Father of the Rain: A Novel

by Lily King

  He is standing at the pool when I pull up. There’s a thick cord that runs from the poolhouse right into the water. I walk across the grass. At the bottom of the pool is a little white box moving all by itself, sucking up all the dirt in a straight line. When it hits the side it turns and goes in a different direction. It is only when I am standing right beside him that he lifts his eyes.

  “You know who the Sox are playing at one, don’t you?” he says.

  “The Yankees?”

  “But you’re going to make me go to that meeting.”

  “Yup.”

  “Shit.”

  Then we watch the new vacuum make its clean random tracks across the bottom of the pool.

  15

  I call the chair of the anthropology department that afternoon. I’ve rehearsed a few phrases in my head, but once the phone begins to ring I forget them. A teenager answers eagerly. I didn’t imagine Oliver Raskin with a family. He’s out in the field for years at a time, has written over twenty books. This young voice gives me hope that as a family man, Dr. Raskin will understand my situation. The phone is dropped on a table and more than a few minutes later he picks up an extension.

  “Please forgive me for calling you at home on Sunday, Oliver.”

  “Not at all.” He speaks from a small silent room. “I’m sure you have questions, Daley. Fire away.”

  “I am not able to come to California right now.”

  “The project doesn’t start until Wednesday. I thought that was clear.”

  “It is clear. I can’t get there by then. My father is sick.”

  “I’m sorry, Daley.” I can’t tell if he means he’s sorry about my father or sorry that my father’s sickness doesn’t change anything. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I’m listening.”

  I’m not sure why I thought he might understand. I can tell by his breathing he won’t.

  “He’s going through a rough—”

  “Is he dying, Daley? Because for you not to be here on the ninth of July he would have to be dying.”

  “I worry that he will die if I don’t stay.”

  “If you stay, he won’t die. If you leave, he will die.” I can hear him take a sip of something. “Are you a god, Daley?” I wonder if he’s drunk. “You signed a contract, if you will remember, in which you agreed to begin your research here in a few days. You may have ten more, if you think you can work your magic in that time.”

  “I’m going to need more than that.”

  “How many more?”

  Ninety in ninety. “Three months.”

  Silence. Another sip. More silence. “In other words, you’ve called to resign.”

  “It’s a family emergency. I’d hoped I could have some sort of deferment.”

  “This is not like applying to college. This is not a custom design situation. This is one of the most coveted positions in the country. We considered over a hundred applicants. We flew five candidates out here. The selection process took up the whole year.”

  “I understand that.”

  “Are you really my next suicide, Daley?”

  I don’t want to work with this man. He’s a prick. “No, I’m not, Oliver. I guess I’m your first defection.”

  The phone rings during dinner. My father answers.

  “Yup, she’s right here,” he says, holding the phone out to me. But there is only the dial tone.

  I put the phone back on its cradle.

  “What happened there?” my father says.

  “We got disconnected, I guess.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady.

  “That your boyfriend?”

  I nod.

  I can’t eat what’s on my plate. I have no way to call Jonathan back. He’s already on the road by now. I’m not sure talking would help anyway.

  The next morning my father is in a coat and tie. “I’m going to go in and meet with Howard this morning.”

  “Howard Gifford?” The name of his divorce lawyer brings back pains in my stomach.

  My father nods. “I want to get this thing moving.”

  “If that’s what you’re sure you want.”

  “Christ yes.”

  After he leaves I unload the dishwasher. I carry the stack of plates into the pantry where Catherine kept them and stop in the middle of the room. I don’t have to put them there anymore. She isn’t coming back. Everything—silverware, napkins, glasses, salad plates, cereal bowls—can go back where they belong. As I work, I catch myself in conversations with Oliver Raskin or Jonathan or some amalgam of the two, trying to convince them that I have no choice but to stay here for a little while, that it is my duty not just as a daughter but as a human being.

  When everything is back in place, I dig out the leashes in the coat closet and clip them on the dogs. They don’t know how to behave on leashes; my father only uses them for trips to the vet. As we make our way down the driveway, they weave themselves into tight tangles over and over, little Maybelle practically dangling off the ground.

