The Rain

by Andrew Peterson

  She did not turn, but I saw her nodding.

  “On the other hand,” I went on. “I notice your bed isn’t very high off the floor and Wally is a big fellow, all right. Still, Susan, even if he’s not here, I’d appreciate an answer.”

  She set the glass down. I heard the thump as it hit the linoleum. She faced me, her back against the counter. There were two spots of color in her cheeks. Her eyes were bright.

  “A man has Leen killed, after all,” I said.

  “I know that. Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Yeah. Yeah, I think you do.”

  “I just … I just don’t want to be in the newspapers, that’s all. It’s all so … so sordid.”

  “You could talk to the cops,” I said. “I mean, you’ll have to eventually.”

  She winced. “Do you think so?”

  “Depends what you’ve done.”

  “She hasn’t done a thing,” said Wally Shakespeare.

  I cast my eyes heavenward. There was a loud click from the bedroom. The closet door swung open. It went about halfway then hit the bed. Wally grunted as he squeezed and twisted his enormous form out into the room. No wonder it had taken Susan a while to buzz me in.

  When the giant emerged, he shut the door and sidled between bed and wall until he came around to my side of the room. He stepped out into the living room. His heavy arms drooped sheepishly. There was a hangdog expression on his country mug.

  I shook my head at him. “Wally, Wally, Wally,” I said.

  “Dang it. Dang it, Mr. Wells. How the heck did you know I was here?”

  “When you showed up under my bed last night, old friend, you said your pals on Theater Row had told you I’d found Georgia. It didn’t figure. How could you be hooked in deep enough to know that and not know where she was?” I tilted my head at Susan Scott. “Unless the same person who’d given me her address was going to a lot of trouble to hide it from you.”

  Wally’s jaw dropped. His big dumb country face looked even bigger and dumber than before. For a long moment, he just stood there and gaped at me. Then he turned and gaped at Susan. She averted her eyes. She looked down at the imitation brick of the kitchenette floor.

  “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  “You knew?” he said, amazed.

  I shuffled a cigarette out of my pack and into my mouth. I lit it. I sighed out smoke. I suspected this was not going to be the most pleasant visit I’d ever made.

  “You knew?” said Wally Shakespeare again. He took a lumbering step toward her.

  Susan nodded at the floor. She closed her eyes.

  “You … you knew?”

  “She knew, Wally. For Christ’s sake. Could we move on here?” I said.

  He ogled me. He ogled her. “You told me,” he said. “You told me to come stay with you. You told me I could come sleep on your couch. You told me not to worry about Georgia, that you’d ask around. Ask your friends. They’d be sure to turn her up eventually, you said. And I stayed here and … and last night … last night, you … you kissed me, Susan. I let you kiss me. And I’m engaged, oh Cod, oh Cod, this city is steeped in sin, oh Father, oh Father …”

  “Oh brother,” I said.

  Wally threw his giant hands out at either side. One word hung on the edge of his open mouth before he finally dropped it on us:

  “Why?”

  Susan stood there with her face turned away, her chin pressed to her shoulder. She stood there with her eyes closed and I saw her eyelashes grow damp though the tears didn’t fall.

  “Why?” said Wally. He threw his hands out even farther. “Why?”

  She would not turn to him. She only waved him off with a hand. “Just … never mind,” she said.

  “But … but why?” said Wally.

  “Because she likes you, Einstein,” I said.

  He gawked at me again. I was getting sick of it. Susan lifted her chin, opened her eyes. She shook her head. “Don’t tell him that,” she said. “Don’t tell him that. He’s so … simple … he’ll just believe you.”

  “It’s true, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Well … yes … I mean … Now it is.” She hiccupped a little. She said to him: “It’s true now, Wally, it really is. I really do like you now, but—” She struggled with it. Wally continued to stand there like a ten-ton jackass. I continued to smoke, grateful for something to do. She went on: “But I don’t want to lie to you anymore. Okay? I mean, at first … at first, it was just to get back at Georgia.”

  “Get back at Georgia?” said Wally, with that debonair flair we’d all become so used to.

