Weather Woman

by Cai Emmons

  Today the weather presses on her as never before. The summer has only just begun, but it is already walloping the country with high heat and drought in the west, tornadoes rolling over the plains states like an endless cue of deadly bowling balls. Strike. Strike. Strike. She refuses to judge these events—they are the Earth’s way of being itself, indifferent to human need. And yet, she’s human too. And for humans, these events are dire.

  She scrolls through the satellite and NEXRAD data, studies various weather maps and aerial photographs, lingers on some storm chaser footage of a tornado that passed through Oklahoma just yesterday. She thinks of Vince Carmichael, the legendary Oklahoman meteorologist, a mentor of sorts though she’s never met him. She first discovered his broadcasts when she was in high school. He is lively on the air, sure of himself, physically extravagant in the way of a toreador or a gladiator, and his tornado predictions are remarkably accurate. He is more than an extreme weather voyeur—he actually saves lives. She hasn’t seen one of his broadcasts in quite a while.

  When the set becomes active she scarcely notices, cocooned as she is in another conversation. Her gaze is singular, and she hears only the regular pull of her own deep breathing as she tumbles through data.

  At broadcast time Archie summons her with a touch on the arm. Time to go. She wrests her gaze from the computer and forces her attention to expand outward again. How fortunate she is to be able to rely on habit. She locates the muscles that smile and those that speak. Still, the image of herself in the monitor is not the usual Bronwyn. Like the bathroom’s mirror image this morning, it flutters between two things, as if the sight in each of her eyes refuses to be coordinated into a single vision.

  No one likes her “Fun Weather Fact” about The Summer That Never Was. She should have known. Archie laughs, but Larry, the other cameraman, glares at her. Gwen can’t believe she’s never heard this before. Brant, who doesn’t like to appear uninformed, nods grimly. Bronwyn slinks back to her perch feeling like a pariah. She has not communicated well. What she meant to say was that despite the rain coming down now, it could be worse; this bleak weather is only relative.

  Years ago weather forecasters were thought of as heretics. In seventeenth century England you could be burned to death if caught forecasting. In World War II American forecasts were restricted, as they might provide information to the enemy. It’s very possible, Bronwyn thinks, that as dire weather increases in frequency, and mass panic ensues, similar strictures could again be imposed.

  Between the 6:00 p.m. and 10:00 p.m. broadcasts, during the long stretch of evening programming, it is customary for the news staff to relax in the break room. There are snacks and coffee and soft drinks and couches and easy chairs. People chat, catch up on work, check Face-book, answer emails and texts. Tonight Bronwyn stays at her station on the set. She stares down at the blue veins streaking the insides of her forearms, wondering if they’ve become more prominent than usual.

  “Bad night?” Archie says, sneaking up behind her.

  She whirls to him. His face is close enough that she sees the acne scars beneath his beard. She used to think he was coming on to her, but now she sees him as genuinely considerate.

  “Why are you so nice to me?”

  “Because I remember being where you are now.”

  “Where is that?”

  “At some juncture. Not sure what’s next. Feeling like life has left you with the short end of the stick.”

  She blinks, wondering what she might say to him, if he would believe her. The idea of saying more suddenly seems foolish, and she closes like a touched sea anemone. Not yet. It is said that humans want to be seen, but Archie already sees her much too clearly.

  “Share a spliff after the show?”

  “You’re always trying to get me high.”

  “I’m trying to help you relax.”

  “Thanks, but not tonight.” She remembers something. “Would you go with me to Nicole’s wedding? She invited you, right?”

  Archie looks surprised.

  “Not as a date,” she adds quickly.

  “I wasn’t sure I’d go.”

  “Nether was I. But I think I should. She keeps asking. And I can’t go alone.”

  “Why not?”

  “It might rain and she’ll be furious at me.”

  “Bron, get a grip.”

  “I told her it wouldn’t rain. Guaranteed it.”

  Archie chuckles softly. “You’re kind of whacked.” He pauses, squints, and seems to inch his face closer to hers. “Something’s up isn’t it? I’ve been looking at your face up close for months now. You might fool some people, but not me.”

  She turns away, his inquiry a too-bright, potentially damaging sun. “Okay—so I’ve been dumped.”

