The Rain Dancers

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Will, I—what’s wrong?” he shouted fearfully. “What have I done?”

  I threw him down and he crashed to the kitchen floor. The back of his head slapped the wall on the way down and he let out a muffled groan as he collapsed and rolled onto his stomach, crawling toward the door and begging for mercy. I straddled him, my rage rising, and cocked my fist back with the intention of slamming it into his skull.

  “Will! What are you doing? Stop it, for—for God’s sake—stop it!”

  Betty’s voice, shrill and laced with anger and fear.

  I staggered back, or maybe she pushed me, I can’t remember. I only know that I found myself a few feet away as she crouched down next to Laurent, who looked dumbfounded and horrified, his face flushed and twisted into a grimace of pain.

  “My God, are you all right?” she asked him.

  “I-I think so,” he stammered.

  “He’s fine,” I growled, my heart racing. “Get up and get out, Laurent.”

  Ignoring me, Betty asked him if he could stand. He said he believed he could if she helped him. While I paced over by the sink she managed to get him to his feet and help him back to his chair at the kitchen table. He made a dramatic effort to swallow and said, “Thank you, Betty. Thank you kindly.”

  She spun toward me. “What the hell is the matter with you?”

  “Will,” Laurent said before I could speak, “I apologize if I offended you, I—I never meant to, my friend.” He looked to Betty with imploring eyes. “I’m sorry, Betty, I had no idea Davey Hamilton was such a sore subject.”

  “Davey? Again with this?” She moved toward me with a level of anger I’d never before seen in her. “Are you serious?”

  “You have no idea the things he was saying about you.”

  “I told a couple stories Davey told me and I guess it upset him, I—I never meant any harm, Will, please accept my apology, I—gosh, I feel just awful about this. I don’t know you well enough and I should’ve—”

  “Shut your mouth.” I tried to step around Betty but she blocked me. “I’m not going to tell you again, you lying sack of shit. Get out.”

  “You stay right where you are,” Betty ordered, pointing at him with one hand and grabbing hold of me with the other. “Excuse us a moment.”

  I allowed her to drag me into the living room.

  “Are you out of your mind?” she asked, trying to keep her voice down.

  “Listen to me, he wanted me to do that. He’s been trying to get me to attack him all night, he—”

  “He wanted you to attack him.”

  “That’s right.”

  “A frail old man wanted you to physically assault him.”

  “He’s been egging me on all night then acting differently with you. He said horrible things about you, do you understand? Nasty things about back when—”

  “I don’t care what he said. Argue with him then. Tell him to leave.”

  “I have several times now. You keep letting the sonofabitch stay.”

  She pinched her nose up by her eyes with her fingers and sighed. “My point is that you do not physically assault a man that’s old enough to be your father. Technically you’re grandfather. You don’t physically assault anyone, but especially not a defenseless old man.”

  “He’s not as defenseless as you think he is.”

  “You could’ve killed him. You’re lucky he isn’t seriously hurt. And you better hope he doesn’t press charges. That’s assault, what you just did.”

  “He wants to call the police, I’ll give him something to call them about.”

  “If I’d wanted to be with the type of man who goes around hitting people I easily could’ve found one. They’re a dime a dozen. You were never like that.”

  “I’m still not. I—goddamn it—I—that’s the first physical confrontation I’ve had in thirty years! He had it coming. He’s not who you think he is, Betty.”

  “What is happening to you?”

  “I’m telling you, this man is…”

  “What? He’s what?”

  “This is what he wants. What’s happening right here, right now.”

  She shook her head as if this was all too much for her to process. “What could he have possibly said that could’ve caused the intellectual, peaceful man I know and love to behave this way?”

  “I was defending you.” My frustration was to the point where I wanted to put my fist through the wall, but I controlled myself. If I flipped out again Betty wouldn’t even hear me. “He said some awful things about you.”

