Rain

by Leigh K. Cunningham

  “Begging? I doubt that.”

  “You were.”

  “So you took advantage of me.”

  “Me, take advantage of you? I carried you in when you fell over on the driveway. I tucked you into my bed, then the next thing I know, you’re on top of me on the sofa.”

  “And?”

  “You have to ask? I’m not superhuman, and you’re actually quite likeable when you’re not talking.”

  They sipped a while in quiet.

  “I love what you’ve done with the bungalow,” she said. “You must have had a decorator.”

  He laughed. “My mother. It’s plantation style apparently.”

  “Very nice. How did you manage to afford your own place when you’ve never had a real job?”

  “Sponsorships mostly.” He paused. “How did you get that scar on your cheek?”

  “Fell off my tricycle.”

  “You must have been going pretty fast.”

  “Yeah, I was.”

  “How about a morning swim?” he asked.

  “In the lake?”

  “No, the bathtub. Of course the lake.”

  “Oh no, I don’t swim anywhere I can’t see the bottom.”

  “You’re joking, right?”

  “No, I’m not…and I’d better be getting home anyway. Mum will be worried about me.”

  “What about dinner tonight?”

  “Thanks, but I don’t go out on a work night.”

  “It’s Sunday, and what are you, twelve?” He laughed.

  “Sunday classifies as a work night.”

  “What about Saturday night? I’ll cook.”

  “You can cook?”

  “Yes, I can cook,” he replied.

  “OK, OK,” she said. “Never had a guy cook for me before. I guess there’s a first time for everything.”

  Chapter Forty-six

  March 1995

  ETHAN Marsh had never cooked a meal, not even for himself. He still dined most nights at his parents, and when he did eat at home, it involved a microwave or a toaster. Preparing a meal with courses, for a woman, and one as querulous as Carl Baden, would be an achievement, if that were the plan.

  Mrs. Marsh spent the day on set-up duties for her only son: cleaning, arranging flowers, making the cheesecake for dessert, preparing the lamb and vegetables for roasting, and the tomato soup for blending. Just prior to the guest’s arrival, the homemade bread would be placed in the oven, and the heating and blending of the tomato soup would take place with the guest present. Cookery books with the relevant pages tagged, decorated the kitchen bench.

  Carl arrived right on seven with two bottles of vintage red wine recommended by Mr. Rey.

  “Two bottles?” he asked, answering the door with a tea towel over one shoulder. “Are you going to take advantage of me, again?”

  “One bottle is for dinner, and the other is a gift for you. Anyway, I don’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “No bow, no gift wrapping? Surely, if it is a gift…”

  “My grandfather had a rule about dating sportspeople. Clearly, he was one smart man.”

  Ethan ushered her inside to follow the waft of baking bread down the hallway.

  “Take a seat,” he said, indicating a barstool right in front of the blender. “Looks like expensive wine. You realize it’s probably wasted on me.”

  “Here, I’ll open it,” she said taking the corkscrew from his hands. “It smells great in here. I’m already impressed.”

  He poured the tomato soup from the saucepan into the blender as instructed by his mother.

  “Don’t forget the—” Carl began, as tomato soup swirled around the inside of the blender rising quickly to the top. “Have you never used a blender before?” she said wiping soup from her eyes.

  He peered into the glass crevasse. “Don’t worry, there’s still some left for dinner.”

  She shook her head. “I need a shower and a shirt, a clean shirt, not something you went running in this morning.”

  “Certainly, madam, allow me to organize that for you. Shower is this way.”

  “You’re an imbecile,” she said as she passed him in the hallway.

  When Carl returned to the kitchen in an oversized t-shirt, tomato soup still dripped from his hair, but candles cast a soft glow over a bowl of orange roses in the center of a small, square table.

  “It’s good,” she said tasting the soup.

  He smiled. “Wait ‘till you see what I cooked up for dessert.”

