Hard Rain

by Peter Abrahams

  Keigh laughed. “I love your perspective, Zyz. I really do. Okay. A few more days. We’ll expect a report on Wednesday then. The day before Thanksgiving.”

  “All right.”

  Keith asked for the bill. He paid with a gold card. He had a gold card, a gold watch, a golden past and a golden future.

  They rose. Keith picked up his glass and was draining the last of his wine, when Zyzmchuk said, “Did you know Hartley Frame?”

  Keith stopped drinking. A drop of wine trickled down his chin. “How do you know about Hartley Frame?” he asked.

  “The memorial.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “And he was in the class of ’sixty-nine, too, wasn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “But he didn’t graduate.”

  “You’ve been doing research.”

  “Not much. How well did you know him?”

  “Fairly well, at one time. We were roommates freshman year. And sophomore. But I spent junior year abroad—a wonderful program. And after that I didn’t see him as much.”

  “Did you meet the senator through him?”

  Keith sat down. “Who have you been talking to?”

  “Nobody. It fits, that’s all.”

  “Yes, I met the senator through him. I interned in his office during the summers.”

  “Why did his son go to Viet Nam?”

  “He flunked out. It meant the draft, in those days. You know that.”

  “But couldn’t Frame have kept him out?”

  “Maybe. But he didn’t think it politic. He could see the headlines. Besides, they weren’t really talking during that period.”

  “Why not?”

  “The senator disapproved of Hartley’s behavior.”

  “What was he doing?”

  “The usual college shenanigans. But the senator’s a very conservative man.”

  “How did Hartley die?”

  “No one really knows. He was listed as MIA for a while. Then it was changed to KIA. I think the Red Cross had something to do with it.”

  “So you sort of stepped into the role?”

  “What role?”

  “Son.”

  Keith gave Zyzmchuk a long look. “That’s not a very nice thing to say, Zyz old buddy.”

  “I take it back. It’s a bit too pat, anyway.”

  There was a pause. Candlelight gleamed on Keith’s glasses, hiding the expression in his eyes. “Pat?” he said.

  “You know. Stereotypical.”

  “Oh. I see.” Keith reached for his glass. It was empty.

  “Here,” Zyzmchuk said, pouring what remained in his own glass into Keith’s.

  “No thanks,” Keith said. But he drank it just the same. Keith had drunk half the first bottle and most of the second, but showed no sign of it. Zyzmchuk was impressed with him for the first time.

  “I like the Beatles, too, Keith,” Zyzmchuk said in the parking lot.

  “The Beatles?”

  “You had them on in your car.”

  “Oh,” said Keith. “Just something to pass the time.”

  24

  Night was falling as Jessie bumped along the dirt road to Spacious Skies. “Sure,” DeMarco had told her. “Everything’s a conspiracy. And Paul’s dead, if you play the song backward.” He thought that she was paranoid, a slave to discredited sixties notions of pervasive conspiracies. But were you still paranoid if it turned out everyone around you was lying? Start with her sister-in-law: Doreen Rodney, aka Blue. Her doubts about Blue had no fixed shape, but they were growing. They pushed open a gate in her mind, and all at once she made a connection.

  Fuck, can’t you answer your phone? Listen: you’ve got to split. I’m a—

  Now Jessie knew what was familiar about Blue. It was her voice. She also understood Disco’s reaction to the idea that Blue and Pat had been lovers. But that’s all she understood.

  The house was dark, and she didn’t see the pickup. Jessie drove around to the other side. The pickup sat in the barnyard, but that wasn’t what caught Jessie’s attention as her high beams swept through the darkness. It was the barn. The door was open and the old Corvette was gone. Jessie parked beside the pickup, leaving her lights on and pointing into the barn, and went for a closer look. There was nothing to see but the tarpaulin, neatly folded on the floor. Eighty-seven miles in two decades. Now someone had finally decided to take the car for a spin.

  Jessie turned off her headlights and walked around the house. She rapped on the door with the cracked crescent window. It swung open at her touch. Jessie hesitated, then stepped inside.

