Wrapped in Rain

by Charles Martin

  Having reached a dead end, I turned the canoe, banging both ends on either side of the creek, and headed back to the wider water. When I got there, I smiled because the clear water reminded me of the quarry. It reminded me of the best day.

  I paddled into the black water, and that's when it hit me. The best day. If the spring water had reminded me, maybe Mutt had had the same thought.

  I turned the canoe and headed back up the creek of clear water, and that's when I saw the bubbles. Smallalmost unnoticeable unless you were looking for themsoap bubbles hanging on the roots of the side of the creek. I pulled the canoe around the base of the cypress tree and lifted a few branches so I could slide the canoe beneath them. I lay down and let the limbs pass over me like a ceiling. When I sat up, the canoe came to rest in what looked like a cul-de-sac. The water came out of the earth beneath me. I could see about forty feet down where a dark hole about three feet across disappeared into the sand and rock below. Around me, the bank was muddy and covered in weeds, purple iris, and white water lilies. An enormous clump of red amaryllis spilled out of the muck and dipped its huge green leaves in the water. A hummingbird flew into and out of one of the snorkel-shaped leaves forming at the end of a fresh stem. The place teemed with life.

  A beached canoe rested to my left. On the seat sat a chess set, unfinished in midgame with half the pieces still standing on the board and half-standing in rows across the bottom of the canoe. I followed the footprints to the vinecovered bank, where they disappeared. I studied the bank, looking for any sign of Mutt but saw none. I beached the canoe and stepped out into the spring water that was knee-high and cold. I pulled on the canoe, set my paddle quietly inside, and crept toward the bank. A small shelter had been burrowed in one side, large enough for a man to wedge into with his knees tucked up into his chest. I pulled away the vines, and there looking back at me were two eyes peering out of the layers of caked mud that surrounded every inch of his body. From this dark mass, the whites of his two eyes stared out at me. And in the middle of the dark mass were two very clean hands.

  His hair was knotted and stringy, and he was shaking, almost shivering. I slid up through the mud, next to the bank, and leaned against the vines, not saying a word, wondering if this was the beginning or the end. Mutt's eyes never left mine. After three or four minutes, he opened his right hand, and in the palm was a small bar of soap, well used and soon to be done with. His left hand was clenched tightly close to his chest, unmoving. He extended his right arm and held the soap out to me. I reached out and slowly took the soap, and he retracted his arm almost mechanically.

  His face looked swollen with mosquito bites, as did his clean hands. Mutt didn't say a word. It was the worst I had ever seen him. It was the worst I had ever seen anyone. He was a breathing shell.

  "Hey, buddy," I whispered. His eyes never flinched. I washed my hands. "What're you thinking about?"

  A few minutes passed, and he looked out over the swamp. In a hoarse, almost silent whisper, he said, "Boxing up the sunshine ... riding a cloud ... raking the rain."

  He extended his hand and waved it across the landscape.

  "Is there room on that cloud for two?"

  He thought for a moment, looked down into his left hand at whatever he was hiding, opened it slightly, closed it quickly, and nodded. "Slide over," I whispered.

  We sat for an hour in the dark without saying another word. Without warning, Mutt looked at me and said, "You remember when Miss Ella used to read to us out of her Bible?"

  I nodded, surprised at so clear a thought.

  Mutt continued. "I've been sitting here thinking about Abraham holding the knife above Isaac."

  "What about it?" I asked.

  "You think he would have done it?"

  "Yeah." I nodded. "I think he would've. I think God thought that too."

  Mutt nodded and spoke as if the truth were absolute. "I think you're right. I think he would too."

  We sat a few moments more as the dark surrounded its. "I can take you back if you like." Mutt shook his head. "Not to your room," I said, shaking my head. "Home."

  Mutt looked up, and his eyebrows grew close together. "Gibby okay with that?"

  "I'm not giving him a choice."

  Mutt looked out across the spring and through it as if looking into the halls of Spiraling Oaks. "Gibby's a good man."

  I nodded, walked to the canoe, and returned with my jacket. I pulled the plastic box from my pocket and held it out so Mutt could see it. He didn't even blink. "I need to give you this."