  Susan let out an exasperated, “Oh!” She ran her hands up through her mane of hair. “I hate this. I hate this stupid city. I hate this stupid business. I … am so sorry, Wally. I am just … so … sorry.” She sighed. “About four months ago, okay? I met a guy. He was the first nice guy I had met in this town in … since I came here from Vermont.”

  “Paul Abingdon?” I asked.

  “No.” She sounded annoyed. “I don’t make it with married men. This stupid city still hasn’t done that to me. This was a guy named Allen Simon. He worked on Paul Abingdon’s campaign. That was how I knew Georgia’s address, because she got to apartment-sit for him while he moved up to Albany to run things there.” I nodded. I remembered the name on Georgia’s mailbox. “So this was … like …” She lifted her hands as she searched for the right words. “I mean, nice. Okay? I mean, to be around these people, they all had nice clothes and nice apartments and nice friends. And it was nice, after hanging around trying to get a part, dealing with other actresses, everyone complaining and angry and jealous of each other, it was just … nice, that’s all.”

  I’d never heard politicians described that way before. But then I hadn’t been around actors too much either.

  Susan went on as Wally stared and stared at her. “So, you know, one day, he came into Cole’s to pick me up, and there was Georgia and …” She looked up at the ceiling, fighting back the tears. “And she came on to him. I mean, they hit it off. I guess that’s what it was. I mean, it sure did seem to me like Georgia came on to him, but she says … I mean, she says they just … hit it off. And, anyway, pretty soon … you know: They were going out together. Allen and Georgia instead of Allen and me.”

  “Allen and Georgia!” exclaimed Wally. “But—but we’re engaged.”

  “Would somebody deliver the news to this clown? I can’t believe this,” I muttered. I could not help myself.

  It was easier for Susan to go on now. It seemed to be flowing out of her on a current of relief. “Then, about a month later … when you came to town … Wally, when you started asking about Georgia, and I found out who you were … At first, I was thinking—Oh, I don’t know what I was thinking at first. I guess I told myself it would be, like, some kind of a joke, like, you know, turnabout is fair play and everything. I decided … you looked so simple … so innocent … I decided I’d get you to stay here … keep you away from her, and maybe … maybe take you for myself for a while. Sort of like … well, like … revenge.”

  “My God in heaven!” said Wally.

  I made a similar remark.

  “But then … just this last day or so … you know … I really did get to … like you, you know, Wally. I mean, you really are … sweet? simple?” She gave a wry shake of the head, almost smiling. “You’re a breath of fresh air in this city, I’ll tell you that much.” The trace of a smile faded from her lips under the remorseless weight of his stare. “But then … then … that Kendrick man got killed … murdered. I didn’t know what I was supposed to do. When you told me you thought Georgia was the girl in the pictures, I didn’t know if I should go to the police myself, or tell you to go to the police or … or what?”

  “Which is when I showed up,” I said.

  She nodded, lowering her eyes. “Wally told me he was going to see you, Mr. Wells. When you showed up asking for her, I figured … if I told you how to find her … well, you’re a reporter
… you’d find out the truth and then the police would know everything that I could tell them anyway.…”

  “Then why’d you tell Wally that I’d been around?” I asked.

  Susan Scott shuddered. “Because I wanted him to know the truth about Georgia, but I was afraid you’d tell him yourself and then he’d figure out the truth about me and then … Oh!” She put her hands to her temples, let them drop again. “I feel like such a stupid, stupid … I guess I was just so angry at her, I didn’t think. I didn’t think.”

  Slowly, Wally Shakespeare’s mouth closed. Slowly, he moved out of the bedroom doorway. He clumped into the living room and dropped down onto the sofa. He sat there with his shoulders hunched and his eyes on the floor.

  “I can’t get all this into my head,” he said. “You mean … you mean, you did all this … kept me away from Georgia … and lied to me and … and all that … because you like me?” He raised his dunderheaded eyes to her. She nodded. He lowered his dunderheaded eyes. He thought. “I guess … I guess that’s kind of nice. Isn’t it?” He raised his dunderheaded eyes to her. She smiled a little. He smiled back.

