Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  William’s earlier capture did not curb his enterprising ways, and Helena learned more of this from Principal Mulder. Visits to his office were so frequent that Helena had good reason to consider him a friend, but for the disdain he did not attempt to hide. Some minor troubles had shadowed William through grades six and seven, growing exponentially to recalcitrant level by the time he arrived at Maine Public High School and the care of Principal Mulder who stated openly that days marked ‘absent’ against his name were best for everyone—teachers and students alike. It was a quandary, he said, as it would be for any educator, to value truancy in this way.

  Principal Mulder had one solution for Helena: boarding school in the city, and one in particular where catholic discipline lobotomized teenage heretics like William Baden. Helena was aware of the school, its reputation, successes, and fees, and raised the matter with Michael hoping for agreement and funding. His response though was predictable: boys will be boys, and she was over-reacting, as mothers tend to do. Everything would be all right if she did not make mountains from molehills.

  But it was Brian who panged her heart the most, under the influence of William now and in as much trouble, although not the ringleader, according to Principal Mulder. Helena had no inkling that such a transformation was in progress—an innocent, doting child of hers one minute then Williams’s accomplice and best friend in the next tick.

  Matthew’s teacher, Miss Orlando, had also called Helena to school for a lunchtime “chat,” but unlike Principal Mulder, she began the meeting on a positive, sunshiny note. Matthew was a prolific reader, gifted writer, and talented artist, and all beyond the expected capabilities of a ten year old, she said. Then came the monsoonal rains—he read in isolation never interacting with his classmates, his writing was as dark as Poe, and his art was two-toned, colorless and hollow. Miss Orlando claimed this amounted to an unhealthy predilection for death and suffering. She closed the meeting with evidence, filling Helena’s cupped hands with a siege of origami cranes. “They’re not black,” said Helena, gazing into her palms.

  “No, Mrs. Baden. They’re not black,” she conceded.

  Helena left believing the time with Miss Orlando had been a waste of a lunch hour and, relative to meetings with Principal Mulder, unnecessary since Matthew’s creativity was at least legal. As she strode from Matthew’s classroom to her car, she reeled in the smiles contemplating the progenitor of his artistic talents. She could not identify anyone from recent generations, but perhaps there was a Toulouse-Lautrec somewhere in Wallin ancestry. Her pride did not hold sway all the way to the car as she encountered a scattering of giggling teasers. A “big fat blowfish” she heard them say.

  Helena declined Millie’s banana mocha tart that night, haunted as she was by images of the toxic fish, and apparent similarity to her own form. She could not deny it, and had to accept that manner-less children were at least accurate with their depictions. Her abstinence though, lived only a short while as new stressors forced her to seek relief in its crusty comforts.

  She followed the cussing to the bathroom where Carla and Matthew kneeled against the bathtub. “Basket, basket, basket,” Carla repeated, reminding Helena to cease references to Michael’s legitimacy in the presence of sponge-like minds. Tiny hands scooped limp birds from their watery grave to place them with care on the now colorful mat to dry. Helena yelled for William who appeared hauntingly within a microsecond.

  “Why, William?” she asked. “Why did you do this?”

  “They’re swans. They should be able to swim,” he replied.

  “They’re paper cranes,” said Helena glaring. “Get your marbles. Let’s see if they can swim.”

  William stared back, curious, shrugged his shoulders then returned with his treasured glass balls.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You won’t be seeing these again until you’ve learned to respect other people’s property.”

  The matter did not end at that point as Helena might have hoped.

  It was usual for Carla to yell at William to no avail and with foolish regard for the sanctity of her own life. It was usual for Matthew to be involved, though silent, and usual for a rescue to be necessitated.

  Helena found Matthew swinging from the clothesline like a carnival paratrooper, painted blue. William did not run, as self-preservation dictated, but stood to account, blue-handed. Helena rushed to unhinge the contraption that held Matthew aloft, her anxiousness elevated by his faint whimpering. Despite her care though, Matthew fell some way to the ground then scampered away to a demilitarized zone under the Rosella bushes.

  The spray can, marked ‘water-based’, brought some relief, eliminating the need for an entirely humorless encounter with turpentine. Helena filled a bucket with warm, soapy water, and headed for the bushes that sheltered Matthew. Carla reached out from the shrubs to take the cloth and pail to re-beige the blue boy. Helena turned her attention to William, meeting his smile and challenging eyes. She wished she could praise the ingenuity of his device, and admire his stoic acceptance of what was to come. She wished she had the power to frighten him into obedience instead of inspiring him to do more, better. If he felt any anger, he did not show it, but his grin was a contradiction: love, rejection, perhaps hatred, game and competition. It was unnerving.

