Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  White knuckles pierced James’ cheekbone, and a full fist cracked his eye socket. James wiped at the blood with a handkerchief then turned in the direction of his Volvo as swelling forced his eye closed. Another strike came from behind knocking him face first into the gravel. James rested a while on the coarse surface, waiting for more blows. He stood gingerly after a while, aware that footsteps had not crunched away.

  “Stay away from my daughter,” James mumbled, breathing sharply.

  “She’s my wife. How dare you, old man.”

  “Not that daughter,” he replied, and staggered toward his car.

  Up ahead, the red rear lights of Peter McMurtrie’s sedan lit up, and Peter stepped out of his car. James waved him away.

  Chapter Fourteen

  March 1971

  MICHAEL called from Sydney after his tests concluded. It had all gone well, he thought. Helena mentioned the pregnancy, and held the phone from her ear when accusations of trickery caused her heart to pound. Yelling made her shrink: her father had never yelled, not even at Grace. The reproach continued, but the long distance delivery was preferable to having a wrist twisted, and her face sprayed with saliva. When silence finally came, she asked about the RAAF. His response was calmer, as expected, but it allowed for the detection of a slur. Helena knew where he had been, and could only hope celebrations did not continue into the next day when he returned to Maine.

  Helena picked Michael up from the Maine Railway Station and dropped him off at The Royal Hotel as requested. He had not yet had an opportunity to celebrate his success, he claimed, and deserved as much. Helena said nothing.

  At two the following morning, she woke to find the left side of their bed unoccupied and undisturbed, and the living room sofa similarly uninhabited. She contemplated a 000 call, but had no idea what to report: Michael had not committed a crime, and he would not be in danger anywhere in Maine. She could call her father, but he would conclude the obvious: Michael was asleep, drunk somewhere, and the light of day would reveal his whereabouts, unfortunately. She called the Maine Hospital for confirmation that the night had been a quiet one with no emergencies or admissions. With everything possible done, she returned to bed at 2:30AM with a surprising revelation: she really did not care.

  There was still no sign of Michael when Helena woke the next morning. She made coffee then called Sergeant Mackelroth who shared her conclusion: he would turn up eventually. The rest of the morning continued per ritual until William failed to sit down at his cereal bowl, and another ritual began: William had taken hide-and-seek to a new level, primarily as a lone exercise, but also as a gauntlet throw to Helena. She sighed, and started the search downstairs where reward was likely to be fastest, but did not expect the dual discovery: a corpse-like, vomit-stained Caucasian male with the hands of a three-year-old cupped around his face. She pulled William from the scene, and carried him by the underarms to the concrete laundry tubs. Her stomach lurched repeatedly as she scraped a partially digested meal from her son’s fresh clothes. William showed no sign of distress, and his early morning swim in the tub would likely encourage more missions of discovery, but Helena envisioned a child psychiatrist pointing at that particular morning to explain William’s teenage years of insurrection. It was a call to action.

  She packed the station wagon for a day at Waterloo Street to catch up on her crying, and to take a new look at an old subject. As she drove the well-worn route, she resented the punctuation of her day: chores accumulated, and there was no luxury in postponing anything for a later time, and she was confident Michael would not pick up the slack.

  Over tea and her favorite banana mocha tart, James proposed a repetitive solution—divorce, and he could see no impediment for a woman three months from a fourth confinement. Millie was more circumspect: a final showdown with Michael was not worth the freedom, and father-less children was worse than the status quo, in Maine at least.

  At the end of the day’s deliberation, speculation, and calculation, the majority view (James and Millie) was that Helena should retrace the steps she had taken up the aisle and return to her first home, to them. They would support her financially, emotionally, and assume the role of permanent, full-time carers of the children. The solution was idyllic, but flawed. First, Helena was not one for trailblazing except when it had to do with running the mill: she had no desire to become the first young, divorcee with children in the entire metropolis of Maine. Second, the languid state of James and Millie after just one day with two kinetic toddlers and one babbler brought the rest of the proposal to its knees. Still, as suggested, Helena would think on it, a lot, and as she returned to Orchard Road in the snap chill of an early autumn evening, the solution was paramount in her mind.

