Rainy Season

by Adele Griffin

  Rainy Season

  Adele Griffin

  Special thanks to my agent, Christina Arneson, and my editor, Margaret Raymo

  For my grandparents, James and Adele Sands

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Author’s Note

  A Personal History of Adele Griffin

  1

  “CHARLIE!” I SHOUT IN a scratchy morning voice. “You up?” There’s no answer through the wall that divides our bedrooms. Then I remember; it’s Friday. Charlie’s been awake for hours.

  I’ve been sleeping too long and my legs feel rubbery when I jump out of bed to shut off the air conditioner. That’s a house rule—air conditioners are allowed on during sleeping time only. Mom says they still don’t know the long-term effects of Freon in people’s lungs. I shove open my window and lean out into the morning, whistling—one long low note and two short ones—and I listen for my bird. He answers back, which I always think is the sign of a good day. I pick my bookmarked Nancy Drew mystery off my nightstand before heading downstairs to breakfast.

  Marita and Charlie are slumped around the kitchen table. Charlie’s dressed in droopy army fatigue pants and my Spirit of ’76 T-shirt. Dad’s metal dog tags hang around his neck and two smudges of olive are painted under his eyes.

  “You look like a dork.” I scowl at him, sliding into my seat. “Plus that’s my T-shirt. And Dad’s told you a million times, don’t use his camouflage stick or wear his ID tags.”

  “Shut up, Lane. Just because you’re too lazy to do the Friday five-mile run with Bravo Company doesn’t mean—”

  “Oh right, the day I want to wake up at four in the morning and tag along behind a bunch of soldiers.”

  “Doesn’t mean you have to be queen of the rules the minute you—”

  “¿Quieres fruta?” Marita lifts her eyes from her paperback and points with her chin at the glass fruit bowl.

  “She keeps trying to get me to eat that—junk,” Charlie grumbles, pushing the glass bowl of papaya, kiwi, mango, and pineapple chunks to the opposite edge of the table from where he’s sitting.

  “What’s wrong with it?” I check out the fruit. “Looks okay to me.”

  “Es perfecta.” Marita lifts the bowl and plunks it firmly in front of Charlie.

  “I-don’t-want-it.” Charlie spaces out his words, acting as if Marita doesn’t understand. “I-hate-jun-gull-fruit.”

  “No la quiere,” I explain, although Marita knows exactly what Charlie’s saying, “No le gusta.”

  “Besides, I had like three bowls of Cheerios already. I’m full.” Charlie burps, a gross fat gulp like a bullfrog.

  “That’s disgusting,” I say.

  “That’s life,” he answers smugly, knowing exactly how annoying he’s being.

  “Where’s Mom and Dad?” I ask. “Charlie, I wish you’d’ve put the milk back in the fridge. Now it’s been out too long for my Cheerios to taste good.” I pick up the milk carton and shake it. “And there’s hardly any left. Thanks a lot.”

  “I wouldn’t’ve if I’d known you were ever going to wake up, Sleeping Ugly. Anyhow, I need my carbos after a workout with the troops.”

  “You know, I bet they laugh at you all dressed up in Dad’s—”

  “Well, at least I’m not a wimpy—”

  “Charlie, por favor—this fruit is good for you. Will make you strong.” Marita doubles her arm and makes a muscle, then jabs her finger at the fruit bowl.

  “No way, gracias.”

  “I’ll have some, considering there’s practically no milk for cereal.” I glare at Charlie and slide into my place. Marita smiles and begins to ladle out a small dish of fruit for me. When she’s not looking, Charlie pokes out his tongue at her and rolls his eyes, and I try not to laugh.

  The morning heat sticks my nightgown to my legs and my feet to the linoleum floor.

  “Don’t forget Ted’s coming by sometime today to help us build the war fort,” Charlie says. “Not that you’ll do much good, ye old scrawny arms.”

  “I know he’s coming.” I add the last of the warm milk to my Cheerios and shake in some more sugar. Warm, bottom-of-the-carton milk really makes me mad. “Ted called me, remember? I was the one who told you.”

