The Clouds Aren't White

by Rachael Wright

  Somehow I've forgotten how to function, my life now directionless. In the midst of my own meltdown Sophie walks up and holds out a box of sidewalk chalk like a peace offering. In the warm afternoon sun, surrounded by the last of September's flowers, we draw. The rainbows and butterflies and owls she used to draw are gone now. She concentrates her efforts on one full size portrait of a father holding his daughter's hand. Her tears fall, blurring the chalk lines.

  "Will you write 'Daddy and Sophie'?" she asks, holding a stubby piece of white chalk between her dainty fingers.

  "Sure..." I whisper and manage my best cursive handwriting on the rough concrete. We brush our hands off and stand to take the drawing in.

  "Do you think he misses us?"

  "Oh I'm sure he misses us a lot. He's probably jealous of all the time together we have," I say with a gallant effort at lightheartedness. There's a ring of truth though...Hugh always loathed being away from us.

  "He liked coloring with me," Sophie says sitting down on the grass, her back to the chalk drawing.

  I sit down as well and wrap her in my arms.

  "You know, Daddy told me once that coloring with you was his favorite thing in all the world."

  "Really?" A hint of a smile lights her eyes.

  "Absolutely. He loved to see you smile.”

  She frowns back at me.

  "Daddy said making you smile was his favorite thing," she says.

  My throat constricts before the tears come. I am an overfilled cup...I have lost all control.

  "Making us smile made him happy."

  "Do you think he'd be sad now?"

  I open my mouth and then close it again, at a loss for what to say.

  "I...I think he'd understand its hard to be happy right now. It’s hard to be happy without him. But I think one day..."

  "I want to make him happy."

  "So do I Soph. So do I.”

  It’s the most we've been outside for a week and in the warmth of the sun our burden doesn't seem as heavy. The leaves on the aspens rattle like many hundred whispers rolling across a mountaintop. An occasional lawn mower rumbles through a neighbor's lawn.

  For the rest of the week, we barely leave the house, often ignoring the doorbell. Contact with others, at this point, does us more harm than good. I oscillate between hating the world and hysterical laughter watching the pathetic attempts of family and friends to connect. So we sit and try to acclimatize ourselves to this house. A house that should be familiar but isn't.

  I am sitting on the couch watching Sophie as she hunches over a puzzle when the doorbell rings. It has rung more in the last few days than it has in all the years we've lived at this house. I push myself up on shaking arms and walk towards the door, sweatpants pooling around my ankles.

  "Hello, Mrs MacArthur." Standing in the doorway is Detective Wexford. He fiddles with a manila file folder and just over his shoulder I can see a black squad car parked in front of the house. His eyes flit over my sweatpants and the white cord that I've knotted several times to keep them on my hips. I'm too tired to be embarrassed.

  "Please, come in," I say and gesture him in after a moment's pause.

  He thanks me and moves into the house, taking in Sophie with her puzzle on the floor, the empty wine bottle on the counter, the dishes in the sink. I send him off to the dining room and make sure to tell Sophie where I'll be.

  "How can I help?" I say, sitting across the table from Wexford, my eyes on the file in front of him.

  "I wanted to fill you in on the progress we've made so far." He says, taking a quick glance towards the living room.

  "And."

  The thought of dredging up more pain repels me but I'm so thirsty for more information...an answer as to why it all happened.

  "There's not much. We are still pushing through red tape with the prosecutor's office to get at the reason why Representative MacArthur was in."

  "Hugh.”

  "Hugh," he repeats, then plows on, "Why Hugh was in the courthouse at all. They supplied us with the questions Rep...Hugh was asked, but not a reason behind the interview. So that's one line of inquiry we are working on. The other...we found the man who was at the courthouse. Unfortunately he gave a false name at the shelter where he had been staying. We cross-referenced military records, which didn't broker a match. This is going to be difficult, trying to figure out who he was, and it may be futile in the end. The footage at the Capitol...it only gives s general description. The assassin was wearing a hoodie, glasses, and a hat. Thirty-something white male, average height and build could describe thousands of men in the Denver metro area not to mention across the state."