  Mutt looked at his left shoulder, then at me. I twisted off the plastic cap, squeezed out any air, pulled up his short sleeve, and injected the needle through the caked mud and into the soft muscle at the top of his arm. I squeezed in the Thorazine, pitched the syringe deep in the swamp, and returned the plastic box to my jacket pocket. Mutt never even flinched.

  He stood from his burrow, and his size surprised me. He was bigger than when I left him but was by no means heavy. Still skinny, just fuller in places. He shoved his fisted left hand into his pocket and kept it there. I stepped back, watched him from a safe distance, and didn't say anything.

  He retracted his hand and patted his pocket. "It helps me remember." He walked to his canoe, gathered his chess set, stuffed it into his zippered fanny pack, and stepped into my canoe. He looked at the front seat but decided against it. He lay down in the middle, pulled his knees tightly into his chest, and balled up.

  I pushed the canoe off the bank and paddled through the dark beneath the tree limbs, around the cypress tree, and out into black water. I knew it would take longer, but I purposefully didn't crank the Honda.

  We slid up next to the dock at ten thirty. I beached the canoe and saw Gibby's light on in his office. I tapped on the window, and a minute later he came running around the bank, through the ferns, and crept up to the canoe. I pointed inside and held my fingers to my lips. Gibby knelt down, saw Mutt, and gently put his hand on top of Mutt's head. He stroked his head twice and looked at me. I held out the plastic box and showed him the one syringe, and Gibby nodded. I carried Mutt inside, laid him on his bed, turned out the light, and shut the door.

  I told Gibby the story, but I wasn't interested in talking with Gibby. My mind was at the Marriott. I picked up Gibby's phone and dialed the room number. After nine rings I set the phone back in the receiver and sat down, my disappointment evident. Gibby said, "They're not there."

  I looked up, confused.

  "I called this morning," he said, "to see if I could take them fishing, but the lady at the counter said they had called a taxi before lunch and left with their bags. I haven't heard from them all day."

  "See you in the morning. And ... thanks, Gibby."

  I walked down the hall, past Mutt's room, and out the sliding doors. When I got to the Marriot and opened my room door, the beds were made and my duffel bag was sitting neatly on the couch. I searched the bedside table, the bathroom, and the coffee table, but there was no note.

  The restaurant and bar were empty save the bartender and a traveling salesman who had loosened his tie and wedged his beer belly into a booth in the corner. He held a beer in one hand, his anchor to the earth, and shoveled peanuts with the other. Scattered on the floor beneath him were two bowl's worth of shells. With one eye trained on a game he wasn't watching, he clasped the glass with a hand and watched the bubbles and foam settle as the urinecolored liquid swirled about. He chewed, threw more shells on the floor, and turned the glass slowly, letting the foam rise to the rim and circle the edges. Minus the face, I was looking at Rex's ghost. A man and his liquor. Caught somewhere between his demons and the hope of all mankind.

  The bartender polished the top of the bar and asked, "Can I help you?"

  "I'm looking for an attractive lady, about five-eight, and a little kid, maybe five years old."

  "Good-looking lady with short hair? Handsome kid wearing a two-holster belt?"

  "That'd be them."

  "They ate lunc
h over there, but that was a while ago. Haven't seen them since."

  "Thanks."

  With nowhere left to look, I changed clothes and started running down a long winding road that paralleled the river. Huge, sprawling oaks covered the road from both sides and draped over the street like Christmas lights. Fresh, deep gashes and old, weathered scars on the undersides of the limbs betrayed accidental hit and runs by the local delivery trucks. An hour later, I returned to the room, but I hadn't run the loneliness out. It would take more than an hour to do that.

  I jumped into the Jacuzzi, closed my eyes, and let the heat and bubbles bore into my back. What if they hadn't gone shopping? What if they were halfway to California? What if ... ?

  Bubbles popped around my neck while the jets drilled further through my back and legs. I hadn't felt this lonely since Miss Ella died. Chances were pretty good that they had taken a taxi to the airport and were four states from Florida by now.

  I sat long enough to turn pruny, and that's when I smelled the lavender. She put her hands around my head and covered my eyes, and I heard a giddy splash as Jase jumped into the Jacuzzi.

