Send Down the Rain

by Charles Martin

  The thunder cracked. Lightning hit the dune next to us.

  She turned and spoke into the flash. “What have I left to give?”

  Another flash. Another thunderclap. Mom’s voice was broken. As was she. She fell on me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and sobbed. I held my mom and I held those pieces of paper. And right then and there I buried the truth in me.

  And the weight of it all crushed me.

  Having spent its venom, the angry storm softened and blanketed us in large drops. As the rain washed the anger and tears, my mom stood. Drenched head to toe. She leaned into me and pressed her forehead to mine. When she spoke, she wasn’t speaking to me. “Watch over my boy . . . all the days of his life . . . and let him live to see the rain.” She closed her eyes. “Send down the rain.”

  FOR FIFTY-THREE YEARS I’D lived in a storm. Lightning. Thunderclap. High wind. But when my brother told the truth about us in that courtroom, the lies I’d buried came unearthed and my chest exploded, and for the first time since that afternoon on the beach with my mom, I felt the rain on my face. I tasted the drops. And they tasted like tears.

  On the floor of that courtroom, something in me came alive, but it wasn’t my heart. At least not the one they were attempting to shock back to life. It was lower down. More toward the center of my gut. While chaos ensued in the courtroom, I lay on the carpet staring into a dark world. Then, without invitation, memories flooded like films across my eyelids. With the truth released, my body remembered the storm that my mind had forgotten. The memories were out of sequence and held no rhyme or reason. They just surfaced. The only common thread was that they were moments charged with emotion, and yet I’d not cried in any of them. I’d felt nothing.

  That night on the beach with my mom, I’d closed my heart. And yet here I was now, more dead than alive, and I felt everything. I could smell people’s sweat. Excrement. Dried blood. Fresh bread baking. Salt in the ocean. Hush puppies in the fryer. The way the earth smells before and after the rain. My mother’s hair. My father’s aftershave. Engine oil. Burning rubber. The cabin of an airplane. The smell of death. And Allie.

  I remembered the smell of Allie.

  When I was a kid, I remember feeling with great emotion. My eyes would see and my heart would feel. The line between the two was taut, and when one pulled, the response was immediate and constant. I drank life through a fire hose. Then life dinged me, restricted the flow, and pretty soon the raging river was a dribbling trickle. Then some giant hand clamped down on the spigot nozzle and the trickle was reduced to nothing at all. Not a drop. Did it dry up on its own, or had my life just dammed it up? Either way, the flow of water was gone. Ever since, I’d lived my life through a dusty, calloused piece of lifeless meat.

  That’s a pain-filled way to live.

  But lying on my back, with all those frantic people fussing over me, I watched the video of my life. And after all the hell and horror and evil and terror I’d known, something cracked through. As I stood there on the dry riverbed that was me, a trickle returned. And the more I watched, the more the flow increased. It swirled around my toes. Then my ankles. Wrapped around my knees. Waist deep, the current tugged at me.

  It was both one second and one lifetime. The water around me was clear. I cupped my hand and brought it to my lips. It was sweet, clean, and cold. My body may have been in that courtroom, but my heart was standing in an ocean. I jumped in and dunked my head under the flow. I held my breath and pushed through the water, pulling with long, strong strokes. When I surfaced and sucked in a lungful of air, all the dirty, bloody places I’d carried around for so long had begun to wash off. What was once crusty became soft. What was dirty became clean. I took another breath and returned beneath the surface, kicking deeper. Where the water was cooler. I did that a long time. I don’t really know how long. All I really know is that the water washed over me. It rose up from below. It fell from above.

  The storm of my life was over. The rain had come.

  45

  My eyes opened to a world of white. Everything was white. Including the woman at the foot of my bed. I asked, “Are you an angel?”

  She laughed the most beautiful laugh. It echoed off the walls and fell across me like a soft blanket.

  I thought to myself, If she’s laughing, then I can’t be in hell, ’cause I highly doubt there’s laughter in hell. I mean, what would people in hell have to laugh about?