  I hang my head as Wexford speaks. Deflated, it’s all I feel anymore. There's no life left in me, I walk around, a ghost of my former self. Wasting away in this house, with not even news of an arrest to bring relief.

  "You'll catch him.”

  "I'm confident we will.”

  "No," I cut in, "You will catch him. You will."

  Wexford stares at me and I stare right back, hoping to spur him into action. Across the table, Wexford's face dissolves into a frown. He stares at me with a strange look. It could be pity. Or pain. I'm struck with a sudden idea.

  "Can you serve a warrant to this prosecutor?" I say the words tumble out of my mouth.

  Wexford looks at me for a moment and then heaves a sigh.

  "I'm pursuing it at the moment. It's difficult. Well, lawyers in general are difficult...they have a hard time grasping the gravity of a murder enquiry."

  "Why? Why haven't they given you answers?"

  "Hard to say, really. They could have someone else they're trying to hook. It's hard to determine where Hugh came into all of it."

  "He never did anything wrong. He was innocent. He was..." I say, trailing off.

  "I met him once, at a Fraternal Order of Police meeting. He seemed to be an honest man. Very sharp.”

  I'm struck with the impression that calling a man half his age 'sharp' must be a high compliment indeed. His cheeks rise, pulling his lips into a half smile of remembrance.

  We sit for a while at the table; Sophie rustles around in the living room, attending to her puzzle. I try to form the words to express to Wexford what Hugh meant to us, what his moral code was. I want to defend him, defend him so he'll be remembered and fought for. I caressed his hair in that cold room, stood by his casket, watched as he was piped away. I must convince the cop in front of me of his worth.

  After a few rough starts, endeavoring to get conversation flowing again, Wexford leaves. As the door closes behind him, I wonder what it must be like to leave behind this nightmare. To be an onlooker, watching as a woman wastes away from grief.

  The black squad car pulls away from the house, sending chunks of grey slush reeling away from the tires. What does it mean? Why is this prosecutor holding out?

  "Ugh..." I growl from the entryway.

  "Its alright, Mommy," Sophie says, her voice issuing from her spot in the living room.

  She's done it ever since she started talking...talking me down. It’s a reflex now. I doubt she even realizes she's doing it.

  I'm halfway to the kitchen when the doorbell rings again. I drop my head back and heave a sigh at the ceiling before turning on my heels and opening the door...yet again.

  CHAPTER SIX

  "I'm here for Sophie," Hugh's mother says, smoothing down her cashmere cardigan and heaving her designer purse further up her shoulder.

  Once a week...every week. How could I have forgotten? "She's just through here...Sophie, Grandma's here," I call as we come in sight of her sprawled figure.

  Sophie pretends not to hear me.

  "Sophie, time to go, sweetheart!"

  "I'm staying here," Sophie says.

  She speaks so quietly I wonder if I heard it at all. But I did hear it and I would now be accused, by the woman standing beside me, of turning her granddaughter against her.

  Sure enough, "What is going on here?" She hisses.


  "She's just tired, it's been a long day.”

  "We have a standing engagement. You were informed I would be taking her."

  "I understand that, but if she doesn't want to go, I am not going to force her."

  "This is beyond ridiculous...I..." she says, rumbling anger rising.

  "Stop," I say, cutting her off and pull her out of the room. She protests the whole way. "If you want to lecture me, go ahead. But do not raise your voice in front of Sophie. She has enough to deal with without you adding to it."

  She doesn't say anything, just stares at me with her dead grey eyes, which narrow to slits as her nostrils flare in and out. It would be comical in any other situation.

  "You're turning her against me.”

  It comes out like a malediction and I'm left nonplussed.

  "I...she's...she's just lost her father." I stutter.

  "And what have I lost? What about me?"

  I'm surprised she hasn't started breathing fire out of those nostrils.

