I reached the same conclusion. I wasn’t wrong, and knew it. Laurent had absolutely been feeling for a bra. Stranger still was the fact that he knew I was standing behind them and would see what he was doing. Yet he’d made no move to hide it, not really. Why would he think this was acceptable behavior? Why wasn’t he concerned that one or both of us might react badly to such a move? But what truly stumped me was why Betty hadn’t reacted to it at all. Certainly this couldn’t be the first time in her forty-two years that a man had felt around her back for the presence of a bra, so she had to know what he’d been up to. I could understand not making a scene or overreacting, but why not nonchalantly get up and move away? She easily could’ve stopped what he was doing without being confrontational, aggressive or even rude, but chose instead to do nothing.
Then again, so had I.
“Listen to me going on and on,” Laurent said, staring down fondly into the mouth of his beer bottle. “Didn’t mean to ramble, I promise you I didn’t. Just like the Mrs. says, I get going and never know when to stop.”
“Don’t be silly,” Betty said, gently touching his wrist. “I’m glad you told me the story, I’d never heard it before. Sounds like you both had a great time.”
“We surely did.” He patted her hand. “Your Dad was happiest when he was hunting or fishing, you know that.”
She nodded, and though her eyes had turned slightly moist, she was smiling with a genuineness I’d rarely seen since her father’s death. “He always loved the outdoors,” she said. “He adored being out in nature.”
My feelings shifted the more I studied my wife. Her level of comfort, facial expressions and physical mannerisms while interacting with Laurent led me to believe she now remembered him, but I couldn’t be sure. One thing was certain, however, his story—some silly routine about romping through the woods with her father in wet socks or some nonsense—had touched her. From what little I’d heard, it wasn’t anything profound, but then, maybe that was the point. I tried to think about my own father, who I’d lost five years before. My fondest memories of him were largely puerile, and at least on the surface, quite trivial. It was always nice to remember the dead fondly, of course, particularly those we loved, but when it came to Betty’s father it was a struggle for me because we’d never been close. We were simply too different. I never detested him to the degree he hated me, but I didn’t like the man either. I was indifferent when it came to my father-in-law. While he wasn’t completely void of good qualities, more often than not I’d found him disagreeable. But he was Betty’s father, and she loved him, warts and all. And good for her, I’d never taken that from her or tried to convince her otherwise. I simply couldn’t play along when it came time to fondly reminisce. I’d support her the best I could while remaining neutral, if not a bit removed, and in some ways she probably resented me for it, though I knew she understood how complicated the dynamic was for me when it came to her father.
“How about you, Will?” Laurent asked, breaking my concentration. “Are you a hunter and fisherman too?”
There was a twinkle in his eye that led me to believe he already knew the answer. “Afraid not,” I said. “I find hunting barbaric and unnecessary in today’s day and age, particularly as sport. Survival is one thing, but I can’t understand how anyone derives joy from killing something.”
“Well it’s really not about the killing.”
I held his gaze, which was quickly becoming annoying. “Oh no?”
“Maybe for some, but not for me. And I know it wasn’t about that for Earl, neither. Wasn’t about that at all.”
I could sense Betty’s discomfort. She knew where this was headed, as she was well aware of my views on hunting. Interestingly enough, she shared my feelings on the topic, but had always given her father and his hunting buddies a pass, as if what they did was different somehow. “Really?” I asked. “What’s it about then?”
Betty flashed me a look. Will you drop it, please?
“Well, it’s more about the way you get to be a part of that, the—what’s the word when you’re with your friends and enjoying the same things together?”
“Camaraderie?” Betty offered.
“Right. Camaraderie, that’s what it’s about. Being out there with all that beauty and enjoying yourself. Know what I mean?”
“Then why not bring cameras instead of guns?” I asked. “If it’s really about enjoying beauty then why destroy that beauty with violence? If it’s not about enjoying the kill then why incorporate killing into the equation at all?”
“Then why what now?” Laurent frowned then just as quickly chuckled. “Sorry, Will, I’m a simple fella, you lost me there.”
He knew damned well what I meant, but I let it go. “It’s not important.”
“A man’s opinion is always important.”
“What about a woman’s?”
“Even more, if you know what’s good for you!” Laurent barked out a laugh and clutched Betty’s shoulder. “Am I right?”
“Absolutely!” Betty laughed along, but I could see in her eyes how irritated she was with me. “Can I get you another beer, Mr. Laurent?”
“You go right ahead and call me Uncle Bobby just like always or I’m liable to think I’m a broken down old man you youngsters have to call mister.” Laurent winked at her then grinned in a manner I suspect he thought looked doting.
“It’s been a long time since someone called me a youngster, so first of all, thank you for that.” Although Betty seemed confused, graciously as ever, she hid it well with polite, accommodating laughter. “Secondly, how about that beer, Uncle Bobby?”
Laurent rose to his feet, moved to the end of the table and playfully poked my shoulder. “Isn’t she just the sweetest thing ever?”
“Absolutely adorable,” I said through a tight grin.