  She listened. Silence. She called out, “Hello? Hello?” There was no reply but the house’s, echoing her voice. That didn’t mean the residents were out. Not at Spacious Skies. Jessie felt along the wall until she came to a switch. She flicked it. Nothing happened.

  She moved along the hall and tried the next switch she came to. Again nothing happened, except her fingers got wet. She tried a few more switches and gave up. Slowly she made her way past rooms once overflowing with the barn painters and their music, now full of shadows, to the kitchen. She smelled burned sugar.

  The kitchen lights were out too. Jessie felt through drawers until she found a box of wooden matches. She lit one and looked around the room.

  Except for one chair, overturned on the floor, everything seemed exactly the same as the day before. There was even a cookie sheet on the table, bearing chocolate-chip cookies in neat rows. Jessie touched one of them. Still slightly warm. The power hadn’t been out for long. She was thinking about that when she noticed something about her hand, caught for a moment in the circle of yellow match light. The tips of her fingers were red.

  Her fingers began to tremble. She raised them to her nose and sniffed. The redness had a smell, but not of paint. More like copper dust. Jessie touched her fingertip to her tongue and tasted salty blood.

  Jessie walked back along the hall, struck another match and held it to the light switch. Red fingerprints drew an arc above the switch, then trailed down the wall, as though someone had tried fingerpainting and quickly tired of it.

  Jessie went into the hall and looked out the crescent window. There was nothing to see. She lit another match and started climbing the stairs. The tiny flame drove the shadows on ahead of her—up the stairs, down the long hall, into Disco’s room. His wheelchair sat in the corner, but he wasn’t in it. Neither was he in the bed. Or under it.

  Jessie walked back along the hall. Her foot was on the top stair when a car door closed outside. Jessie blew out the match and backed into the shadows.

  The front door opened. A man entered. In the darkness, Jessie could see only that he was tall and moved athletically.

  The man sniffed the air. He had something in his hand. He held it out. A light flashed on. He aimed it down the hall. For a moment, his face was caught in the edge of its beam, and Jessie glimpsed high cheekbones and straight blond hair, platinum blond. It was a face Jessie had seen once before by flashlight.

  Mr. Mickey.

  He moved down the hall. Jessie took her shoes off and walked softly to Disco’s room. She felt for the closet door, opened it and shut herself inside.

  The closet was deep, its back wall beyond Jessie’s reach. She crouched on piles of clothing. Rough fabric hung down around her head. She smelled sweat. She saw blackness. She heard silence.

  Time passed, unquantifiable in a sensorially deprived environment. Then sound came to Jessie’s world: footsteps, padding on the hardwood floor. Jessie shrank back in the closet, pulling clothing on top of her. The footsteps grew louder and louder. And then light poked through the crack at the bottom of the closet door.

  Jessie wriggled further back. The doorknob turned. Jessie pulled something woollen over her face, reached into the depths of the closet for more clothing. The door swung open.

  And in that moment, her hand, deep in the closet, touched human flesh.

  Jessie froze. She felt nothing but what
was under her hand—soft hairs, a knuckle, blood pumping in a vein. Light probed the darkness. Blood pumped in the vein. And from the other side came a little breeze, as though someone was fanning the air near her head. The breeze went away. The light vanished. The door closed.

  The footsteps retreated, quieter, quieter, then nothing. The knuckles turned. A hand gripped hers. “Blue?” whispered a voice. It was Disco.

  “Shh,” Jessie hissed. Their palms dampened together. Jessie didn’t risk any movement until she heard the faint sound of a car starting. Then she withdrew her hand—she had to jerk it out of Disco’s grasp—and scrambled from the closet.

  “Blue,” said Disco, still whispering, “don’t leave me.”

  Jessie kneeled outside the closet, her body shaking. She was soaked with sweat. “Oh, God,” she said.

  “You’re not Blue,” Disco said, no longer whispering, his voice now high and full of fear. “Who are you?”

  “Jessie.” Her voice, too, sounded high-pitched. She fought to control it, not very successfully. “I talked to you yesterday. Don’t you remember?”

