After the Rain

by Karen White

  They played for over an hour until a huge yawn from Amanda prompted an end to the game. After much stalling on the part of all three children, Suzanne finally got each one tucked in bed. Closing the last door, she stood out in the hallway, exhausted but also somehow satisfied.

  Moving toward the stairs, she paused, listening to a sound from behind Sarah Frances’s closed door. Walking toward the girl’s room again, she put her ear closer to the door and listened. Somebody was moaning, as if ill, and Suzanne froze, filled with memories of her mother on one of her binges. She placed her hands flat on the door, feeling the coolness of the wood. Drawing a deep breath, she knocked.

  “Sarah Frances? It’s me—Suzanne Paris. Are you all right?”

  “Go away.” The voice was weak and not at all convincing.

  “I can’t do that. You sound like you’re sick.”

  She heard the words again, barely audible. “Go away.”

  “I’m coming in.” She waited for a moment, then turned the doorknob.

  Sarah Frances sat on the floor by a bed canopied with a pink chiffonlike material. Suzanne stared, remembering how this was the sort of bed she had always dreamed of when she was a girl. She swung her attention back to Sarah Frances, who lay curled up on the floor, schoolwork scattered around her, her face flushed.

  Pushing aside old memories, Suzanne knelt by the girl. “You don’t look well.” Sarah Frances offered no resistance as Suzanne felt her forehead. “You’re really warm. Let’s get you into a nightgown and into bed with a cloth for your forehead. Then I’ll call your daddy, okay?”

  Weakly Sarah Frances nodded. As Suzanne helped her stand and sit on the edge of the bed, she looked closely at the girl’s face. On the pale skin of her cheeks and forehead, small pink bumps appeared just under the surface. Definitely not acne. One didn’t break out with an army of pimples overnight. Frowning, she made a mental note to call Sam, too.

  “Where are your nightgowns?”

  Sarah Frances pointed to a white dresser, also hand-painted with a white picket fence and garden scene. Suzanne pulled out a warm flannel nightgown, knowing that when the chills came, Sarah Frances would need it.

  She unbuttoned and helped Sarah Frances as much as the girl’s modesty would allow, then left her to go across the hall to the bathroom, to get a cool rag and search for a thermometer. There were two sinks in the vanity: one surrounded by perfume, makeup, and heat rollers, and the other with just soap and toothpaste. A toothbrush holder sat in the center, holding about a dozen toothbrushes, all of unknown vintage. A piece of duct tape intersected the middle of the vanity as if daring the girls to cross over into Joey’s space. Shaking her head, she searched in vain for a thermometer but did find a clean washcloth, and rinsed it with cold water. Spotting a bottle of perfume, she spritzed it on the washcloth and then filled a cup with water before returning to Sarah Frances.

  Her face seemed even more polka-dotted than before, the bumps redder. Suzanne gave her a sip of water, then placed the cloth on the young girl’s forehead before leaving to call Joe and Sam. When she returned to the bedroom, Sarah Frances looked even worse but was now lying quietly in the bed, the covers kicked off her and the whiteness of the washcloth on her forehead accentuating the angry red of her face.

  “I smell Maddie’s perfume.”

  Cautiously Suzanne approached. “I remembered my mother doing that for me once when I was sick. Somebody had done it for her when she was little, and she said it always made her feel better. I thought it would help.”

  Sarah Frances turned her head away. “My mama used to do that.”

  Suzanne was silent for a moment, her gaze moving around the room. She spotted the birthday present she had brought to the party for Sarah Frances, still unopened, on the bedside table. Ignoring the stab of hurt, she said, “Your daddy and Dr. Parker will be here shortly. Can I do anything to help while we wait for them?”

  Sarah Frances kept her eyes on the opposite wall and shook her head. “Just go.”

  Instead, Suzanne sat down in a desk chair and slid it closer to the bed. “I can’t. You’re sick, so you’re stuck with me until your dad and uncle get here. So, what else did your mother do when you were sick? Did she sing?”