“I remember when you were just a little one,” Laurent said, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it. “You were the prettiest gosh darn thing I’d ever seen. The Mrs. and I moved away not long after. Let me see now, I guess you must’ve been thirteen or so by then. Didn’t see you again until a couple years later when I came back to town after your mom passed. You were sixteen and prettier than ever. And you know what? You’ve hardly aged a day.”
“Oh stop,” Betty gushed.
“So,” I said, “what brought you back to town this time?”
Laurent hesitated a moment, almost as if he were trying to think of an answer. “Came to visit some old friends. Ed and Cathy Hamilton. Betty, you know Ed and Cathy, they were friends of your father’s too.”
“I’ve known them since I was little.”
“Yep, Ed mentioned he saw Will at the store buying cleaning supplies.”
“We’ve only met once, at Earl’s wake,” I said. “Surprised he remembered me.”
Rather than answer me, Laurent snapped his fingers and pointed at Betty. “That reminds me! I almost forgot to tell you about Davey. You two were hot and heavy there for awhile.”
Betty swatted at the air as if to knock the words away. “That was ages ago, I haven’t seen Davey in years. After we broke up, he ran off and joined the Marines. Last I heard he was married with kids and living out west somewhere.”
“Turns out he just moved back to town.”
“Did he?”
“Sure did. Got to see him while I was visiting with his folks. He’s been out of the service quite awhile, got himself one of those fancy computer jobs, fixing them or some such thing, afraid that’s all way over this ole country boy’s head.”
“Strange. Ed never mentioned Davey was back home.”
Laurent shrugged. “He’s divorced now, but his ex and kids still live in New Mexico where they were all living before the breakup. When Ed told me you were in town I happened to mention to Davey I was coming to see you and he made me promise to tell you hello from him. You ought to give him a call before you head back home. I bet he’d love to hear from you after all these years.”
I was
always at a distinct disadvantage when it came to these types of discussions because Betty had been born and raised in town and I had not. No matter how much time passed, where we lived or where we didn’t, far as the locals were concerned, she was a townie and I was an outsider. As for the Hamilton family, I’d met them at Earl’s wake but probably wouldn’t know them again if I fell over them. And while Betty had briefly mentioned Davey over the years, I’d never met him or even so much as seen a picture of him. All I really knew about him was that he was an old boyfriend she’d had, sort of a teenage puppy love type thing, as she described it.
“Maybe I’ll run into him before we leave,” Betty said.
“He’d love it, I can tell you that. Now, about that beer, I will take another, thank you. But first, if you’d be so kind as to let me use the restroom, my tired old bladder and I would be forever grateful.”
Betty nodded in my direction and I took the cue. Leaving my beer bottle behind on the table, I escorted Laurent into a short hallway off the kitchen. “Right in there,” I said, pointing to the first door on the left.
“I remember, but appreciate it, Will.”
As he slipped into the bathroom and closed the door behind him, I headed back out into the kitchen fast as I could and found Betty pacing over by the sink.
“Did you get Uncle Bobby his beer?” I said, trying not to laugh too loud.
“Quiet, he’ll hear you.” She slapped my forearm. “I can’t believe you went on one of your anti-hunting tangents.”
“It was hardly a tangent. I was just trying to make conversation, my little strawberry.”
“I’m serious,” she said, but she was trying not to laugh herself. “Look at him, he’s a sweet old guy and obviously means well. No need to be rude.”
“Good news, though, Davey’s back in town. Be sure to give him a call now, he’s available. Maybe you guys can have dinner and catch a movie before we leave.”
“A girl can dream.” Betty smirked at me. “Wiseass.”
I stole a quick glance back over my shoulder to make sure he wasn’t coming. “And what’s with all the touchy stuff?”
“What do you mean?”
“He had his arm around you, and at one point when he had his hand on your back, I’d have sworn he was—”
“Oh Will, please. He’s a hundred and eight, a harmless old man.”
“I’m just saying it was inappropriate for him to—”
“Keep your voice down,” she said in a loud whisper. “What’s gotten into you tonight? This is awkward enough, I don’t need you behaving like a jealous high school kid because some old friend of my father’s put his arm around me for two seconds and mentioned an old boyfriend I haven’t seen or spoken to in decades.”
I let it go and tried to convince myself to at least be open to the possibility that I’d misread the old man. “Fine. Sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“I’m sure he’ll have one more beer and be on his way.” Betty reached into the fridge for a fresh bottle.
“Sounds like he and your dad were pretty close at one time,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s why this is all so strange.”
Thunder rolled.
“Why, because you didn’t remember him at first?”
The rain kept falling, slamming the house.
“No,” Betty said gravely. “Because I still don’t.”
2
The dreams were so vivid I started to wonder if I still knew what was real and what wasn’t. Was I truly asleep when these things happened, or was I awake?
Worse, did it matter?
In a dark and dreary room, I found myself lying on an old dusty bed. But I wasn’t alone. There were others there too. Standing around me as if holding some sort of silent vigil. I couldn’t see them, but I could smell them. I could feel their souls touching mine, all of us becoming one, a strange and hideous hybrid of good and evil, sanity and madness, innocence and guilt, a foul entity chewing through my skin like a thousand tiny insects. And somewhere deep within the decadent lunacy, like a pinpoint of light surrounded by endless darkness, a chance for deliverance still burned.
