Wind and Rain
by Stephen O'Connor
1.
Gusts come from all directions. As dense, undulant clouds of lighter and darker gray flow across the sky with the majesty of a flooding river, a woman ducks and twists between the branches of a tree that has fallen across the road. She kicks one leg up over the tree’s trunk, puts her foot on the ground and pulls the other leg after. Leaves, branches and whole trees litter the road as far ahead as the woman can see. Her name is Chrissy. She is forty-nine, dressed in baggy denim overalls, a kelly-green tee-shirt and checkerboard Vans. Her cheeks are pallid, deflated-looking. Her gaze is turned inward. Even as she makes her way through this ruined landscape, her mind is elsewhere.
Rose is aware that wet grass fragments are sticking to her bare feet, but not of the fact that she is entirely naked. She is short, sturdy and standing in the middle of a lawn with her back to a vinyl-sided mobile home, crushed across its center by a toppled hemlock. Her hands clutch her curly brown hair just above her temples. The corners of her open mouth are down-turned, as if she is having trouble breathing. The air is humid and warm, but she is shivering.
A crunch of gravel. A woman walking up the steep driveway.
At first Rose thinks the woman is a hallucination, so looks away. When she looks back, the woman is closer, lumbering, middle-aged, her lips forming syllables. She is shouting, but Rose can’t comprehend a single word.
Rose is aware that wet grass fragments are sticking to her bare feet, but not of the fact that she is entirely naked. She is short, sturdy and standing in the middle of a lawn with her back to a vinyl-sided mobile home, crushed across its center by a toppled hemlock. Her hands clutch her curly brown hair just above her temples. The corners of her open mouth are down-turned, as if she is having trouble breathing. The air is humid and warm, but she is shivering.
A crunch of gravel. A woman walking up the steep driveway.
At first Rose thinks the woman is a hallucination, so looks away. When she looks back, the woman is closer, lumbering, middle-aged, her lips forming syllables. She is shouting, but Rose can’t comprehend a single word.
2.
Chrissy calls out to the girl on the lawn. “Hey! Hi! You okay?” The girl looks at her, but doesn’t say anything, her face frozen in an expression resembling the mask of tragedy, which makes Chrissy feel weirdly irritated—and then guilty. Stepping from driveway to lawn, she sees how thoroughly the fallen tree has flattened the center of the trailer. She stops, afraid of what she might see if she goes any further.
“You need any help?” she asks.
The girl’s response is monotone, somnambulistic: “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Chrissy, though she is clueless as to what the girl might be apologizing for.
The girl’s eyes widen. She opens and closes her mouth several times without saying a word.
Chrissy looks again at the accordioned siding beneath the tree. “Is anybody hurt?”
“Wayne,” says the girl.
“Where?”
The girl nods to her left. “Behind.”
What makes the sight impossible for Chrissy to ever erase from her memory is that, when she rounds the back of the mobile home and first sees the blue eyes amid the ripped siding, splintered wood and ruptured tile, she thinks that the young man is imploring her to help him, but then she realizes that the beam she thought his head was resting against is, in fact, deeply embedded in his skull.
Alive. Dead.
She takes a step backward to see if the young man’s eyes move. Utterly still. She takes another step. No change. A steady rain has started to fall. The eyes staring into the sky never blink.
The girl is waiting for her just around the end of the trailer. “How is he?” she asks.
“Not good.” Chrissy clenches her gut to keep from vomiting. “The worst.”
The girl does not respond to the first of these utterances, but after the second, she meets Chrissy’s gaze and holds it. A low moan rises from deep in her chest, followed by a long moment of silence. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“For you, I mean.” The girl’s eyes rivet on Chrissy’s, then she covers her face with both hands. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Her hands fall. “I am so sorry! Oh my God! I am so messed up!”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been thinking you’re Wayne’s mother. But that’s not even possible! Oh Jesus! This is so awful! How could any of this happen?” She covers her face with her hands again.
Chrissy wants to give the girl a comforting hug, but is self-conscious about her nakedness. “Is there any way we can get out of the rain?”
The tree trunk is too big and bristling to climb over, so they have to walk around the stump (a cluster of vertical, sabre-like shards) to get to the intact end of the trailer.
“Was he your boyfriend?” Chrissy asks as they walk.
“Yes,” the girl says. Then she says, “No. I hardly know him. This is the first time I’ve ever been here.”
“You need any help?” she asks.
The girl’s response is monotone, somnambulistic: “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it,” says Chrissy, though she is clueless as to what the girl might be apologizing for.
The girl’s eyes widen. She opens and closes her mouth several times without saying a word.
Chrissy looks again at the accordioned siding beneath the tree. “Is anybody hurt?”
“Wayne,” says the girl.
“Where?”
The girl nods to her left. “Behind.”
What makes the sight impossible for Chrissy to ever erase from her memory is that, when she rounds the back of the mobile home and first sees the blue eyes amid the ripped siding, splintered wood and ruptured tile, she thinks that the young man is imploring her to help him, but then she realizes that the beam she thought his head was resting against is, in fact, deeply embedded in his skull.
Alive. Dead.
She takes a step backward to see if the young man’s eyes move. Utterly still. She takes another step. No change. A steady rain has started to fall. The eyes staring into the sky never blink.