  PART IV

  Chapter Forty-seven

  April 1996

  DIAGONAL rain fell non-stop for six days, but by Saturday, the easterlies had calmed making umbrellas useful again. Carl’s bridal gown was plain, champagne silk satin with a sweetheart neckline, an empire waistline, with no sleeves, frill, jewel, embroider, bow, or accoutrement of any kind, initially. The simplicity of the dress and all other wedding arrangements, disappointed Helena, which disappointed Carl, ergo, the bare bodice was subsequently hand beaded, and a Mantilla veil added to cover her bare head. Olivia was also in an empire gown as the matron of honor, but hers was a fuller version with flowing chiffon covering her expansive bulge.

  With reluctance, Carl reinstated all other discarded wedding traditions for Helena including the bridal waltz, tiered wedding cake, and speeches, but refused point-blank to spend the wedding night in a bridal suite with rose petals scattered senselessly across a circular bed.

  Matthew returned for the wedding, with permanent souvenirs from his assignment in Bosnia: physical and mental. Two members of his crew had died in an attack on their vehicle as they traveled toward Mount Ozren to cover the fighting, and two more lives were lost in pursuit of the truth. He had changed, and Carl was unable to number the many ways how, but the greater burden he had found beyond the perimeter of Maine, seemed to lift him and bring him down at the same time.

  Michael and Andréa sent their regrets, having only just moved to the RAAF Support Unit Butterworth in Malaysia. Her father's absence would allow for the dispensation of another tradition Carl did not want: the ceremonial walk down the aisle. She wanted to enter the church via a side door with Ethan, but surrendered again to enter at the egress accompanied by the bridal march. Matthew stepped in for the giving away, also under duress, and together they rushed down the aisle like two bulls at a stampede, amusing only the groom.

  The wedding reception was also a subdued affair, particularly when compared to Olivia’s gala event the year before. Ethan’s friends, fellow triathletes, were nodding off by ten any place comfortable, as were the friends of Mr. and Mrs. Marsh, and when the retirement home bus arrived, the hall emptied by half.

  Carl drank water all evening so as not to disgrace the bridal fraternity as she had done at Olivia’s wedding, ensuring the evening was a tedious one. Still, they were the last to leave at midnight with no one left to form a human archway, as was the plan.

  The newly-weds returned to the bungalow. Carl was quick to strip away the bridal regalia in favor of a tracksuit, and tame her over-coiffed straw hair in a baseball cap. Ethan handed her the Veuve Clicquot and flutes then pushed the dinghy from the water’s edge. Oars tapped at the black surface until they eased into the center of the lake. Ethan secured the oars to work on the champagne bottle. A stubborn cork finally burst free, hurtling into the moonlight to land on the moon’s reflection causing a mini whirlpool.

  “To you, Mrs. Marsh,” he said, and held his gold-rimmed glass into the air.

  “And to you, Mr. Marsh.”

  They settled on the dinghy floor with Carl lounged against Ethan’s chest.

  “I never had a tricycle,” she said.

  “Oh, what a deprived childhood you had,” he said with a laugh.

  “It’s not how I got this scar, Ethan.”

  “I figured that.”

  “You never said anything.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “I need to tell you the truth.”

  “OK,” h
e said. “But if you were in a gang or something, I probably don’t need to know about the dead bodies.”

  Carl took a deep breath, exhaled, and nestled further into his chest. She sipped twice then began the recollection.

  He stroked her scar and kissed her cheek. “I’m going to buy you a tricycle,” he said, “with streamers and a basket. You can ride to work.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Let’s go for a swim!”

  “Oh, no,” said Carl peering over the side. “I can’t see the bottom.”

  Ethan stripped, and star jumped into the dark abyss resurfacing a short time later. “Come on in, baby!” he called out.

  “Isn’t it cold?”

  “No, not at all. Come on!”

  “Oh, all right,” she mumbled, removing her clothes. She pinched her nostrils, jumped, and screamed on impact.

  “Refreshing, eh?” he said.

  “Oh my God! It’s freezing!”