  I turned around to see Katie kneeling next to me with three towels and wearing a light blue one-piece bathing suit. "The bus station was all out of tickets, and"-she stepped into the water as Jase hopped on my lap-"we couldn't shop on the bus."

  "Hey, partner."

  "Hey, Unca Tuck, we went shopping and Mama got me a Tigger backpack. She got you something too, but it's a surprise and I'm not supposed to tell you about it."

  "She did?"

  I bounced him on my knee like he was riding a horse and looked at Katie. The water was steaming up her face, dripping off her nose and ear lobes, and the light in the bottom of the Jacuzzi lit her face, reminding me of the little girl who danced in the quarry. She blinked, leaned back against the tiles, and smiled, letting the steam rise up and bead across her face. "I can only handle truck stop clothing for so long." She pointed over her shoulder toward Spiraling Oaks. "Gibby told us about Mutt." I looked down into the water and noticed the straps of her suit and the way her hips waved like an illusion in the swirling water. The contrast between the girl in my memory and the woman in front of me was striking.

  She hoisted Jase onto her lap, wrapped her arms around him, nuzzled her cheek against his, and kissed him, leaving a lipstick mark on his forehead. She was a good mom. His face told me that.

  Miss Ella?

  Yes, child?

  I'm on some shaky ground here.

  How so?

  I don't quite know how to say this ...

  What, you mean that boy?

  I thought for a moment. Yes.

  What makes you better than me?

  What do you mean?

  Tucker you weren't mine, and I took care of you.

  I never quite thought of it like that.

  And, Tucker no mother ever loved a child the way I love you.

  But I don't know what to do with a boy like that.

  When I took you to the movies, when did I give you your ticket?

  When we got to the counter and the guy said, "Tickets, please. "

  Child, the Lord gives you what you need, when you need it.

  Chapter 24

  THE NEXT MORNING, WE DROVE TO SPIRALING OAKS with Jase in the front seat wedged up next to me. He had propped a foot on either side of the hump and looked poised to tackle the sun. Every time I shifted gears, he put his hands on top of mine, his face got real serious, and he pushed or pulled the gear in the proper direction.

  Gibby was waiting for us in his office when we arrived. We walked to Mutt's room and opened the door. They had monitored him all night and said he had slept without a sound or much movement. "It's the Thorazine," said Gibby. I walked in and Mutt lay resting his head on the pillow, looking at me.

  I stood at the foot of his bed and pinched his toes. "I want to go home," Mutt whispered.

  "Where's that?" I asked.

  "I'm not sure, but I think it's wherever you are."

  "Get a shower and I'll meet you outside."

  We walked out into the waiting room, and Gibby gently grabbed my arm. "I admire what you're doing, but you need to know what you're in for."

  "Gibby, I owe you a lot, but for a lot of reasons, I can't leave him here anymore."

  "If you've got a guilt complex, don't-"

  "Gibby, I do have a guilt complex, but that's not driving me."

  Gibby nodded. "I suppose you have your reasons."

  "I do."

  Gibby pulled me to the window. "I have long since believed that in Mutt's case, if you can find the root of his torment, you can begin a process of healing. But you must find the roots. Unlike roses, a simple pruning won't do." I nodded again and saw the patient next door to Mutt's room walk out of his room, into Mutt's, shut the door, and then walk out of Mutt's room thirty seconds later, pulling up on his zipper.

  Gibby continued. "Let me tell you what you're in for. Absent anything short of a miracle, Mutt will suffer further personality deterioration. In my best guess, Mutt is what you might call schizoeffective, a cross between schizophrenic and affective. Think of a clock. Between twelve and three, you have thinking or schizophrenic disorders. Between three and six, you have affective disorders like mood swings causing drastic changes or emotional sweeps. Laughing one minute and crying the next. Between six and nine, you have behavioral disorders like walking back and forth under a light, not bathing, or not stepping on cracks. And between nine and twelve, you have perceptive disorders, what you might call psychotic tendencies, which include hallucinations, hearing voices, a racing mind, and the absence of sleep. Unlike most of my patients, Mutt finds himself all around the clock, but mostly, he lives at three o'clock. He is amotivational and asocial. At times, he will become hyper and excited followed quickly by paranoia and delusional thinking, quite sure that everyone is out to get him. He'll see things that aren't there, hear words that were never spoken, feel someone is trying to kill him, and if a look of terror overcomes him, he may even strike out.

