Fire and Rain

by Diane Chamberlain

“You must wonder what happened to the baby.”

  “Oh, I do,” she said. “I never got married, never had any kids of my own, and every once in a while I think of that little one and… I just hope Beth was able to take care of her.”

  Carmen dropped her pencil on the table. “The baby was a girl?”

  “Oh.” Susan laughed. “Only in my imagination. I don’t know what it was, and the woman Beth worked for didn’t remember.”

  “Do you think I might be able to speak with the woman?”

  “I’m afraid not. She died a few years ago. She was pretty old even when Beth was with her.”

  Carmen looked down at her scribbled notes. “Is there anything else you can tell me?”

  “I can’t think of anything.” Susan laughed. “This has been a pretty weird phone call.”

  “I know,” Carmen said. “And I appreciate how open you’ve been.”

  “It’s been good talking about Beth.” There was another moment of hesitation before Susan spoke again. “She would be fifty-one now, and I bet she’s still beautiful. Oh, please, please let me know if you find her.”

  “I will,” Carmen promised, and she meant it absolutely. “You’ll be the first to know.”

  16

  “GLAD YOU’RE HERE.” TINA, one of the nurses at the Children’s Home, smiled as Chris approached the unit desk. “ Dusty’s been a royal pain in the butt all week.”

  “Yeah?” Chris grinned as though she’d complimented him. They all complained about Dustin—he could be a demanding child from the confines of his soundless, sightless world—but Chris enjoyed their tales of his four-year-old son’s stubborn opposition. He liked that Dustin was a fighter, that he didn’t submit easily to the cross he’d been given to bear.

  Chris sat on the edge of the desk. “What’s he been up to?”

  Tina closed the chart on which she was working and stood to put it in the circular rack. “He yanked out his feeding tube yesterday.”

  Chris’s eyes widened. “You mean he used his hands?”

  “Oh, no.” Tina looked chagrined at having misled him. “You know he’ll never be able to do that, don’t you Chris?”

  He nodded.

  “No. He rolled around on the bean bag chair until it came out.”

  “Oh. What else?”

  “The crying.” Tina sounded almost apologetic as she leaned back against the counter. She drew her brown hair up into a pony tail, fastening it with a rubber band she’d had around her wrist. “You know how bad it gets sometimes. Tuesday and Wednesday we thought he’d never stop.”

  More than anything Chris hated the crying. No one knew the reason for it, and Dustin had no means to communicate the source of his discomfort. On the few occasions it happened during one of his visits, Chris would desperately try to still the heartrending sobs. He’d change his son’s diaper, adjust his feeding tube, walk him down the halls in the wheelchair, rock him, sing to him, and Dustin would continue to cry. Chris would often end up in tears himself from the frustration and pain of seeing his son in such unrelenting anguish. Dustin wasn’t the only child here who could cry for twenty-four hours straight. Chris had nothing but respect for Tina and the other high-energy women—and a few men—who had chosen to work with these kids. The rewards were few.

  He found Dustin in his room curled up on his bed. He was facing the window, the one with the view of Mission Valley that he could never appreciate. Sunlight poured into the room, bouncing off the yellow walls and lighting up the colorful balloons on the ruffled curtains. This wasn’t a sterile place. Chris had wanted someplace homey, someplace warm and as unlike an institution as it could be. Dustin would never know the difference, but he would.

  “Hey, Dusty,” Chris said, resting his hand on Dustin’s back. The little boy jumped, startled, and Chris leaned close. “It’s Daddy.” He let his lips linger on the warm, almost febrile skin of Dustin’s temple and noticed how clean his skin and his hair smelled. The care here was excellent.

  Dustin grunted and tried to roll over, and Chris carefully picked him up, pulling him into his arms. Dustin rocked his head, so vigorously that Chris had to cup his hand around the boy’s forehead to prevent it from smashing into his jaw.

  Chris sat down in the armless rocker, which he had bought for Carmen during her first pregnancy, and let his son thrash and struggle to get comfortable, all the while crooning to him in words Dustin couldn’t hear, but which Chris knew he picked up on at some level. The vibrations, they’d told him. He feels the vibrations in your chest, your throat. In the air.

