Spring Rain

by Gayle Roper

  But sleep eluded her.

  I’ll pray! That always calms me down. In fact, it calms me so much it sometimes puts me to sleep at night. Sorry, Lord, but it does.

  But she couldn’t marshal her thoughts enough to pray. Instead she saw vignettes, little movies unreeling through her mind.

  She saw Clay staring at her across Ted’s room, watching … watching.

  She saw Clay as he told her she’d make a beautiful blonde.

  She saw Clay mopping up the kitchen floor with an old beach towel, wringing it out time after time in the sink.

  She saw Clay patiently washing the peanut butter/syrup mess off the kitchen counters, carefully stuffing all the miscellany back into the desk drawer and the end table drawer, replacing the phone on the small table by the stairs after the threatening call.

  She saw Clay reaching his arms to hug her and Billy, and tears burned her eyes. She heard him pray for her and for Billy. It was the height of irony that they were really a family clutching each other, though no one knew it but her.

  It was more than she could deal with. He was more than she could deal with.

  She started to weep. She tried to control herself, but the harder she tried, the more she wept. She rarely shed tears, hadn’t wept for years, and here she was, crying twice in the same night.

  Great, wracking sobs borne of past hurts and present fears rose in her throat. She rolled over to bury her face in her pillow so Billy couldn’t hear her. He was unnerved enough as it was.

  Billy, the source of her greatest joy and the focus of her greatest fear.

  Oh, God, may it be Your arms that wrap around him through the night. Give him a peaceful sleep. Keep him safe, Lord. Keep him safe. And may I long only for Your arms about me, not another’s.

  Billy had been less than a year old the first time they’d been included in a group hug. He’d rolled off the sofa and banged his head, raising a huge, bruised lump over his left eye. Leigh had cried almost as hard as he had, convinced she was a terrible mother, certain he was irrevocably injured.

  “Oh, baby, what have I done to you?” She cradled him against her and sobbed. “Mommy didn’t mean to look away! It was only for a minute. I’m so sorry, baby!”

  Will and Julia came to visit her that day. They found her and Billy sitting on the floor in tears. Will made certain that all that ailed Billy was a sore head, and Julia comforted Leigh with tales of her own mothering blunders. When everyone finally calmed down, Will and Julia gathered her and Billy into a four-person hug.

  “Group hug,” Will said. “It cures all ills.”

  Leigh had never before experienced spontaneous, undemanding affection like that. Oh, Julia and Will frequently gave her little loving kisses on the cheek, and Julia and Ted hugged her, but the sweetness of that huddle with two sets of arms enclosing her and her baby was overwhelming. Afterward she had relived it over and over in her imagination, certain she’d never experience anything so wonderful again.

  Will and Julia, being who they were, there had been many other group hugs through the years, but none had rivaled the sweetness of that first one. Until now.

  She shivered as she recalled how right it had felt for the three of them—father, mother, son—to huddle together before God. She closed her eyes and remembered the warmth and security, the peace and contentment of that moment.

  She took a deep breath and dried her tears on her pillowcase. Today’s events were forcing her to reconsider some very serious presuppositions around which she’d built her life and Billy’s. Had she been wrong all these years in keeping Billy’s paternity a secret?

  She’d always hidden behind Clay’s lack of interest in her after “The Incident,” but perhaps she had been unconsciously punishing Clay rather than protecting herself and his family. That was a hard thought and, if true, revealed an ugly side of herself.

  She gave some time to the possibility that she harbored such a hidden motive and finally came to the conclusion that striking at Clay hadn’t been a consideration at all. She hadn’t been and still wasn’t vindictive. Foolish definitely. Naïve certainly. Unforgiving on certain days. But vengeful? Never.

  So, didn’t Clay deserve to know his son? Didn’t Billy deserve to know his father? Had she failed them both in keeping her secret? The thought made her feel literally sick to her stomach, and she curled into a ball, her arms wrapped about her middle.