  Sarah Frances’s cheek creased as she smiled. “Mama couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket. It always made us feel worse when she sang.”

  “Oh. Well, then. I’ve been told I have a nice voice, so why don’t I just sit here and sing quietly until you’re rescued?”

  The narrow shoulders shrugged. “Whatever.”

  Suzanne leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes, trying to pull memories of old songs from the furthest reaches of her mind. It had been so long ago that they were nearly buried under all the old hurts and resentments of a mother who wasn’t always there. Settling on one, she began to hum it first until the words began to appear familiar, and then she opened her mouth to sing.

  Joe heard the singing as soon as he walked in the door. Sam, who had driven up at the same moment he had, stood next to him, and they looked at each other in astonishment. Taking the stairs two at a time, they both stopped on the threshold of Sarah Frances’s room, staring in.

  Suzanne sat in a chair with her eyes closed, singing a familiar lullaby with the voice of an angel. Sarah Frances lay in the bed, her face turned to Suzanne, listening intently. Joe didn’t want it to stop, but when he focused on his daughter’s ravaged face, he must have made a noise, because Suzanne’s singing stopped abruptly.

  Suzanne jerked upright, then stood. “I didn’t give her anything yet, figuring you’d want to see her first. I tried to make her comfortable. . . .”

  Sam turned away from examining the patient to look at Joe and Suzanne. “I sure hope both of you have had the chicken pox, because I’m pretty certain that’s what she’s got. And trust me, you don’t want to get it as an adult. It’s just plain nasty.”

  Joe glanced over at his daughter with a worried expression. “Are you sure? All the kids got it when Knoxie was a baby. I could have sworn she had it, too.”

  Sam shrugged. “Sometimes a person will have a mild case the first time around that won’t give her enough antibodies to fight it if she’s exposed again. That could be what happened to Sarah Frances.” He looked back down at the dotted face and felt the sides of her throat. “Yep, this is definitely chicken pox.” Gently he spoke to the girl. “Have you been feeling feverish for a while?”

  She nodded. “But I didn’t want to miss school. If my grades slip, I can’t play softball.”

  Joe grimaced and moved to stand near the bed. Taking her hand, he said, “But, peanut, if you’re feeling bad, you need to stay home. You know I’ll help you with the makeup work.”

  Her lip trembled, and Joe touched her cheek. “It’ll be fine. We’ll work it out.”

  Sam moved next to him. “You might not want to get too close if you haven’t had it yet.”

  “No, I had it real bad as a kid, so I’m safe.”

  Suzanne looked at them blankly. “I have no idea if I’ve ever had it. I’m sure I have; doesn’t every kid?”

  Joe looked back at Sam. “Every kid but Harry and Amanda—they both got the vaccine.”

  Sam picked up his bag. “Good. It’ll make your life easier having just one sick.” He pulled a pen and paper from his bag. “I’m going to write down a few things that you’ll need to keep her comfortable. I’ve already given her something for the fever. Let me know if it doesn’t come down and I’ll come check on her again. And by all means, tell her not to scratch.”

  As Sam wrote, Suzanne asked, “Will she be all right?”

  Sam looked up. “Yeah, she’ll be fine. She’ll be miserable for a while, but she’s strong and healthy and will be back to normal in a couple of weeks.”

  Suzanne seemed to relax. “Good. Well, I’ll go get my things. Good night.”

  She was halfway down the stairs when Joe called out, “Wait for me. I wanted to talk about how the kids were tonight.”r />
  She paused uncertainly in the doorway. “Sure. I’ll wait outside on the porch swing.”

  When he looked back at Sam, his friend was looking at him with amusement. “The Jacuzzi’s up and running, if you’re interested.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Uh-huh.” With a smirk, Sam went back to writing.

  “It’s not what you’re thinking.”

  “Sure it’s not.” Sam didn’t even bother looking up.

  After walking Sam to his car and then watching his friend drive away, Joe slowly walked back up the porch steps toward Suzanne. He should have just said good night and let her go, but he wasn’t ready for her to leave yet. He told himself it was because he couldn’t face yet another lonely night in his quiet house.

