Rainwater

NINE

Little was said on the drive back into town. Ella didn’t know where Mr. Rainwater’s thoughts were, but hers were on Solly. She worried about how much he’d seen, how much of it he’d comprehended, and what effect such a grisly sight might have on him. As soon as she’d ushered him back into the car, he had resumed tapping the toes of his shoes together. He seemed unaffected, but there was no way of knowing for certain what kind of impact the incident had made.

As for her, it had left deep impressions: the pit of bony carcasses, Lola and Ollie in such despair, the sound of the calf’s desperate bawling, and the sudden silence after Mr. Rainwater killed it. She feared it would be a long time before those disturbing memories receded.

They plagued her as she slogged through her chores that afternoon. The heat was blistering and enervating, so that even the most routine task seemed insurmountable. The Dunne sisters pulled her aside and complained of Margaret’s uppity attitude. Ella promised to speak to the maid about it, and when she did, Margaret reacted with a sudden recoil that caused her to splash grease out of the large iron skillet in which she was frying salmon croquettes. The grease landed in the gas flame, which started a small fire on the stove and filled the kitchen with fishy-smelling smoke.

By late afternoon, Ella’s stamina and patience were spent. She wanted only to get through the dinner hour and the cleanup, then retreat with Solly to their rooms, where she hoped she could find some peace and quiet.

With that in mind, Ella set the dining room table while Margaret was shredding cabbage for slaw and mixing a corn bread batter. When Ella returned to the kitchen, she discovered Mr. Rainwater sitting at the table with Solly, who was lining up rows of toothpicks on the floral-patterned oilcloth.

Mr. Rainwater smiled up at her. “He’s making real progress. He’s forming groups of ten after watching me do it only once. And each time he reaches into the box for the toothpicks, he takes out an even ten.”

Ella took a pitcher of tea from the icebox and placed it on a serving tray. “That’s not progress, Mr. Rainwater. That’s a worthless trick.”

Margaret stopped stirring the batter and gave Ella a disapproving glance over her shoulder, which Ella pretended not to see.

Several moments of tense silence elapsed, then Mr. Rainwater asked quietly, “Why do you say that?”

Keeping her back to him, Ella added a sugar bowl and a dish of freshly sliced lemons to the tray. “You heard what Dr. Kincaid said. Solly’s talent, for lack of a better word, has no practical application. Not unless somebody needs their toothpicks lined up in rows of ten, or their dominoes arranged in a row in ascending order.”

“I’m stunned to hear you say that.”

She came around to him quickly. “Why?”

“Because this could be a breakthrough. A start. The initial step toward—”

“What, Mr. Rainwater?” She motioned down at Solly, who was placing the toothpicks equidistantly apart while tapping his heels against the legs of his chair. “What is this moving him toward? A parlor act? Something to entertain the socialites in Dallas or Houston?”

In a carnival barker’s voice, she said, “Come and see Solomon Barron. He screeches like a banshee and flaps his hands and throws tantrums every time his mother touches him, but he’s a whiz at card tricks.”

“Miss Ella?” Margaret had turned away from the counter. Thick, yellow batter was dripping onto the floor off the wooden spoon she held in her hand, but she was so dismayed over Ella’s emotional unraveling that she failed to notice. “What’s come over you?”

“Nothing. Nothing!” Ella said, her voice cracking. “I’m just trying to explain to Mr. Rainwater, who, for reasons unknown, has taken on my son as a pet project, how ridiculous and futile his lessons are.”

She took a step toward the table. “I don’t want my son to be a freak, on exhibit for people’s amusement. I don’t want him to be a sideshow. I want him to read and write and talk to me, not … not …” Furiously she raked her hand across the table, sending Solly’s carefully arranged rows of toothpicks and the open box of them to the linoleum.

Solly immediately emitted an ear-piercing shriek and began striking the sides of his head with his fists.

Ella, suddenly silenced and immobilized by her behavior, gaped at the toothpicks scattered across the floor, disbelieving what she’d done. She wouldn’t have thought herself capable of losing control so quickly and completely.

Mr. Rainwater calmly stood and went for the broom to sweep up the toothpicks. Margaret returned the dripping spoon to the bowl of batter, saying softly to Ella, “See to the boy, Miss Ella. I’ll take care of this.”

Ella, mortified by her outburst, nodded and pulled Solly from his chair. It was a struggle, but she finally got him, kicking and screaming, into his room. She closed the door so that only she had to withstand his tantrum.

It was violent and went on for almost half an hour. Nothing she did subdued him. She dodged his fists and feet as best she could but knew that tomorrow she would have bruises. Eventually he exhausted himself enough to fall asleep.

Ella sat on his bed and wept copiously.