  Charlie always tries to act like he’s better friends with Ted, although I’m actually closer to Ted’s age. Charlie’s just turned eleven, which makes him two years younger than Ted and over a year younger than me. Charlie’s taller, though; a fact that has annoyed me ever since it happened last year.

  “Sor-ry, know-it-all. When’s he coming?”

  “Sometime.”

  “’Cause what if I want to go to Coronado today?”

  “What if? Plenty of kids’ll be around to help build even if you’re not.” My answer doesn’t make Charlie happy since he always needs to feel like a big shot.

  “Ted told me yesterday that we can get some good quality scrap lumber down by Río Abajo.”

  “Ted told everyone that when we were at the beach.”

  “Yeah but he told me that he’d take me with him to haul it on his truck. ’Cause I’m bigger and stronger.” Charlie stretches his arms up over his head like Rocky.

  “And dumber.”

  “I know you are but what am I?”

  “Gee, that’s a new one.” I wash down the heel of a papaya with a sip of orange juice and spread open my Nancy Drew to read. Nancy and her friends have just gone undercover as belly dancers to uncover some missing ancient jewels; I started the book last night and I’m already halfway done.

  Charlie and I haven’t been in school all week, because on Monday the Fort Bryan school gym and part of the music department flooded from the rains. They closed the school for repairs until next Monday, so most kids, including Charlie and me, have been spending every day at either Fort Hastings pool, Coronado, or Kobbe Beach. Today’s Friday, the last day of our surprise vacation, and I’ll almost be glad to get back to school. So much time hanging out in the sun with Charlie, and even with Nancy Drew, is getting kind of boring.

  The two kitchen fans; one on the table, one wedged onto the windowsill, stir up the warm air in their paths but barely relieve the heat. I scoot my chair closer to the table fan and lean my face into the trickle of moving air.

  “Hello hello, I’m home. Who’s here?” Dad used to sing in a rock and roll band when he was in college, and I can always hear the smooth undersong in his voice. His combat boots clomp down the long hall to the kitchen, following Charlie’s voice yelping, “In here, we’re all in here, Dad!”

  “¿Dónde está la Señora?” he asks Marita while Charlie lunges over to him, jumping up and snatching off Dad’s Special Forces beret, which he snaps over his own head.

  “Con Alexa,” Marita answers, and then in English adds, “shopping.” The way she says it, the word sounds like “chopping.” She starts setting a breakfast place for Dad.

  “They go into Panama City?” Dad asks. He pours himself some coffee but won’t take a seat. Dad’s not a sit-down-and-smell-the-coffee kind of person. His eyes squint out the window over the sink. He’s been inside for only a minute and I can tell he wants to zip out again.

  “Sí,” Marita nods. Dad turns to me, frowning, his eyebrows quirked in
to question marks.

  “Lane, when did Mom go downtown? Did she say when she’d be back?”

  “I’ve only been up for like five minutes.”

  “Hey, Dad, I did the five-mile run with Bravo, and guess what Sergeant Brady told me?” Charlie speaks just under shouting level, then launches into a long story about how Sergeant Brady thought Charlie should go out for track or be in the Olympics or some dumb thing. I raise my head from my book to look at Dad.

  “Be quiet a second, Charlie. Dad, is something happening downtown?”

  “There was a radio advisory bulletin about some disturbances, but if Mom’s with Alexa I’m not worried. They’ll be back any minute. So no histrionics, please.” Dad winks at me, but I’m already on my feet.

  “So, anyhow, Sergeant Brady wanted me to ask you if—”

  “Dad, can I call the MP’s? Just to ask how safe it is? Just to make sure everything’s okay?”

  “Oh good grief, Lane, no. And sit down. ¡Qué dramáticos!” Dad smiles at Marita, but then asks her something in Spanish. I only recognize a few words: danger, cars, looking; but it’s enough to make me feel sick to my stomach. Marita just shrugs, mumbles something I don’t understand, and keeps reading.

  “I hope Mom wasn’t wearing jewelry. Ted says that if you’re wearing jewelry and you go into some parts of Panama City, the locals’ll chop off your fingers to steal your rings.” Charlie snips the air with his fingers. “Or maybe they’re shooting at MP patrols again.” He starts making spitty machine gun noises.