  My chest wasn’t hurting, so I asked, “Is this heaven?” Before she could answer, I said, “If you know all I’ve done, you’ll never let me in.”

  She laughed again. That’s when I was pretty sure I wasn’t in hell. I tried looking around, but the world I’d awakened into was so brilliant and bright I couldn’t look into it. I tried blinking my eyes into focus, but it didn’t help. I’d awakened looking into the sun. Over my left shoulder, the sound of rapid footsteps echoed on a hard floor.

  A face appeared over me. Then closer. Then I felt her cheek and lips pressed to mine. Then I smelled her. Allie was holding me.

  Heaven had let me in.

  My eyes slowly focused as medical personnel peppered me with questions and poked me and prodded me, and all I wanted to do was talk with Allie. There were six people in whatever room I was in and each was doing about ten different things. I held out my hand. “Hold it. Everybody stop.”

  Oddly enough, they did. About this time a man walked in. Gray hair. White coat. Stethoscope hanging around his neck. I said, “Other than me, who’s in charge here?”

  The man raised his hand. “That’d be me.”

  “Where am I?”

  He answered, “Regional Memorial.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A hospital.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I’m one of your doctors.”

  “One?”

  “You have about eight.”

  “How’d I get here?”

  He seemed to be enjoying this game, so he gave me short, staccato answers, hoping I’d keep playing along. “An ambulance.”

  “When?”

  He glanced at my chart. “Sixteen days ago.”

  The word sixteen sank in. “What have I been doing?”

  “Sleeping.”

  “What’d you people do to me?”

  “You’ve been in a coma.”

  “Why didn’t you wake me up?”

  He laughed. “We’ve been trying.”

  “What happened?”

  He spoke slowly. “Takotsubo cardiomyopathy.”

  I frowned. “In English, please.”

  “It’s also called ‘broken heart syndrome.’ It occurs almost exclusively in women, so that makes your case that much more interesting. You’re a bit of an anomaly.”

  I leaned my head back. “That’s one way of putting it.”

  I was still pretty foggy, and the pieces of the puzzle weren’t falling into place as quickly and neatly as I’d hoped. Allie was holding my hand with both of hers. She asked, “What’s the last thing you remember?”

  I pushed back the fog. “Bobby in the courtroom.”

  “As he was finishing, you had a heart attack. Or something like it. You died on the floor of the courtroom. These people brought you back.”

  The knowledge and weight of the world I had been living in returned. Along with my manslaughter conviction and impending sentencing. I turned to Allie. “What’s my sentence?”

  She shook her head. “We don’t know yet; Judge Werther hasn’t delivered one. Now that you’re awake . . .”

  I searched the room. “Where’s Bobby?”

  The doctor moved about two feet to the left. Bobby sat in a chair. Unshaven. A pillow next to him.

  I lifted my head. “Hey, brother.”

  He nodded. Smiled. I could tell he was tired. “Hey.”

  The memory of his televised confession returned. “You okay?”

  Another nod. “I’m good.”

  “I imagine you’re sorta popular.”

  He
half smiled. “In an odd sort of way.”

  “Folks want your head on a platter?”

  “And they’re the kind ones.”

  “You still got a job?”

  “For the moment. I’ve been called to testify before a committee. Most think I should step down and let the governor appoint a replacement.”

  I waved my hand across the room and all the people staring down at me and all the machines. “You do all this?”

  Allie answered. “Yes. He did.”

  I looked at the doctor. “So what now?”

  He shrugged. “While you were sleeping, we ran a camera up your leg and into your heart. I was anticipating putting in several stents. After looking around, I did not. I can’t explain it, but your heart is quite strong. Given the amount of time you were out in the courtroom, we didn’t know how much brain damage you might have sustained. Based on the last five minutes, I’d say none.” He patted my shoulder. “Welcome back.” He then lifted a small sealed plastic bag from his shirt pocket and set it on the bedside table next to me. “We also found this in your stomach.”

  I stared at the mangled bullet.

  “But I have a feeling you knew that was in there.”

  “I did.”