  “Maybe that’s just how you took it. I’m sure he didn’t intentionally—”

  “He said Davey Hamilton used to—”

  “Oh for crying out loud. Look at me. I dated Davey Hamilton when I was a fucking teenager. It was a million years ago. You’re getting upset about some story about an old boyfriend. Really? We’re back to this foolishness?”

  “He said when you were younger Davey used to have anal sex with you in this room on that couch while your father was passed out drunk in bed upstairs. I’ve been putting up with his inane innuendos and touchy-feely bullshit all night. When he said those things about you I’d had enough. I snapped, I just—fuck him—I let him have it.”

  Betty watched me for several seconds, her eyes blinking slowly. She looked like something inside her had died, something vitally important, and the strange trance-like state she’d been in earlier returned.

  “I don’t know who this man is, what he wants or how he knows the things he does,” I said. “But I think he’s dangerous. He’s been trying to get a reaction out of me since he got here. I finally gave him what he wanted. The bastard had it coming. He needs to leave. I want him out of this house.”

  “It’s my house,” she said softly, her eyes moist. “My father left it to me.”

  I had no idea how to answer that. I wasn’t sure if I should be angry, insulted or both. “Fine,” I managed. “I want him out of your house then.”

  She opened her mouth but said nothing.

  “Why would you want him to stay when he said those things about you?”

  “Because it’s necessary,” she finally said, her voice quiet and distant.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t…I don’t either.” She wandered away, toward the stairs. It was then that I first realized she’d changed into pajama bottoms and a sweatshirt.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Upstairs,” she said, again as if she’d suddenly become mesmerized. “I have to change my clothes.”

  “You already did.”

  “The things he told you,” she said. “They’re all true.”

  I closed my eyes and held them shut a moment. “It doesn’t matter,” I told her. “Not to me.”

  “And Davey didn’t tell him those things.” She slowly climbed the stairs. “He’d never do that. Not ever.”

  “He must’ve. How else could Laurent have known?”

  She answered without looking back. “He was there.”

  5

  The dreams did more than frighten me. They began to linger beyond sleep and confuse me even when I was awake, and the lines between paranoia and justified concern became so blurred I was no longer certain which was which. To distrust others is one thing, but to distrust oneself is horribly unsettling because it forces you to walk to the very edge of sanity and question whether you’re truly still teetering on the precipice, or if you’ve already tumbled off into genuine madness.

  I knew the truth. Deep down, I knew it. I knew who was alive and who was dead. And just like the lies, just like the rain, I couldn’t outrun any of it.

  * * *

  I didn’t notice the woman until she spoke to me. The funeral home was mobbed with a steady line of people coming to pay their respects, and I’d been in there with Betty for more than an hour. The townies had all been respectful and pleasant as could be to my wife, but had consistently either ignored me or gone out of their way to be rude. I needed a br
eak, needed some air, so I’d grabbed a bottle of water and headed outside for a few minutes to catch my breath and collect myself. Alone in the stillness of the parking lot, I’d let my mind wander away from this place and time, these people, and I hadn’t seen the woman approaching. She stood to my right, at the base of the steps leading inside, and although I knew she’d said something to me I hadn’t heard enough to make any sense of it. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re him?” she asked. “The one that married Betty?”

  “Yes, I’m Betty’s husband.” I offered my hand. “Will Colby.”

  She briefly considered my hand before accepting it. Her palm was fleshy and cool, but what held my attention was the palpable sense of sorrow the woman exuded, a sadness not only emotional, but physical. “Sharon Lodge.”

  “Friend of the family?” I asked.

  Short and stocky, the woman was roughly my age but had a posture that left her hunched slightly forward, like perhaps she’d sustained some sort of back or neck injury at some point. Her clothes were inexpensive and dated, and she wore no makeup. Her face was drawn and pale, the skin loose, her eyes heavy-lidded and sleepy, and her dull brown hair, littered with flecks of gray, was combed straight back and away from her round face in a severe style that seemed in direct contrast to her otherwise sedate appearance. In her hands she held a bulky tan pocketbook that looked heavy and awkward, especially when she took one hand and gave my wrist a gentle pat. “Hasn’t been easy in there for you, has it,” she said. It wasn’t a question.

