Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  “I can’t talk right now. We’re having breakfast,” she whispered into the mouthpiece.

  I hope that’s not Andréa, he thought.

  “Let’s just say the movie exceeded all expectations, and there were two parts I particularly enjoyed.”

  Oh, please, girl code, he thought.

  “I’ll call you later, much later,” she said with a laugh.

  More girl code and he knew what it meant: I’ll tell you every intricate detail when he’s gone, when I’ve finished with him, hours from now. Disturbing creatures, women, compelled to share so much of their lives, and with no topic taboo, apparently. There was a greater respect shown in the manhood with conversations restricted to sport and news, with personal issues and emotions locked away in trunks where they belonged.

  Michael stayed at Caitlyn’s until reasonableness allowed for a departure: an hour after breakfast, and he had suffered for his fairness. He was going to Sydney the following week, he told her, to get his sons. Life would be busy thereafter with two teenagers in his care, and so he might not be around in a while. A woman like her should not sit around waiting for a man like him. She said she was happy to wait, and would call him in a couple of weeks.

  “Great,” he replied.

  The pub opened for communion at ten, and Michael could barely wait for the doors to fling wide to welcome him into its fold. It was a safe house where true providence reigned on any given day, and tortured souls could gather in a secure, woman-free setting for anointing. Michael joined the other life-beaten to convalesce, and the priest for the day served the first ale. The men gathered did not need to speak of unspeakable things.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  October 1984

  IN the valley of the shadow of death, evil lurked. William could see it. It taunted him, swinging cross-legged on the telephone wires that drooped outside their window. The motley jesters were multiplying and with it, their jeering became louder. William could stand it no longer. He tried to chase them away, fell fourteen feet to the concrete below, and broke two ribs.

  The nurse at the emergency room ordered rest and time for recovery. There was no treatment for broken ribs, and no medication to repair the cracks, only time, and William had ample: he had missed his shift at the bakery again—the absolute last chance used the day before.

  The critters were still there when he returned to Room 101 above Cheap Eats. Brian could not see them, but did not doubt their presence. If William said they were there, they were there. It was too much, plus the rent was due, they had no jobs, and Thomas was not so friendly, demanding payment for their accumulated debt, which was beyond their capabilities. They left quietly in the dark. The critters laughed as they made their get-away, and William feared they would alert Thomas. As fast as two broken ribs would allow, William and Brian scampered up the street.

  A circle of likeness gathered at the park in Kings Cross, night dwellers with nowhere else to go. A new friend gave William an injection for the pain, and Brian too: they would need it for life on the streets with some minor adjustments required in the beginning. Brian was sick from the new drug that pulsed through his body, but soon after, serenity displaced all other cares, and even William believed he was at last safe from the critters.

  Freed of the burden of employment, their day began leisurely at midday with a first shot. Then the serious work began: steal, deal, beg, borrow, whatever was required. Other means, involving old men and slow-moving cars, was not an option, although others made good money from it. They drifted through the streets of Kings Cross for anything unsecured or unsupervised. Begging brought less reward, but filled the hours when energy lagged. The sneers and derogation were just part of the business. They shared the proceeds of their enterprise to purchase gear, which they also shared equally, or so Brian thought. He was sober enough once to see William pocket a hit before distributing the rest ‘fairly’, and Brian’s half share in reality was more like a quarter. Distrust brought about the divide. They agreed to work different sectors, pawn separate brokers, and find their own dealer, but they came together on occasion at night to walk the strip.

  William was late back to the park that night, with his pockets filled with hock, acid, and rum. A crowd had gathered around a gray, lifeless mass, with a needle dangling from one arm. They slapped at the boy’s cheeks, and rushed as fast as the living dead could, to fill bottles with water from the fountain, the splashing as effective as the slapping. William pushed his way through to the epicenter, and shook Brian around the shoulders. “Wake up, Brian! Wake up!”

  A flash of blue and red lit the park as paramedics hurried with a gurney, Naltrexone, and a syringe. The scene was familiar, but still grievous, for anyone’s child was a life worth saving. After a short while, the frantic pace died, and calm, methodical processing began.

  The ambulance pulled away at a gentle pace, no siren, no lights.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  December 1984

  HELENA learned that only the good die young, death is a tragedy only for the living, and life is death, dying is life, to die is an adventure for in the midst of life, we are in death. Brian was in the wind, the rain, the sun, the morning dew. He was at peace, at rest, in a better place, and there was a reason for everything, they told her, although no one was able to say why a child should die in this way, alone on the streets without his mother. Helena wondered why Aristotle came to life at such times when silence was a greater gold than philosophy or a burdensome cliché, for nobody could understand the pain without living it, or know the right words to say when none existed.

  Helena met with Janine, her psychologist, twice a week, with concern legitimate that she might take her own life. She thought of doing so every hour, for she could not recover from losing Brian, and time spent with Janine merely tackled a titanic berg with a toothpick. If only He had taken her instead.

