Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  June 1990

  LIFE is a spinning top. It begins in the hands of another who holds it steadfast for as long as possible, winding it and releasing it only when the top can spin on its axis. After launch, the top spins at its fastest, upright, then slows, with precession more and more pronounced, until finally, it topples in one violent last thrash. Helena’s life still spun, but barely.

  Her children were gone, all of them, and Millie and Basil too. Millie had died from pneumonia at 66, her lungs pushed full with so much bottled oxygen her organs had to move to accommodate it. She did not fight for her life, and it was all over within days. Basil would be the only one to die from old age, and perhaps loneliness.

  Michael returned once a year and together, he and Helena kept vigil at gravesites and cried, for they alone understood that a loss was unique for each child to each parent, and no two were ever the same. He did not stay at Orchard Road even though there were vacancies.

  Gordon Moore moved into Orchard Road for a while after Millie died in 1987, twenty years to the day the mill burnt down. Gordon was a happy sad man. He laughed a lot, in public, but lived a miserable existence in private. He blamed Helena for his hugeness, which was fully-fledged before they met at Weight Watchers. Before Helena, his ex-wife was to blame, and before her, his mother. Janine, Helena’s psychologist, and friend now, said the relationship had to end for even in the Dead Sea one cannot float on a short chain anchored to the bottom. Helena knew exactly what she meant, but living alone required a strength and courage she did not possess, and Janine did not understand that it was better to be with anyone than alone. In the end, Gordon left of his own accord after a row with Matthew, who had no problem expressing the thoughts of others. A ‘fat, good-for-nothing oppressor’ did the trick. With mission accomplished, Matthew returned to university in Sydney, much less proficient with the aftermath of his actions.

  After years of silence, Helena and Grace exchanged words in an awkward reconciliation at William’s funeral. Grace shed a few solitary tears, for who or what, Helena was not certain. Then before she left Maine to return to Sydney, the truth of her pilgrimage became evident: the distribution of Millie’s estate was not equitable at 50/50, she claimed. Firstly, because Helena had invested the monies from the sale of Waterloo Street in a term deposit, which failed to maximize possible returns during a bull market. Secondly, Millie had lived with Helena at Orchard Road for thirteen years, and contributed significantly in monetary terms and services during that time including child minder, cook, and housekeeper. Helena thought to mention in defense that she had never drawn a cent from Millie’s funds during her residency at Orchard Road, but Helena could not be bothered with the conflict: her sons were dead, and Grace was free to take whatever she wanted for a mother lost could not be valued in such a way. Helena agreed to a 30/70 split, and hoped never to see or hear from her sister again.

  Helena had never questioned the essentialness of university for Carla and Matthew, and had raised money for it by subdividing the backyard at Orchard Road. From the kitchen window, vegetables were still visible, but on the plates of those who lived where their backyard once was, and where the bones of Snoopy the bird lay buried.

  She left the accounting firm after William died, debilitated by her bereavement—ledgers had become illegible, and numbers now baffled, but work was still an imperative for her clover patch had just two leaves: faith and love. Hope was gone, and luck was a myth.

  James would not like the vision of his daughter in a navy blue uniform with grayed white cuffs, but cleaning motel rooms did not require mindfulness. The filth and degradation was unfathomable, and Helena might never get used to it, but if nothing else, James would have to agree, she had her independence, and that had always been his vision for her. She was a slave to no man, owned her own home, and supported her family without assistance from anyone. But for the love of a man, she might be someone.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  December 1992

  CARL had been at university in Sydney for four months when Millie died. She went home for the funeral, and almost did not return to the terrace she shared with four other students in Forest Lodge, but Helena insisted: she would be OK, and still had Basil and Matthew for company. Basil died four months later, and Matthew left four months after that. But nothing much mattered anyway from the day the postcard arrived from Manly, one week after William died. If there had been anything of her left to take, the postcard did it, enshrined now with a tiny wooden bird, and photos.

