Lullaby for the Rain Girl Read online

  I crossed the street and, closing the umbrella again, stepped into the little café. Well, Dugan’s is hardly a café, really, though they do serve a few simple dishes; mostly it’s an ice cream and take-out pizza place frequented by the students of the school. But they make good coffee, and it can be a pleasant place to sit in the late afternoon an hour before they close, when the kids are long gone. I noticed a few strings of colored lights strung around the room, making a somewhat feeble effort at generating holiday cheer.

  Vincent stood when I came in. “Good afternoon, Ben. Merry Christmas. Would you care for something?” He gestured vaguely toward the service counter.

  “You buying, young fellow?”

  He didn’t smile. “Of course.”

  “Well, sure. In that case, some coffee would hit the spot.”

  “Fine.” He moved to the counter and spoke to the girl there. I watched him. Vincent is twenty-four and was my stepson for seven years—actually I suppose he still is, since the divorce isn’t finalized—but there’s never been much warmth between us. He’s close to his biological father, and I came along too late in his life—he was seventeen—to take on any meaningful role in his parenting. We lived together for a while, the three of us—me, Vincent, Kate—and then Vincent went off to college, to be seen only in the occasional holiday visit home. Kate and I made it all right for a few years, but the marriage was doomed. I think we both knew it. We certainly knew it now.

  “Thanks,” I said, as he placed the steaming mug before me.

  “Not a problem.” He sat across from me and we looked at each other for a moment. Vincent is an intense young man, with a face that’s always struck me as a bit like an eagle’s: those same fiercely-glowing black eyes, the commandingly prominent nose. He brushes his dark hair straight back and rarely smiles. Today he was wearing the kind of D.C.-area gray business suit which announced him as someone to be taken seriously.

  “You know that Mom is unhappy about the terms,” he said.

  I sighed, feeling my headache intensify. I gulped the coffee too quickly and the top of my mouth flared with pain. I couldn’t begin to articulate, to him or to her, how wildly inappropriate I found it that she was using her son—my stepson—as a go-between in negotiations over our divorce. But Vincent has a year of law school under his belt and his mother is convinced he’s a genius. She also knows that he doesn’t like me. Never has.

  “What is it now?” I asked.

  “I have the proposal all written up.” He reached under the table and brought forth a black leather briefcase I’d not noticed before. It looked brand-new, in stark contrast to my own scuffed and battered old box. He opened it smoothly, pulled out his papers, and handed them to me. They consisted of four or five impeccably-typed pages.

  “Okay,” I said, my head hurting. “I’ll—Vincent, I’ll look at this tonight and get back to you.”

  He frowned. “I was hoping you would look over it right now. I’m authorized to negotiate for Mom.”

  “ ‘Authorized to negotiate’? Vincent, you’re not an attorney.”

  “I didn’t mean officially. But I can speak for Mom.”

  “Don’t you think your mother and I should speak to each other instead?”

  “That’s not operative for Mom. She says she gets too upset when she talks to you.”

  Well, I wanted to ask him, how do you think I get? “Vincent—Vin,” I said, using the name I’d somewhat awkwardly called him when he was still in high school, “look, you’ll have to give me a little time on this. I’ve got a skull-cracking headache. I’m sorry. Really. But I just can’t go through all this right now. Anyway, I don’t know what else your mother wants from me. I’ve already agreed to her getting the house, the car, most of the savings, most of the investments. I live in a tiny little apartment. I’ve got five hundred dollars in the bank. There’s not much meat left on this particular carcass, Vin.”

  “Mom thinks she’s entitled to half of your literary earnings.”

  That stopped my coffee cup halfway to my lips. “What?”

  “You earned considerable money with your writing while you two were married….”

  “She’s already getting that. It’s in the savings and the investments. She’s getting more than half.”

  “Mom and her attorney feel—and I agree—that she should be entitled to a portion of what you earn in the future, as well. We suggest fifty percent for the next five years. It’s only fair.”