The frustration and sorrow that had been building inside her all day erupted in great, gulping sobs. She cried over her friends Ollie and Lola, who could now stave off foreclosure but only by paying a tremendous emotional price. She cried over their children who’d experienced such a horrible thing beyond their understanding. And over the Dunne sisters, who were reduced to living in someone else’s house and occupying themselves by complaining about the help. And over Margaret, who had to endure their prejudice.

And in a rare moment of self-pity, she cried over herself and Solly and their plight.

She lived in fear of their future. Daily she strove to keep her fears at bay and not let them govern her. But today she didn’t have the strength to ward them off, and they assailed her.

When Solly grew larger and stronger than she, how would she control his tantrums?

What would happen to him if something happened to her? Adults in their prime contracted terminal illnesses. Like Mr. Rainwater. What if she got a cancer and died? Where would Solly be sent to live out the rest of his days?

People also had fatal accidents. They got hit by cars, struck by lightning, impaled on pitchforks. People died silly, stupid, senseless deaths doing a household chore they’d done a thousand times without mishap. If she died unexpectedly, what would become of Solly?

Or what if he injured someone during one of his tantrums? He would be taken from her and placed in an asylum, and people would say that was better for everyone. Everyone except Solly.

Eventually she cried herself out. Then, ashamed of her tears, she washed her face with cold water until her eyes were a little less puffy and red. She tidied her hair and replaced her apron with a fresh one. She checked Solly one more time, then left her room.

The house was quiet. Dinner was over and the dining room had been cleared. Margaret was finishing up the dishes in the kitchen. “I saved you a plate, Miss Ella.” It was in the center of the table, covered with a cloth.

“Thank you, Margaret,” she said, but she made no move toward the table.

The woman looked at her with concern. “You want something else? I’ll stay, fix you anything you like.”

Ella shook her head. “I’m not very hungry. You go on.” Seeing Margaret’s hesitation, she added, “My crying jag is over. Solly’s sleeping. We’re fine. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Margaret removed her apron and put on her hat, then crossed to Ella and gave her a hug. “Today’s troubles is past now. Tomorrow will be better.”

That turned out not to be true.

Mr. Rainwater didn’t come down for breakfast. Ella figured he was disinclined to leave his room out of pique over her harsh words to him yesterday afternoon. Unfairly she had unleashed her frustration on him, although he was responsible for some of it. She had meant every word she’d said about not wanting Solly to become an object of curiosity and morbid fascination, like England’s Elephant Man.

But in her heart of hearts, she knew that wasn’t Mr. Rainwater’s intention. Not at all. His wanting to plumb the depths of Solly’s abilities was honorable and kind. She had no reason to think he wanted to exploit Solly, certainly not for self-gain.

She planned to apologize for her rudeness, but the morning passed without his coming downstairs. She didn’t become concerned until he failed to appear at lunch. Margaret confirmed that she hadn’t seen him all day. Neither had the Dunne sisters.

“Nothing’s wrong, I hope,” Miss Violet said tremulously.

“He’s probably just trying to evade the heat.”

But Ella doubted her own explanation and decided to check on him. Leaving Solly in Margaret’s care, she went upstairs. As she walked down the long hallway, she made certain her foot-falls could be heard, not wanting him to think she was sneaking up on him to spy.

She paused outside his door and listened but heard no sounds coming from the other side. “Mr. Rainwater?” She tapped lightly on the door, then pressed her fist against her lips, waiting for a reply. None came. She knocked softly again. “Mr. Rainwater, are you all right?”

When he didn’t answer, her mouth went dry. Her heart began to thud dully with apprehension. Dr. Kincaid had said six to twelve weeks. Possibly more if he was fortunate. He said Mr. Rainwater would have good days and bad, but the steady decline as the cancer spread was inevitable. There would be pain. Eventually the systems of his body would begin shutting down one by one, but the doctor had promised to have him taken to a hospital well before then.

“I won’t let him die in your house, Mrs. Barron. You’ll have plenty of warning before it comes to that. God would be merciful to take him quickly, but it rarely happens that swiftly.”

But now she wondered if Dr. Kincaid had been wrong about the course the illness would take, wrong about God and His mercy.

With her heart in her throat, she opened the door to his room.

He was lying on the bed outside the covers, dressed in shirt, pants, and socks, but by the look of the twisted bedding beneath him, he’d been there for a while. He’d placed one forearm over his eyes; the other hand was clutching the cloth of his shirt above his stomach. She was vastly relieved to see that he was breathing, although his respiration was light and fast and made a soughing sound as it passed through his partially opened lips. The sour smell of sweat permeated the room.

“Mr. Rainwater?”

