Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  She opened the door with a glass of red wine in one hand. “Where are the boys?” she asked.

  “They’re not coming.”

  “Oh,” she said. “I was looking forward to seeing them again after all these years.”

  Michael opened the refrigerator, and grabbed a bottle of beer. He sculled half of it without breathing then stepped through the sliding glass doors onto the terrace to admire the expanded view from South Head to the city.

  “Hungry?” Grace asked, appearing at the doorway in a pair of mauve legwarmers and a headband. He smiled. The mass of teased hair reminded him of sprouting alfalfa, but the comparison did not last long: the forces of man and nature induced a downward cast to her exposed breasts.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  August 1984

  MRS. REY called out to Carla through Olivia’s locked bedroom door, offering to drive her home since it was dark outside, and a gentle rain had misted the winter air. Carla declined even though a ride in the warmth of their Mercedes was preferred to a walk in the cold rain. There was only one reason for the nonsensical choice: Carla had a job to do along the way, disposing of the empty Southern Comfort bottle in the industrial bin behind the service station. If it had been Saturday night instead of Friday night, there would not have been a problem since the Reys entertained every Saturday night, and it was easy to mingle their empties with the mass of wine and other bottles from the dinner party. An extra empty bottle or two went unnoticed, and it seemed no one noticed either that Olivia had been robbing the liquor cabinet for months. It helped that Mr. Rey indulged every night in varying degrees: from mere cheeriness to passed-out in his armchair in front of Dateline. It was therefore reasonable for Mrs. Rey to presume that Mr. Rey alone was responsible for the declining stocks. She never questioned how much he drank, Olivia said, and never chastised him as some wives did because he was a man with many stresses and pressures as managing partner of a law firm. Mrs. Rey was an excellent wife, Carla concluded, and an excellent mother too for entrusting Olivia with so much privacy, allowing her to lock her bedroom door without interrogation. All doors were permanently open at Orchard Road as a rule, introduced after William and Brian left for Sydney.

  The Reys were perfect entertainers, and Carla looked forward to Saturday nights helping with table settings so regal, they were suitable for kings and queens. Plates of gold and cobalt blue Noritake were positioned with a little ruler to be certain of distances. Little square boxes of short-cut roses lined the middle of the table, which Mrs. Rey arranged herself. For each of the ten diners, there were four crystal glasses of varying shapes and sizes. They had crystal at Orchard Road too, in the display cabinet above the kitchen bench, but no occasion ever arose to use it. A man from Weight Watchers had come by recently for dinner, but he drank water from the everyday glasses and chewed on ice cubes throughout. He laughed a lot at nothing in particular, and Carla thought it strange, knowing how little her mother laughed—she had thought until then that happiness and size could not live harmoniously together in one being.

  One other man had been to Orchard Road for dinner before the fat man. He was the ugly man, and Carla could tell as much through the front door without even seeing his face. Carla had heard him ask mother for a goodnight kiss, but mother had politely refused. Then he yelled at her, and said she ought to be grateful that he had taken her out as a favor as it certainly was not for pleasure. She would not do better than his charity he forewarned then tried to kiss her again. Mother came inside and cried a lot, alone in the kitchen eating cake before going to bed in the room she shared with Grandma. Carla had listened in to hear her mother say that she had had a lovely night out. Grandma did not ask more questions, and Carla felt sure Grandma had heard it all just as she had.

  Carla’s head was spinning when she left the Rey residence. She stumbled in a daze for the next eight blocks, liking the world blurred in this way. After throwing the evidence in the bin, she fell to the ground giggling, and tried to stop her body from swaying as she rose to her feet. She checked her wristwatch and thought it said eight twenty—just ten minutes to curfew. “Hurry,” she ordered herself. She would take the short cut tonight.

  The cemetery was a beautiful place during the day with mature trees forming a canopy, manicured lawns, flowers, and ornate stonemasonry. It was a quiet place, and perfect for reading a book under a tree or for a picnic on the lawn, although no one ever did. Carla struggled over the waist-high, mossy wall, which was a boundary marker only, and not intended as a barrier to keep humans out or spirits in, including her grandfather, James Wallin. She maneuvered her way across the spongy lawn on a diagonal course to the other side, careful not to step on a grave and wake the dead.