  Orchard Road looked menacing on approach with no light or life emitting through the front windows. Michael could be out, back at The Royal for a dose of dog hair, or lying in wait for retribution relative to the time he had spent fermenting in the midday sun.

  She left the children asleep in the car, and ascended the rear steps holding tight on to the railing as she went. The back door was open, and her legs weakened. She should have woken him, helped him out of the sun before the rays burned his skin and caused his head to thump. The favor was about to be returned, and she cowered in anticipation while stepping inside. Silence greeted her, but did nothing to ease the pressure that pushed blood through to every nerve. As she entered each room, she switched on the light from a crouched position in case something was poised for her direction. Only when the house was bright did she encourage calm, returning then to the car to carry each child to bed youngest to eldest.

  With William draped over a shoulder, she gasped when she discovered another form already occupying his bed. It was certainly not Goldilocks or any other auric presence since it snored as a boar might, and was likely to be just as wild if surprised or cornered. She snuck away with William, careful to maneuver around floorboards known to creak. She placed William in her bed, and to her burgeoning chore list, she added more: bleach William’s sheets, and disinfect his mattress. She hoped there would be no vomit.

  Chapter Fifteen

  April 1971

  MICHAEL received another letter from the RAAF. The Selection Board, which traveled throughout Australia, was convening in Sydney for the final phase of initial testing—the panel interview. There had been delays in scheduling the test due to an influx of applications precipitated by the war in Vietnam, the conflict spawning patriots.

  The interviewing panel was comprised of an RAAF pilot, RAAF psychologist, and another officer. Helena tried to visualize Michael in a three-on-one situation, and was certain he would feel threatened. Every question, no matter how innocuous, would be a personal affront, since he was already convinced a conspiracy had almost caused him to fail the medical test.

  Regardless, the letter had focused Michael, and he returned home from work the next day not via The Royal, but via the Maine Municipal Library. He had borrowed every book he could on flying and the military, including a novel, Catch-22, which caused never-before scenes of hearty laughter.

  The atmosphere at Orchard Road continued with a tentative level of merriness until Michael left for Sydney, then the stress and pressure of being falsely so, manifested in complete exhaustion for Helena. The time alone would inspire her own solution, and so it was during those halcyon days that Project Alcatraz came to life.

  The plan began with a sheet of paper divided into three columns: the first column listed her skills and included bookkeeping, management, and children. She added ‘consumption’ while chewing on the last of the double chocolate-chip cookies, then crossed it out. A second column titled ‘interests’, was the same as the first, confirming that she excelled most at what she enjoyed. The final column, ‘market opportunities’, was not so easy at the outset, and she left the column blank to wash dishes while waiting for inspiration. An idea presented itself as she gazed through the open kitchen window that framed a Van Gogh-like backdrop: an app
rentice farmhand was harrowing the cabbage patch beyond their rear fence, scrutinized with some intensity by an older man with weathered skin. Helena abandoned the dishes to add ‘honest and trustworthy property agent’ to the third column. “How difficult could it be?” she asked herself.

  Also under ‘market opportunities’, she added staffing company, home-baked foods, and clothes for ample frames. On page two of the plan, she wrote ‘resources’ listing herself, Millie, and James with a question mark beside his name. Constraints on the third page were similarly obvious: money, time, and Michael. On the fourth page, she wrote ‘budget’, put down the pen and sighed.

  On the floor in front of the kitchen sink, she searched the darkened corner of the bottom cupboard for a tin box labeled ‘toxic cleaning agents’. She removed the blue bankbooks, and wrote the balance for each on the fourth page of the plan. She circled the total, $123, several times. That was it for start-up costs, which meant certain options were at once redundant, leaving just one opportunity.