  “I’ve had more pleasant afternoons.” I managed a weak smile. “But this isn’t about me. I’m doing my best to keep that in perspective. Did you know Earl well?”

  “Well enough. Town this size, everybody knows everybody. No way around it. He was a good man. Not the easiest to get along with, but a good man. Was never right after Betty’s mama died. Took to drinking too much. In a way, when her momma died Earl did too. He never knew it was happening.”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard her correctly. “Never knew what was happening?”

  “There’s a rain coming.” The woman looked to the sky and the dark band of clouds rolling in over the horizon. “You leaving right after the funeral?”

  “Yes, but we’ll be back at some point to clean out the house and settle Earl’s affairs. We’ve already decided to sell the property.”

  The woman gave a firm nod to indicate she agreed with the plan. “Take Betty back on out of here. Stay gone this time. Now that Earl’s gone there’s nothing here for her but bad.”

  I didn’t necessarily disagree, but the woman’s demeanor seemed a bit melodramatic. “Were you a friend of Betty’s?” I asked.

  “Grew up with her. Lived here in town with her.” The woman slowly climbed the steps to the funeral home. Once she’d reached the landing she looked back down at me. “Died here with her too.”

  Her words didn’t immediately register, and once they had I was more confused than ever. “I don’t—I’m sorry—did you say you died with her?”

  “What you ought to do is get her out of here before that rain comes.”

  Baffled but intrigued by the strange woman, I asked, “Why’s that?”

  “That’s when he comes. If she’s here he’ll know. He’ll come for her first.”

  Nervous amusement turned to concern. “Who?”

  “Betty was always his favorite.”

  “To whom are you referring, Ms. Lodge?” I climbed a couple steps but kept a comfortable distance between us so as not to appear aggressive. She stared at me as if she hadn’t understood the question. “What are you talking about? I don’t understand.”

  “I know.” She nodded, eyes wet with grief. “People come and go. Live. Die. But the evil people do…it just is. Sometimes it hides, waits awhile, but it’s always there. Watching. It never leaves a place, never leaves us. Something that’s not alive don’t die, it can’t. Not ever.”

  I followed the woman inside but before I could ask her another question Betty waved me back over into the receiving line, as another wave of people filed in to pay their respects. Sharon Lodge came through the line, shook hands with Betty then hugged her for what seemed an inordinate amount of time. I noticed she whispered something in her ear but I wasn’t able to make out any of it.

  Later, I relayed to Betty the bizarre conversation I’d had with her.

  “Poor Sharon,” she said. “You noticed how heavily medicated she was, didn’t you, that awful look in her eyes, like there’s nobody in there anymore? God, it gave me the creeps. What a tragedy.”

  “She was out of it, no question.”

  “I heard from a few people at the wake that she’s had a tough time. Apparently she’s had several nervous breakdowns, a couple suicide attempts and is under the care of a psychiatrist who keeps her on some pretty powerful psych meds.”

  “But what was she talking about?”

  “Who knows? She probably isn’t even sure.”

  “You don’t know who she was talking about?”

  “I haven’t a clue. She’s sick.”

  The woman had spooked me a bit at the time, but after talking with Betty I forgot about the encounter, chalking it up to exactly what she’d said it was, an old childhood friend that had become a sad and mentally ill woman babbling about things that only made sense in her own demented mind.

  I hadn’t thought of that conversation in over a year.

  Now, standing in my father-in-law’s kitchen, amidst boxes and clutter, Bob Laurent sprawled in a chair at the table and still playing up his reaction to my assault, I still had no idea what Sharon Lodge had been talking about that day. But I did know whom she was talking about.