  Carla’s heart paced when she saw the red glows up ahead, eyes of demons, watching, and waiting to possess her. She stumbled over a concrete slab, and landed spread-eagled on a memorial verse. Her skirt ripped, as did the skin on her shin to expose the bone. She rolled on to her side to clutch at her dented tibia, and came face-to-face with a photo of the entombed Kelly Anne Travis. Carla remembered the demons, and saw the red glows moving toward her—they could smell the blood that trickled down her leg. She thought to run, but feared she would fall again unable to see in the dark as they could. She closed her eyes and hoped they might sail past her, and if not, perhaps the spirit of Kelly would protect her.

  She screamed when the first demon grabbed her arm. “Don’t scream,” it said, blowing smoke into her face. She screamed, and a hand covered her mouth, a human-like hand. “Don’t scream,” it repeated. “We’re not going to hurt you unless you scream.” It slowly removed the hand. Carla screamed, and another hand smacked her across the face. She thought she heard a zip then something pushed into her mouth, in and out, with her head gripped at the cheeks forcing her mouth open. She choked. “Don’t bite,” it said. She cried and retched, but it would not stop, and moved faster and faster inside her mouth until slime from the beast spewed down her throat choking her. It let her go, and she vomited over its shoes, Southern Comfort, ginger ale, chips, and other mush. It slapped her face, hard, and pushed her back onto the slab while another demon sat on her neck to pin her arms above her head. Another demon pulled her jumper from her body. They tugged at her skirt then threw it over Kelly’s headstone. Carla dared not scream as it ripped her insides, one demon after another, how many times, she could not tell. One prodded at her face releasing a sticky mass into her ear, and another did so into her hair. She was bleeding to death from every orifice, coated from head to toe in demon ejaculate. Her eyes settled on the headstone, died aged 37, ‘Sleep on, sweet mother and wife, and take thy rest, God called thee home, He thought it best.’ There would be trouble tomorrow, when they found her naked and dead on Kelly’s grave.

  “Help me, Kelly,” Carla whimpered. “Help me Jesus,” she prayed. Silence answered, and then came the soothing rain. She did not move at first, but waited for the white light Grandma had told her about, and for the movie reel to begin that would flash by for a mere fourteen years. There was no white light, and no life passing before her eyes, and only the rain, now heavy on her skin. It washed away the blood, the demon fluid, and salt from her tears. She found her skirt and dressed somehow, panicked because she was still a part of life, and late.

  Her watch had stopped at nine o’clock. There would be more trouble because of it: her first teenage birthday present ruined with moisture inside the cracked face blurring the numbers. She dared not think how many cans of vegetables had been stacked in the middle of the night to pay for it.

  The rain continued as Carla staggered the last three blocks to home. She waited on the top step outside the kitchen to muster courage before opening the back door to scurry down the hallway to the bathroom. She undressed in the shower, and cowered in the tub under a searing spray with her knees tucked under a quivering chin.

  “Are you OK, Carla?” her mother asked from the bathroom doorway.

  Carla willed the plastic shower cu
rtain to stay in place. It did.

  “Get caught in the rain did you? You should have called me. I would have picked you up.”

  “I’m OK, Mum.” The bathroom door closed, and Carla breathed again. She stayed in the shower until her skin burned red, and the smell of shame had gurgled into the sewer.

  Her knees were weak when she finally stood dripping in front of the foggy mirror. She wiped it clear, and saw what the demons had seen. Inside the bathroom cabinet, she found the manicure scissors. Long strips of brown hair fell into the hand basin, leaving behind a jagged aftermath then Carla dragged the blunt edge of the scissors down her cheekbone, repeatedly, until a deep and enduring imperfection emerged. Blood trickled as a tear would have if allowed. “I hate you,” she said staring at the image in the mirror. “I hate you.”