The girl is waiting for her just around the end of the trailer. “How is he?” she asks.
“Not good.” Chrissy clenches her gut to keep from vomiting. “The worst.”
The girl does not respond to the first of these utterances, but after the second, she meets Chrissy’s gaze and holds it. A low moan rises from deep in her chest, followed by a long moment of silence. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. There’s nothing you could have done.”
“For you, I mean.” The girl’s eyes rivet on Chrissy’s, then she covers her face with both hands. “Oh my God! Oh my God!” Her hands fall. “I am so sorry! Oh my God! I am so messed up!”
“Why? What’s the matter?”
“I’ve been thinking you’re Wayne’s mother. But that’s not even possible! Oh Jesus! This is so awful! How could any of this happen?” She covers her face with her hands again.
Chrissy wants to give the girl a comforting hug, but is self-conscious about her nakedness. “Is there any way we can get out of the rain?”
The tree trunk is too big and bristling to climb over, so they have to walk around the stump (a cluster of vertical, sabre-like shards) to get to the intact end of the trailer.
“Was he your boyfriend?” Chrissy asks as they walk.
“Yes,” the girl says. Then she says, “No. I hardly know him. This is the first time I’ve ever been here.”
3.
The sliding glass door is wide open. They enter a small, dim bedroom that smells like a gym. There is a motionless oscillating fan on the floor just in front of the door. Chrissy bends to look at its power dial, which is set to high. She turns the dial back and forth. Nothing happens. She flicks a light switch just inside the door. Same deal. She pulls her phone out of her pocket. It is searching, as it was when she last looked at it some twenty minutes earlier. Its power is down to thirty-one percent. She turns it off. The girl is standing at the end of the bed, holding a pair of jeans by its waistband. With her other hand, she reaches into the jeans and pulls out black, lace underpants. She makes a small, gasp-like noise, contemplates the underpants for a long moment, then drops heavily to the bed, where she sits, head hanging, holding her clothing in her lap. At her feet are a man’s jeans, the legs half inside-out, and a pair of plaid boxer shorts. Just beside these is a crumpled blue tee-shirt, on which Chrissy can just make out the white corner of what—being a Sonic Youth fan—she knows to be a washing machine. In the middle of the floor is a smaller red tee-shirt, a black lace bra straggling across it. The bed is almost entirely unmade, its blanket crumpled on the floor just behind the girl’s heels, its top sheet stretched like an arrow toward the closed door to the ruined part of the trailer. Chrissy thinks of asking the girl to call 911, but instead, after a moment of helplessness and sorrow, she walks to the closed door and twists its knob, hoping she might find a functioning bathroom. The door won’t budge, even though it feels unlocked. “I’ll be back in a minute,” she says and walks out the sliding door. When she returns, her head, back and knees drenched, she says, “Looks like the hurricane is finally here.” The girl is still sitting on the end of the bed with her clothes in her lap. She sighs heavily and says, “He asked if I wanted to spend the hurricane with him, and I thought that was so romantic.”
4.
Things Rose says:
“Rosie. I mean Rose.”
“No. Nothing. The cell signal is down. I just tried it.”
“I just slept through it. Maybe I heard—you know: a noise. But I thought it was just wind. I mean, the hurricane wasn’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”
“A tornado? Is that really possible? In a hurricane?”
“This gigantic boom. It came right up out of the ground. I must have heard the crash too—the roof and everything. But all I remember is the boom.”
“Not really. I could hear the wind. It was incredibly loud. Everything was so dark, even though it seemed like it was morning. I rolled over and looked at the clock, and that’s when I noticed... Wayne. He wasn’t there. At first, I figured he’d gone to the bathroom. So I just lay there waiting. But then it seemed like he’d been gone way too long. So I thought maybe he was making coffee. Or pancakes. We’d talked about making pancakes—Oh, God!... When I think about that—Oh, God!... Him doing that... He was just so... Oh, Jesus! Fuck!... Anyhow, I got out of bed, thinking I would join him. But when I tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. Not even a crack. Then I looked out the window and saw the tree. The stump, I mean. And I’m like, ‘Where’d the tree go?’ It was like it just disappeared. And then I knew.”
“Please! Leave me alone! Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Dental assistant.”
“At work. He was a patient. He needed a tooth implant. What I liked was when Dr. Daglian asked how he lost the tooth, he said, ‘By being a total idiot.’ He’d been juggling bowling pins, showing off to this girl. Then one of them hit his front tooth and knocked it right out. ‘She was less than impressed,’ he said. I liked that. He wasn’t one of those guys who always has to be in control, or—you know: perfect. He could laugh at himself.”
“No, no. It was, like a month later. I was at a bar with a couple of my girlfriends and he just sat down next to me. Normally I’m way too terrified to just start talking to a guy at a bar. Especially if I sort of already have a crush on him. But... I don’t know, I just said, ‘That new tooth looks totally natural!’ At first he looked at me like I was crazy. Then all of a sudden, he’s like, ‘Oh wow! You work at Dr. Daglian’s!’ He remembered me! I really didn’t think he’d remember me. So, we just started talking, like the whole night. And first thing the next morning, he texts me and asks if I want to go to Howe Caverns. I thought that was pretty weird, but—you know: what the hell! And actually, it was really interesting. Beautiful. We took a boat ride on this underground river. Then we went out for pizza, and we just had this really wonderful time, like we’d known each other our whole lives. But finally, I’m kind of getting worried about the hurricane and everything, and he says, ‘Sure. No problem.’ So, we get in his pickup, and that’s when he says, ‘I’m just wondering if maybe you’d like to spend the hurricane with me.’ And I... Well, I have this rule about how—you know: I won’t ever go home with the guy on the first date, but when he said that... I just—Oh!... Oh!... I can’t fucking believe it!”