  Another lesser blow gusted through Helena’s life when Michael returned to Maine for Millie’s funeral with a new wife in tow, and invited Carl and Matthew to dinner to meet the second Mrs. Baden. Matthew did not offer an excuse with his refusal, unbothered by the duty of pretense and still governed by a sense of childhood injury. Carl would have done likewise if not for curiosity. Expectations were low, but were in no way a reflection on the first Mrs. Baden.

  The dinner was predictably uncomfortable yet genial. Her father did all the talking, and although Carl was only four and a half when their lives separated, she remembered enough to know a modification of history was in play, for Carl’s benefit, or for the woman with the French name, Mrs. Andréa Baden. Whichever life was in depiction, wine made it all the more amusing and entertaining, and unlike Matthew, Carl was able to accept a relationship with her father as it was: based on mutual genes.

  Olivia was also at the University of Sydney, staying in prestige at Wesley College, and studying Arts. She was still to make a decision on a career having considered most options from actor to psychologist, midwife, nutritionist, linguist, and most recently, television newscaster.

  Matthew followed a year later, enrolling in a four-year journalism degree. He would only return to Maine thereafter on an intermittent basis, and made no secret of how he dreaded all such visits. He eventually left for more distant shores as a trainee on the international desk at CNN.

  Carl returned to Maine as an Articled Clerk at Rey, Carol & Mendelson. It was not part of her plan since there were no crusades to wage in the world of property conveyance in Maine—city developers having made millionaires out of shack owners around the lake and waterways.

  Being back in Maine was the third of Carl’s life rules broken: she was still a Baden, and although she cared not to remember it, she was a mother as well. Her return was not choice driven: Helena was all alone, and unlike her brother, Carl was not a runner.

  Olivia returned to Maine also, as an intern at the local television station.

  In five years away, a lot had changed, but much more had stayed the same.

  Chapter Forty

  February 1993

  CARL showed no interest in Nicholas Segher, unlike her work colleagues who found his suave production and designer tastes compelling. This focused his attention, and Carl gave in to his relentless pursuit only to end speculation that she must be gay. Their date though would be a first and last.

  In preparation, Carl cut her hair even shorter, and colored it a darker shade of brown to flout his obvious preferences. He liked it. She was sarcastic and rude, and mocked his interests. He smiled. She said he was overly showy for wearing Hugo Boss and onyx cufflinks in Maine, which did not impress anyone. He shrugged his disagreement, and showed her his diamond-encrusted gold ring. “Unbelievable,” she said. He smiled, and she laughed.

  Carl accepted a second date, intrigued that he would voluntarily seek more of her company, and so it continued. At work, they maintained a professional distance in accordance with the firm’s policy, and Nicholas flirted for pretense, but more truthfully, for the sake of image and reputation. He never introduced her as his girlfriend, and handholding or public signs of affection were taboo, especially in the presence of his friends. Carl did not particularly care, uncommitted as she was to the union, but still yielded to months of pressure in the back seat of his BMW. The occasion, filled with some urgency it seemed, reminded her too much of her only prior experience: the pain, swe
at, odors, and the repulsiveness of it all. Nicholas barely had time to fall off her before he fell asleep. In the solitude that followed, Carl contemplated her sexuality: perhaps she was gay.

  Their relationship was in its autumn when a binding blue line appeared on a white stick threatening to link her for a lifetime to a man she did not love. Nicholas was quick to order the solution, but it was not necessary for Carl had been there before, and knew exactly which path to take this time around.

  Olivia had delivered the first mistake armed with four brown towels, a plastic bag, toy dog bone, books on childbirth from the library, and a bottle of cherry brandy courtesy of Mr. Rey and his unlocked liquor cabinet.