  Carla opened the bathroom door, peered right and left then with her head bowed, dashed the short distance to her bedroom.

  “Carla, dear, what have you done to your hair?” Grandma asked, appearing suddenly before Carla in the hallway. “You look like a little boy or one of those rocker people.”

  “Don’t call me Carla, Grandma.”

  “Oh, what should I call you then?”

  “Carl. It’s Carl now.”

  “That’s a boy’s name, dear. What’s that on your cheek?”

  “Nothing, Grandma. It’s OK,” she said then brushed past the obstacle that stood between her and the sanctity of a darkened room. Once alone, she relived every moment, shivering with cold and fear, and cried every tear she could assemble. When the source was dry, she closed her eyes, and recessed the memory by visualizing a box that she bound with string then stored in a deep cavern in the outposts of her mind. When she woke the next morning, she would pretend nothing had happened, with just a scar as a reminder to hate herself with passion for as long as she breathed air. She glared at the poster on her wall, the words she could not see known by heart.

  Millie had rushed to the living room to report the gash on Carla’s cheek and boyish hair, but in the short distance traveled, forgot she had something to say. She sat down in a worn green armchair to watch Dallas with Helena.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  October 1984

  MICHAEL was a man’s man. He had no interest in the labyrinthine byways of women. Grace was the exception, although even she now, at forty, wanted more: complication when simplicity had worked well for so many years.

  Michael was more consistent in his life, still preferring a pub to a club, the mess hall to dinner by candlelight, football to a movie, and so it was with reluctance that he dressed in compliance of a code for a night out at The Establishment. It was the place to be, his colleagues had said, with beautiful women wall to wall. Guerrillas, Michael thought. He left one collar crooked hoping for rejection by the burley bouncer at the entry, but his wrist bore a stamp without a second glance.

  His colleagues were right about The Establishment and the women who went there, and Michael’s primary source of entertainment for the night was the misadventures of his peers. They had all tried for the tall blonde who deflected advances like Wonder Woman. A mere strip of cloth across her chest defied gravity and accentuated the positives. They can’t be real, Michael thought, but craved certainty.

  With the wisdom that came from hours of observation, Michael adopted a circuitous route, which was best against the shield. He collided, ‘accidentally’ into the least attractive woman in the retinue, apologized profusely for his clumsiness, and offered to refill her drink. She accepted, introduced herself as Caitlyn Robson, and made room for Michael in the inner sanctum. Not once while in proximity to the breasts, did he glance at them, or her. While the task was inhuman, he could see in his peripheral vision that his disinterest had caught her attention. The evening concluded in this way, and Michael arranged lunch with Caitlyn Robson at The Pier the following day.

  Caitlyn, a divorcee, had no children from a short marriage. She was a dentist, and daughter of a dentist, and Michael found the phenomenon most intriguing.

  Chardonnay from the Yarra Valley flowed freely as did conversation, and Michael was relieved that Caitlyn was willing and able to discuss football in an otherwise dull exchange on subjects more valued by women: relationships, their demise, and why men so consistently disappoint women. There was no mention of the friend until the second bottle of wine, and Michael was not the instigator.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me about Andréa?” Caitlyn asked.

  “Who?”

  She smiled. “My friend? The tall, blonde, endowed one.”

  Michael shook his head. “I don’t think I met her.”

  “They’re real,” she said.

  Michael smiled, and realized it was enough to expose the ruse.

  “I would have thought there was something wrong with you if you hadn’t noticed her.”

  “How long have you been friends?” he asked.

  “Forever,” she replied. “I’m not a threat to her social domination if you understand what I mean.”

  He did.

  “Let’s talk about something else,” he suggested. When it came to a cause like Andréa somebody-or-other, patience would ultimately be the path of least resistance. “Damn those Bombers,” he said. “I had quite a sum riding on the Hawks to win the final.”

  Two weeks passed before Michael next encountered Andréa. Caitlyn wanted to see Places in the Heart in the city, and Michael was not at all interested, until Caitlyn asked if Andréa could join them. He agreed.