  Allie leaned closer and looked from the bullet to me.

  The doctor laughed. “You’re lucky they used copper. Lead would have eaten through you a long time ago.”

  Allie held up the bag. Staring closely. “When you were carrying Suzy’s dad?”

  A flash of searing heat appeared and disappeared in the side of my stomach. “Yes.”

  The doctor continued. “We happened upon it by mistake while trying to revive you. It showed up in the pictures.” He crossed his arms. “Why didn’t you ever do anything about it?”

  I opened the bag and spilled the smooth bullet into my palm. The years inside my stomach had worn off the rough edges. “Didn’t feel worthy.”

  46

  A week later they walked me into the courtroom. I shuffled, dragging my ankle chains. Walking like someone had tied my shoelaces together. Somehow the number of people in the courtroom had doubled. More cameras. More lights. More whispering. More eyes looking at me.

  The bailiff walked in and raised his booming voice above the fray. “All rise. The Court of the Second Judicial Circuit, Criminal Division, is now in session. The Right Honorable Judge Jay Werther presiding.”

  The judge walked in and took his seat, and everyone else did likewise. He was quiet a few seconds. Digital cameras clicked and sounded, suggesting the Internet would soon be filling with pictures and video of the proceedings. He looked at me. “How’re you feeling?”

  “Better, sir. Although I’m real sorry for what I did to your carpet.”

  Everyone laughed.

  I continued, “Looks like somebody washed out the stain, though.”

  This time the judge laughed. Along with everyone else.

  He tapped his lip with a pencil. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pointed the pencil at Bobby. “Do you hate your brother?”

  I shook my head. “No.”

  “How is that?”

  “What good would it do? Won’t change anything.”

  Judge Werther nodded once.

  “Sir, I’ve had the experience of being in a country where people were trying to kill me. Every day. That simplifies life a good bit. In matters of the heart, we have only two options. Hate them or love them. That’s it. That’s all we got. There’s no middle.”

  He seemed surprised by this. The judge paused. Tapped the end of his pencil on his desk. “I’m curious.”

  “About?”

  “The one part of your story that’s not been told.”

  “Sir?”

  “The part only you can tell.”

  “You talking about the conversation with my mom?”

  He nodded.

  “Sir, I can tell you, but the only other witness is dead. How do you know I’m telling the truth?”

  “I don’t.”

  I scratched my head. “And you’re okay with that?”

  “This is no longer a trial.” He pointed at the cameras. “You’ve been out of commission for a few weeks, so let me spell it out for you. Joseph Brooks, you’ve captivated a nation. I’m told that several million people are currently watching these proceedings. There are more than a thousand men in black leather straddling enormous, eardrum-splitting motorcycles outside this courthouse right now. Schools across the country have canceled classes and are projecting these proceedings on giant screens in auditoriums. A record of living history.”

  He looked at Suzy. “I’m told that Suzy True’s show has seen ratings increases unheard of in the modern radio era. I’ve had personal phone calls from the governor, the other Florida senator, the Speaker of the House of the United States Congress, and the Chief of Staff of the President of the United States. Each has called to make sure that justice is served. So let’s just say for the sake of argument, and because that lady over there with hummingbird wings for fingers is recording everything you say, that I’d like to hear you tell me. I have a feeling you can remember.”

  “Bobby was working at the Blue Tornado, a restaurant back home. I was turning a wrench underneath my Corvette. The mailman walked up to our box, slid in the mail, and kept walking. Mom had been sitting on the porch. Wind tugging at her dress. One of the two she owned. She stood and made herself walk the forty-two feet to the box. She lowered the lid and I guess the notice was lying on top, because she sucked in a breath and covered her mouth with her hand. Clutching the mail to her chest, she walked back to the house, stumbling every few feet. She walked inside and shut the door. I crawled out from beneath the car and walked up onto the porch. I watched through the glass as Mom opened the letter, let out a noise that sounded like somebody had just shot her in the chest, and then dropped to her knees in the front hall. For about two minutes, she didn’t breathe. She just knelt there. I pushed open the door, and when she looked up at me, she was cracking down the middle. She said, ‘Let’s go for a ride.’ She stood up and leaned on me all the way to the garage. We drove north up the island where she sat with that notice spread flat across her lap. We parked and stood next to the dunes and I watched my mom come apart at the seams.”