  She subsisted on a diet of black tea and water, combining her misery with a permanent state of faintness and drug-induced numbness to form a shell of a human being. New impressions lined her face giving the appearance of a woman fifteen years older, and twenty pounds lighter. She slept through the night, but in her restless dreams, her son was alive. In the morning, he was gone again, and losing him every day meant there was no way forward. More pills killed the dreams, her waking hours and everything else, but not the photos, and not the little wooden bird. A single thread of cotton held her together, and Millie was the tailor. There was some mild comfort knowing Carla and Matthew were fine without her, and probably better off if she left them to join Brian, Robert, and her father.

  Carl waited at the bottom of the timber stairs for Matthew to emerge from Principal Mulder’s office. He surfaced after the longest while with ruffled blond hair, and a smooth pale chest exposed by two missing khaki buttons.

  “What happened?” Carl asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “So you ripped your shirt all by yourself? Where’s your shoe?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “What did Principal Mulder say?”

  “He said to stop fighting.”

  “Anything else? Is he going to tell Mum?”

  “Don’t know. She wouldn’t care anyway. She’s always crying, and looking at his photo, and holding that bird.”

  Matthew ambled toward the lockers to retrieve his shoe from the top shelf, removing sodden sandwiches from inside the toes. “I hate this place.”

  “Only three days to holidays,” said Carl.

  “And four more years of school, then I’m going to live somewhere else.”

  “Where?”

  “Anywhere away from here. I hate Maine.”

  “I’m never going to be a mother,” said Carl.

  “Me either,” he replied, and they managed a smile.

  “Let’s get some money off Grandma and take Basil to the mall,” Carl suggested. “He can chase the pigeons. He likes doing that.”

  “He’ll get in trouble again.”

  “Ye
ah,” said Carl. “He will.”

  They laughed, recalling Basil’s last excursion into the dog-free zone with a portly security guard in pursuit.

  Michael returned to the base after Brian’s funeral, returning also to Caitlyn who presented him with three books on grief. He reviewed the biographies on the jackets in search of relevant first-hand experience to confirm the author’s right to pen such books. There was none—only mention of a career as a psychiatrist or psychologist, the difference Michael did not appreciate, and did not care to. He threw the books in the bin. Caitlyn would have been more helpful if she had bought him a keg of beer.

  He spent nights and weekends with her, not wanting to be alone, and neither did she. She tolerated his melancholy, made excuses for his rudeness, and did not chastise his consumption of beer or the hours he spent on the sofa watching television. The arrangement was satisfactory for both, on most levels.

  The front door chimed, and Caitlyn rushed to answer it before the sound disturbed Michael. She whispered with the visitor in a conspiratorial way then returned to the living room with the visitor in tow. Michael shook his beer can to signal that it was empty.

  He had not seen Andréa in a while, not since the movies, and although her beauty still captivated, it now threatened his afternoon viewing.

  “I’ll get coffee,” said Caitlyn, disappearing to the kitchen.

  “I’m sorry to hear about your son, Michael,” said Andréa. She sat down beside him on the sofa with her knees touching his.

  “Why do people say they’re sorry when someone dies? It’s not as if you had anything to do with my son’s death, so why apologize. What do you expect me to say to your ‘sorry’? Thank you? Why do I need to thank you for apologizing for something that didn’t need an apology? I don’t know why people say ‘sorry’, but thank you, thank you for being sorry.” He placed a hand across his heart and nodded. “That’s the etiquette out the way. Anything else?”

  “I am sorry, Michael, more than you know.”

  “What could you possibly know about losing a son? Have you lost a son? You don’t even have a son so how could you know what it’s like to lose one. You have no idea how this feels so don’t pretend you do.”

  Caitlyn returned with coffee for three, and set it down on the table between the sofa and the TV. Michael retreated to the kitchen for beer, and sipped a while on his own. He thought he should apologize—she was just being kind—but he did not want to, and didn’t.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  December 1984

  WILLIAM understood what they meant by tortured soul. Some passers-by used to call them that when they begged on the streets of Kings Cross, as did the missionaries, and the Samaritans. The vast majority though, simply passed on their saliva, kicked or yelled abuse, junky loser, mostly. They were not tortured souls when they first arrived in Sydney, he and Brian. It was an adventure then with no rules, no nagging or teacher protocols. They did not need the drugs, like the others, and they could stop whenever they wanted, and they planned to leave long before addiction took hold of their bodies—that would take months, years possibly, and only then if you let it.

  Brian wanted to go home. He had had enough, was tired and very sick. He missed mum, and wanted to sleep in his bed again at Orchard Road. William had said “soon”, it was “too early yet”, especially since the weather was warming, and sleeping in the park was not so bad. At Christmas, they would return to Maine and detox themselves. It would be easy together, and by then they would have had their quota of fun and freedom.