  They waited for her on the steps out front of the Bourke Street cinemas. A curious edginess shook his core, and when she came into view, Michael’s nonchalant strategy had to battle it for control. It was absurd that she made such a scene just striding, and Michael struggled to divert his eyes.

  They talked for a while on the steps as trams rattled past, and Michael wondered about seating arrangements. Then the reason for the delay came into view: a Ken doll made it four, not three. Michael thought to bail as any spoiled child might, but he could not walk away while a pretty figurine of a man moved in on his woman, and besides, he had invested interminable hours with Caitlyn for this moment. He followed the trio into the darkness, and assumed the position of bookend with just Caitlyn between himself and her.

  It was the Depression in Places in the Heart. A husband had died, and his widow struggled with the cotton fields and two young children. She hired a black man, Moze, after he stole their silver, then a bitter blind man came to board with them. Michael spotted the Ken doll’s hand in his peripherals. It rested at first on her shoulder, flailed intermittently then landed in a deceitful hint of aimlessness on the magnificent cushioning. An urge rose to dislodge it, but Caitlyn nuzzled into him entrapping his upper arm in both of hers. Michael glanced down at her, and recognized the pulpy look as her eyes willed his lips toward her own. Moze gave young Frank his lucky rabbit’s foot to ward off trouble, which did not help much as he endured a spanking for smoking behind the school shed. Michael smiled at the scene reminiscent of his own childhood, but was glad when the credits scrolled, and the theatre brightened.

  The après movie gathering over coffee prompted another thought to bail: he only wanted to hear from her, but Caitlyn talked most, and the Ken Doll also had a lot to say about everything. They should get together, Michael thought.

  The Ken doll and Michael’s Barbie were models, which would come as no surprise to anyone at a glance let alone after an endless discourse on the world of modeling. When asked about his career, Michael had a chance to trump his rival, and military pilot always did. Andréa seemed suitably impressed, and for that alone, Michael considered the night a success. There was just one impediment going forward, wearing a white jacket and trousers with a pale pink t-shirt beneath. Michael wondered what his colleagues would think of a man who dared to wear pastel, and so brazenly so.

  The group finally split with Michael forced to leave with Caitlyn. She invited him home, and did not accept a parade of excuses, a
nd Michael finally caved in to a reliable upsell: lager substituted for java. He would have one drink then leave first chance.

  “What did you think of Andréa’s new boyfriend?” Caitlyn asked.

  “I didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “I didn’t think of him,” Michael replied.

  Caitlyn retreated down the hallway leaving Michael alone in her quaint living room. He sculled his beer, and was ready to leave when she materialized draped in sheer black. The dim lighting was not dim enough to disguise a body curved like a glass blowing gone wrong. Her hands rose slowly upward from her side as if commanding an orchestra to crescendo, and Michael realized escape was no longer a viable option. Her outstretched arms pleaded, and Michael knew he would have to draw into them with no further delay or the awkward pause would transform into a major discomfort for both of them, but mostly for her. He imagined Andréa in a similar state of revelation, and with this in mind, the obligation would be executable to a satisfactory degree for all concerned, he believed.

  Michael woke under a sea of frilly pink hanging from the white four-poster bed. More pink surrounded him on the walls. The furniture was barely visible under a menagerie of plush animals from Paddington to Kermit. Even Dame Edna would cringe at the décor, he thought.

  He dressed in slow dread, a precipitous departure unlikely since bacon wafted from the pan down the hallway. The tang of expectation dragged him toward the kitchen.

  Caitlyn was much too cheerful for any morning. She filled his cup with coffee, and kissed him with the entitlement that comes from having surrendered most parts of one’s anatomy to someone else. When she delivered the bacon and eggs, she dropped into his lap, and kissed him some more. Michael willed her to move away, and she did, but only as far as the seat opposite. She watched him eat with dreamy eyes trailing his fork from the plate to his lips, and lingered there while he chewed. The phone drew her away allowing for a more rapid ingestion, and sculling of the coffee.