  I stared at him, aghast. “And why would she be ‘entitled’ to my future earnings? What’s fair about that?”

  “Mom helped you when you were together. You developed professionally and artistically thanks to her input. She was an active partner in your writing, and you continue to benefit from the results of that partnership today.”

  “Vin, no, she wasn’t. I was already published before I met your mom. She had nothing to do with my writing or with my career. Hell, she didn’t even read most of what I wrote.”

  “She worked while you wrote your novel. She supported you. And us.”

  “I wrote that novel in a week. Good grief, Vin, how much money do you think we’re talking about here?”

  “If you’ll look at the sheets, we’ve provided estimates—”

  I stared at the papers but nothing typed on them registered in my brain. “Vin—it’s a few thousand a year. That’s all I ever made as a writer. It’s less now. Why do you think I teach?”

  “That’s another thing we need to discuss. We feel that a portion of your future earnings as a teacher should be given over to Mom. We freely admit that her role in your teaching career was not as large as with the writing, but she unquestionably played an important part. We suggest twenty percent of your earnings for the next five years. That’s more than reasonable.”

  “Oh my God.” I sat back in the chair, a numb feeling of utter defeat washing over me. I closed my eyes, felt my heart beating fast, too fast and too hard. It seemed as if it were beating inside my head, an awful thundering of horses’ hooves within my skull. I realized that I was sweating. “Vincent, please,” I said, my eyes still closed, “not now. I can’t do this now. Please.”

  I heard him sigh. Vincent, I wanted to ask him, don’t you see? Don’t you see that she’s enraged and humiliated that I left her, and now she’s trying to bleed me dry, destroy me? Don’t you know what kind of woman your mother is, Vincent? A bright young man like you? Truly, you have no idea? Of how vindictive she is? Of how she would rather see me kicked and pummeled forever than seek any real happiness for herself? Vincent, how can you not see this? Or do you see it? Do you see it but stay silent out of loyalty to her? Is that it, Vincent?

  At last I opened my eyes. Vincent was looking at me unhappily.

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, moving to put on his coat. “We can talk once you’ve studied our proposal.” He stood.

  I reached out and touched his sleeve. “Vin,” I said, my voice oddly weak, “do you remember our first Christmas together? As a family?”

  He watched me.

  “The tree we got—I chose it, my God—that was so high it was bent up against the ceiling? But you refused to let us cut it because you thought we’d hurt it? The angel at the top, we tied the top of the tree into a kind of loop and set the angel inside it—it was nice, actually, it was pretty….”

  “Ben, what are you talking about?”

  I looked at him. “Nothing,” I said, lowering my eyes to my cup again. “Nothing, I guess.”

  “Of course I remember that. But what does it have to do with anything now?”

  “Nothing. You’re right. Absolutely nothing.”

  He studied me. “If you don’t mind my saying so, Ben—you don’t look well.”

  “I don’t feel well.”

  “Are you sick?”

  “No, just—no, I’m not sick.”

  “Do you ever exercise?”

  I tried to smile. I lifted the coffee cup to my mouth. “I’m exercising my elbow r
ight now. See?”

  “It’s no joke. You should seriously think about an exercise regimen. You’re pale. And you’ve packed on some weight since I last saw you.”

  “More of me to love,” I said, suddenly aware of my gut pressing over my belt.

  He looked blankly at me. “You know, I’ve got a personal trainer now. I could give you his number. He’s done wonders for me. Pecs and abs. Stamina. For the first time in my life I really feel in control of my breathing.”

  “Well,” I said, “that’s certainly good. We should all be in control of our breathing, God knows. But no thanks, Vincent. I’d never stick to any exercise routine. I think I’m too far gone for that.”

  “Oh, come on. You’re not old. What are you, forty, forty-one?”

  “I’m thirty-six.” That had been another issue with living together: I wasn’t really old enough to be his father. I was only Vincent’s senior by twelve years. So I was more of an older brother—an older brother married to their mother, who had six years on me.