  He said the first thing that popped into his head, hoping she wouldn’t recognize the stupidity of it. “Do you want to go fishing?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Night fishing. It’s fun. I was wondering if you’d like to go.”

  “Um, I don’t fish.”

  He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I can show you. It mostly just involves patience and sitting still.”

  “I’m not really good at either one.” She gave a push with her toe, sending the swing into a drunken arc.

  “Great. Then it’s time to learn.”

  She stopped the swing with a stomp of her foot on the floor. “What about Sarah Frances?”

  “Sam gave her an antihistamine to stop the itching and make her sleep. I’ll bring the baby monitor just in case. The creek’s not far—right behind the house.”

  She stared out into the sky, where the full moon rose above the distant pines, their pointy tops poking cracks into the glowing white surface. “Well, since I don’t have anything else better to do, I might as well.” She stood, the swing knocking into the backs of her knees.

  “I’m flattered. Stay here. I’ll go get a couple of rods from the garage.”

  She stepped toward him, her hand outstretched. “Before I forget, take this. It’s Joey’s and Knoxie’s allowance. I won it from them playing Candy Land, but I don’t feel right keeping it.” She placed a fistful of coins and dollar bills into his hand.

  He looked down at his hand. “You played Candy Land for money?”

  Frowning, she said, “Well, yeah. That’s how Joey and Knoxie explained it to me. Is something wrong?”

  Nearly choking, he said, “No. I’ll give it back to them. Thanks.” He waited until he’d entered the garage before he let himself laugh.

  When he returned, he found her standing in a pool of moonlight in the front yard, staring up at the sleeping house, a lone light in the downstairs window shining out into the night. She stood with her hands behind her back, looking like a child with her nose pressed close to a store window, wishing hard for a toy she’d never get.

  He stopped in front of her, a fishing rod in each hand. “Take your pick.”

  She turned to face him, then tilted her head, with a grin on her lips. “Fish fear me. Women want me.”

  A broad smile lifted his cheeks. “Yeah, well, maybe I shouldn’t have had Maddie take that one off the bumper. At least the first part’s true.”

  “Only the first part?” She reached over and took his favorite Shakespeare rod out of his hand. He didn’t resist.

  He couldn’t tell if she was serious, so he said nothing. Motioning for her to follow, he headed toward the back of the house and the creek that ran between his property and Senator Thompkins’s, puddling into a small swimming hole that had been a fixture in Joe’s boyhood.

  He’d never caught anything in the creek—something he wasn’t about to admit to Suzanne—and mostly went there for thinking. He always brought a fishing pole along just in case he was caught, to give himself an alibi.

  She paused in front of the small creek, gazing at the slow-moving water, its ripples reflected in the moonlight. “It’s such a little creek. Does it go anywhere?”

  He watched her long skirt sway around her ankles as she stood looking at the water. “You don’t have to be going somewhere to be something.”

  He felt her cool gaze on him. “Come on. Let’s sit over here, where we can watch the house.”

  They situated themselves on a rocky ledge, low enough that they could dangle their feet. Suzanne sat crouched on hers, not letting her feet touch the water.

  After situating the baby monitor on an adjacent rock, Joe took off his socks and sneakers and slid his feet into the chilliness of the water. “Come on, throw your flip-flops over there. The water’s cool but feels nice.”

  She shook her head. “Not if there’s fish in there.”

  “There’s nothing in there that would want to take a bite out of your toes. Come on, give it a try.”

  She stared down at the water for a long time, not moving. Finally, she said, “I don’t know how to swim. I’ve never been to a pool in my life.”

  Of the few things that she had told him so far about her life, this one wrenched his gut the most. He remembered hot summer days from his youth, days spent fishing and swimming in the creek with his sister and all the neighborhood children. All of his children, even Harry, could swim. It had been one of the duties of parenthood that he had relished. The thought of a child, any child, never having known the pleasure of diving into cool water on a hot summer’s day pinched at his heart.