  This had all the makings of a tender scene. I hate that. I headed for the door.

  I headed out to see Georgia Stuart.

  23

  Thunder struck when I stepped out into the street again. A long roll of thunder from the distant west. I glanced up hopefully. The sky hadn’t changed much. The humidity misted the blazing August sun, but there were no rain clouds. I shook my head, crossed the street to my car where it stood, untowed.

  I stripped off my jacket and tossed it inside. I followed it onto the front seat. The old car wheezed at being called into action again so soon. The ancient air conditioner screeched deep in its belts. There was a perilous clanking underneath me as I rolled out of the parking place, around the corner and around the corner again to make our way to the East Side.

  Georgia had said seven. It was now only five. I could not hold out any longer. Georgia’s name was going to be in my story tomorrow, and Susan’s version of events would only make things look worse for her if she didn’t explain herself. Ready or not, the Ohio girl had some questions to answer. Had she stolen Susan’s guy or simply fallen for him? How had she jumped from him to Abingdon himself? Maybe I’d been wrong. Maybe Georgia wasn’t a victim. Maybe she was just a bimbo, like Lansing said. Either way, I wanted her side of the story. And I wanted it for the bulldog edition.

  I found a parking spot on Irving Place again. I walked back to Gramercy, to Georgia’s brownstone. I came up the stoop and into the vestibule. I pressed the button marked “Simon.”

  The door unlocked instantly. I pushed inside. It was a swank lobby. Fresh green carpeting with the shape of an urn woven into it. Lanterns hanging from the ceiling. A carved wooden banister running up beside the stairs.

  But the heat here was just as oppressive as it had been at Susan’s place. The flights were just as long and Georgia was on the fourth floor. My shirt was a mess and my lungs were heaving as I came down the hall to her apartment door.

  The door opened before I reached it. Georgia stepped out.

  “What do you …?”

  She saw it was me and stopped short, fell silent. She pulled the door closed behind her. She did not pull it shut.

  I leaned my shoulder against the wall and looked at her. She was wearing a wraparound skirt and a yellow T-shirt. Sweat darkened the shirt, under her arms, between her breasts. Her forehead and her neck were shining with it. Her eyes were shining with fear.

  I panted. “You were expecting someone,” I said.

  “You’re early,” said Georgia.

  I nodded. I saw her lip trembling. Her hand fluttered to her mouth to make it stop. I noticed the bruises on her cheeks: her souvenirs from Marino.

  “Don’t you have air-conditioning?” I asked her.

  “What?”

  “You look hot. This is a fancy place. They ought to have air-conditioning.”

  “I … yes, I …”

  I pushed off the wall. I came forward wearily. Georgia looked up at me as I approached her. Her eyes were still afraid, but they were trusting, too. They searched my face, trusting and innocent like the eyes of a little girl.

  “I guess it doesn’t matter in this heat,” I said. “If you do heavy work in this heat, you sweat, air-conditioning or not.”

  “I don’t … understand what …”

  I reached around her. I pushed the door. It swung in.

  I could see beyond her into the apartment. I could see the clothes strewn about in there. I could see the big suitcase open on the floor.

  “It’s just too damn hot to pack,” I said.

  Georgia looked down. I walked by her into the apartment.

  The air-conditioning was on, and it felt good as it dried the sweat on me. I stood in the middle of the room and looked around. The place was spacious and bright. There were paintings on the walls, abstracts, originals. To my right, there was a chandelier hanging in a dining nook over an oaken table. A sofa and chairs stood at the broad center of the place. They were gathered around a coffee table atop a Chinese rug. That’s where most of the clothing was laid out: on the sofa and chairs. The suitcase sat on the rug. All of this was lit by the northern light that came in through a bay window overlooking the street. There was a love seat in the bay.

  Georgia came into the room slowly. Her lips were pressed together now, her eyes were still turned down. She closed the door behind her and stood like that, her hands folded meekly on her skirt. She looked like she expected me to scold her.

  “You weren’t going to be here at seven,” I said.

  She shook her head.

  “Who got to you?”