  “Shit, sorry to hear that. I knew something must have happened. You look so pale and a little spooked or something.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I always look pale—you know that. I’m fine. Maybe I need to be left alone for a bit.”

  Respectful, he leaves her alone, but minutes later the stage door opens again, and footsteps track toward her, and she knows instinctively who it is. She doesn’t turn until he’s directly behind her. “Archie said I could find you in here,” Stuart says.

  Bronwyn nods and raises a hand to her face, as if to shield herself from his fault-finding gaze.

  “I think you need to redo your makeup before you go back on the air. You look a little . . .” He makes a brushing motion with one hand.

  She can’t believe it—he’s so predictable. She nods. There’s no point in resisting unless she’s ready to risk being fired. She wonders if this insistence on her looking a particular way could be construed legally as sexual harassment. “Is that what you came to tell me?”

  “I have an idea. What if you were to sing some songs about the weather, instead of the Fun Weather Facts? ‘Here Comes the Sun’ for example, or ‘Rainy Day Mondays.’ You know—light, funny. You wouldn’t have to sing the whole song, just a line or two.”

  She frowns, tries to find his eyes in the watery landscape of his glasses. “My voice is terrible.”

  “You wouldn’t have to sing well. Just belt out a line or two.”

  “Why would you want me to do that?”

  “Honestly? You have a tendency to get a little over-serious with your reports. That story you told today—sure, it’s interesting, but it depresses the hell out of people.”

  “I’m not here to make people feel better.”

  “That’s exactly why you’re here. We’re all here for that. Do you know how many people turn on the TV because they’re lonely? They want to see another human being and hear another human voice. We’re their company and we have to smile and be upbeat to cheer them up. The people who aren’t lonely are getting their weather and news online, or from their phones. We can’t afford to alienate the lonely people who choose to watch us. They need us. And, coincidentally, we need them.”

  “God, that’s depressing.”

  “I’m telling you how it is. A line or two of song would spice things up a bit, maybe even make a few of those lonely viewers laugh. Even on rainy days. Especially then.”

  He reaches into his shirt pocket and brings out a folded sheet of paper. “I’ve been compiling a list to get you started. I’m sure you can come up with a lot more on your own.”

  He examines his list and throws back his head, breaking into James Taylor’s “Fire and Rain.” “Love that one. Or this: ‘You Are My Sunshine.’ That’s a crowd-pleaser. Maybe Johnny Nash’s ‘I Can See Clearly Now,’ and the Beatles’ song, ‘I’ll Follow the Sun.’ How does that go? Gosh, there are so many good ones.”

  She watches his enthusiasm from afar and sees he fancies himself a singer. The humidity has frizzed his sparse hair so it has retracted from his comb-over and sizzles on both sides of his head like clusters of honey bees.

  “I think you’d be better at that than I would be,” she says.

  “You’ll do fine.
It’ll be fun.”

  “So you’re saying this isn’t negotiable?”

  “That’s right. It’s non-negotiable. You don’t have to do it tonight. You can begin in the next day or two.”

  After Stuart has departed Bronwyn looks at the list. At the top it says Weather Songs and it is divided into two columns, Sun Songs and Rain Songs. He has come up with fifty titles. What about blizzard songs and hurricane songs, tsunami and tornado songs? Songs of heat and cold and wind and humidity? She’ll find those songs too, and then Stuart will be sorry for making her do this. She puts the list in her purse. She supposes she should be grateful that he hasn’t asked her to don silly costumes and hats, or deliver her remarks alongside cutesy Chihuahuas dressed in raincoats. Now more than ever she hopes that Diane will never watch her on the air.

  At home later that night there is a hiatus in the rain. The moist warm air feels good. A scythe of a moon pokes hazily through the cloud cover. She feels its magnetism tugging lightly against her chest. She casts off her work clothes, unclips her hair, and steps outside to feel the river’s presence more directly. On cue her owl hoots. Who-hoo-hoo are you?