“Rosie. I mean Rose.”
“No. Nothing. The cell signal is down. I just tried it.”
“I just slept through it. Maybe I heard—you know: a noise. But I thought it was just wind. I mean, the hurricane wasn’t supposed to be here until this afternoon.”
“A tornado? Is that really possible? In a hurricane?”
“This gigantic boom. It came right up out of the ground. I must have heard the crash too—the roof and everything. But all I remember is the boom.”
“Not really. I could hear the wind. It was incredibly loud. Everything was so dark, even though it seemed like it was morning. I rolled over and looked at the clock, and that’s when I noticed... Wayne. He wasn’t there. At first, I figured he’d gone to the bathroom. So I just lay there waiting. But then it seemed like he’d been gone way too long. So I thought maybe he was making coffee. Or pancakes. We’d talked about making pancakes—Oh, God!... When I think about that—Oh, God!... Him doing that... He was just so... Oh, Jesus! Fuck!... Anyhow, I got out of bed, thinking I would join him. But when I tried to open the door, it wouldn’t budge. Not even a crack. Then I looked out the window and saw the tree. The stump, I mean. And I’m like, ‘Where’d the tree go?’ It was like it just disappeared. And then I knew.”
“Please! Leave me alone! Can’t you just leave me alone?”
“Dental assistant.”
“At work. He was a patient. He needed a tooth implant. What I liked was when Dr. Daglian asked how he lost the tooth, he said, ‘By being a total idiot.’ He’d been juggling bowling pins, showing off to this girl. Then one of them hit his front tooth and knocked it right out. ‘She was less than impressed,’ he said. I liked that. He wasn’t one of those guys who always has to be in control, or—you know: perfect. He could laugh at himself.”
“No, no. It was, like a month later. I was at a bar with a couple of my girlfriends and he just sat down next to me. Normally I’m way too terrified to just start talking to a guy at a bar. Especially if I sort of already have a crush on him. But... I don’t know, I just said, ‘That new tooth looks totally natural!’ At first he looked at me like I was crazy. Then all of a sudden, he’s like, ‘Oh wow! You work at Dr. Daglian’s!’ He remembered me! I really didn’t think he’d remember me. So, we just started talking, like the whole night. And first thing the next morning, he texts me and asks if I want to go to Howe Caverns. I thought that was pretty weird, but—you know: what the hell! And actually, it was really interesting. Beautiful. We took a boat ride on this underground river. Then we went out for pizza, and we just had this really wonderful time, like we’d known each other our whole lives. But finally, I’m kind of getting worried about the hurricane and everything, and he says, ‘Sure. No problem.’ So, we get in his pickup, and that’s when he says, ‘I’m just wondering if maybe you’d like to spend the hurricane with me.’ And I... Well, I have this rule about how—you know: I won’t ever go home with the guy on the first date, but when he said that... I just—Oh!... Oh!... I can’t fucking believe it!”
5.
Things Chrissy says:
“Totally exhausted. I drove all night. From Richmond. Virginia. But... I don’t know: I think I’m too wired to sleep.”
“Actually, it happens a lot: tornadoes along the forward rim of a hurricane. It’s like a double whammy.”
“It’s fucking pissing down out there. Do you know when the hurricane’s supposed to start? The last I heard, it was two o’clock, three o’clock. But it’s not even noon yet.”
“It was like a miracle. I was so lucky. I heard it coming up behind me as I got to the top of this hill. Roaring. Like a rocket. Seriously! Except I thought it was my car. I thought something big had fallen off and was dragging. The engine even. I did hear the snaps and cracks of trees getting ripped to shit. And telephone poles. Except everything happened so quickly I didn’t have time to think. And then—I don’t know: It just leapt right over me. Like it bounced. Or maybe it was because I started going down the hill. So maybe I drove underneath it. All I know is that everything was dark—and so loud! And right in front of me trees started falling: boom, boom, boom, all across the road. Branches, leaves flying everywhere. But absolutely nothing was happening where I was. It was like I was in some kind of bubble. The whole world was exploding, and I was just sitting there watching it. Like it’s a movie. Like I’m at a drive-in. I think I was in shock, because I didn’t do anything at all for... I don’t know how long. But then I noticed my leg hurt. Because I was pressing so hard on the brake. I must have been doing that for, like the whole time. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Anyhow, I finally decided I had to get out of there, so I started driving again. But—I mean: what was the point? The road was totally blocked by trees in both directions. I couldn’t go twenty feet. The only thing I knew was that the hurricane was coming and I needed to get someplace safe. So I started walking up the road, and that’s when I saw you.”
“Totally exhausted. I drove all night. From Richmond. Virginia. But... I don’t know: I think I’m too wired to sleep.”