  Carl’s labor had begun conveniently early one Saturday evening, just eight months after the cemetery encounter with the devil’s entourage. A movie was the decoy, and the girls hastened instead for a quiet, private place for the birth: the reflecting gardens near the Baptist church. Carl sculled the brandy, and bit hard on the dog bone when the pain came. She made no sound during the three hours it took for the baby’s head to appear, with the silence broken only by Olivia whispering, “It’s here”. Olivia used a washer to clear its nose and mouth as explained in the books then pulled the shoulders gently until the rest of it slipped out. “It’s a boy,” she announced, cutting the cord. She wrapped the child in a towel and handed it to Carl. Olivia readied a plastic bag for the placenta while Carl held the baby on her stomach without looking down. “What are you going to call him?” Olivia asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? That’s a strange name.”

  Olivia placed the bag with the dark red mass and cord into the towel with the baby then wrapped them both in another towel. She stepped out from behind the shrubs and checked for walkers before darting across the lawn to the parish house. She rapped at the door, left the bundle on the doormat, and returned to the shrubs to observe. A collared man answered the call, and rushed the baby inside. He returned a short while later to scan the darkness for a mother while his wife packed their sedan for a trip to the hospital.

  The newspaper the following day, front page, had a story about an abandoned baby. It urged the mother to come forward for medical attention with assurances about immunity from consequences. Police visited Carl’s high school and interviewed ten girls identified as possible mothers by way of reputation, and or recent weight gain. No one considered Carla Baden, the quiet, studious girl who was not significant on any one’s radar.

  While Carl had relegated the moment to the recesses of her mind along with the baby’s conception, Olivia would not let it rest: she needed to be sure Nothing had found a good home. For the next few months, she monitored the christening announcements in The Maine Times, trying to identify an adopted son then gave up when the task seemed to be absent an outcome. Carl hoped Nothing would surrender with as much ease should he one day decide to find his birth mother for explanations.

  Chapter Forty-one

  June 1993

  DESPITE having implanted the problem, Nicholas did nothing to assist with its resolution except to reiterate that there was only one option. He did not travel to Sydney with Carl for the procedure or contribute to the costs, or offer a hand to hold before, during, or after the event. It was Olivia at the Maine Railway Station to meet Carl upon her return while Nicholas surfed on the north coast.

  The relationship had died of natural causes, but Carl still found herself naked in the back seat of her Morris Minor clinging to a cardigan. Nicholas had stretched out his six-foot frame with his legs atop the bench seat in front. His jewels dangled between his thighs and settled on the vinyl seat. He lit a cigarette, and blew white rings into the chilled air.

  “I think we should break up,” he said.

  They sat for a while shrouded in smoke, and soothed by the gentle hiss of tobacco leaves burning then Nicholas fell asleep. Carl dressed, and moved to the front seat.

  The engine turned after several attempts, and after some coaching, spluttered backward before limping forward for a solitary drive back into town. The windshield wipers struggled as dark clouds released a deluge, sapping the engine of its power, and causing the headlights to flicker. Carl switched off the heating, and took comfort in the rain and the banal scrape of the wipers.

  As she approached the railway crossing, the Morris fought hard to challenge the slight incline to the tracks then stopped as required at the sign. Carl looked right and left, and moved forward off the thick white line. The Minor skipped across the first steel track, but stopped before the second. Carl beat the steering wheel with her palms then rested her forehead on the sheepskin cover. They were over, at last.

  A bright light in the distance interrupted the accedence. Carl stared into it, mesmerized by the round spotlight of falling rain. A horn blared out, and she hurried to restart the engine. The second attempt failed as did the third, and several more that followed. For the sixth attempt, she switched off every drain on the engine, with no success. Nicholas slept on, despite the repeated warning from the oncoming train and the bright light that filled the Minor. Carl sobbed while forcing the gear shaft into first, and by accident, found neutral. The car rolled backward off the track and down the incline as the train sped past with a high-pitched wail to signify the driver’s irritation. Despite being seconds from a crushing death, Nicholas slept on.

  Panic faded, and Carl took a full breath. She saw a headline: lovers’ suicide pact or murder suicide. They would have interviewed the traumatized train driver. Work colleagues and friends would have commented on the relationship, and many would have presumed to know the source of such a dramatic ending.

  Carl cried, alone, in the dark, and another of her life rules broke.