  He reached into his bait bag and baited the hook on her line and then his, then showed her how to drop it into the water. He used this method a lot to speak with Maddie: Pretend you’re occupied doing something else when it’s time for a serious discussion.

  Focusing on the spot where his hook disappeared into the surface of the water, he said, “Tell me about your childhood.”

  “It’s not something I like to talk about.”

  “I know. That’s why I’m asking.”

  She stared into the water, frowning. “There really isn’t any more to it than what I’ve already told you. From the age of seven, I lived in six different foster homes. My mother never relinquished her parental rights, so I was never adopted. She disappeared from my life when I was fourteen.” She snorted softly. “It’s hard to believe, but she was raised in foster care, too. She always told me that she wanted it to be different for me.”

  They sat in the silence of the full moon, listening to the water run beneath them, and the low thrum of a nearby bullfrog. Softly, he said, “It still can be. It’s not a sin to stay in one place for a while.”

  She shook her head, still not looking at him. “No. It’s too late. I . . . well, there are reasons why I need to keep moving.”

  He pulled his line out of the water and rested the rod on the rocks beside him, no longer pretending to fish. He moved closer to her, smelling her soft scent that reminded him of autumn and cool nights. “What are you running from? Besides your fiancé.”

  Gray eyes appraised him. “I made a bad choice, mostly out of spite. I can’t even say that I regret it. But that’s all right. I wasn’t made to stay in one place for very long.”

  Her words were desolate, dropped without any resolution, as if she was defying the world to tell her differently. He had no business trying, but he couldn’t let her believe that. “What is the one thing that you want most of all?”

  She spoke quickly, as if her words had been rehearsed over and over again. “I want to be left alone. I want my independence.”

  He breathed in deeply, taking in the scent of the creek, the moist grass, and her. “Then why were you ever engaged?”

  She sighed. “The first of many mistakes. I thought I was tired of carrying the load my entire life. Anthony promised to take care of me, and I jumped at the chance.”

  “And your second mistake?”

  “Believing him.”

  She relaxed her shoulders a bit, even let her feet dangle near the water. He stared at the smooth planes of her face and neck and the way her skin glowed in the light. He watched the grace of her arms as she held the fishing rod, her
long limbs like fragile shadows in the moonlit night.

  When she spoke, it startled him, and he wondered for a moment if he’d spoken his thoughts aloud.

  “What is it that you want most of all?”

  He thought for a long time, trying to prioritize all his wants. “I want my children to be healthy. And nurtured. I want to be a good enough parent that they don’t notice the absence of their mother so much. I want to win this election and protect Walton from the likes of Stinky Harden. I want to be a better teacher and coach. I want the Walton Wazzoos to win the Monroe County Championship.” He looked away and grimaced. “I want to wake up tomorrow morning not feeling so tired.”

  He turned his face to her and realized how close she was. As if of its own accord, his voice said, “And I want to kiss you again.”

  He touched her cheek, and she startled but didn’t pull away. He remembered the taste of her and moved closer, bending his head until his lips touched hers.

  Her body molded against his, almost as if she had been waiting for him, and her arms pulled him down with her along the rocky bank of the creek.

  He rolled them over until her back was cushioned by the soft grass. His wanting of her wasn’t about needing a woman; it was about needing her. He couldn’t rationalize it; all he knew was that this beautiful woman was in his arms, responding to his touch, and he needed her in more ways than he wanted to admit.

  He lifted his head to catch his breath, and looked down at her as if she could explain why he suddenly felt as if he’d been hit head-on by an eighteen-wheeler. The gold charm around her neck winked at him in the moonlight, and a flash of memory hit him like the back of a hand—a memory of a different woman. A woman who didn’t have red hair, or who wore T-shirts with long, gauzy skirts.

  He sat back, stunned, and watched her sit up quickly. With a choked voice, she said, “I’m not Harriet.”

  He looked at her without flinching. “No. You’re not.”

  She rolled away and stood, her back to him. “I think it would be best if we kept our distance from each other. I don’t want us getting in the way of what we want the most. And there are things you don’t know about me. Things that could hurt you.”