“Actually, it happens a lot: tornadoes along the forward rim of a hurricane. It’s like a double whammy.”
“It’s fucking pissing down out there. Do you know when the hurricane’s supposed to start? The last I heard, it was two o’clock, three o’clock. But it’s not even noon yet.”
“It was like a miracle. I was so lucky. I heard it coming up behind me as I got to the top of this hill. Roaring. Like a rocket. Seriously! Except I thought it was my car. I thought something big had fallen off and was dragging. The engine even. I did hear the snaps and cracks of trees getting ripped to shit. And telephone poles. Except everything happened so quickly I didn’t have time to think. And then—I don’t know: It just leapt right over me. Like it bounced. Or maybe it was because I started going down the hill. So maybe I drove underneath it. All I know is that everything was dark—and so loud! And right in front of me trees started falling: boom, boom, boom, all across the road. Branches, leaves flying everywhere. But absolutely nothing was happening where I was. It was like I was in some kind of bubble. The whole world was exploding, and I was just sitting there watching it. Like it’s a movie. Like I’m at a drive-in. I think I was in shock, because I didn’t do anything at all for... I don’t know how long. But then I noticed my leg hurt. Because I was pressing so hard on the brake. I must have been doing that for, like the whole time. Ten minutes? Fifteen? Anyhow, I finally decided I had to get out of there, so I started driving again. But—I mean: what was the point? The road was totally blocked by trees in both directions. I couldn’t go twenty feet. The only thing I knew was that the hurricane was coming and I needed to get someplace safe. So I started walking up the road, and that’s when I saw you.”
6.
Things Rose doesn’t say:
That she is Catholic and went to Catholic elementary and high schools.
That she is pretty sure she doesn’t believe in God anymore.
That when she was six, she accidentally squeezed her grandmother’s parakeet to death, then put it back in the cage, closed the door and never told anyone.
That she doesn’t know why she squeezed her grandmother’s parakeet so hard.
That Dan, her ex, sometimes looks like Marlon Brando and sometimes like a thumb with a face. She doesn’t know why.
That Dan is a salesman in a furniture store and goes to Christ Episcopal Church every Sunday.
That she sometimes went with him, telling herself it was because she liked the hymns. In fact, the hymns bored her.
That she wanted to be a doctor when she was a girl but decided in high school that she wasn’t smart enough.
That sex gives her a nervous feeling in the back of her knees, even though she likes to watch porn videos in secret.
That her brother showed her a porn video when she was eight and she vomited when it was over.
That she thinks her big mouth makes her look like a toad in a clown wig.
That she was a virgin when she met Dan at age twenty-one.
That he broke up with her after three years because she wanted to have children and he only wanted a dog. She thinks everything he told her that night was idiotic.
That she has dental floss in her medicine cabinet but never uses it, even though Dr. Daglian tells all of their patients they have to.
That her gums bleed.
That she has fantasies about being tied up and of having a threesome with a woman, but never told Dan because she thought he would be disgusted.
That she worries she will be happy when her mother dies.
That when Wayne asked if she wanted him to tie her wrists together with his belt, she was afraid.
That the thing she liked the very most about Wayne was that when she said, “Maybe next time,” he smiled and said, “Okay.” His smile was so kind.
That Wayne licked her until she orgasmed and that afterwards she was so happy she nearly burst into tears.
That she worries God killed Wayne to punish her.
That she is Catholic and went to Catholic elementary and high schools.
That she is pretty sure she doesn’t believe in God anymore.
That when she was six, she accidentally squeezed her grandmother’s parakeet to death, then put it back in the cage, closed the door and never told anyone.
That she doesn’t know why she squeezed her grandmother’s parakeet so hard.
That Dan, her ex, sometimes looks like Marlon Brando and sometimes like a thumb with a face. She doesn’t know why.
That Dan is a salesman in a furniture store and goes to Christ Episcopal Church every Sunday.
That she sometimes went with him, telling herself it was because she liked the hymns. In fact, the hymns bored her.
That she wanted to be a doctor when she was a girl but decided in high school that she wasn’t smart enough.
That sex gives her a nervous feeling in the back of her knees, even though she likes to watch porn videos in secret.
That her brother showed her a porn video when she was eight and she vomited when it was over.
That she thinks her big mouth makes her look like a toad in a clown wig.
That she was a virgin when she met Dan at age twenty-one.
That he broke up with her after three years because she wanted to have children and he only wanted a dog. She thinks everything he told her that night was idiotic.
That she has dental floss in her medicine cabinet but never uses it, even though Dr. Daglian tells all of their patients they have to.
That her gums bleed.
That she has fantasies about being tied up and of having a threesome with a woman, but never told Dan because she thought he would be disgusted.
That she worries she will be happy when her mother dies.
That when Wayne asked if she wanted him to tie her wrists together with his belt, she was afraid.
That the thing she liked the very most about Wayne was that when she said, “Maybe next time,” he smiled and said, “Okay.” His smile was so kind.
That Wayne licked her until she orgasmed and that afterwards she was so happy she nearly burst into tears.
That she worries God killed Wayne to punish her.
7.