  “How’s my boy?” Chris asked, rocking.

  He never allowed himself to think beyond the moment, to wonder how he would be able to hold Dustin this way when the boy got older. If he got older. His heart wasn’t good, and Chris wouldn’t allow the tests to determine the extent of the damage, tests that could only add to Dustin’s suffering and do nothing to improve the quality of his life. Sometimes he wished his son looked worse than he did. It was hard to convince himself of the severity of Dustin’s condition when, except for his eyes, he was beautiful. He was of average build for his age; his useless limbs were well-formed. His hair was thick and very dark, his features perfect. Would Chris still be able to pick him up, sing to him, rock him, when Dustin was ten? Fifteen?

  “He’ll never be able to know the difference between you and anyone else,” one of the staff had told him long ago, in an effort to be kind, to let him know that his regular visits were not really necessary. But Dustin did know. By the time he was two, even the staff had to admit that his spirits seemed to lift when Chris arrived. Only recently did one of them tell Chris that Dustin sometimes cried when he left.

  Dustin’s thumb jerked up to his mouth, and he sucked hungrily, his eyes open, the corneas silvered over, like the milky backing of an old mirror. He made small humming sounds deep in his throat, sounds Chris had long ago decided were Dustin’s way of showing contentment. Chris rocked, shutting his own eyes, resting his chin against his son’s sweet-smelling hair. He began to sing, quietly.

  Tell me why the stars do shine

  Tell me why the ivy twine

  Tell me why the sky’s so blue

  And I will tell you just why I love you.

  When Chris stopped singing, Dustin pulled his thumb from his mouth and begin to rock—his agitated, frustrated rock—making wild sounds: “Nah! Nah! Nah! Unh! Unh!” Chris began to sing again.

  Sometimes he stopped intentionally just to get Dustin’s reaction, just to feel as though there was some sort of communication between them.

  “Would you like to know what your mother is up to?” he asked when he had finished his song. “She’s really cooking, Dusty.”

  He remembered Carmen on News Ninethe night before. She’d said that Jeff Cabrio refused to make a statement to the press—Carmen could make a “no comment” sound like a major news event—but that Mayor Chris Garrett reported “good progress” on the rainmaking project. No one had a clue what that meant, but it didn’t matter. From very little information, Carmen, in her old, inimitable style, was creating a mystique around Jeff. She described the long hours he spent in the warehouse, how he sent out for food to avoid seeing other people, how he returned home to his cottage long after dark and was up again before dawn.

  “There was a blurb in the paper today,” Chris told his son. “It said that News Nine‘s ratings are up a bit on the nights your mom makes her North County Report. What do you think of that?”

  Dustin was still. Nearly asleep.

  “And I painted your old room the other day.”

  Dustin’s head was heavy against his chest. Chris stood up slowly and lowered his son back to the bed.

  “Unh! Unh! Unh!” Dustin sprang to life. And then the crying began, and with it the wrenching pain deep in Chris’s chest. He set his hand on the little boy’s back again.

  “Dustin, don’t do that. Please, don’t.”

  “I’ll stay with him.”

  Chris turn
ed to see Tina standing in the doorway. He looked down at his son, whose little shoulders heaved with his sobs.

  “I hate when he does this,” he said.

  Tina nodded. She pushed past Chris and began fiddling with Dustin’s covers, as though what she was doing was more important than anything Chris could possibly do right now. It was a game they played, Chris knew. A game designed to give him permission to leave, guilt-free. Although nothing regarding Dustin would ever leave Chris guilt-free.

  IT WAS NEARLY THREE o’clock when he arrived at Sugarbush. Carmen was about to get into her car as he was getting out of his. He was certain she knew where he’d been, that he went to San Diego to see Dustin every Saturday.

  “Hi,” she said.

  “Hi.”

  She looked toward the cottages, squinting against the sun. “How long is the drive?” she asked.