He made a feeble motion with the arm resting over his eyes. “Please go, Mrs. Barron.”

Instead, she approached the bed. “Do you need me to call Dr. Kincaid?”

“I—” Before he could finish, he was gripped by what appeared to be an excruciating pain. He strained a groan through gritted teeth.

Ella spun around and ran from the room, shouting for Margaret as she raced down the hallway. By the time she had clattered down the stairs, Margaret was standing at the bottom of them, her eyes wide with alarm. “Is somethin’ the matter with Mr. Rainwater?”

“He’s sick. Call Dr. Kincaid. Tell him to come immediately.”

Ella actually gave Margaret a push toward the telephone as she brushed past her. She went into the formal parlor and unplugged the fan. On her way back to the staircase, she spotted the Dunne sisters standing together in the archway of the informal parlor, holding hands, looking both concerned and fearful. “Is there anything we can do?” asked Miss Pearl.

“No, but thank you.”

Ella could hear Margaret speaking to the telephone operator. Quickly she went back upstairs, taking the fan with her.

Mr. Rainwater was as she’d left him, but the spasm that had seized him seemed to have abated. He lowered his arm from his eyes when she came in. “Please, Mrs. Barron, don’t fret. Bad spells like this are to be expected. I’ll get through it.”

“In the meantime, this should make you more comfortable.” She set the fan on the table in front of the window and plugged it in. “How long have you been suffering like this?”

“Since last night.”

“Last night! Why didn’t you let me know so I could call Dr. Kincaid?”

“I thought it would pass. I’m sure it will.”

She didn’t share his optimism. His lips were rimmed white with agony, and his fist still had a damp grip on the cloth of his shirt. His eyes were sunk deeply into their sockets. “Dr. Kincaid will be here shortly. Do you want me to get you something to drink? Tea?”

He gave his head a small shake. “Water, maybe.”

She hesitated, then left him again, making her way hastily to the kitchen. The elderly sisters had disappeared, presumably back into the informal parlor. Margaret looked at her expectantly when she barged through the kitchen door.

“Is it the summer fever, Miss Ella?”

“I suppose, yes. Is Dr. Kincaid coming?”

“Right away, he said.”

“Good. Get the water pitcher from the icebox. And a drinking glass. Where’s that porcelain basin we wash vegetables in?”

“Same place it’s always at.”

Ella found the basin on its customary shelf in the pantry. She put it, the pitcher of cooled water, and the glass on a tray. “Stay with Solly.” He was sitting on the floor underneath the table, playing with empty spools. Ella put her back to the door and pushed it open. “Send the doctor up the moment he arrives.”

Upstairs in Mr. Rainwater’s room, she moved aside a book, his watch, and the small reading lamp in order to place the tray on his nightstand. She poured water from the pitcher into the glass, then slid her hand beneath his head and lifted it. He drank thirstily and signaled her when he’d had enough. She returned his head to the pillow, noting that it was soggy with perspiration.

“I’ll be right back.”

She left again, taking the basin with her. She half filled it with cold water from the bathroom faucet and took a clean washcloth from the cabinet. Being careful not to slosh the water out of the basin, she returned it to the nightstand and dipped the cloth in it. She wrung it out and used it to bathe his face. He watched her for a moment, then closed his eyes. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

“Did you tend your husband?”

“Pardon?”

“I assumed Mr. Barron died of an illness. Did you tend to him? Is that how you acquired your nurse’s touch?”

“He died suddenly.”

“Oh.” After a moment, he added, “Then your nursing skills come to you naturally.”

She dipped the cloth in the water again, wrung it out, applied it to his face and neck. “I think it’s part of the maternal instinct.”

Although his eyes remained closed, he smiled faintly. “A feminine skill, unique to your sex.”

She wet the cloth again and, after wringing it out, folded it into a rectangle and laid it on his forehead, pressing it into place. Then she withdrew and sat down in the chair near the window, clasping her hands in her lap. He said nothing more, and she would have thought that he was asleep except for the occasional contraction of his fingers and the tightening of his jaw, indications that he was experiencing gripping pains.

Through the open window she heard the arrival of Dr. Kincaid’s car, the closing of the car door, his hurried footsteps up the walkway and onto the porch. Moments later, he appeared in the open doorway, looking out of breath and anxious. “David?” With barely a glance toward Ella, he moved to the bed, set his black medical bag on the foot of it, and bent over his patient with obvious concern.

Mr. Rainwater opened his eyes. “Hello, Murdy. Don’t look so scared. I’m still alive.”

Ella stood. “I’ll leave you. If you need anything …”

“Of course, Mrs. Barron. Thank you,” the doctor said absently.

She went out, pulling the door closed behind her.