Chrissy is standing in front of the closed sliding door, looking out onto a gray deluge so dense the woods at the far side of the lawn are only a shadow. Her cell phone still can’t find a signal, but it tells her the time: 1:57. “I sure hope this is the hurricane,” she says, “because if it gets worse than this, we’re fucked.” Rose is lying on the bed, fully dressed, flat on her back. She doesn’t respond. Chrissy turns and looks at her. “You okay?”
“Not really,” she says.
“This sucks.” Chrissy looks out the sliding door again. “We’re trapped. We can’t do a fucking thing until this hurricane is over. Or we get cell service, at least.”
“I can’t stop thinking about Wayne.”
Chrissy sighs.
“Why’d this have to happen?” says Rose. “It’s so unfair. All he was doing was making pancakes.”
Chrissy doesn’t say that she thinks Wayne was actually in the bathroom. “Fate is not a just institution.”
Rose sighs.
A roaring gust strikes the wall opposite the sliding door. The joists creak. The wind passing overhead sounds as if it is sucking the roof.
“Christ!” says Chrissy.
“Do you think we’re safe in here?”
“Where else are we going to go?”
Rose sits up, then flips onto her hands and knees, clutching at the mattress as if she expects to be flung into a void. “You know what?” she says. “I really don’t think I can take this anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Seriously. I think I’m going really crazy.”
Chrissy walks over and sits on a corner of the bed. She puts her right hand on top of Rose’s. “Don’t worry.” She gives Rose’s hand a gentle tug. “It’s going to be alright.”
At first Rose resists; then she rocks back onto her haunches, and finally sits. “I’m sorry.” She lets Chrissy take her hand.
“You’ve got to stop apologizing all the time,” says Chrissy.
“I’m sorry.”
Chrissy laughs. Rose makes a brief uneasy smile.
Her eyes widen and the mask of tragedy expression comes back onto her face. She wrests her hand away from Chrissy’s. Her voice is clipped, desperate: “Horrible thoughts keep going through my head.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“No! No! God, no!”
“Not really,” she says.
“This sucks.” Chrissy looks out the sliding door again. “We’re trapped. We can’t do a fucking thing until this hurricane is over. Or we get cell service, at least.”
“I can’t stop thinking about Wayne.”
Chrissy sighs.
“Why’d this have to happen?” says Rose. “It’s so unfair. All he was doing was making pancakes.”
Chrissy doesn’t say that she thinks Wayne was actually in the bathroom. “Fate is not a just institution.”
Rose sighs.
A roaring gust strikes the wall opposite the sliding door. The joists creak. The wind passing overhead sounds as if it is sucking the roof.
“Christ!” says Chrissy.
“Do you think we’re safe in here?”
“Where else are we going to go?”
Rose sits up, then flips onto her hands and knees, clutching at the mattress as if she expects to be flung into a void. “You know what?” she says. “I really don’t think I can take this anymore. I feel like I’m losing my mind. Seriously. I think I’m going really crazy.”
Chrissy walks over and sits on a corner of the bed. She puts her right hand on top of Rose’s. “Don’t worry.” She gives Rose’s hand a gentle tug. “It’s going to be alright.”
At first Rose resists; then she rocks back onto her haunches, and finally sits. “I’m sorry.” She lets Chrissy take her hand.
“You’ve got to stop apologizing all the time,” says Chrissy.
“I’m sorry.”
Chrissy laughs. Rose makes a brief uneasy smile.
Her eyes widen and the mask of tragedy expression comes back onto her face. She wrests her hand away from Chrissy’s. Her voice is clipped, desperate: “Horrible thoughts keep going through my head.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“No! No! God, no!”
8.
An hour has passed. Maybe two. Rose and Chrissy are lying shoulder to shoulder on the bed, looking up at the ceiling. The wind is relentless. The rain hammers the windows on one side of the house and hurtles toward the vague silhouette of the woods on the other. A sinuous red torrent runs down the road at the bottom of the driveway. Chrissy is trying to reconcile herself to the likelihood that her car is under water. She is speaking: “Partly it was because of this storm. That’s all we heard about on the radio. And the sky turned this deep, oppressive gray. You know what I mean? It was like a weight. It just took the joy out of life. Also, I knew that, once the storm hit, we might be trapped inside for days. And that just made me—I don’t know: panicky, just super down. So I had to get out. But that’s not what it really was.” Chrissy falls silent. The walls quake under a gust of wind. The rain is momentarily deafening. Water has been seeping out from under the door to the ruined half of the house, and has formed a small puddle on the linoleum, though neither Chrissy nor Rose has noticed it yet. “Really, I guess, it started with a phone call. From my principal. I’m a teacher. Middle school—”
Rose grunts quietly.
“What?” says Chrissy.
“Nothing. I’m just not surprised. I can see you as a teacher.”