  “I think I've lost my manhood.”

  “I married a crazy man,” she said, and their laughter pealed around the lake.

  The honeymoon plans were as simple as the wedding: a week at the bungalow with time for Ethan to develop his new venture as a sports psychologist. His focus was on children, and their coping mechanisms for the pressures of competition and parental expectation—something he had not experienced, but had witnessed often.

  His parents had never placed a pressure upon him to be anyone or do anything. They were grateful enough by their mid-forties to finally have a child, and rather than smother, they enabled a free mind and spirit.

  Carl woke at two on the third morning of their marriage, and stretched an arm across an empty pillow. She sat up, and found Ethan on the veranda gazing out over the lake.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “Waiting for you to wake up. Let’s go!”

  “Where?”

  “Coolangatta. If we leave now we can be there for breakfast.”

  “Oh my God.” She resumed a sleeping position and wrapped a pillow around her head.

  “Come on, you can bring that with you.”

  “OK,” she sighed. “This marriage thing is harder than I thought.”

  “Get up, Carl,” said Ethan pulling the bed linen off his wife. “We’re going for a drive!”

  They packed for a few days, loaded up the sedan, and drove away. Carl curled into the front passenger’s seat with a pillow against the window and a blanket tucked around her lap. Ethan chattered incessantly, and Carl feigned sleep hoping to encourage a silence that never came. She sat up and stared through the windscreen splattered with insects to see and feel what Ethan described. There were trees topped with the faint glow of a timid moon, and the smell of Eucalypt blew fresh through a half-mast window. The engine hummed, a warmth rose from the floor, and the momentum of tires over bitumen did induce calm. He was quiet at last, but just for a few minutes so Carl could absorb the resplendence. He went on to describe another scene still ahead of them, of sand, still cold from the night, sipping latte from paper cups, and eating bagels with cream cheese while the sun rose on a new life.

  Chapter Forty-eight

  April 1997

  THEIR first anniversary arrived as if a month had passed. Ethan was up early to drag Carl from the comfort of a warm bed to the driveway where his gift waited for unveiling.

  “Open!” he called out, and Carl removed a stretched football sock from her eyes. “Happy anniversary, baby!”

  “A bike? What happened to paper?”

  “What did you get me?” he asked.

  “A tool box.” She paused. “How come there are two of them?”

  “One for you and one for me.”

  “But you already have three bikes.”

  “Racing bikes, Carl. These are mountain bikes. Come on! Get changed. I’ve packed our knapsacks for the day.”

  “For the day!”

  “Didn’t you hear me? They’re mountain bikes. They’re not for little family fun rides around the park.”

  “I just wanted a tricycle,” she whimpered.

  It was not so bad out on that first day. Ethan took her to hidden places with pristine waterholes and majestic waterfalls, and Carl saw Maine as the diamond her mother said it was.

  They rode every Sunday morning from then on, setting out at an hour too ridiculous for Carl, but the best time of the day according to Ethan. Each ride was longer than the week before: more intensive, sweatier, and dirtier, progressing from beaten track to path-less terrain where kangaroos roamed and the threat of snakes and other killers increased exponentially. The sixth Sunday would be Carl’s last, after an encounter with one such killer.

  Her bike came to an abrupt stop as if she had collided with a wall, and when she looked up, a yellow and black mass in a vast web that spanned the distance between two trees, was just a nose tip away. She screamed, causing a vibration in the silk weaving and eight legs shifted aggressively in response. Carl wheeled backwards in haste, lost control, and fell to the ground on top of her bike. She screamed more wondering what sinister form lurked in the grass beneath ready to crawl through the spokes. Ethan backtracked from the higher, rockier ground Carl wished she had followed, pedaling at record speed through the scrub.

  “Where are you?” he screamed. “Carl!”

  “I’m here!”

  Ethan dropped his bike while the pedals still spun, and bent down to lift Carl from the long grass. “What happened?”

  She pointed at the web.