  "I understand...I do. I just...what do you want me to do? If she doesn't want to go, she doesn't want to go. Its that simple," I say, throwing up my hands in front of me as she starts advancing.

  "I won't forget this.”

  Her mouth is less than an inch from my ear, a hint of spearmint on her breath. A few moments later, the front door slams shut. I stand in the living room feeling completely overrun. A small hand works its way into my clenched fist and I look down at Sophie. She frowns and clutched in her hands is a small white puzzle piece.

  "I'm sorry, Mommy," she says, hanging her head, letting her shoulders slump forward.

  "You didn't do anything wrong," I say and kneel in front of her. There's a stray ringlet brushing the tip of her nose, I tuck it behind her ear and lift her face to look at me. "Grandma is just having a hard time."

  I don't believe it, what I say to Sophie. Hugh's mother wasn't entirely stable to begin with. She was obsessed with Hugh, much like her husband, except she wanted him for herself, to be the only woman in his life.

  "That man...who was he?" Sophie asks, plopping herself down at my feet.

  "He's a policeman, investigating what happened to Daddy.”

  "What does 'investigate' mean?"

  "He's trying to find out who the person was that took Daddy away and why they did it."

  "Oh," she says. She's quiet for a moment and then, "Why were you talking about the man Daddy gave money to?"

  "Oh..." I say. How is it she picks up on everything? "They want to know if he knows anything."

  "Ok," Sophie says, heaving a sigh.

  I watch her pick at the fibers of the carpet and wonder, not for the first time, if I'm doing anything right at all. The life has slipped out of our house. When I look around, all I see or feel is pain. Pain and hopelessness and confusion. There are moments when Sophie and I forget, when we are able to pretend to be our normal selves. Those moments are few, though, and they never last.

  I'm lost. Utterly confused. I wasn't confident in my mothering abilities while Hugh was alive and now...now I doubt myself even more. When Sophie needs me the most, all I'm capable of is holding her. Rocking slowly side-to-side, silent. I wonder, at times, who it is I rock, who I comfort. Because sometimes I'm sure its me.

  Early Sunday morning I usher Sophie into the car, buckling her into her seat. I must get out, to feel something. I am old and dried out like a flower uprooted and left to wilt and die in the summer sun. The arguing, the constant clamor of 'how are you' and 'are you holding up,' sets my teeth on edge. When I close my eyes, they circle me. These people with their good intentions and oblivious manners. I am slowly, torturously, being beaten to death by tears and hugs.

  I rub at the dryness of my eyes, moving my contacts around, praying that they stop scratching just for a few minutes, to give my eyes some relief. I pull up outside of the red brick building, in between a grey minivan and a flashy green corvette with a long scratch on its passenger door. The parking lot is quiet. I planned on getting here just a few minutes late so we could slip in the back, unnoticed.

  "Mommy?" Sophie says, leaning forward in her seat.

  Her eyes are confused. I jolt out of my stupor and unbuckle my seat belt. Each step I take towards the door feels like an electric shock. I know this is a bad idea. But I have to get out of the house. I had to leave those four walls and be normal for an hour. Sophie and I both balk at the door and the overly large brass handle, worn to a dull brown-grey.

  We sit in the last of the fifteen pews, to the very right. As we sit down, one face turns and then another, before long the whole congregation is nudging each other and swiveling in their seats. The pastor even takes a pregnant pause in the opening lines of his sermon. An overwhelming desire to flee floods the corners of my mind and yet I sit frozen in the stares of so many eyes, eyes that rake over my blotchy face and lank hair and hunched shoulders. Sophie gives an involuntary shiver. Pulling her nearer me I look beyond them all, focusing on the black suited blur at the front of the church. Eventually the shock of our appearance wears off and the faces turn back towards the front and all I see are heads. Heads of well curled and managed hair, heads that are bald, and heads of women whose husbands didn't tell them they'd missed straightening the back of their hair.

  I lose myself in contemplation of the woman I once was, the woman with her cheery life. It’s not until Sophie pokes at my arm that I notice everyone moving out of their seats, chatting amicably, and heading towards the exits. I take a deep readying breath, searching like a cornered animal for the nearest exit. With jarring surprise the seat next to me heaves under the ample amount of flesh that plunks down. Misty.