  Helena called Michael again, certain of a better reception given William’s most recent exploits. He did not agree to her suggestion that they engage a child psychologist: William did not need a “psychobabbler meddling in his head” since he would grow out of his menacing ways if only his mother desisted with whatever she was doing to cause it, he said. Recollections of a three-year-old came to Helena’s mind, of William kneeling at his father’s drunken carcass rotting in the morning sun. Helena said nothing: confrontation curdled her stomach, and even though she never fired a shot, she was bullet-ridden. On this issue, she also needed Michael’s buy-in, whichever solution, as Michael would have to pay: the agreement forged January of 1974 that relinquished his child support responsibilities was now invalid, a force majeure was in effect. For the moment, she would do nothing, but allow time for the boys to “grow out of it” as Michael suggested, and to secure that one last chance for redemption.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  August 1984

  HELENA sat behind her two eldest sons and imagined herself reaching forward to stroke long, unkempt locks without repudiation. She contemplated the future for her sons, dire at best, and thought back to when her babies had first cried, coated in blood and vernix. She had not considered the consequences should she fail at the task ahead, but there she was, effectively on trial with her boys.

  Michael deserved to be, but she had worked two jobs and fourteen hours out of every twenty-four just to meet the basic needs of her children. In hindsight, she had quit her second job at the supermarket a little too late in the day to guide her wayward sons onto a better path. Millie had wanted to help a long time ago, offering up her savings for any purpose bar boarding school in Sydney. Helena had declined, and she still did not understand why except perhaps that pride had got in the way. It was a fool’s lesson: that pride should taint charity in such a way when the consequences were so frightful. Helena would have accepted in a flash if Michael had offered a portion of his burgeoning finances, but he had not made even the slightest overture.

  The rapidity of the boys’ descent from that last chance to being on trial was shocking, but then there was a catalyst: a soft euphoriant weed they first encountered at school while under the supervision of Principal Mulder who did not accept or acknowledge the dealing that went on behind the sports shed.

  Helena had unwittingly supported their illegal horticultural project as an unknowing and gullible baron. She thought their sudden interest in naturalist pursuits was a positive sign, and so she had cared for the ‘tomato’ plants checking them regularly for insects and red fruit, and had even expanded the boys’ enterprise by planting pumpkins and watermelon. Their lack of enthusiasm for her efforts was u
psetting at the time, in particular because her plants did not receive the same level of attention as the ‘tomatoes’ because there was nothing intoxicating about smoking a pumpkin or a watermelon. It was not the new direction for her sons she had thought, but a bogging down on the path already taken.

  Helena met Edward Hyde and his less misanthropic counterpart the night of her last shift at Woolworths. She finished early, stacking the final can of baked beans with commensurate pomp, and the hour had gone past two when her old Datsun exhausted its way down Orchard Road. Up ahead in the distance, caught by dim lights on high beam, she saw the silhouettes, and there was no mistaking the tallest gait. She never expected to encounter her two teenage sons in this way, returning home in the early hours from where or what, she could not imagine. Her heart pounded, and conflict-anticipated nausea rose to greet it. She slowed her car to idle, hoping also, to slow the palpitations in her chest, and observed as the two shadows turned into their driveway, as she would a careful time later.

  She parked between the rows of carved, graffitied, unsymmetrical posts at Orchard Road, switched the engine to off, and listened to the footsteps above that paced down the hallway to the back bedroom. She closed the car door by leaning against it gently. Her mouth was dry as she crossed the concrete floor to reach the back stairs where she rested against the side of the house for composure before advancing. In her head, a requiem played as she made her way up the paint-flaked rungs, and a dark opera accompanied the opening of the back door. She wished she could go directly to bed, and leave the face-off to someone more skilled, but courage from an unknown source helped her down the hallway to the door to the boy’s bedroom. The hallway light broke through to illuminate the masqueraders.

  “Where have you been?” she asked, shaking.

  William sat up, portraying someone rudely awoken, which would have convinced anyone not apprised of the truth. She repeated the question.

  “Nowhere,” he replied as if addressing the insane or stupid.

  “I saw you. Both of you,” she said as Brian ‘slept’ on.

  “Nowhere,” William repeated.

  “You must have been sleepwalking then.”

  “None of your business.”

  “It is my business while you’re under my roof!”

  William was up, out of his bed and in her face. Despite the gentle lighting, she could see his dilated, red pupils, and a fist poised just seconds from release. Brian yelled, “No! Don’t, William!” as Helena’s head pierced the hallway wall. William slammed the bedroom door, which woke Millie and Basil. With the discussion terminated, and the showdown won and lost, the victor rested in bed while Helena wiped her blood from the fractured wall. She had to speak to Michael first thing the next morning.

  Helena did not sleep as her body refused to still its quivering fibers, and as soon as six o’clock came around, she called Michael to tell him about the hole in the wall, and that there were no tomatoes, and how she, a law-abiding citizen, had played an unwitting part in a criminal enterprise. She was confident of his support under the weight of information that proved there was a calamitous situation at hand.

  Michael argued that an occasional late night for teenagers was surely normal, and William’s red eyes was most likely caused by tiredness, and nothing at all sinister was at play just because there were no tomatoes. She reminded him that they were too young to be out until all hours, especially on a school night, and suspected there was nothing ‘occasional’ about it. He suggested she was the stupid one for watering the plants, and encouraging the venture if in fact, they were marijuana plants, and he remained unconvinced of that much. She disconnected the line in response.