  But Clay hadn’t cared! The rejection she’d felt when he didn’t try to see her again was hard enough to deal with. How would she have stood him looking down that long nose of his and disclaiming her again? Her life had been filled with rejection: her mother who had loved her but left when she was ten, Johnny who could barely abide her presence, friends at school who kept her on the periphery of their lives, Clay who never came back.

  No, ten years ago she could not have told Clay the truth of the situation. She could not have borne it emotionally.

  And how could she have told Julia and Will? How could she have shattered their view of Clay, especially in light of their kindness to her?

  Slowly she uncurled as she accepted that, right or wrong, the path she had chosen to follow was reasonable. She might not make the same choices today, but she wasn’t the same person today. Besides, what was done was done. She couldn’t undo it.

  But what of the future? What if Clay found out at this late date that Billy was his? The longer he was here, the greater became the danger that somehow he would discover the truth.

  She tried to imagine his reaction to such overwhelming news. Anger at her because she’d kept the secret? Anger that it had been revealed and now he had responsibilities? Anger that he’d been denied his son?

  Or maybe disbelief? Of course she could prove paternity through DNA tests, but if she had to resort to such means, that meant an adversarial situation. Pitting herself against Clay was bound to damage her relationship with Julia and Ted, and her heart froze at the thought of losing the very people who had helped her survive, who had taught her what love was.

  Another sudden thought brought sweat to her forehead and cramps back to her midsection. What if Clay tried to take Billy away from her somehow? Icy fear wrapped itself about her heart, but only for a moment. She quickly realized that wasn’t a possibility. She was a capable and loving mother. No one could take Billy from her. At the most she would be forced to share Billy with Clay, and there was a chance that that would actually be good for Billy.

  But what if Clay didn’t care to become involved in the boy’s life? He didn’t know the child. He hadn’t been there at his birth, hadn’t changed his diapers, hadn’t bound up his wounds, cheered at his ball games. He had no emotional ties to Billy. He might not want a father’s responsibilities.

  How that would hurt Billy! He wanted a father so badly. And, the most alarming thought of all, what would her son think of her and her choices if and when he learned the truth?

  Leigh wiped her eyes again on a dry corner of her pillowcase and turned onto her back.

  God, we have a history together, You and I. You’ve provided for me in the past when I was desperate, when I was a colossal failure. Based on that and Your promises, I know You’ll provide for me now. But he scares me, Lord. I scare me. The possible revelation of the truth scares me. Help me remember the deeds You’ve done in the past on our behalf so that I won’t fear what man—or one particular man—can do to me.

  With great deliberation, Leigh turned her mind back to the first time God had intervened in her life. She needed to remind herself of the miracles she had seen so she could believe in the miracles yet to come. The first miracle had been Julia’s persistent interest in her for no good reason the young Leigh could see.

  “Have lunch with me, dear,” Julia—Mrs. Wharton—had said one day as Leigh’s supervisor at the Acme told her to close her register and take lunch. “I don’t feel like eating alone.”

  Leigh had protested; she was certain she had, but somehow she ended up walking down the street with Mrs. Whar
ton chatting about the lovely weather. Lovely? It was ninety-five in the shade with a land breeze that was baking the town!

  “Here we go, dear.” Mrs. Wharton smiled as they entered the air-conditioned relief of Bitsi’s. “Have a seat.”

  Leigh looked at the woman sitting across from her. Well, looked might be too strong a word. She peeked up from under her lashes as she sat with her head down and her hands clasped tightly in her lap.

  Why had Mrs. Wharton asked her out for lunch? What did she want from her? Did she want to tell her that she was a tramp to have corrupted her fine Christian son, and this lunch was like her final meal, her last supper? It was just too suspicious that the woman had suddenly started being nice so soon after The Incident.

  Leigh found that if she could think of the time with Clay as The Incident, no names mentioned, no emotions attached, she could survive the memory without dying every time it popped up—which it did with the regularity of thirst.

  She’d waited for his call the day after graduation. And the next day and the next. Then she began to get a clammy feeling in the pit of her stomach. By the second week she’d known. He wasn’t going to call. Ever. Whatever she had imagined he felt, it had been just that, imagination.

