forehead, trickling down my scar. All I can think of is that it’s going to be a long, hot, petrifying ride to the Raleigh-Durham airport. Perhaps I should take my first Dramamine now.

  Salvador isn’t bothered. He hums as he secures my duffle bag, purse, and overnight kit in the compartment behind the seat.

  “You will be fine,” he reassures me. “Kristine was scared the first time she rode. In a minute, you will be smiling.”

  Kristine is not me, I think. She holds no fear. She’s dated ex-cons.

  Salvador hops onto the motorcycle and starts the engine.

  I close my eyes as tightly as they can shut and swing my shaky arms around his waist. He guns the engine, we begin to move, and I stop breathing for at least ten minutes, I’m sure.

  Then we are sailing down Carved Oak Place, or I think that’s what we are doing—my eyes are still closed. I feel wind in my face and on my back, cooling my perspiring body. When Salvador turns a corner, I am sure my helmet is going to slip off and bounce onto the pavement. But that doesn’t happen.

  At a stoplight, Salvador tilts his head back to ask, “How is it going?”

  “Great,” I say, certain the fear I’m trying to mask is evident. Then, to show just how comfortable I’ve become, I open my eyes and release one arm from my grip around him to brush strands of hair from my mouth. But when the light changes to green, both arms are once more plastered to him. Cautiously, I open my eyes to watch houses, trees, and people drift past. I still haven’t smiled, and I most likely won’t. I pray none of my students see me. Let this be the day they are out of Mount Olive, at Grandma’s in Brevard or Charlotte.

  When Salvador speeds toward the highway, I feel my stomach rise to my throat.

  Ducee always says to think of something peaceful when faced with the unpleasant. I recall an autumn trip to the mountains of Brevard with Ducee and Grandpa Luke back when I was ten. We stopped at a farm that belonged to someone Grandpa knew, and picked Scuppernong grapes. I thought we owned the world then—to be able to pick grapes for free on a cool autumn day. None of my classmates had ever done this. I remember how tart the green grapes tasted, not at all sweet like red or purple grapes. But the jelly Ducee later made at her house from those Scuppernongs was delicious. Ducee said it was almost as good as pineapple chutney. And for Ducee to admit that must mean she really enjoyed it.

  ———

  Salvador stops the motorcycle at the curb by the Delta terminal and says, “You made it, Nicole.”

  I let go of his waist, slowly peeling my curled fingers from him. Taxis, cars, buses, and all sorts of busy-looking people surround me. My throat feels as stiff as my fingers.

  “Have a good trip. Email Kristine when you get there,” Salvador tells me as he unfastens from the chrome tapered luggage rack Hilda’s duffle bag, my purse, and overnight kit. As
he places them on the curb, I wonder what in the world I’m doing at the airport when I hate to fly.

  I stand; my knees don’t seem to want to bend to walk.

  He takes my helmet off of my head because I’m too dumbfounded to do so. Squeezing my arm, he says, “You rode to the airport on a motorcycle. Flying will be easy now.” He gives me a broad smile, one I wish I could return. But my mouth feels like I’ve eaten packing peanuts, and the wind from the ride has caused my muscles to stiffen.

  “Thank you,” I say as I take small steps toward my belongings.

  In an instant, Salvador hops back on his Electra Glide Ultra, and before I can say “Mount Olive Pickle Company,” he is off with a slight sputter and then a fierce roar.

  Well, well, I think as I watch him sail down the road, weaving around traffic, and then out of sight, I guess there is no turning back now.

  I breathe in and out, raspy breaths, sounding like Iva. The sun glares at me, and I suddenly feel sticky in this heat.

  The airport terminal is huge, and I know it must have grown since the last time I was here picking up relatives from the West for a family reunion. On TV it never looks this big.

  After I enter through the sliding glass door—no flames, thank goodness—I find an unoccupied place by a window and just stand. My duffle bag is slung over one shoulder and the other shoulder holds my purse and overnight bag. I feel like a coat rack, immobile. Smiling families in T-shirts and shorts headed for vacations, and businessmen and women talking on cell phones stand before me in lines to check in.

  I continue to stand like a statue and wonder if there’s anyone going on a trip like I’m about to embark on. Is anyone as nervous? Is anyone going to a place they vowed never to return to ever again? And one more question, is there anyone who would be willing to give me some sips of cold water when I get sick on the plane?

  I feel a bit better knowing Sazae is stuffed inside my duffle bag. It’s tempting to take her out and hold her for comfort. That might cause some people to suddenly pay attention to me. Instead, I decide to pretend. I pretend that Sazae has to get to Japan. I envision a doctor—perhaps the one with the white mustache—writing out a prescription for Sazae Michelin. “It is imperative that you get your doll to Japan as soon as possible. One trip to Japan for her health. To be taken immediately. Without water.” Which is good, because Sazae has never had any water in her cotton life.