  Spiraling seemed to begin at that point, or perhaps it was merely that her awareness had been piqued. According to Principal Mulder, the boys were stealing from the pockets of little children, and their hours of truancy had been devoted to burglary, battery, and possession, according to the charges they faced. They were not alone with two like-minded teens beside them on the defendant’s table. It appeared to be a matter of some mirth, and all four pled not guilty in spite of legal advice to the contrary.

  Helena was heartened by the day in a strange way: the judge was certain to throw the book on criminal law at them with full force, and a stint in juvenile detention seemed to be the only answer.

  Michael had returned to Maine for the trial, said little, but his Old Spice spoke loudly on its failure to disguise the morning consumption of ale.

  “All rise. This court is now in session. His Honor, Judge Blackwell presiding.”

  The prosecution called its first witness, Paul Thorpe, the victim, who swore to tell the truth.

  “I had taken the day off work with the flu, otherwise I would have been at work, and they probably knew that.”

  “Objection, Your Honor, the witness cannot say what the defendants may or may not have known.”

  “Sustained.”

  “What happened while you were at home with the flu, Mr. Thorpe?” the prosecutor asked.

  “My wife had gone to our store by herself so the car was not in the driveway as it usually is when someone’s home. I heard a noise. I got up to investigate, and I saw one of them coming through the bedroom window.”

  “Mr. Thorpe, can you please identify who you saw coming through the window.”

  “That one,” he answered, with a stiff finger aimed at Brian.

  “Let the record show the witness identified the defendant, Brian Baden. What happened next?”

  “I thought he must have been on his own, then, when I turned around to go to the phone, that other one hit me.”

  “Who hit you, Mr. Thorpe?”

  He pointed at William. “That one in the blue shirt.”

  “Let the record show the witness identified the defendant, William Baden. What happened next, Mr. Thorpe?”

  “The other two came out from another room, and the three of them started kicking me while I was on the floor.”

  “Please identify who was kicking you, Mr. Thorpe.”

  He pointed at William, the tattooed boy with an inked fly on his cheek, and the formerly sweet, blond boy with ringlets from William’s third grade. His parents hung their heads lower as if the finger had pointed at them. Their presence reflected well for Helena, she thought, or better at least since it proved that criminals are borne also of respectability, of a good home, and of good people.

  Helena tuned out during the inventory of stolen items, injuries inflicted on the victim, and the police officer’s report on the capture. However, she did hear the defense counsel’s response that asserted a case of mistaken identity since the victim was too ill, and influenced by medication to know for sure who he had seen that day. And although the defendants were caught with the misbegotten goods, they had merely come across them in the street after the real culprits had abandoned them. The marijuana the four smoked when captured was from the stolen jewelry box, and was thought to be just cigarettes.

  It was an unbelievable tale that would not convince the most gullible, Helena thought, since she was the measure of naivety. Detention was imminent, and the system would rehabilitate William and Brian. Michael said nothing, until the outcome.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  August 1984

  GUILTY, with four convictions for three of them: break and enter, theft, battery and possession, and three convictions for Brian since he had not injured anyone. There was no detention for any of them, released instead with good behavior bonds. The punishment was inexplicable, and Helena could only conclude that the justice the judge served had blinded him. It seemed obvious and inevitable to the parents in attendance that the warnings and threats meant to frighten the four into fulfilling the obligations of their bond were futile.

  Michael stepped up for the first time in parenting history, claiming that since he had successfully redirected his own troubled life, he would do likewise for his favored sons. He knew how to straighten them out: by treating them as young men, no
t children, no molly coddling, and he would grant craved teenage freedoms to a reasonable extent. Helena would see from his example, how best to parent sons, and after a short stay with him at the base, the results would speak volumes.

  Michael took the boys to the lake to fish and unwind after the trial. It would be like old times when they were young, albeit, it was just the once.

  They settled on the lush banks with rods, and an excess of revelry having beaten the system. A criminal record was of no concern or consequence, but having narrowly escaped prosecution himself on three occasions, Michael sought to explain the ramifications of their convictions on future employment. He told them a little of his own personal pilgrimage, and they laughed. Michael fumed quietly, but accepted that they were too young to understand his lesson. One day, they would remember his words, absorb them, and appreciate his authority to speak on personal reformation.

  William removed a bottle of vodka from his jacket, and passed it to Brian who winced with the first scull. Michael warned them about drinking spirits, that it was a serious drink for the seriously afflicted, and urged them to drink his beer instead. They declined, but accepted his cigarettes.

  Michael waited a while before mentioning the proposed relocation to the RAAF base, and they wasted no time saying no. They did not want to move to Laverton, or to live at the base, or return to school. They wanted to be free, to drink, to have fun, and to live in another realm away from ordinary consciousness induced by whatever means affordable. They would not live to regret their decision, and William challenged Michael’s right to suggest otherwise given the examples he had set, which William claimed to remember.