  “Well, you should think about it,” he said, fishing in his pocket and bringing out his car keys. “Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll walk.”

  “It’s pretty wet outside.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  He gave me another long look, then sighed. “All right,” he said, “whatever you want. I’ll call you tomorrow about the proposal.”

  I nodded. “Thanks for the coffee, Vincent.”

  “Merry Christmas.” He smiled tightly and left. A moment later I saw him out front, hurrying into his snappy little red sports car. He pulled away fast.

  I sat there, head hurting, mouth tender where I’d burned it with the coffee. The rain grew heavier. I stared at it streaking down the café’s windows for what seemed like a long time. Finally I stuffed Vincent’s papers into my briefcase. Stepping outside, I unfolded my umbrella and looked around, in no real hurry to go home; nothing awaited me there. I could take in a movie, I supposed; there were several small theaters within a few blocks. But I didn’t really want to see a movie—I couldn’t picture myself paying money to behold Deuce Bigelow: Male Gigolo or End of Days or Toy Story 2. I didn’t know what I wanted to do—or rather, I did: but I knew I should keep myself from doing it. What I wanted to do was to go home, crawl into bed, pull the covers over me, and obliterate the outer world entirely. Cancel it. Make it vanish. But I knew I shouldn’t. I did that too often these days.

  In the meantime I could do the other thing I’d wanted, though. My dear darling cigarette was calling to me again. Standing under the awning of the café I popped open the briefcase, found the cigarette, fished for a panicked second or two for matches and found them as well. Closing my briefcase again I looked around, savoring the moment. In a matter of seconds I would be lighting the cigarette and taking that first, deepest, always-best drag. I found myself wanting to prolong my waiting, like a man holding himself back during sex to make the final cataclysm that much bigger, that much more joyous.

  But as I stood there, cigarette in my mouth patiently awaiting its flame, I looked across the street toward the school and noticed the girl from my classroom.

  She was standing motionlessly at the foot of the building’s front steps. She faced in my general direction, but the rain was too heavy and she was too far off for me to see if she was looking my way. I was about to give her a casual wave when I realized that the cigarette hanging from my lips marked a distinctly unprofessional touch; I grabbed it away, dropped it into my pocket.

  I took a few steps toward her, until I was in the middle of the empty street. She just stood there, showing no sign of noticing me. Maybe she didn’t recognize me, I thought, what with the rain and my umbrella, or maybe she simply didn’t care. It wouldn’t be the first time a teenager proved indifferent to my presence.

  But seeing her there filled me with a strange feeling. She stood directly in the middle of the downpour with no umbrella, no hat, not even a newspaper over her head. That brown coat of hers looked much too thin for winter in Washington. Her legs were bare below her knee-length skirt. Her simple black schoolgirl shoes appeared totally inadequate to the cold and wet. What’s more, she had nothing with her—no backpack, no books in her arms, not even headphone wires snaking from her ears down to some unseen Discman. Nothing whatsoever. Her arms dangled straight down at her sides.

  “Hello there,” I called, wondering if I could help her somehow. She’d said she was new; maybe she’d missed the bus or needed directions to the Metro or something.

  She looked toward me then with her big blank eyes. But it wasn’t her eyes that made me back away suddenly, turn, and hustle quickly up the street away from her. It was the fact that I realized in the moment her head turned in my direction that, as the rain cascaded down around her, her face and hair were perfectly dry.

  2

  The next day, Friday, my headache came earlier and stayed later.

  My temples were already throbbing by lunchtime. The kids were going into their final weekend before Winter Holiday, so naturally they were loud, distracted, impatient, silly. I knew it was probably a mistake to try to say anything meaningful about The Great Gatsby during last period, but we were behind schedule and I thought that, if nothing else, I might be able to bore them into submission and get to the end of the day that way. While many of the kids in the back talked openly to each other, I tried to keep the ones nearer the front engaged.