  “You guys are pathetic,” I say to them when we reach the street, and honestly their heads seem to lower in shame. “This is what we need to do. Sadie, you need to walk out that way, to my right; Oscar, way out to my left; Yaz, in front, and Maybelle, I’m attaching you to my waist like this.” I thread the small handle of her leash through my belt loop. “And now we walk.” We take up the whole sidewalk and the grass on both sides. Anytime Oscar looks interested in Sadie’s grass I tell him to cut it out and keep his eyes ahead. They obey me. Yaz, the biggest of all of them, pulls us all forward like a sled dog.

  We pass the Vance sisters’ old driveway, filled with bright plastic tricycles and trucks, an enormous garage where the chaotic garden used to be, then take the shortcut, down Lotus Lane to the sandy path, ignoring the new NO TRESPASSING signs. I am having some trouble breathing properly. It feels like there’s a baseball in my lungs, taking up most of the room. I can really only half believe that I had that conversation with Dr. Raskin, and only half believing is shocking enough. The dogs, hearing the waves, smelling the smells, strain hard on their leashes. When we reach the boardwalk, the sea suddenly below us, I unhook them all and the two big dogs take off down the weathered wooden steps. They sprint to the water in a spray of fine white sand. Maybelle stays by my feet, taking each deep step down with brave caution.

  Warm air rises from the sand and cold air comes off the water. Gulls screech and waves swell and break in gorgeous white diagonals all the way down the beach. Farther out the water is pale and glossy or a rumpled deep blue, depending on how the wind is touching it. Seeing the Atlantic is always like seeing an old love: a familiar ache, a tremendous pull, and a deep sadness. It’s so vast, so muscular, so devastatingly beautiful. Jonathan and I have never seen any ocean together. We were waiting for California. Our cottage is 2.4 miles from a beach. He clocked it when he was out there.

  The big dogs stay in the shallows, barking at the waves as they grow and retreating when they shoot to shore. I take off my shoes. The wind flaps my T-shirt and shorts. I try to take in deep breaths.

  There is a smattering of people down the beach near the main entrance, setting up their umbrellas, spreading out their towels. But down here there is only me, the dogs, and an old couple in coats, walking toward the rocks. I wonder if my father will have lunch in Boston with Howard Gifford. The dogs see the old couple and begin to run toward them. They will go to Locke-Ober’s and Howard will order a drink. When I call the dogs, my voice is thin and they don’t hear me.

  Back at the house I sit at my father’s desk with a blank sheet of paper—it wasn’t easy to find one that didn’t have his name and address embossed on it—and a ballpoint pen. I have to write Jonathan, and I have to get the letter in the mail this afternoon so that it arrives in California when he does. I want to tell him that I need a little more time here, less than three months. And then we can go to Crater Lake. Maybe we both can apply for jobs in Phila
delphia for next year. I can see him in his truck, the truck he couldn’t drive when I first met him, heading toward a job he didn’t even want. He wanted to get back to Philly. That had been his plan.

  But nothing about me was in Jonathan’s plan. And he always has a plan. It’s the way he copes with fear. The way I cope is to never have expectations, so I’m not disappointed. Even with Berkeley I never let myself get attached to the idea. I wanted it, but I didn’t expect it. Maybe that’s why I can let it go now. I never really believed it was mine. And with Jonathan, too, I held back, until he called me on it.

  “I want to have a relationship with you.”

  I laughed. We were both naked. “I think we are having a relationship.”

  “But these things need to be said. I think you don’t think I’m serious. Or maybe you’re not serious. What are your intentions toward me?’

  I laughed again.

  “I’m serious, Daley. What are they?”

  “My intentions? You act like I’m angling to marry you or something.”

  “Are you?”

  “No.”

  He was quiet.

  “Aren’t you relieved?”

  “No. I’m not interested in being glib.”

  “I’m not being glib.”

  “I’m not sure any of this is meaningful to you.” He put his hand on my chestbone. “You’re all sealed up in there.”