  And she’d thought she knew all about the agony of rejection and loss.

  Even now, more than a month after The Incident, she still couldn’t believe how stupid she’d been. She’d actually thought he was going to tell her he loved her. How pathetic! She blushed when she recalled how she’d said she loved him. Like he cared. Just because she loved him from afar for the past three years didn’t mean he shared that feeling. She should have known better. After all, she’d read countless stories and cried at countless movies about unrequited love.

  Now he was at Annapolis, a midshipman standing straight and handsome in his new uniform. There was no chance for her now. Not that it should be a surprise. Things never worked out for Leigh Spenser. Never. Not once. The Incident was really just one more failure in a long line of them.

  She was as stupid as her mother had been, giving it away for free. She comforted herself with the idea that at least she had the sense to be attracted to someone like Clay rather than someone like her father; though come to think about it, her father stayed around to marry her mother. But then her mother had been pregnant, and she, of course, wasn’t.

  Oh, God, please, I’m not! I know I’m late, but it’s just because I’m upset. It has to be because I’m upset!

  “What can I get you?” asked the waitress, a chirrupy, suntanned girl doubtless in Seaside for a fun summer, waitressing on the side. All Bitsi’s summer staff were perky like this girl, who without trying, made Leigh feel pale, wan, and weary. Her name tag read Staci with an i. She tossed her sun-streaked hair and grinned.

  Leigh’s own hair was pulled back and clipped at her nape, but somehow, even though neat, it looked frumpy. At least it felt frumpy next to Beach Princess Staci who probably got to the beach every day while Leigh couldn’t make it even once.

  “Get whatever you want, Leigh,” Mrs. Wharton said, all friendly.

  “I’m not very hungry,” Leigh muttered. All the food smells were making her nauseous.

  “Maybe a cup of soup? Or a salad?” Mrs. Wharton smiled at her like her choice really mattered, and Leigh scowled back. She hated not being sure what the woman wanted. All her life her only protection had been knowing what was happening. She studied her father, studied her teachers, until she could read them and anticipate and avoid trouble. When she didn’t understand motives, she got uncomfortable and surly.

  “Whatever you get is fine with me,” Leigh told the tabletop and hoped she’d be able to keep down whatever came.

  “Two cups of chicken noodle soup and lots of crackers.”

  “Right,” said Beach Princess Staci as she wrote diligently on her order pad. “Do you want iced tea, or would you like a soda?”

  “Iced tea,” said Mrs. Wharton.

  “Coke,” Leigh whispered.

  “What?” said Beach Princess Staci.

  “A Coke,” Leigh said in a voice so loud that the child at the next table spun to look at her. She ignored both the child and the embarrassed flush that crept up her cheeks.

  After looking at Leigh strangely, Beach Princess Staci disappeared, and Mrs. Wharton said, “They have wonderful soups here. You’ll like the noodle soup, I know.”

  Leigh nodded, swallowing bile at the very thought of eating. She stared down at her Acme shirt and wished she hadn’t agreed to come. She had no idea what to say to this polished woman. When your father was the town drunk and a thief, having polite conversation with well-heeled society ladies wasn’t something you were used to.

  “Leigh, where are you planning to go to school in the fall?”

  Leigh looked up, startled. Why did Mrs. Wharton care? “Rowan University. I have a partial scholarship. I—I want to be a teacher. Elementary school.” Somewhere besides Seaside. Anywhere but Seaside.

  “That’s wonderful. I have to tell you, I was afraid that you planned to work at Acme all your life. Not that there’s anything wrong with that, but with a brain like yours, it would be a shame not to develop it more. God gave it to you to use.”

  Leigh blushed at the compliment. Since Mom died, not many people had said such nice things to her.

  Beach Princess Staci arrived at the table next to where Leigh and Mrs. Wharton sat. She had baskets full of hamburgers and fries and one full of fried shrimp and fries. The aromas wafted across the aisle, and Leigh felt her stomach heave.