  “So when Daisy goes back to Gatsby’s house,” I said, looking out at the thirty or so mostly dark faces, “Gatsby starts showing her all his shirts. Why do you think he does that?”

  “He wants to show her what a big success he is,” my star pupil, a somewhat brittle girl named Annie, volunteered. Annie was smart, but knew it too well for her own good.

  “Sure,” I agreed, wandering in the front of the room with the book in my hand, “but why shirts? I mean, if you’re trying to prove to someone you love what a successful person you are, are you going to show them your shirts?”

  “If they’re nice shirts, hell yeah,” said Dion, a moderately bright boy given to smart-ass responses. There was a general chuckling, which I joined.

  “Dion, Gatsby has a mansion. He’s incredibly wealthy. There must be a million things he could show her that would impress her more than shirts.”

  “Well, it got her into his bedroom, didn’t it?”

  Another chuckle. The kids at the rear were paying no attention, but then they never did. I hated the fact that I invariably found myself teaching only to the front of the room—nine or ten students—and I occasionally made at least token efforts to include the twenty or so farther back; but anyone there who actually wanted to be a part of the class quickly learned to sit near the front anyway. It was a Faustian bargain: in return for being left alone, the kids in the back half of the room kept the noise down, falling completely silent and pretending to be attentive if another teacher or an administrator happened to walk in. In return for that, I let them be. As a result they learned nothing; and as a teacher, day in and day out, I failed. What was interesting to me, and very sad, was that I’d never talked to the kids about this arrangement. It was understood, that’s all.

  The fact that many other teachers did similar things was only a slight comfort. I still felt sick inside when I thought about it too much; but not nearly as sick as I’d felt ten years earlier, when I’d first taken this job and, in hopeless frustration at the crazy, off-the-wall behavior of many kids that made it impossible for anyone to learn anything, I’d first decided to perform a kind of triage and direct my attentions largely to the students in front, where the more attentive ones naturally gravitated anyway. I’d been appalled during my first visit to the school, when I’d observed other teachers doing this. Not me, I’d thought. Never me.

  As a couple of kids discussed Daisy’s tearful reaction to Gatsby’s shirts, my mind drifted. The sight of the girl in the rain yesterday came back to me. The vision of her and what must h
ave been an optical illusion—the rain not touching her face or hair, not touching any of her, in fact—was vivid in my mind, yet I found it difficult to remember what the girl had actually looked like. I was left only with a general impression of big brown eyes and straight hair hanging down to her shoulders. For some reason I couldn’t hold her image firmly in my mind. I recalled only the vague outline, not her.

  BANG!

  The sound of the ancient radiator in the back of the room kicking in jolted me into reality again. This always happened in cold weather—the radiator’s terrible, shotgun-like noise—yet it always made me jump. It obviously had just now, since several of the students giggled.

  “Man, you’re touchy today,” Dion said.

  “Sorry,” I said, refocusing on the room. “I swear I always think…” But then I realized I didn’t want to make a joke about guns going off, not with what had happened at Columbine so fresh in everyone’s minds. Our school had been blessedly free of such violence—so far. But last summer metal detectors had been installed at the main entrance, and an additional security guard now roamed the halls. It was all useless, of course—there were any number of ways for someone to get into the school that didn’t involve the front door. But it gave the office downtown some cover; they were, in fact, doing something about the violence in schools, even if what they were doing would obviously be ineffective. In the meantime the principal had taken it upon himself to try to solve the problem of unmonitored doors by padlocking a number of them, in clear violation of any possible safety code. I dreaded the moment we might have a real emergency—whether a shooter, a fire, anything that would cause a mass rush to the exits. Disaster awaited.

  “So what does it reveal about Daisy that—”

  BANG!

  “—that she becomes so emotional when—”

  BANG! BANG!

  “—she sees—”

  BANG!

  The students laughed as I shook my head, holding up my hands in defeat. “Folks, the bell’s going to ring anyway. I give up. Did you all write down the reading for the weekend?” I gestured toward the blackboard, where the assignment was scrawled.