  A scream pierced the funereal realization, and Helena had to rescue Carla from a Lego-filled nappy. William shook his head before Helena put the question, and Helena did likewise in response. She returned to Project Alcatraz for the final part: actions and deadlines.

  A small loan would float the plan, and Mr. Chase, family banker, was the buoy. Helena called his secretary for an urgent appointment, required before Michael returned from Sydney.

  Millie arrived early on the morning of the bank interview, to baby-sit, and to assist with crisis management. Helena had one maternity skirt suitable for the occasion, but the waistband was now dissecting mother and child. Another seismic force pulled at the seams challenging the inherent flexibility of the fabric and cotton. It was the same skirt Helena had worn carrying William, but it fitted her best now when un-expectant. Millie undid the side seams and inserted a gusset of stretchy material, and removed the waistband to create a design that was neither fashionable nor maternal, but which enabled Helena to sit in moderate comfort for the shortest period.

  Despite the trauma of the morning, Helena arrived early at the bank, and in time for two cups of nerve-settling tea. Promptly at 11AM, she was ushered into the inner sanctum where Mr. Chase stood to greet her.

  “Good morning, Miss Wallin. And how is your father?” he asked.

  “Fine, thank you, Mr. Chase,” she said, not bothering to correct her name or title.

  “Please take and seat. And what can I do for you today?”

  “I am considering a new business venture, Mr. Chase,” she began confidently, until she saw the first brow rise. “And, ah, I require a small loan, sir.” She imagined herself as Oliver Twist, much less articulate, but destined for a similar fate.

  “And what sum of money do you consider small, Miss Wallin?”

  “I can’t say for certain at the moment, Mr. Chase, but maybe…a thousand dollars…or less, if that’s too much.” A gulp escaped when the second brow rose.

  “I would certainly like to assist you. Your father has been a valued client of our esteemed institution for many years, as you would know. Perhaps when you have a clearer understanding of how much you require, exactly, we can meet again to consider a possible loan for you. Your father would be able to help with that I’m sure, and it would certainly help if you were to bring him with you next time to explain this enterprise of yours. Is that suitable to you, Miss Wallin?”

  “Yes, fine, Mr. Chase. Thank you for your time.” She stood ready to leave, looking forward to liberation from her clothing and Mr. Chase’s brows.

  “Before you go, Miss Wallin, there is one other rather sensitive matter I would like to bring to your attention, if I may?”

  “Oh?” she said, sitting once more.

  “Regarding your mortgage repayments…they are in arrears, you see.”

  “Mortgage repayments, Mr. Chase? We don’t have a mortgage. Perhaps you have me confused with someone else?”

  “I’m never confused, Miss Wallin, and I am surprised that you would not recall granting a mortgage over your property to our institution.”

  “Ah, forgive me, Mr. Chase, but how much is this mortgage for?”

  “Two thousand dollars, Miss Wallin—not an insignificant sum, all matters given due consideration.” His chin dropped to his neck for his eyes to glare over the top of his glasses.

  “And what was the purpose of this loan? Again, Mr. Chase, please forgive my poor memory. I am pregnant, you see,” she replied, her muted laugh failing to extinguish the tension.

  “Home improvements, Miss—” He stopped abruptly, and a sweat broke out above his brows. A sudden thought seemed to have unnerved him, and Helena watched as he twisted his cufflink. “Would you excuse me one moment,” he said then left the room.

  When he returned, dabbing at his forehead with an embossed handkerchief, he handed Helena a large green document. “Would this be your signature?” he asked, and pointed to a scrawl beside the words, “Mortgagor, Helena Elsie Wallin.”

  Helena paused, shook her head, hung it, and whispered, “That appears to be my signature, Mr. Chase. I am sorry for the confusion, and I’ll make sure the outstanding repayments are made as soon as possible.”

  “Yes, as soon as possible, Miss Wallin, please. The mortgage has been in arrears for some time now. I’m sure your father would not approve if he was to know of this.”

  Outside in the cooling autumn air, away from the austerity and accompanying claustrophobia of the bank, Helena took a deep, much needed breath, and cried all the way to Orchard Road.