An uncertain smile comes onto Chrissy’s face. “Anyhow,” she says, “I had this student: Camellia. She was incredibly bright. So sweet. So beautiful. Everybody loved her. But... Well, it was one of those classic situations—you know? She was being abused by her mother’s boyfriend. I didn’t know about it at first, though sometimes she’d come to school so depressed she couldn’t talk. She’d just lay her head down on the desk. Then one day she wrote this poem in which a devil floated over her every night and banged down on her over and over until he banged her right down into hell. As soon as I read that, I knew what was going on. I told her that I thought her poem was beautiful and that I wanted to talk about it after class. So, when everyone else was gone, I sat down at the desk next to hers and asked her if there was anything she wanted to tell me. ‘About what?’ she said. And I said, ‘Sometimes people write poems that have a secret behind them, a secret that they are afraid to tell anybody, but that it helps them to put down in words.’ I asked her if she knew what I was talking about, and she nodded. I asked if she had a secret, and she nodded again. ‘Do you want to tell it to me?’ She shook her head. ‘Would you like me to guess what the secret is?’ ‘No,’ she said. And that was as far as I could go. I didn’t want to push her past what she was ready for. Also, I wasn’t sure that what I was thinking about was actually true. And that’s—well, you have to be sure about that sort of thing before you do anything. Anyhow, that was a Friday. On Monday, Camellia comes by my classroom after school. She closes the door and walks over to my desk. But she can’t bring herself to say anything. I ask her if there is something she needs to talk about, and she nods. ‘Is it about your poem?’ She says, ‘Yes.’ ‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ And she says, ‘I want you to guess.’ So then I say, ‘Is somebody doing something to you that you don’t like?’ She nods. ‘At night?’ This time she doesn’t do anything, just stares at me like a cornered rabbit. ‘Is it your mother’s boyfriend?’ I ask, and even before these words are out of my mouth, she’s sobbing helplessly. I’m not supposed to touch my students under any circumstances. But I can’t help myself. I take her into my arms and I tell her, ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright. He’s never going to touch you again!’”
“Oh, God!”
Chrissy stops talking and sits up. Rose has lifted both hands to her mouth, her fingers folded into loose fists, her knuckles pushing down her lower lip, revealing spitglossy inside-the-mouth flesh and a row of white incisors, small enough to be baby teeth. “Are you okay?” asks Chrissy.
Rose snaps both hands down to the mattress beside her thighs. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? My story’s not too depressing?”
“No. It’s fine.” Her grimace-like smile vanishes just as Chrissy notices it. “Keep going.”
“Okay. So... Well, I did everything I was supposed to do. Reported it to the principal, Child Protective Services. There was an investigation. Camellia’s mother pulled her out of school, but not before coming to tell me that I was a lying bitch, that Camellia would never say such things about her step-father, that she loved him, that he loved her more than her real father did, that I better watch my back, because she didn’t know what he would do if CPS took Camellia away. Of course, all of that only made me more determined to protect Camellia. But then the investigation came back. They found no evidence of abuse. They even said that Camellia lived in a ‘loving household.’ I couldn’t believe it. I was devastated. I talked to a lawyer to see if there were some way I could adopt Camellia. But it was hopeless. Without clear evidence of abuse, there was no way she could be taken from her family. So that was that. I was so depressed that I could hardly finish the school year—though I did hear sort of good news in the spring. Camellia’s step-father got arrested for parole violation and was sent back to jail. I didn’t know how long he’d be there, but at least now Camellia had a chance. Maybe this would turn out to be her happy ending.” Chrissy stops talking. She covers her face with both hands, and heaves a heavy sigh. Without lowering her hands, she says, “But then yesterday morning, I get a phone call from the principal who asks if I’ve been watching the news. I’m like, ‘What!’ And she tells me Camellia has killed herself. She jumped off the roof of her building. It’s on all the channels.”
What alerts Chrissy is not the sound, but the smell. She lowers her hands to see that Rose’s cheeks are shining with tears. Clear mucus is running out of her nose.
“Oh, Rose!” Chrissy cries. “I’m so sorry! I should never have told you such a terrible story.”
“No, that’s not it!” Rose says. “I just keep thinking about Wayne. I think of him lying out there in the rain, rats eating his feet, crows pecking his eyes, and vultures tearing the skin off his face. I just can’t stop myself.”
Rose grunts quietly.
“What?” says Chrissy.
“Nothing. I’m just not surprised. I can see you as a teacher.”
An uncertain smile comes onto Chrissy’s face. “Anyhow,” she says, “I had this student: Camellia. She was incredibly bright. So sweet. So beautiful. Everybody loved her. But... Well, it was one of those classic situations—you know? She was being abused by her mother’s boyfriend. I didn’t know about it at first, though sometimes she’d come to school so depressed she couldn’t talk. She’d just lay her head down on the desk. Then one day she wrote this poem in which a devil floated over her every night and banged down on her over and over until he banged her right down into hell. As soon as I read that, I knew what was going on. I told her that I thought her poem was beautiful and that I wanted to talk about it after class. So, when everyone else was gone, I sat down at the desk next to hers and asked her if there was anything she wanted to tell me. ‘About what?’ she said. And I said, ‘Sometimes people write poems that have a secret behind them, a secret that they are afraid to tell anybody, but that it helps them to put down in words.’ I asked her if she knew what I was talking about, and she nodded. I asked if she had a secret, and she nodded again. ‘Do you want to tell it to me?’ She shook her head. ‘Would you like me to guess what the secret is?’ ‘No,’ she said. And that was as far as I could go. I didn’t want to push her past what she was ready for. Also, I wasn’t sure that what I was thinking about was actually true. And that’s—well, you have to be sure about that sort of thing before you do anything. Anyhow, that was a Friday. On Monday, Camellia comes by my classroom after school. She closes the door and walks over to my desk. But she can’t bring herself to say anything. I ask her if there is something she needs to talk about, and she nods. ‘Is it about your poem?’ She says, ‘Yes.’ ‘Is there something you need to tell me?’ And she says, ‘I want you to guess.’ So then I say, ‘Is somebody doing something to you that you don’t like?’ She nods. ‘At night?’ This time she doesn’t do anything, just stares at me like a cornered rabbit. ‘Is it your mother’s boyfriend?’ I ask, and even before these words are out of my mouth, she’s sobbing helplessly. I’m not supposed to touch my students under any circumstances. But I can’t help myself. I take her into my arms and I tell her, ‘Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be alright. He’s never going to touch you again!’”