  “Shut up, Charlie.” I press my palms against my scalp, trying to make myself think clearly. “This is bad. This is really bad.” Dad rolls his eyes. I start pacing up and down the length of the kitchen. “You have to get in there, Dad, and find her before it’s too late.”

  “Lane, the only thing I might have to do is give you an Academy Award for this charming performance.” Dad sighs. “Don’t you think that if I were really worried, I would call the MP’s myself? Hmm? Look at me, Lane. It wasn’t even a real warning; just a bulletin. I bet Charlie’s right—some local kid was probably taking a crack shot at a military patrol car. No big deal. I should never have said anything.”

  He has to call out that last part because I’m already running down the long hall that separates the kitchen from the rest of the house, upstairs, and into my bedroom, where I slam the door behind me. I click my clock radio to the military station to listen for police updates and then, since I don’t have much of a direct plan, I pull out my journal from its hiding place under my mattress.

  Emily gave me the journal a long time ago, when we lived in the States. The picture on the cover shows a girl sitting in the middle of a tulip with a quill pen poised in her hand. Emily said the girl looked like me. I flip to the next blank page and write:

  Dear Emily,

  Today Mom disappeared, and Dad doesn’t even care.

  She went downtown with Alexa this morning, and has not been heard from since.

  If something ever happens to Mom, then I am going to go back to the States and live with Mina and Pops.

  It starts taking too long thinking up the next sentence, so I shove the journal under some books on my desk and crawl into bed, worming into the covers, where I concentrate on wishing that Mom would come home. Be-safe, be-safe, I whisper to myself, like in meditation class. I try to imagine Dr. Forrest in her crooked lipstick and holding her brown clipboard. Sometimes picturing Dr. Forrest calms me down a little. I close my eyes, trying to lull myself to sleep so I don’t have to think.

  A few minutes later, I hear Dad’s feet on the stairs and then he knocks on my door. When I don’t answer he clears his throat and says, “I’m taking off work this morning to go watch the paratroopers and I’m bringing Charlie. You want to come with?”

  “I’m waiting for Mom in case she calls and needs my help.”

  “Have it your way then, Miss Housecat.”

  “Dad, what if she’s really in trouble and we need to rescue her out of downtown?”

  “When has that ever happened, Lane?”

  I don’t answer him. He should know that anyplace off-base is unpredictable. Locals hate American military. “Gringos go home!” graffiti is sprayed over enough off-base bus stop benches and bridge underpasses for me to get the message.

  Charlie and Dad leave in the jeep. Marita goes with them, getting a lift to the PX to do some shopping. She skews her eyes up to my window, although the blinds hide me. I bet she thinks I’m loca, a crazy. For a second I want to run out to join them.

  “Please be safe, Mom. Please be safe,” I whisper. But underneath this fresh worry, memories of the accident are beginning to buckle and shake me. I fight them, hard. “Be-safe be-safe,” I say, louder, to stop my thoughts.

  I turn up my radio so that it blares its update of which movies are playing in the theaters across the bases. It doesn’t help, but even through my fears I’m mad at myself, for not going to see the paratroopers, for letting my imagination run away with me for the millionth time. It’s not like I can pretend I don’t know why I get like this. It’s just I don’t know exactly how to stop.

  2

  HALF AN HOUR LATER, the doorbell chimes. I’d been lying in bed, but I’m at my window in a flash. There’s no car. If Mom got crushed in a riot downtown, I’d have seen the MP’s black military jeep. Still, I sprint downstairs to the front door, expecting the worst.

  “Hey, Lane-brain.” Ted Tie grins from the porch step. “You guys ready?”

  “Ted. Hey.”

  “Charlie coming, too?” Ted’s holding his large tool kit with Ted Tie—Touch and Die! magic-markered in black across the top.

  “Charlie’s not here and I can’t leave the house.”

  “Where is he?” Ted strolls past me into the living room. “Got any Pepsi? It’s getting crispy hot outside.” He plops into the loveseat, sets his toolbox beside him, and yanks up his T-shirt to wipe the sweat off his face.