  Rain pounded the house, coming down like bullets. Somewhere far away, thunder growled as it rolled across the heavens.

  Laurent and I watched each other but didn’t speak. I could feel tension running through my body like electrical current, and although it wasn’t hot in the house, I began to perspire. My mouth was dry, and a level of anger I hadn’t known I was capable of continued to bubble just below the surface, threatening to burst free at any moment. I didn’t want this. I didn’t want any of it.

  “Leave,” I finally said. “Or I’ll make you leave.”

  Laurent slowly straightened up in the chair, drawing in his long legs as he leaned on the table. “Hope you’re a better professor than you are a badass.”

  “Get out.” I kept my hands at my sides but curled them into fists.

  “Big fighting man now, huh? You a tough guy all of a sudden, Will?”

  “Tough enough to kick your scrawny old ass.”

  “Thought you were above all that.”

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Laurent. Get out.”

  “You don’t want me to leave. Not just yet. Curiosity’s a bitch, ain’t it?”

  I bit my tongue but the question came anyway. “Who the hell are you?”

  “You already asked me that. And I already answered.” He smiled at me with his dentures. “Problem with your type, Will, is that you think you got it all figured out, the world, the universe, the light, the dark. You tell yourself you don’t have any questions ‘cause you already know everything. You’re so goddamn brilliant and educated. Only you’re not. You don’t know shit. And you don’t ask the questions you really want to ask because you’re afraid of what the answers might be. That’s why you never ask the right questions. The ones you really want and need to ask. It’s only one of the reasons I love your type. People like you not only make me possible, you make me strong, make it so I can move through the world with impunity. How’s that for a fancy word? Yeah, I know a few. Got any idea how easy it is to hide when no one thinks you exist in the first place? It’s beautiful, your arrogance. It’s like fucking oxygen to me.”

  “You think you’re something more than a man?”

  “I think you’re something less than one.”

  I remained where I was. “I met Sharon Lodge at Earl’s wake.”
>
  “Did you now?”

  The sonofabitch was amused. “She told me about you.”

  “Stupid drugged out bitch doesn’t even know where she is half the time.” He chuckled, his face no longer hidden behind the mask of innocence he’d worn previously. Bright blue eyes wide and alive with excitement, he reveled in the mayhem, the rage, the violence, the decadence, and was doing everything in his power to drag me down into that trough of filth and degradation along with him. “She was always the weakest. The ones like her drowned in it. It destroys them. If they live they end up like her, alive but dead inside, goddamn walking corpses. Some do their best to take it on, thinking it’ll heal them. It doesn’t. Others try to forget, bury it so deep they almost do, and then move on. But none of them ever escape it. None of them ever escape me. I’m always there. Never too far.” He smiled the most depraved and unsettling smile I’d ever seen. It sent shivers through me, and he knew it. “Betty was always the strong one. She was always my favorite. It’s coming back to her. Slow, but it’s coming. She’s fighting it, the memories, the truth, the things she knows aren’t just the bad dreams she’s spent her life convincing herself they are. She can’t hold it off forever. She knows that. Veil’s coming down, Will, and once it falls there’s nothing left to protect her. Every ghoul she buried is climbing back up through the dirt, right up out of the graves she put them in, and nothing’s going to stop them.”

  My body trembled with rage and fear. I was in the presence of literal evil. “What did you do to her?”

  “What do you think I did to her?”

  “Get out.”

  “You invited me in. You want me to leave you’ll have to put me out.”

  I walked to the doorway, grabbed his suitcase and carried it to the front door. Keeping one eye on him, I opened the storm door and tossed the suitcase out onto the walk. Then, without another word, I grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, yanked him from the chair and bodily removed him from the house.

  He offered no resistance, and as I forced him through the door and pushed him out into the storm, he stumbled, lost his footing and fell. He laid there on his back on the stone walk, unmoving, the rain pummeling him, soaking him down. I waited a moment to see if he’d get up. He didn’t.