“Oh, God!”
Chrissy stops talking and sits up. Rose has lifted both hands to her mouth, her fingers folded into loose fists, her knuckles pushing down her lower lip, revealing spitglossy inside-the-mouth flesh and a row of white incisors, small enough to be baby teeth. “Are you okay?” asks Chrissy.
Rose snaps both hands down to the mattress beside her thighs. “I’m fine.”
“Are you sure? My story’s not too depressing?”
“No. It’s fine.” Her grimace-like smile vanishes just as Chrissy notices it. “Keep going.”
“Okay. So... Well, I did everything I was supposed to do. Reported it to the principal, Child Protective Services. There was an investigation. Camellia’s mother pulled her out of school, but not before coming to tell me that I was a lying bitch, that Camellia would never say such things about her step-father, that she loved him, that he loved her more than her real father did, that I better watch my back, because she didn’t know what he would do if CPS took Camellia away. Of course, all of that only made me more determined to protect Camellia. But then the investigation came back. They found no evidence of abuse. They even said that Camellia lived in a ‘loving household.’ I couldn’t believe it. I was devastated. I talked to a lawyer to see if there were some way I could adopt Camellia. But it was hopeless. Without clear evidence of abuse, there was no way she could be taken from her family. So that was that. I was so depressed that I could hardly finish the school year—though I did hear sort of good news in the spring. Camellia’s step-father got arrested for parole violation and was sent back to jail. I didn’t know how long he’d be there, but at least now Camellia had a chance. Maybe this would turn out to be her happy ending.” Chrissy stops talking. She covers her face with both hands, and heaves a heavy sigh. Without lowering her hands, she says, “But then yesterday morning, I get a phone call from the principal who asks if I’ve been watching the news. I’m like, ‘What!’ And she tells me Camellia has killed herself. She jumped off the roof of her building. It’s on all the channels.”
What alerts Chrissy is not the sound, but the smell. She lowers her hands to see that Rose’s cheeks are shining with tears. Clear mucus is running out of her nose.
“Oh, Rose!” Chrissy cries. “I’m so sorry! I should never have told you such a terrible story.”
“No, that’s not it!” Rose says. “I just keep thinking about Wayne. I think of him lying out there in the rain, rats eating his feet, crows pecking his eyes, and vultures tearing the skin off his face. I just can’t stop myself.”
9.
Things Chrissy doesn’t say:
That the main reason she fled Richmond and drove north is that her husband is an alcoholic.
That he is pathetic and self-destructive and looks like a fat old man with whiskers on the tip of his nose.
That when she went to his studio to tell him Camellia was dead, he was already staggering drunk. It was 10:00 am.
That all he said was, “Well, that’s no great surprise!” And, “Anybody who was paying attention could have seen that coming a mile off.”
That when she started to cry, he said, “What? What did I say?”
That her husband is an artist. A painter.
That he was once a very good painter, on the verge of becoming famous.
That she has an ache in her heart when she thinks that no one wants his paintings anymore. Almost no one.
That she isn’t sure she remembers her conversation with Camellia correctly.
That what she took for a nod might actually have been a tremor of shock or fear.
That maybe, just possibly, Camellia might have started crying because her mother’s boyfriend was not the one doing the thing she didn’t like and she couldn’t say who was.
But that can’t be true. Chrissy couldn’t be that mistaken. She doesn’t say this either.
That maybe, just possibly, Camellia’s mother shouted at her daughter, “You lying bitch! I wish I had never given birth to you!” And that was what killed her.
No. No. No.
Chrissy doesn’t say that when she left Richmond, she was heading to her childhood home in Albany, New York.
That her eighty-one-year-old mother lives there all alone and needs her.
That she fell in love with her husband the instant she first set eyes on one of his paintings, because she could see his outrage, even then, and knew that it was a manifestation of genius.
That they met in art school, and moved to New York City together.
That they met in a class on color.
That she had the technical skill to become a successful painter, but lacked the courage to outrage people with what she painted and did and said.
That she is an appeaser, afraid to outrage anyone in any way.
That she hates herself.
That the New York art world killed off her desire to paint in mere weeks.
That it destroyed her husband too, although he didn’t know it.
That while she was marking student papers in their Brooklyn apartment, he was going to openings and parties, staying up late drinking with friends, snorting cocaine, then going back to his studio and painting until dawn.
That her husband’s second one-man show sold out before the opening.
That the Whitney has one of his paintings in its collection and MoMA has another. His paintings are in museum collections all over the country.