  She looked up, surprised. “Ab … Abingdon,” she said. “One of his people.”

  “He gave you money?”

  She nodded.

  “Cash?”

  She shook her head. “A cashier’s check.”

  “Let me see it.”

  She moved eagerly to a wooden bar against the far wall. There were papers on it. She picked up the top sheet and brought it to me. She stood close to me as I looked it over. I could smell the sweat mingling with her shampoo.

  I handed the check back to her. “Not bad,” I said. “And you thought he’d come back when I buzzed.”

  “Yes. But it’s not the money—” She stopped.

  “What?”

  “You won’t believe me now, will you? You won’t believe anything I say.”

  “Try me,” I said.

  She nodded again. She moved past me silently. She walked into the bay and sat down on the love seat. She turned and looked out the window. I saw her profile against the lush green of the trees in the park. She seemed to be looking off somewhere far away.

  “Is it—” Her voice wouldn’t come. She tried again. “Is it all going to be in the newspaper tomorrow?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It’s gonna kill my mom and dad.” She glanced at me. “I guess I should have thought of that before, huh?” I shrugged. She smiled. “Mr. Wells, you’ve been so nice to me. You rescued me from those men last night, just like … just like some hero on television. I felt so bad when I took that money today, when I said I’d go without talking to you, but …” She lifted her shoulder. “I guess I’m a coward. I’m afraid if I talk to you those men will come back looking for the pictures. I don’t have them. I really don’t.”

  “I know.”

  “You know?”

  “You’d have told last night if you knew. I would have. Anyone would have.”

  “Oh.” She was quiet a moment, thinking. “Then … what is it you want to ask me?”

  I lit a cigarette. I leaned against the back of a chair. I looked at her sitting there in the love seat with the park and the August sky behind her. I wondered who she was, who she was really. Lansing said she was a bimbo. Susan Scott said she’d stolen her man out from under her. And yet, standing there, looking at her
, listening to her talk, I did not believe it. If she was guilty of anything, it seemed to me, she was guilty of youth and innocence. Of letting people use her. Of letting them scare her. Of letting them tell her what to do.

  Once again, I heard the distant roll of thunder. I said: “I just want you to tell me what happened. Your side of the story. That’s all.”

  She stared out the window sadly. She stared in silence a long time. My eyes traced her profile and her figure as she sat. She was very young. Even younger than Lansing. I remembered the softness of her when she’d cried in my arms last night. The softness of her breasts as they’d pressed against me. I thought about Lansing. I felt empty and sad.

  Finally, she sighed. “It’s not much of a story really, I don’t suppose. Not unless you understand where I come from, what I wanted. It’s beautiful out west, in Ohio. It really is. Beautiful and green with rolling hills and wide flat lands and … But sometimes, I just felt like I was—I don’t know. Buried in all that space. Buried by all that openness, that emptiness. I just had to get out. I just had to. I used to run with the kids down at the mall and we’d—we’d buy makeup together and clothes when we could. We’d all go home and dress up and pretend we were movie stars and rock stars. I knew that that was what you were supposed to do. That you were supposed to pretend and then forget it, grow out of it, marry, settle down, the whole thing. I tried to do that. When I met Wally, I thought: here’s my chance, a real chance to find the way of life I’m supposed to have, to be the things that I’m supposed to be. But I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. I felt bad about leaving him, just deserting him like that, but I just—” The skin of her cheeks tightened, her lips pressed against each other. She was fighting off tears. “I had to get out,” she said again. “Only, when I finally did, it wasn’t what I expected. It wasn’t what I expected at all. No one was … friendly. No one was … helpful.” She almost laughed. “There was no one to take care of me, I guess. Everyone acted as if … They acted like hungry people at a dinner where there isn’t enough food. I went to audition after audition and, jeez-Louise, Mr. Wells—John—they wouldn’t even let me talk for five minutes before they’d chase me off, call the next one on. And I worked so hard, I—” She shook her head. I watched her framed against the summer sky. That sky was darkening now, thickening with clouds. The thunder rolled again, closer. Georgia Stuart looked out the window wistfully. “Looks like the heat might break after all.”