  "He will pace, watch his back-literally, and could become irrationally mistrustful, believing that someone is putting gas under the door to get him. He may not want to go out of the house, fearing his body is being con trolled from outer space or that his intestines are being eaten by worms. For no apparent reason, he can begin yelling, screaming, fighting, and struggling with everything from the refrigerator door to the lamp cord. Regardless of what you do, he thinks very concretely. Meaning, if you tell him not to cry over spilt milk, he won't. He'll simply get a rag and start looking for milk to wipe up. If you tell him not to throw stones in a glass house, he'll say, `Of course not, you'd break it.' If he sees a sign that says `Slow Children Playing,' he'll stop and look for the children who are playing slowly.

  "If you tell him to watch his back, he'll stand between two mirrors and do just that. To delay or lessen these occurrences, you must make sure he stays on this." Gibby held out two small pill containers and said, "One of each, twice daily. When you run out, call me and I'll get you some more." In his other hand, he held out another plastic box, this one holding six syringes. "Try not to let him get to the place where he was last night. Inject him, call me, and I'll get in a car. If he doesn't find a home with you, he has one with us." I nodded and put the two pill containers and plastic box into my pocket. "One more thing. You might consider getting his hands busy. His hands will lead his mind; get him working on something. But let him figure out what that might be; just suggest and let him pick. Anything mechanical."

  Mutt walked out his door with wet, uncombed hair, but he was fully dressed, zipper half-up, his eyes glassy with sleep, shoes tied, and wearing his fanny pack, stuffed taut. Gibby looked at him and then directly at Katie and me. "But under no circumstances should you leave him alone with anyone. Especially that boy. Don't let him near any little kids. Not for any reason. On the one hand, I don't think Mutt would hurt a fly, but on the other, I've been a quack docto
r for more than forty years." He patted my shoulder and said, "I don't give you one chance in a hundred that he'll ever get better, but I admire you for what you're trying to do. Don't get your hopes up. In my experience, regardless of your intentions, the explosion is imminent. The question is not when; it's where, how bad, and who will it affect. A year ago, he hit a male nurse. Broke a couple of teeth and cut up his hand across his knuckle. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes." Gibby looked at Mutt and whispered almost to himself, "Physically, he's as healthy as an ox, mentally, who knows. After forty years, the most I can say is that we're all fallen people in a fallen world. Mutt's just fallen where others haven't. When I get before God, which should be before the rest of you, I've got a few questions."

  "Me too," I said, watching Mutt. "Thanks, Gibby."

  Mutt handed Gibby a plastic bag filled with what looked like fifty different flies. "There's a new one at the bottom."

  Gibby's eyes lit tip. "A Clauser?"

  Mutt nodded.

  "Thank you, Matthew." Mutt reached over the counter of the security desk, pushed a large red button underneath the countertop, and stood straight as the two sliding doors slid open. Once fully open, he walked slowly out the front doors, eyeing each, and into the sunshine, where his feet crunched on the acorns spread randomly across the sidewalk and parking lot.

  When we got to the truck, I opened the front door for Mutt, who turned and looked at Katie and Jase. He looked back at me and without a word walked to the bed of the truck, climbed in, and lay down. Gibby watched from the doors, nodded with affirmation, and waved, and we loaded up. Thirty minutes later, traveling east on 1-10, Jase knelt on the backseat and looked out the back window at Mutt, who was sleeping peacefully beneath the clouds, the breeze, the cracks in the concrete, and the Thorazine.

  Chapter 25

  WE PULLED INTO WAVERLY IN THE LATE AFTERNOON. The sun skimmed the fuzzy green tops of the hay that danced beneath a cooling waltz of a breeze. The waves started in one corner, spread like spilling sand, and shifted the colors from sunset yellow to spring green to fire-engine red and high-noon orange.