That she has dreamed of stabbing him with his palate knife.
That she knew his career was over when he started drinking beer at breakfast. That he shouted, “So says the loser!” when she told him that art has been completely corrupted by the marketplace, that its only purpose is to prove the intellectual and cultural superiority of the uber-rich.
That he shouted at dealers and collectors too, and at other artists, and that one time he got so drunk he pissed in the corner of a gallery during an opening.
That she still loves her husband.
That even if art is corrupted, she still thinks it is the purest expression of human freedom.
That when he got the job at Virginia Commonwealth and they moved to Richmond, she thought things would get better, that New York was the source of all of his problems. And hers too.
That things only got worse.
That he was fired after a year and a half because he came to class drunk, because he said things to female students that she can’t even stand to think about, because he told the provost to go fuck himself.
That she has wasted seventeen years of her life trying to save him from himself.
That it is the same with her students: She has saved no one.
That when she heard Camellia had committed suicide, she wanted to kill herself.
That the main reason she fled Richmond and drove north is that her husband is an alcoholic.
That he is pathetic and self-destructive and looks like a fat old man with whiskers on the tip of his nose.
That when she went to his studio to tell him Camellia was dead, he was already staggering drunk. It was 10:00 am.
That all he said was, “Well, that’s no great surprise!” And, “Anybody who was paying attention could have seen that coming a mile off.”
That when she started to cry, he said, “What? What did I say?”
That her husband is an artist. A painter.
That he was once a very good painter, on the verge of becoming famous.
That she has an ache in her heart when she thinks that no one wants his paintings anymore. Almost no one.
That she isn’t sure she remembers her conversation with Camellia correctly.
That what she took for a nod might actually have been a tremor of shock or fear.
That maybe, just possibly, Camellia might have started crying because her mother’s boyfriend was not the one doing the thing she didn’t like and she couldn’t say who was.
But that can’t be true. Chrissy couldn’t be that mistaken. She doesn’t say this either.
That maybe, just possibly, Camellia’s mother shouted at her daughter, “You lying bitch! I wish I had never given birth to you!” And that was what killed her.
No. No. No.
Chrissy doesn’t say that when she left Richmond, she was heading to her childhood home in Albany, New York.
That her eighty-one-year-old mother lives there all alone and needs her.
That she fell in love with her husband the instant she first set eyes on one of his paintings, because she could see his outrage, even then, and knew that it was a manifestation of genius.
That they met in art school, and moved to New York City together.
That they met in a class on color.
That she had the technical skill to become a successful painter, but lacked the courage to outrage people with what she painted and did and said.
That she is an appeaser, afraid to outrage anyone in any way.
That she hates herself.
That the New York art world killed off her desire to paint in mere weeks.
That it destroyed her husband too, although he didn’t know it.
That while she was marking student papers in their Brooklyn apartment, he was going to openings and parties, staying up late drinking with friends, snorting cocaine, then going back to his studio and painting until dawn.
That her husband’s second one-man show sold out before the opening.
That the Whitney has one of his paintings in its collection and MoMA has another. His paintings are in museum collections all over the country.
That she has dreamed of stabbing him with his palate knife.
That she knew his career was over when he started drinking beer at breakfast. That he shouted, “So says the loser!” when she told him that art has been completely corrupted by the marketplace, that its only purpose is to prove the intellectual and cultural superiority of the uber-rich.
That he shouted at dealers and collectors too, and at other artists, and that one time he got so drunk he pissed in the corner of a gallery during an opening.
That she still loves her husband.
That even if art is corrupted, she still thinks it is the purest expression of human freedom.
That when he got the job at Virginia Commonwealth and they moved to Richmond, she thought things would get better, that New York was the source of all of his problems. And hers too.
That things only got worse.
That he was fired after a year and a half because he came to class drunk, because he said things to female students that she can’t even stand to think about, because he told the provost to go fuck himself.
That she has wasted seventeen years of her life trying to save him from himself.
That it is the same with her students: She has saved no one.
That when she heard Camellia had committed suicide, she wanted to kill herself.
10.
When Chrissy and Rose step out through the sliding door, they both understand that they are in the eye of the hurricane, that in time—perhaps a very little time—the eye will have passed from this patch of land they occupy, that the torrential rain will resume and the wind will blow from a direction opposite to the one from which it has been blowing since morning. Rose is carrying the blanket from the bed, Chrissy the sheets. They are going to try to extract Wayne’s body from the wreckage. If they can, they will place him—enshrouded in the bedding they carry—in the back of his pickup, which is parked at the top of the driveway. And if they can’t, they will use the blanket and sheet to cover every visible part of his body. Hundreds of birds are singing. Only scattered cirrus shreds cross the deep blue sky. The late afternoon sun grants the trees a green-gold radiance and ignites brilliant gleams in droplets resting on grass blades and dangling from leaf tips. Chrissy and Rose exchange a wordless glance. Gentle breezes touch their foreheads, cheeks and arms, and filter under their shirts, evaporating their anxious sweat, freeing them from the clammy staleness in which they have been locked for hours. Clutching the heavy blanket to her chest, Rose turns a full circle. “Oh my God!” she says. “This is all so beautiful! It’s like none of this ever happened!”