  Chapter Sixteen

  May 1971

  MICHAEL stared at the form guide. Tiny Dancer in the fifth was a certainty, but he dared not. Since the mortgage issue had revealed itself, life at Orchard Road had degenerated. He was more like a disobedient pet now, and not a much-loved pet either.

  When the train had sided into Maine Railway Station, he was still on a high, but that nose-dived as soon as his feet made contact with the platform. He was expecting so much more for his triumphant homecoming, much more than a wife with a silent, cold hostility. It reminded him though, that he had never seen her angry, and he would never have given her credit for having the requisite fire inside. She said nothing, but words were not required. He willed himself to leap aboard the last carriage to wave an Astaire-like farewell as the train rolled out of the station, but turned instead and followed Helena to the car. She said nothing more when he asked her to stop at The Royal on the way home.

  He had hoped to win enough on the horses to pay for the floor coverings and window furnishings at Orchard Road, but his motive was not entirely pure: the constant scrambling for every dollar for carpet and curtains, made him feel guilty about his visits to The Royal, and he should not since he was the sole breadwinner.

  His system for the horses seemed sure-fire, but when it failed, he had to win more to cover past losses, and that meant betting more. Then the second system went awry at an early stage, and the bookmaker’s demands became monotonous and wearisome, so Michael visited the bank, used his father-in-law’s name and influence, and secured a loan. The task was easier than expected, and no one questioned the legitimacy of Helena’s signature, but the repayments were much trickier. He started out OK, deducting the loan repayment from monies he already creamed from his pay packet before handing it to Helena. The cream, though, was his drinking stash. A single schooner a day was all he could afford after debts were paid, and this made him bitter so he drank more, paid less off the loan, and spiraled into the quagmire that led to the exposure.

  Although the detection of the fraud and subsequent isolation had been unpleasant, he was better off for it: the problem now had a new owner, and Helena no longer bothered him with her daily minutiae. William delivered essential communiqués in the back tray of his plastic tricycle, and was so happy with the new modus operandi he expanded his enterprise to deliver food, garbage, toys, and anything else that would fit.

  All there was to life was the
waiting for something to change. The next RAAF letter was overdue, and every additional day of delay compounded his anxiety. Further complications arose at work, and Michael responded to Peter McMurtrie’s changed demeanor toward him with a climactic diminution in attitude and productivity. The risk of imminent unemployment was high, which added more pressure.

  The station wagon veered off the usual path from Orchard Road to Waterloo Street to follow the asphalt up to the white house on the range with its expansive view through bay windows. Helena parked across the street and peered inside to imagine herself in another life. Her three fellow passengers were uncharacteristically quiet while she dreamed, but then a sudden cheer from William caused giggles, and three smiles from her babies brought her back to where she wanted to be. She glanced down at the plan for Millie’s Home-Baked Treats, her Hobson’s choice: the planning process and Mr. Chase having confirmed that this was all there was. Helena stared for the final time at the house she had unwittingly renounced when she thought she was appeasing her husband then restarted the engine to continue the drive to Waterloo Street.

  She decided not to mention the mortgage issue when asking her parents for assistance with the new business venture. She knew the response: her father would insist on repaying all monies owed to the bank then a homily would follow that Helena could predict word for word, and did not need to hear.

  Millie loved the idea of Millie’s Home-Baked Treats, and could not wait to put her talents on a more public platform, but the key to success, James and Helena agreed, was the incestuous market at hand: Grace and her coffee shop in Sydney.

  With the plan adopted unanimously in the absence of anything else, Helena and Millie began with the list of foods to bake and sell. They identified ingredients, calculated quantities for each daily bake, and divided the recipes unequally between them according to capabilities. James assumed responsibility for supply chain management: he calculated the time required to prepare, bake, cool, and package, and to transport the output to its final destination. He added ten percent to the total time to allow for the unforeseen, primarily with children in mind, traffic in Sydney, and the likelihood that something in Helena’s kitchen might burn.