  10

  From across the street Diane—standing in front of the restaurant on the lookout for Bronwyn—appears to be a mirage, shimmering, at once there and not there, the fabric of her loose, coat-of-many-colors outfit rippling with her movements, her hair flapped over her head haphazardly as tinsel. She is short and buxom, but even at this distance she radiates a never-miss-a-trick energy that commands attention as if she were tall. In Bronwyn’s view Diane alternates between the dusty hot wind of a Sirocco, straight from the Sahara, and the cold Mistral of France.

  The familiar cape of shame descends over Bronwyn, the shame she has worn since last May when she finally told Diane that she wouldn’t be returning to school. The day before Bronwyn’s move they ran into each other at the Harvard Coop where Bronwyn was buying yet another roll of strapping tape. Bronwyn would have avoided Diane, but they were already face to face.

  “Ms. Artair,” Diane said. She stared down at Bronwyn’s tape and raised a knowing eyebrow, smiling a little. “What do you think of this?” She held up a book called Freedom, a title which seemed to Bronwyn a little too encompassing for any book.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t read it. Should I?”

  “I’m getting it for Joe. It’s been out for a while and he hasn’t gotten around to reading it. He says it’s a must-read. For novelists, that is. I don’t think you and I need to read it.”

  She winked, an inclusive familiar gesture that made Bronwyn feel even worse about what she was doing. Diane was being unreasonably nice. Had she forgotten what an ungrateful beast Bronwyn was? Only now does Bronwyn understand how much she’s missed Diane in the last year.

  Diane arcs her arm back and forth, summoning Bronwyn like one of those airline workers who guide planes into their gates. Bronwyn hurries across the street and allows herself to be pulled into the squish-able shelf of her mentor’s bosom.

  “I’m so sorry,” Bronwyn says, suddenly wishing she could undo all the decisions she’s made in the last year. If only she hadn’t . . . if only she hadn’t . . . if only she hadn’t . . .

  “Enough. Enough.” Diane guides Bronwyn inside. “I got us a table by the window with a perfect view of the water.”

  The Portsmouth restaurant Diane has chosen is the kind of classy establishment Bronwyn would never consider going to on her own. Restaurants like this are so far out of her price range they’re scarcely on her radar. It’s the easiest way to be poor, simply ignoring the multitude of rich people’s activities that are inaccessible to you. Their table overlooks the Piscataqua River which feeds into the Portsmouth Bay. Sailboats are taking advantage of the break in the rain. It is dusk, and “dead” clouds, which will not yield precipitation, cover much of the sky. What a relief it isn’t raining. Rain taunts her these days. She isn’t sure what will happen to her in its presence—her brain can’t be trusted not to launch some project of change. She consciously averts her eyes from the sky, worried that some atmospheric detail might captivate her and, coupled with an intense feeling, she could find herself doing something to embarrass herself. To have any of these fugue states overtake her in front of Diane would be mortifying.

  They sit and Diane executes an array of quick decisions, organizing the world with the same crisp efficiency with which she organizes her data. They are brought water, and warm crusty bread, and hors d’oeuvres of polenta and crab, along with a bottle of Bordeaux that Diane swears is “divine.” After the waiter has poured, Diane raises her glass and Bronwyn follows suit. They clink and sip.

  “So, my friend, why have you been avoiding me? What was it—three emails and four phone calls before you responded?”

  “I wasn’t avoiding you. I’ve just been busy.” She hesitates, hating to make a ploy for sympathy but, sensing Diane’s potential prickliness, she feels she has no choice. “My boyfriend and I broke up.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The lawyer? Reed.”

  “Yes.” Bronwyn is surprised once again that Diane remembers Reed’s name.

  “You can do better. As I recall, he was a little lacking in spark. Was he in your camp?”

  Bronwyn has forgotten how disarming it can feel to be in Diane’s forthright presence, but she knows better than to be offended. “It’s actually kind of my fault. I wasn’t giving him much attention.”

  “Of course you weren’t and rightly so. You have things to accomplish, places to go. I was the same way when I was starting out. My first husband was a molecular biologist—I’ve told you about him, haven’t I?—and he couldn’t stand that I wasn’t willing to make the sacrifices he was unwilling to make. But when someone your equal comes along it’ll change. You’ll see.”