  “An hour and a half.”

  “Oh,” she said, simply, disinterestedly. She said nothing more to him as she opened her car door and slipped in behind the steering wheel. But before she started the engine, she smoothed her thick hair back from her face, and in her huge eyes he could see the unmistakable shimmer of tears.

  17

  SHE WAS KNEELING IN the rose garden, kneeling in the dust. Chris watched her from the edge of his bed, where the misleading early morning chill made a slow sweep over his body. Carmen’s tawny skin, tawny shorts and shirt blended in with the earth and brush of Sugarbush, and only the dark shine of her hair stood out against the muted colors of the yard. The sun lit up her hands and the white-tipped vermilion roses that had always been her favorites. She knelt near the one I leggy rosebush at the center of the garden. Those bushes farthest from her were dead and crumbling; those closer, still clinging to life, still showing some green in their stems.

  Next to her was a beige bucket, so close in color to the earth that, until she picked it up, Chris hadn’t realized it was there. She poured water over the ground around the rosebush. Her gray water, he was certain. Carmen, breaking the law to save this one pinch of color in her yard.

  The sleeves of her blouse were rolled up; she didn’t know anyone was watching. From this distance, though, Chris couldn’t see the scars. Even now, certain images from that long-ago morning remained vivid in his memory: the swirling pattern of blood on the floor and walls of the bathroom she had decorated entirely in white; the sharp precision with which she’d opened her veins. He’d pressed the thick white terry towels to her arms, pressed as hard as he could until his own arms shook with the effort, and the ambulance siren neared. They took her away, leaving him crying and shaking and sick, and wondering how, in such a short span of time, such a mere heartbeat, they had gone from happiness to the total destruction of a marriage they had both treasured.

  Carmen stood up, leaning over to smell the fullest rose, straightening once again. She looked to either side of her, to all she’d lost, and she seemed to sag, her shoulders drooping. Reaching for the bucket, lifting it, seemed almost too much effort for her.

  “Hang in there, Carmen,” he said softly to himself.

  He watched her until she disappeared once again inside the house. Then he took a shower, saving his own gray water in a large earthenware bowl he found in the kitchen. And once Carmen had left for work, he carried the water outside and gave it to her vermilion roses.

  18

  HE WAS HOME. IT wasn’t yet dark, and already he was there, kicking against the porch step to rid his shoes of dust before walking into the cottage. Mia could see him through the window of her living room, where she sat on the sofa, eating her steamed vegetables. She hadn’t spoken to him since the night she’d given him the kitten. He had intimidated her then, the way he saw through her, the way he seemed to know more about her than she knew about herself.

  She was putting the leftover vegetables in the refrigerator when Jeff knocked on her door, and he opened it a few inches before she had a chance to get to it herself.

  “May I come in?” he asked.

  “Of course.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel as he stepped into the room, carrying what looked like a yellow stool with a wide circular seat.

  “What’s that?” she asked.

  “I made it for you,” he said. “It’s to save your back.”

  He rested the stool on the plastic sheeting in the center of the living room and smiled at her confusion. He moved one of the kitchen chairs next to the stool and motioned her toward it. “Sit down,” he said. “I want to see if it’s the right height.”

  She sat down on the chair, and he whisked his hand along the edge of the stool’s circular top, making it spin like a lazy Susan. “You put your work on here and you’re all set.”

  “It’s perfect,” she said, pleased. “Thank you.”

  “Will it be sturdy enough?”

  She leaned forward, resting her arms on the circle of wood, and nodded.

  “Good.” He put his hands on his hips, looked around the room. “It smells great in here,” he said.

  “Have you had dinner? I have leftovers.”

  He sniffed the air. “Onions. Carrots—no, sweet potatoes, right?”

  “Both,” she said.

  “And something else. Cabbage?”

  “Close. Brussels sprouts. I’m impressed.”

  “No meat?”

  “Just vegetables. Would you like some?”

  “Please.”

  He followed her into the kitchen, where she took the bowl of vegetables from the refrigerator and put it in the microwave she’d brought from home.