  “I—I think so.”

  “It was only yesterday.”

  “I said I think so, didn’t I?”

  “What happened here? There’s blood on the wall downstairs.”

  Disco’s voice rose higher. “Whose blood?”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know anything. The power went out. Then they came into the house and started talking to Blue. Downstairs. They were mad.”

  “Who’s they?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Yes you do.”

  “Shit, shit, shit.” Disco rocked back and forth, like an Orthodox Jew in prayer. “Yes, I know. It was Ratty. Ratty and another man. I hid in the closet. Then you came in. I thought you were Ratty. I thought I was going to die. Then you touched me. Like—a woman. And I thought it was Blue. Where is she?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Jessie heard Disco moving in the closet. He grunted. “I’m all twisted up in here.”

  “Do you want help?”

  “That’s my role in life.”

  Jessie didn’t know the reply to that. She pulled Disco out of the closet, dragged him to the wheelchair and propped him up in it. She tried to be gentle, but his body was tense and inflexible and heavier than it looked. Disco groaned.

  “What’s wrong?” Jessie asked.

  “It hurts, for fuck sake.”

  Jessie was silent. She heard an airplane, far above. She heard Disco’s breathing; gradually it resumed a normal cadence. “Who is Ratty?”

  “A scumbag.”

  Jessie described Mr. Mickey. “Is that him?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “That’s the man who just left.”

  “I don’t know him. I just know Ratty. He’s responsible for everything.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “My eyes. My legs. My night flight to oblivion.”

  “Why is he responsible?”

  “He gave me the acid.”

  “You didn’t have to take it.”

  “What do you know? I’ve seen things you’ll never see.”

  There was nothing to gain from fighting with Disco. “Maybe you have,” Jessie said.

  He grunted, and went on: “I’ve never had acid like that. It made me want to die and fly.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “A long time ago. When we decided to go for the big enchilada.”

  “Who is we?”

  “Just me, I guess. Blue was against it. She already had the little enchilada. That was fine for her, but what did it do for me? Piss all. So I went after the big one. That’s when Ratty came up. I never liked Ratty. I didn’t like the way he played.”

  “What did he play?”

  “Me. We went up Mount Blackstone with two blue tabs and a jug of wine. We did up and sat on the edge of the lookout. The stars were right fucking there—you could reach out and touch them. I felt like God. But then Ratty turned it into a bummer.”

  “What’s Ratty’s real name?”

  “Scumbag.”

  “How did he turn your trip into a bummer?”

  “He said things that weren’t true. It broke up my mind. Not blew it. Broke it up.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Things about Blue. That Blue and Hartley Frame were getting it on behind my back.”

  “Did you have a relationship with Blue?”

  Disco raised his voice, almost to a scream. “We were fucking childhood sweethearts.” He took a deep breath and continued more calmly. “We almost got married when we were seventeen. Blue had an abortion instead. We were still very tight. So I knew it couldn’t be true. But my mind broke up anyway, and I looked into Ratty’s eyes and got freaked out. Those eyes weren’t human. And I couldn’t stop looking at them, snake eyes in a human face. Ratty had short hair that night. Real short. Instead of long, like normal. He hadn’t been around for a year or two. Ratty saw I couldn’t stop looking. And then he said, ‘This is just a warning, fly-boy.’”

  “What did he mean by that?”

  “He meant forget the big enchilada.”

  “What was the big enchilada?”

  “Bread. Enough to last a lifetime.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  There was a long silence. Then Disco said, “I guess I didn’t either.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because.”

  Jessie waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, she said, “Then what happened?”

  “That’s the last thing I remember. Till I woke up in the hospital.”

  “Did you fall or were you pushed?”

  No reply. Jessie lit a match. “Did you fall or were you pushed?”

  Disco shrugged.

  “Who is Ratty?”

  “The drummer.”

  “In Pat’s band?”