  They had fought on that last day, over money. Brian had needed some for a hit, and William had said, “Scum for it like I had to”. When William walked away, Brian was shivering and scratching furiously at his arms, but William was sure he would be OK. That was the last time he saw his brother and best friend, with pinpoint pupils with life still in them.

  William stayed just a short while at the funeral. He thought he heard his mother say, “Why Brian?” and knew she was thinking, “Why not William instead?” Everyone thought that—he could tell by the expanse of private space that surrounded him. No one spoke to him or consoled him even though his body throbbed with grief too, afraid in case he infected them with his toxic life. He was just a junkie now—that was all anyone saw, but he was still human albeit with bloodied cushions for arms.

  He knew the dealer, the one who had sold Brian the bad H, and he would not deal again. From unattended purses at the funeral, William stole two hundred and thirty-four dollars. It was enough for a handgun and a box of bullets although he would need just one, or two if his hands shook. In his life, seventeen years of it passed, his defining moment had come. It would be the most satisfying, and easily so since there was not much to choose from other than his time with Brian. Maybe when he was done, Brian, mum, and everyone else might forgive him.

  William spent the twilight hours and early evening with a bottle of rum to prepare. He would not run afterwards, just shoot, and wait for arrest or whatever else, and anyway, there was nothing to run to, no one and nowhere. He said goodbye to those he knew as friends—a fickle state for all of them, then set off, ironically or symbolically, for the long, wide street that ran from the Sydney CBD to Kings Cross, William Street.

  As he strode deliberately by, a neon blue cross on a small, white timber-clad building caught his eye. It was out of place. He had to stop. A feeble gate, high enough to ward off old dogs and children, separated the church from the street. William stepped twice from the gate to the patio, and twice more to reach the front door. He pushed the door open, not stopping to read the Outreach hours plastered on its surface.

  A crucifix, lit by a mass of candles overwhelmed the small chapel, and William. He shuffled toward it as a man appeared from the shadows.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, showing no sign of fear at the intrusion.

  “No,” William replied, “You can’t help me. My brother died. It was my fault.”

  “Was he a Christian?”

  “He didn’t go to church,” William replied.

  “Did he believe in Jesus as his savior?”

  “I don’t know. We never talked about those things.”

  “What about you, son?”

  “Yeah, I believe in Jesus. My grandfather told me stories from the bible when I was little. Brian too, so maybe he was a Christian. Is that all it means, to believe in Jesus?”

  “In essence it is. You need to have Jesus in your heart, but there’s more to being a good Christian.”

  “He was good too, Brian. Everyone liked him. Would he be in trouble with God for stealing? That’s the only thing he ever did wrong, and that was my fault too. He can’t be blamed for stuff like that.”

  “God wants us all to be saved.”

  William nodded. “I have to go. Can I take this,” he asked, lifting a bible from the pew.

  “Of course, but come back again. What’s your name, son?”

  “William.”

  “Make sure you come back, William.”

  “Sure,” he said, smiled and left. He had places to go, things to do, and sooner was best so he could dispense with the sweltering denim jacket, and the metal in his pocket that weighed him down.

  He started up William Street and stopped in front of a travel agency, his eye caught by Hawaii in a poster, not so expensive on sale. They should have gone to the beach and learned to ride the waves.

  William had never lived a sunrise, although he had seen night become day many times, but not lived it or seen the rays break orange on the horizon. He should see one before the iron doors slam shut behind him. He turned to backtrack toward Kings Cross railway station for a train to Martin Place. Ordinarily, he would have walked the distance, but he was dressed for winter on a sultry night, and for once, he had cash to spare in his pockets. From Martin Place, it was a short walk to Circular Quay to catch the ferry to Manly.

  After a smooth ferry berthing, William made his way up The Esplanade in search of a bottle shop
to buy a six-pack and a bottle of rum. Ahead, on the footpath out front of a news agency, he saw a tower of postcards. He stopped to browse, selecting one with a montage of beach scenes. He wrote on the back, “To Mum, I’m sorry. Forgive me. Love forever, your son, William.” He purchased a stamp, and posted the card in the nearest mailbox then continued to the end of The Esplanade to wait.

  He settled on a grassy knoll, and removed the denim jacket and his black t-shirt to cool his sticky skin with a sea breeze. He checked the gun was still in place. It was. With everything in order, he popped two wake-ups, and placed the black bible with the embossed gold cross on top of his belongings.

  At 5:40AM, the upper glow broke the line of water a million miles away. It was worth the wait. “New day, new day,” he whispered as tiredness overwhelmed. He picked up the bible to clutch it against his chest with one hand. “New day,” he said then rummaged inside his denim jacket. He found what he was looking for, put the muzzle to his head, and pulled the trigger.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  25 May 1985

  9:10PM A child was born.

  PART III

  Chapter Thirty-eight