  I paused, looking back. Stuck in the memory.

  He pressed me quietly. “And?”

  “She tore that piece of paper into four pieces and told me to take Bobby to California. Or Canada. To come back when it was over.”

  “When you and your mother made this plan, did the two of you ever think to give your brother a vote?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’d have gone.”

  “You really believe that?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  The judge let that sink in. “Continue.”

  “I’d seen what had happened to my mom when my dad cut out on us. It left a hole in her heart, and in ours. I knew if we both left, what life remained in my mom would drain out the hole and she’d die alone in that house. Especially if one of us didn’t come home. To my mom, that draft notice was an obituary.”

  Behind me, Bobby blew his nose.

  “I was savvier than Bobby,” I continued. “Thought maybe I had a better chance of staying alive. The only thing to do was take the notice, along with his driver’s license, and raise my right hand.”

  The judge tapped a pencil on his desk and leaned back. “I’m curious.”

  “Sir?”

  “Where were you when Nixon canceled the draft in January ’73?”

  “Somewhere in Laos.”

  He dug through some papers on his desk and held up a single sheet. “This is your birth certificate.” He handed it to the bailiff, who handed it to me.

  “Is the date of birth correct?” the judge asked.

  “Yes, sir.” I handed it back to the bailiff.

  “You realize, based o
n your date of birth, you never would have been drafted.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Behind me, Bobby was crying.

  “My fourth tour, near the end, I had a couple of really bad days and I was in pretty bad shape. In the four years prior, I’d gotten pretty good at getting myself out of tough situations, but on this particular day, I couldn’t. I needed someone to come get me. The folks who put me there said they weren’t coming. Too dangerous. Plus, they’d have to admit that they’d inserted me into a country where I wasn’t supposed to be. That meant I was helpless.” I looked at the judge. “Do you understand?”

  He nodded once. “I do.”

  “Then a buddy, a guy with a wife and a daughter he loved, who had everything to live for and everything to lose, acted against direct orders. He stole a bird, crash-landed into hell, and lifted me out. I’ve had a lifetime to think about that. What would cause a man to do that?” I shook my head. “This may not make much sense to all of you, but as I was standing in that place, covered up in heat, bugs, bullets, and bayonets, I knew that the ground I was standing on and everything around me was flat-out evil. But when I heard those rotors whipping through the air, I knew that whatever was in that bird could not be evil.

  “I’d seen what evil could do. Evil never gave itself for anyone. It takes what it doesn’t own. Holds your head under the water. Rips your head off your neck and dangles it from the city wall. Evil dominates. Controls. Eradicates. Evil is a sniveling punk, and if you let it inside you then you spew hatred, which is just another name for the poison we drink hoping it’ll hurt someone else.”

  I glanced around the courtroom at Allie, Catalina, Gabby, Suzy, and finally at the cameras.

  “But not love. Love rushes in where others won’t. Where the bullets are flying. It stands between. Pours out. Empties itself. It scours the wasteland, returns the pieces that were lost, and it never counts the cost.”

  Despite a packed house, the room was silent. After a minute, I continued, “Love walks into hell, where I sit in chains, where the verdict is guilty, grabs you by the heart, and says to the warden, ‘Me for him.’” I turned and glanced at my brother. “Sir, we live in an angry, evil world. Where stuff doesn’t always make sense. Where hope seems like something we did when we were kids and the love we cling to slips through our fingers like cold water, but”—I tapped my chest—“nothing that happens here today changes the fact that love heals the shattered places.” I shook my head once. “It’s the only thing that can—” The faces in the courtroom held steady on mine. “It’s the only thing worth fighting for,” I finished, then turned to Bobby. I’d like to think my eyes smiled. “So, no, sir, I don’t hate my brother.”