  “Vegetarian?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Moral or health reasons?”

  She hesitated, turning away to take a plate from the cupboard. “I just think it’s better for all concerned.” She glanced at him and knew he didn’t quite buy the explanation, but he didn’t seem inclined to push her.

  “Have a seat.” She motioned toward the small kitchen table. When the microwave beeped, she handed him the bowl of vegetables. “How’s the cat?” she asked.

  “Smart. And fortunately very independent. He takes what I can give him and doesn’t ask for anything more. And he’s turning out to be a watch cat. He sits on the window sill and guards the place.” He took a bite of sweet potato. “So where are the pictures you took of me?”

  “I’ll get them.” She walked into the living room and picked up the pictures from the coffee table, along with the sketches she was making of the pose she would use for her sculpture. Back in the kitchen, she laid the pictures next to his plate.

  Jeff set down his fork, and his eyes widened. He picked up the top photograph, one of him standing, shirtless, next to the computer.

  “My God,” he said. “I’m falling apart.” He touched his hair, his abdomen, just below the ribs, and she was surprised by his reaction, by the sudden vulnerability she saw in him when he had seemed so thoroughly invulnerable.

  “You’re excellent,” she reassured him. “You’re a perfect subject.”

  His face was still creased with worry. “It’s been so long since I’ve really gotten a look at myself. I need to do a few sit-ups or something.”

  Mia shook her head and took the photograph from his fingers. “The real beauty in this body,” she said, “is that it’s not the body of some young student model paying his way through college. There’s a maturity to it. Your pectorals and abdominal muscles are still defined, but with a certain softening.”

  “You’re not making me feel any better.”

  “It’s very subtle, the softening, and it gives you character. It makes you a lure to an artist, Jeff. It makes you irresistible.”

  He raised his eyebrows, a half-smile on his lips.

  “To an artist,” she repeated firmly.

  “Well, Mia,” he said. “At least I know right where I stand with you, huh? All you want is my body, and you don’t even try to cover up your dishonorable intentions.”

  She laughed, but she could see he was still disconcer
ted as he fanned through the rest of the photographs. “Who is this stranger?” he asked, more to himself than to her. “Who the hell is this guy?”

  She showed him the nearly finished bas-relief of the window she planned to use as the backdrop for his sculpture. He admired her work, then suddenly looked up at her.

  “Could you make a fountain?” he asked.

  “A fountain?”

  “Yes. Wouldn’t it be nice if—once there’s some water to spare—Valle Rosa had a small fountain to celebrate? Maybe in the little park next to Chris’s office?”

  She smiled slowly. “You’re nuts, you know. Water to spare?”

  “Could you do it?”

  “It’s not the kind of thing I usually do, but it might be fun. I could do it in clay, then make a plaster mold and pour concrete into it.” She was as crazy as he was.

  “That sounds great.” He pushed his chair back from the table, and stretched his arms above his head. “Do you know what time the coyotes start up?” he asked.

  “Close to eleven, I’d say. Why?”

  He looked at his watch. “I plan to tape them tonight.”

  “You mean, on video?”

  “Just audio.”

  “From your cottage?”

  He shook his head. “The canyon. I’ll walk out a ways.”

  “It’ll be eerie,” she said. “Scary.”

  “No. I like the way they sound. It’s a natural sound. It’s other noises I’m afraid of.”

  She felt a surprising surge of envy at the thought of him walking in the cool darkness of the canyon.

  “I can see the idea appeals to you,” he said. “Would you like to join me?”

  She hesitated only a second or two. “All right.”

  At ten-thirty she met him on the porch of his cottage and they set out in darkness, down into the canyon. From somewhere in the distance came the faint but unmistakable smell of smoke.

  Jeff carried a flashlight with him, but he didn’t turn it on, not wanting to disturb the wildlife any more than he had to. The half-moon spilled enough light on the chaparral to help them negotiate the steep drop into the canyon. At one point, though, she began to slip and had to grab his arm to steady herself. She let go quickly.