  "Oh Emmeline..." the woman says, heaving closer to me as she says it. My body stiffens as I fight the urge to recoil. "Sweetheart you look just terrible. And so thin! You have to eat. You have a daughter," her voice is so loud, so jarring, and her three chins wag precariously as she speaks.

  Misty Shephardson. The church's resident gossip and self styled counselor of all things drama. She's approached me before, only then I was a politician's wife and it was expected of me to listen and smile politely. I can't even manage a smile. Her face is glowing with excitement, poorly masked by concern. The garish shade of pink that litters her dress is too bright to look at for too long. Then in a moment of terror, her stubby, ring swollen, hands flick out to seize my left hand.

  "How are you? Such a horrible business about Hugh. I'm sure you must be devastated. I bet those Denver Police are working hard, aren't they?" she says, rapidly, not pausing for an answer and then patting my hand roughly adds, "Of course he was so good to you. What a man! What a handsome man."

  "Can I help you with something?" I say, taking great care to keep my voice level.

  For a moment her composure slips and I see a hint of disappointment flood her beady grey eyes, but it’s gone before I've even blinked. She smiles broadly once more. Her pale tongue flicks over her lips, red color pooling in the crack, like a large frog, keen on its next meal and I the juicy fly.

  "Oh Emmeline! You are too kind to think of poor little me. But tell me how you are doing. Tell me how I can pray for you?"

  I might have been persuaded if she didn't smile so widely, so hungrily at me, just waiting for the information that none of her friends have.

  I raise my eyes and see them behind her, her gaggle of cohorts, grouped so they face me, they hastily avert their eyes as I level my own. I wrench my hand out of Misty's and stand slowly up. I swallow once, seething with anger. When I finally speak its careful, measured, controlled. Hugh would be proud.

  "Thank you for your interest, but right now I don't need a grief groupie. Please pass it along to your friends."

  I'm sure it will shut her up and she'll be too embarrassed to do much more than hastily make way for us to pass.

  "Such pain. I can see it pouring out of you, dear," she says silkily, pulling me into a hug.

  She reeks of stale body odor, something like old popcorn, and her
breath smells faintly like alcohol.

  "Let go and get the fuck out of my way," I whisper in her ear and watch with pleasure as a horrified expression plasters itself onto her oily face.

  I smile in vindictive pleasure as Misty waddles into the aisle. Sophie rebounds back to my side, burying her face in the folds of my dress. Misty's entourage still mills in front of the door. A gauntlet of morbid curiosity. I walk forward. I hate each and every face. I bite down hard and pull Sophie into my arms. My heels sink into the thick faded red carpet and I groan a little at the effort. My knees lock underneath me.

  They stare as I wobble a bit when repositioning my purse; no one moves forward to steady me. There's clear blue sky beyond the thick paneled doors. I stumble forward, letting Sophie's weight propel me and even as I shove past them, they call out greetings, messages of comfort, offers of help, and I ignore them all. The clear, clean air is just steps away, just a mere step until I am free and until I can escape. Until I can breathe. I thrust my hip at the door, setting Sophie down and take off across the parking lot, heels clicking ferociously across the cracked pavement.

  We reach the car and Sophie's buckled into her seat when I breathe a sigh of relief. I've made it out of the nest of vipers.

  "I was pleased to see you today, Emmeline," a low male voice says over my shoulder.

  Standing behind me is the same black suited figure from the front of the church. The new pastor. Not a single word of reply comes to mind and I just tilt my head a little and close the passenger door.

  "You know, the congregation simply wants to express their condolences. Many of them were close to Hugh and by sharing their grief with you it helps alleviate their burdens," he says as if this was the simplest statement in the world and is confused that I haven't already realized the needs of the hungry gossip seekers.

  I bristle the most at his words at what should be a man of God who stands in front of me with neither understanding nor love.