  “It bit you?” He searched her arm for signs of swelling.

  “No,” she sobbed. “I nearly rode straight into it.”

  “You nearly?” He stood and inspected the spider more closely. “You nearly rode into this harmless garden spider?”

  “What if it had jumped on me?” she cried.

  “Come on, up you get. You’re all right.” He helped Carl to stand, picked her bike up with one hand and coaxed her on to it. “There’s a stream up ahead. You can have a swim while I cook.”

  “You can’t cook! You’re a fraud!” she yelled after him, wiping tear soaked dirt from her cheeks.

  “I can cook this. It’s my specialty,” he called back.

  “I’m not riding anymore, ever,” she said as she wheeled her bike along the designated path. Up ahead, an oasis came into view through a natural archway.

  “Cool your feet in the stream,” he said as she dropped her bike on the rocky shore. Carl removed her shoes and socks, and waded thigh-deep into the chilled water where she stayed to watch Ethan pander to the needs of a small fire in a circle of rocks. He cut strips from the curve of four bananas and filled the gaps with squares of chocolate before placing them in the fire until the yellow skins charred and the brown melted.

  “That was weird, don’t you think?” she said. “That I stopped like that, right before the spider’s web.”

  “Didn’t you just see it in time?”

  “No, I didn’t see it at all, not until I stopped. I didn’t stop because I saw it.”

  “Lucky,” said Ethan.

  “Do you believe in guardian angels?”

  “No,” he replied. “Here, bananas are ready.”

  “Wow,” she said after a first bite. “Mrs. Marsh, you hiding behind a tree somewhere?”

  “Come on, you saw me cook them,” he said with a laugh.

  Ethan rode off the next Sunday morning, disappointed, but happy all the same: he could go further, faster, and on wilder terrain without Carl. She stood on the footpath and stared after him as he disappeared into the depths of a perfect autumn morning. She thought to ride after him, but returned to bed. If he was not back by one as promised, she would call 000.

  The hour between one and two was frantic as Carl paced from the driveway to the telephone ready to lift the receiver each time before checking the horizon once more. She envisioned Ethan lying in the long grass as she had done, but with cause, most likely a snake bite with no one there to hold him as his bo
dy convulsed through the pain. Sergeant Mackelroth was on his way, and all she could do was hope, wait, and pray that the hour passed was not the difference between life and death.

  An apparition broke through on the horizon, of Ethan running toward her with a bike over one shoulder. Carl gazed at it until the vision finally collapsed on the gravel at her feet.

  “Puncture,” Ethan wheezed. “Why are you crying?”

  “I thought you were dead,” she sobbed laying across his chest.

  “Water,” he gasped

  Carl ran to unravel the garden hose and insert the nozzle into his mouth. He gulped then pushed it away. Carl changed the stream to a spray and showered him in a fine mist. Steam rose on impact.

  “Nice,” he said.

  “Oh, oh,” said Carl, as a police car came into view.

  Chapter Forty-nine

  July 1997

  LIFE has 180 degrees with the nurturer eventually becoming the nurtured. Helena had needed nurturing for thirteen years, since Brian died, or perhaps it was twenty-three years since she lost her beloved father. Either way, it was a life filled with desertion, and Carl worried about how her mother might respond to another: they were moving to Sydney for Ethan’s dream job at the New South Wales Institute of Sport.

  Walter’s heavy hand still had a tendency to flail, and nothing reasonably could be done about it. A rational, undamaged mind would have evicted him a long time ago, but beatings it seemed were better than aloneness. At Christmas, respite came with the summer heat as Walter left each year for Adelaide to spend it with his adult children and their families. He never asked Helena to go with him, which was curious since she had taken him into her home and family, much to everyone’s dismay.

  In the weeks before they were to leave, Carl spent all her spare time with Helena including Saturday mornings while Ethan held training camps at the Wallin Oval. It was only then that he came to learn of his connection to the name, and that his bungalow occupied land where a sawmill had burned to the ground one wintry night.