* * *
The light out back came on, illuminating the backyard with a powerful spot Earl had installed over the deck. It was motion-activated, the type animals routinely trip after sundown. Assuming this was no exception, I looked out through the rain-blurred window over the kitchen sink and scanned the yard as best I could through the heavy downpour. “Probably a raccoon or something,” I muttered, but I saw nothing moving, save for the rain and some bouncing tree branches waving in the wind.
I turned back to my wife. She was still over by the table, holding Laurent’s beer like an abandoned waitress. “How could you not remember this guy?”
“I don’t know, major brain fart? Early Alzheimer’s maybe?”
“If he lived in town and was as close to your dad as he claims—for that matter so close to you that you referred to him as Uncle Bobby—it hardly seems possible for you to have absolutely no recollection of who he is.”
“I think you’re taking this way too seriously. I was just a kid, OK? My parents had lots of friends. I don’t remember all of them. Do you remember all of your parents’ friends from when you were a child?”
“I don’t remember all their names, and might not necessarily recognize them on sight, but I have memories of who they were, particularly if they were close friends. And I’d remember someone outside the family I called Uncle, I can tell you that. It’s not like you were a toddler when you knew him, he said you were thirteen when he and his wife moved away and sixteen the last time you saw him. How could you not remember him at all now?”
“He’s an old man.” Betty shrugged. “He must have his dates and times wrong. Who knows? Maybe he has me mixed up with someone else.”
“You mean you weren’t the sweetest little berry in the patch?”
She laughed reflexively and suggested I go fuck myself.
I wanted to laugh it off too, but couldn’t. There was something wrong about this, something wrong about Laurent. And none of it was funny. “I’m not kidding,” I said. “If half the things he said weren’t creepy enough—and trust me, they were—if you truly have no clue who he is then I’m concerned. Maybe it’s time I asked him to leave.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“But what if he’s not telling the truth?”
“Will. Stop. I mean, honestly, for God’s sake. He obviously knew us. I was just a teenager when my mom died. It was very traumatic. I don’t remember much about that entire period. I blocked a lot of it out. You know that. And besides, his timeframe could be off. Regardless, I’m sure he won’t stay long anyway. He said himself he was just paying his respects. Let’s just get through this, be nice to the poor old coot for a few more minutes and that’ll be that. OK?”
I looked deep into her eyes. “You really don’t remember this man at all?”
She paced about awkwardly near the table. “I don’t know, maybe a little. Like I said, his name sounds vaguely familiar, I think.”
“You think.”
“Yes, I think.”
A troubling notion drifted through my mind. What if Laurent was telling the truth and Betty was lying? But why would she claim to have no idea who Laurent was? It made no sense. Then again, what possible reason would there be for Laurent to lie? I dismissed the concept and assured myself no one was lying. It was a simple misunderstanding, a confusion of dates and times, or, as Betty suggested, perhaps he’d been forgotten along with most everything else from a horribly painful period in her childhood. That was far more likely. Wasn’t it?
Then why wasn’t I buying it?
I felt a rush of nervous energy surge through me. What was wrong with me? The situation was odd, surely, but hardly warranted the levels of stress and paranoia I was experiencing. “Fine,” I said. “One more beer and we wrap it up.”
Betty motioned to the window behind me with a tilt of her head.
“It went out a second ago then just came back on,” she said. “There’s something wandering around out there.”
I nodded, eyes straining to see through the rain. “Strange. Don’t animals generally hunker down during storms like this?”
“Something wrong?”
Laurent was standing a few feet away, just inside the room. He’d startled me because I hadn’t heard him coming. I hadn’t even heard the toilet flush. I told myself the wind and rain had muffled his movements. “No,” I finally answered. “The spotlight out back keeps coming on is all.”
“Motion-activated?” he asked. When I nodded he said, “They’re a real pain in the neck. Night like this, any number of things could set that thing off.”
Betty came closer. “Your beer.”
“Why thank you, pretty lady.” Laurent took the bottle, had himself a healthy swig then joined me at the window. “That a mulberry tree out there?”
“Yes,” Betty said. “My father planted it years ago.”
“Thought so. I was always a working man, spent years in the landscaping business. Hard work, but I always enjoyed working outside. Nothing like being outside, working with your hands, sweating under a bright sun, putting your back into it and earning an honest dollar. Know what I mean, Will?”
Although I’d spent the majority of my adult life residing in cities, I too had grown up in a small and predominantly working-class town, and had heard this sort of drivel about working men for years. As if laborers were the only ones that worked for a living and were therefore of purer stock than those of us who earned our livings in other ways. What they did was real work. Everyone else coasted through cushy, faux jobs while enjoying undeserved salaries they hadn’t truly earned. Ironically, I’d always had respect for laborers and what they did, but that respect was rarely returned. More often than not I encountered prejudice against me due to my profession, and for not being one of them. This was no different.
The Rain Dancers Page 2