  “Once or twice. But it wasn’t Pat’s band. It was that fucker Hartley Frame’s. He always got whatever he wanted. Hendrix gave him the Stratocaster. Just like that.” In the weak light of the match, Disco’s eyeless sockets were two black holes. “Do you think he was balling Blue, what’s your name again?”

  “Jessie. Why not ask her?”

  “I did.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then it’s probably true.”

  “No.” Disco pounded the arm of his wheelchair. “She’s lying.”

  “What does it matter now? What matters is where she is and what happened here tonight.”

  “Blue’s all right. She’s as tough as they come.”

  Then why had she sounded so scared on Pat’s answering machine? “Blue called Pat last Saturday and left a message, telling him to get away. Why did she do that?”

  “You’re so full of shit, you know that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You figure it out.”

  “You help me. What did Pat have to get away from?”

  “All your questions.” Disco laughed a barking laugh.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I don’t never mean nothing.”

  “Was it Ratty?”

  Disco snorted.

  “Then who?”

  “Leave me alone. I don’t know anything. I’m blind as a bat.”

  “That doesn’t make you stupid.”

  “I was stupid before I was blind. Why don’t you go away? Blue doesn’t want you around here.”

  “Why not?”

  “She said so.”

  “All right. I’m leaving. But you must have some idea where she might be.”

  Disco didn’t answer right away. Jessie waited. He needed Blue, and she was mobile. Finally he said quietly, “Try the cookie store.”

  “What cookie store?”

  “Blue’s cookie store in town.” He told her the phone number.

  Jessie went downstairs. As she passed
the switch in the hall, she struck another match. The red fingerpainting was gone.

  In the kitchen she picked up the phone to call the cookie store. She’d almost finished dialing before she realized the line was dead.

  She went outside. She rechecked the barn. The Corvette was still gone.

  Jessie drove into Bennington and found the cookie store. It was open, but Blue wasn’t there and no one had seen her. Her store had a special on chocolate-chip cookies and a well-painted sign showing two dancing gingerbread men. Above them it said: EGGMAN COOKIES. D. RODNEY, PROP.

  25

  Ivan Zyzmchuk was glad when the phone started ringing. He’d had enough of lying in his bed at the 1826 House, staring at the floral wallpaper. The mattress was too soft, the room too hot, the painted flowers too dainty. He picked up the receiver and said, “Hello.”

  “I’m just calling to say good-bye.” It was Keith.

  Zyzmchuk sat up. “You won’t be at the unveiling?”

  “No. I’ve been summoned by the master.”

  “Senator Frame?”

  “You’ve got such a sunny disposition, Zyz. Always ready with a quip. I’m sure it hasn’t kept people from taking you seriously.” Keith paused to let his words sink in. Then he said, “Dahlin is the master, as I hope you know. Good-bye.”

  Zyzmchuk got out of bed. His reflection flashed by in the mirror—a broad, powerful figure with a long curved scar on the right shoulder and a shorter one on the left thigh, like brackets around a qualifying clause. He went to the wall and pressed his ear against it. No sound came from the dark-haired woman’s room. Her car was parked outside. Zyzmchuk put on his sweatsuit and went for his run.

  The sky had cleared overnight. Now it was the kind of dome a minimalist would like, pale blue and empty: no clouds, no jet trails, no birds. Zyzmchuk felt very small running around beneath it.

  On the way back, Zyzmchuk went by the music building. A few dozen people stood on the lawn, facing the veiled memorial. Alice Frame, her mink coat buttoned to the top, was making a speech. Zyzmchuk moved closer.

  “… and because Hartley loved music so much, his father and I have decided to establish a scholarship, to be called the Hartley Frame Memorial Fund, which the chairman of the music department will be free to award to the most promising music student in the senior class. To mark the inauguration of the scholarship, we are very proud to present Morgan College with this work of art.” Alice Frame tugged at the tarpaulin. It stuck. Jameson T. Phinney, in a fur hat, stepped up to help her. The tarpaulin came loose, sliding off a huge steel figure that might have been a man bent over a guitar. At its base a plaque read: IN MEMORY OF HARTLEY FRAME, 1947–1971. The reflected sky washed the memorial in pale blue.