  “Ted, you have to move that—no, not on the carpet.” I lift the toolbox off the rug and set it on the floor tile. Maybe it’s because Ted is almost fourteen and thinks he’s as good as any adult, or maybe it’s because he’s always lived on the Panama Canal Zone—a Zonian, like Alexa—but he never puts any effort into being polite.

  Zonians are what everyone calls Americans who live in the Panama Canal Zone, a U.S. owned strip of land that runs right through the middle of Panama, from the Atlantic to the Pacific. Zonians are non-military Americans who have moved down here over the past hundred years, to work for the Pan-Canal Company. The Zone’s a kind of wild, carefree place and since Zonians have Panamanian as well as U.S. citizenship they don’t much care for U.S. rules and regulations.

  “So why aren’t you coming to build the fort? We really need you on the front lines. I hear those kids from the other side have their fort almost totally finished.”

  “Listen, have you heard about anything bad happening downtown this morning? Mom and Alexa went shopping earlier and they’re not back.”

  “Aw, you know it’s just local kids stealing whatever—las ruedas, abandoned car parts—those military radio bulletins always exaggerate. Can you or Marita fix me a Pepsi? I’m parched.”

  “Marita’s at the PX and Dad and Charlie went to the jump—and Ted, I’m getting really worried about Mom. It’s almost eleven. She left—I don’t know—maybe around eight or nine, I was still sleeping, but Dad’s gone and so it’s all up to me to wait and see—

  “Earth to Lane. This little story’s getting mighty boring, besides emphasizing that you’re a total grapenut. I’m gonna go grab that Pepsi myself. Wanta glass?”

  “No, and we only have ginger ale.”

  “Fine by me.” Ted is already down the hall. While he’s gone I move his grimy toolbox into the front hall, where the floor is just plain linoleum.

  Ted notices as soon as he comes back “You and your fussy family. Jeez,” he sighs, flopping back onto the loveseat, the quart-sized ginger ale bottle
cradled in his palm, “I don’t know why the Duchess gets so bent out of shape about a little mess.”

  “She just likes everything in its place,” I say.

  “And she’s always been a neat freak? That’d drive me crazy.”

  I have to think for a minute. “Well, when we lived in Virginia, at Fort Pershing, we didn’t have a dishwasher, so sometimes plates stacked up in the sink. But just sometimes.”

  Ted narrows his eyes and runs his tongue over his bottom lip like he’s tasting my answer. “Hey, lemme see a picture of Virginia. Where’s Virginia, anyway? Near Miami?”

  “Um, not really.” I lean over and pull the photo album off the coffee table, then set myself next to Ted on the loveseat. The album cover is cranberry-dark leather with the photographs hand-glued to soft charcoal-colored pages on the inside.

  “This is so out of touch,” Ted comments, flipping past the fuzzy black and white pictures of old relatives to the modern colored photos. “It’s cracked. Who wants to see like the whole history of your family from the Dark Ages? And has the Duchess ever heard of those plastic picture separators? You know, with the sticky—”

  “There, that’s my grandparents’ house in Virginia,” I point.

  Ted studies the picture for a while. “Lots o’ trees. My grandparents used to live in a big old house in Germany before they lived here.”

  “Why’d they leave Germany?”

  Ted shrugs. “Guess they kind of had to, since it was World War II and probably the whole entire country was getting bombed. Next time I go up to Miami, I’ll ask them. Ha—is that the Duchess in the poufy wig?”

  “I think that’s just how they wore their hair in those times.” Seeing the picture of Mom reminds me. “Ted, don’t you think we should call the MP’s?”

  “What?” Ted looks up at me and frowns. “No way, she’s fine. Stop hyperventilating about it. Why are some of these pictures all cut up and weird looking?”

  I peer into the book. “Where?”

  He points. “There. And that one.”

  “Oh, Mom just does that so if someone looks bad in the picture, like red eyes or blurry or something, she’ll cut that part out and keep the good part of the picture in. So that the whole picture isn’t ruined.”