  Chapter Forty-two

  November 1993

  FRIDAY nights brought a reason to drink with abandonment as it followed a week governed by discipline and resolve. By Friday, the stress of working too closely with Nicholas Segher, partner-in-waiting, took its toll, and relations deteriorated further when a fiancée arrived from Sydney. The woman had been on his scene for many years, on and off, and there was some ambiguity about the dates for the ‘off’ period. Carl pretended not to care, and announced a life-long emancipation from the institution of marriage. It was not a revolutionary act as it would have been three decades earlier when a distant aunty had done likewise. Maine had changed somewhat in the intervening years, with liberal views from an influx of outsiders unsettling its staid waters, but marriage and motherhood still reigned as preferred life choices for any woman.

  And so she came to be at another function at WTV9 for Olivia’s sake, this time to celebrate the departure of Colleen McGlashen, weather-girl, who by fulfilling the town’s mantra was making way for Olivia’s star. The time spent at the gathering would at least fill the daylight hours until The Casa opened, but when Colleen asked Carl about her plans for motherhood, the evening closed in earlier than expected.

  “You won’t be complete without one of these,” Colleen had replied, rubbing her swollen abdomen more. Before responding, Carl had glanced at Olivia, received a nod, then announced that she had been ‘completed’ twice and undone on both occasions, and was more complete now without a man or child, and by the way, she added, “I’m gay”.

  Olivia followed Carl through the function room to the car park, feigning apology while a smile revealed satisfaction as a trail of stupefied co-workers fell in their wake. “I’ll tell everyone on Monday that you’re mentally unstable,” she said, “although they’ve probably worked that out for themselves.”

  “I feel refreshed,” said Carl.

  “And when did you decide to become gay.”

  “I don’t know. Just seemed like a good thing to say at the time.”

  “You could say Nicholas turned you gay. That might even dent his ego.”

  “I doubt it.” Carl smiled. “It’s a bit early for The Casa. There won’t be anyone there.”

  “Perfect!” said Olivia. “You’re just n
ot that good with people.”

  They arrived at The Casa around eight, had their wrists stamped, and charged through the entrance not expecting to find anyone inside let alone on an exit.

  “Oops,” said Carl as she slammed into a torso. “You’re leaving already? Early to bed, they say. Makes you healthy, wealthy, and…boring.”

  The man smiled, and kept on his way.

  “No wonder you can’t attract anyone decent,” said Olivia staring after the man as he stepped into the elevator. “I wasn’t expecting him to be so spindly.”

  “Who?”

  “Ethan Marsh, the triathlete. Don’t you read the newspaper?”

  “Not the back pages and why would you?”

  “Pictures, Carl, nice bodies on sporty, successful types.”

  “He probably is going home to bed,” said Carl. “That’s abnormal.”

  “Proof that exercise is bad for you. Who in their right mind would miss Friday night in Maine to get up at some ungodly hour to run and swim and…that other thing they do.”

  “Who indeed,” said Carl.

  “This place is pitiful with the lights on,” said Olivia. “I need a drink, and look—no one at the bar!”

  They sat down in the dimmest of the bright corners.

  “We’re pathetic losers,” said Olivia. “And it’s your fault, again, Carl Baden.”

  “Here’s to us,” said Carl raising her glass. “Never thought I’d say this, but bring on the strobe lights!”

  Carl rose late Saturday morning for a coffee-only breakfast and newspaper on the back steps. The Maine Times had a front-page photo of a car wreck with a surfboard atop the BMW eerily still intact. Two had died, the article said, and the driver was most likely asleep when the vehicle veered into a coasty rail. The first victim, a successful litigation lawyer at Rey, Carol & Mendelson, had died on impact and his fiancée some hours later. Mr. Rey, senior managing partner at the firm, expressed deep sorrow, and sympathies for the man’s family. The deceased was well respected, well liked, and was soon to be admitted as a partner of the firm. His beautiful fiancée, a successful property lawyer, had only recently relocated to Maine from Sydney. The couple was expecting their first child, and had plans to marry on Valentine’s Day.