  She grabbed her midsection and bolted to the back of the restaurant and the ladies’ room. She just made it to a stall before she lost what little food sat in her stomach. She knelt, panting, trying to get a grip. She had to go out and face Mrs. Wharton after that inelegant exit. Somehow she knew that escaping out the back door wouldn’t deter the woman.

  She went to a sink and ran the cold water. She cupped her hands and brought the water to her mouth. She swirled it around, rinsing away the bitter taste. Then she looked at herself in the mirror and sagged against the wall.

  She had always been poor, and her clothes had always been wrong; but she’d been neat and clean, her hair shiny, her cheeks rosy. Now she looked like death warmed over, so pale with great circles under her eyes. And she was so tired! She slept every minute she could, but she was always weary, just one step from falling asleep on the job. And she couldn’t afford to lose either of her jobs.

  She closed her eyes to blot out her image and stepped hesitantly out into the restaurant. As soon as she slid into her seat, she grabbed her brown pocketbook with the hole in the one corner where pens kept slipping out. She fished inside for the TUMS she now carried everywhere. She stuck three in her mouth and chewed.

  “Have you been feeling bad for long?” Mrs. Wharton asked, just like she cared.

  Just since your son. “It’s a touch of a bug,” Leigh said. “It’ll pass.” Please, God, let it pass!

  Mrs. Wharton looked sympathetic, but she didn’t comment as Beach Princess Staci skipped up and served them their lunch. Leigh looked at the bowl of soup sitting in front of her and felt her face turn three shades of green. How was she ever going to manage this? She picked up her spoon and forced herself to take a swallow of the broth. Unexpectedly it soothed her stomach. She took another.

  Mrs. Wharton leaned forward, looking very intent. “I’m going to ask you a few very personal questions, Leigh. Understand that I have a reason. I’m not trying to be nosey or to embarrass you. Truly I’m not.”

  Leigh nodded. She just bet the woman had a reason. To protect her son. It had to be that. What other reason would there be for this lady to care about her one way or the other?

  But somehow the idea of Clay telling his mother of all people what had happened between them was beyond credibility.

  “Can you manage going to Rowan financially?”

  Leigh stared at Mrs. Wharton, too stunned by the question to be shy.
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br />   “I know that’s a highly personal question,” Mrs. Wharton said, obviously recognizing Leigh’s astonishment. “But can you?”

  Leigh looked at the pretty woman with her carefully tinted blond hair and her yellow cotton sweater and yellow floral slacks, all saying very clearly, “Money!” and wondered again what was going on.

  “I don’t know if I can make it or not. That’s why I’m working two jobs this summer.” She rubbed a hand across her forehead to soothe the pain she got there every time she thought about the expenses of her education, to say nothing of such simple things as eating and buying gas for her new-to-her rattletrap, an eight-year-old red Civic. “But I’m going to try. It might take a long time before I finish, but I’ll do it eventually.”

  She said the last with a lot more assurance than she felt. Being on her own was such a scary thing that if she allowed herself to think of all that could go wrong, she’d go home, bury her head under her pillow, and hide for the rest of her life. Just buying the Red Menace had practically given her an ulcer. What did she know about cars? She had tried to look cool and assured, but she’d known she had patsy written all over her. The car salesman had probably ripped her off, but she didn’t want to know for sure. This way she could sniff at his probable lack of ethics and still keep her pride.

  “Are you planning to live in the dorm or get an apartment?” Mrs. Wharton brought her paper napkin carefully to her lips, then put it back in her lap.

  “I’ll have to commute.”

  “All the way to Glassboro? That’s a lot of driving.”

  “I don’t have a choice.”

  “Is your car in good shape?”

  She thought of the Red Menace parked beside the Acme and shrugged. “I don’t really know.”

  “Do you have someone to look at the car for you? An uncle? A family friend? I know I wouldn’t know if a car was in decent condition or not until it suddenly stopped running. Then I could figure it out—broken! broken!—but I wouldn’t have the vaguest idea how to fix it. It’s not one of my interests. When we buy a car, my main job is to pick the color.” Mrs. Wharton smiled. “Dr. Wharton does all the rest.”