  Bronwyn holds back a smile. She wouldn’t have thought that Joe the novelist was Diane’s equal, but she’s glad Diane seems to think so. Diane picks up one of the polenta rounds and pops it into her mouth. A dreamy look comes over her, and she closes her eyes. Bronwyn has never seen anyone give herself over to food so fully and unapologetically.

  “You have to try it,” Diane says.

  Bronwyn takes one hesitantly. She has never been a fan of polenta but, coupled with the crab, it’s perfect.

  “Tell me,” says Diane, leaning forward and lassoing Bronwyn’s eyes with her own. “Is it really this brouhaha with your young man that has kept you out of touch?”

  No, Diane, I never belonged with you in the first place. Now I understand that even more certainly. My brain is unraveling. I see electrons dancing in the clouds. My brain fills with volcanic heat and I imagine myself banishing rain. I am coming unhinged, and I don’t entirely dislike it.

  “I’m pretty busy at work too. I’ve had a lot to learn on this job.”

  “I don’t buy that for a minute. I’ve watched you a few times lately. You acquit yourself quite well. But honestly, these weather reports, they’re all so reductive. You could phone them in. It doesn’t take a woman with a brain like yours to do this work.”

  Bronwyn sighs. Please, let’s not discuss my brain. “I don’t belong at MIT. I—”

  “Oh, come on now. I forbid you to undersell yourself. You’re the best research associate I’ve ever had. You have a strong head for science.”

  “A lot of people on the team, well Jim and Bruce in particular, would dispute that. They were always rolling their eyes when I said things.”

  “Of course they were. They feel a need to belittle you because they can see, as I do, that you outshine them. Do you know what makes you so good? You’re a very astute observer. You don’t miss details. And you are capable of thinking outside the box. The world is filled with silly men who begrudge the sharp brain of any woman, especially a pretty one. You can’t let it affect you.”

  “Thank you for saying so—”

  The moon has come into view, waxing and tumid, and under the cloak of clouds it seems to shimmy. Why must she s
ee movement everywhere? Diane’s silvery hair gives off an aura, but Bronwyn won’t look at it. How is it that what was only recently a source of pride has now, in Diane’s presence, become a source of shame? What would Diane say if she knew? She would disown Bronwyn on the spot. No one can push bad weather away. No one can summon sufficient energy to govern the elements. Even the seeding of clouds is only partially effective. No, Bronwyn, Diane would say. This is not thinking outside the box—this is thinking outside the range of known human capability. It isn’t rational.

  “—but I really think that I’m not—”

  “You don’t have to decide now, this minute. I understand I’m probably in for a lot more expensive dinners with you.” She laughs. “But don’t shut me out after all these years together. I understand a lot more than you think.”

  11

  Singing changes you. It asks you to feel something. It finds what is dormant and close to your soul. Bronwyn takes to Stuart’s singing mandate unexpectedly.

  Singing “A Hard Rain’s A-Gonna Fall,” her voice is thin and not remotely like Dylan’s, but it doesn’t matter. Everyone on the set laughs, and even Stuart seems happy with her attempts. At home she listens to music on her computer and sings along. When she’s out shopping or running, she’s often humming. In only a week her voice strengthens, and Stuart begins to receive approving emails from viewers.

  The singing has arrived at the perfect time, giving her a new, expanded on-air persona. At the station it provides a kind of cover, an easy topic of conversation that diverts people from seeing anything else about her that might have changed. Meanwhile, so much has changed. In private she is exploring and embracing her emergent self.

  Let go of your frontal cortex. Think of yourself as a creature with sharp skills that have nothing to do with executive function. The vaunted sight of a hawk or an eagle. The keen hearing of a dolphin or bat. The sure nose of a bear that can smell as far as eighteen miles. Think of fireflies. The way they glow from the inside out, transmitting signals, looking for mates. Come find me, I’m wonderful. There’s the dung beetle who navigates by the Milky Way; starlings and ants who navigate with the sun; bats and sea turtles and some bacteria who use a magnetic field; salmon who use scent to locate their spawning ground. Everywhere, creatures are going about their business without fanfare, receiving and transmitting signals with a high degree of precision in order to stay alive. So why limit your thinking? Give up some of your ordinary human brain function in exchange for something remarkable.