  It was true. I loved him so much, and I was desperate to hide the extent of it. But slowly, he cracked me open. He pulled out all my feelings and made me talk about them. He had the ability to articulate emotions that most people simply feel as a clump in the belly. Carefully, patiently, he built a strong platform for us, and I came to trust that I could put the whole of my weight on it. It’s because I am standing on that platform that I am able to help my father now.

  I stare at the page. It all feels so raw and wordless and unbelievable. He is driving west and I am not there. I am not going to open the door. I have broken my promise. I put my head on the paper, and soon the page is wet and buckled. I toss it in the trash and go up to my room.

  On my bed I think back to our last night together, before Garvey called, lying with him, his finger slipping up into my underwear. He is on me, heavy, hard, his lips on mine. I want to fuck you, I whisper, and he pushes in and I come quickly. Too quickly. I lie there for a minute, sadness pooling, and then I take it slower, and come deeper. I can feel it spread everywhere this time, beneath my toenails, across my scalp. I feel close to him, lying here. I don’t want to stop and feel the distance between us again. I start moving my fingers again in the syrupy wetness until I hear hard knocking on the kitchen door.

  I zip up my pants and smooth down my hair in back. My limbs feel loose but strong as I go down the stairs.

  It’s Barbara Bridgeton. She frowns at the sight of me through the screen door.

  “Have I woken you?”

  No, but you did interrupt my third orgasm. “I was just cleaning.”

  I let her in, and fortunately the kitchen is spotless from all my rearranging.

  She swoops her laserlike gaze over everything and then puts a stack of Tupperware on the counter. “I made three meals for your father, but maybe he doesn’t need them now. Is he out?”

  “He’s gone into Boston.”

  “By himself?”

  “Yes.”

  She pinches her lips together. She wants to know why he’s gone to Boston. She looks unhappily at her meals on our counter. “I thought it was Sunday you’d be leaving.”

  “I did too. But I’m going to stay longer.”

  “Can you?”

  “I can.”

  “Maybe I should just take all that food home then. I’ve got both Scott and Carly coming this week.”

  “By all means. We’ve got plenty. In fact, I’m trying to encourage Dad to learn to cook.” I sense her objection and hurry on. “But thank you. He is so grateful for everything you’ve done for him.”

  “Well, he’s an old dear friend.”

  Once the Tupperware is back in her arms she doesn’t look so pleased about it. I wonder if I should have just accepted it graciously.

  “Well, you’re a good daughter,” she says, as if to convince us both. “Your dad needs his family right now, and at least he has you. I’m sorry Garvey wasn’t able to do the same. If ever a father loved his son.” She puts the Tupperware back on the counter and shakes her head. “If ever a father was proud of his son. You know they won the father-son tournament six years in a row. I’ll never understand what happened to that boy. And he had the lead in the eighth-grade play. What was it that year?”

  “Bye Bye Birdie.”

  “That’s right. You probably don’t remember it.”

  Of course I do, and I remember my father prancing around afterward, singing “Put on a Happy Face “effeminately, making a mockery of the whole play in a few minutes.

  “And he was always on the honor roll, which is more than I can say for two out of three of mine, though most of those smart kids turned into druggies and are a misery to their parents, so you never know. That Lukie Whitbeck, you remember him, with all the hair? I think he got every award in Scott’s class. Everyone thought he was so wonderful, but he had a mean streak; I had to talk to his parents more than once about it. He was in jail last year, not for long, but still. Well, I’m so pleased you’re here, Daley.” She smiles broadly. She seems to have perked herself up by that dip and spit into the past. “You’re a good daughter.” And she kisses me on the cheek, takes her food, and leaves.

  My father comes home at three and falls asleep on the couch. When his snoring reaches full volume, I bend over him and smell his breath. Hamburger, fries, and ketchup is all I get. At six-thirty I wake him for his meeting.

  “Losers of the world unite,” he says as he hobbles upstairs to shower.

  I cleaned out the Datsun that afternoon, brought a few bags to my room, and put the rest in the shed. He groans when he gets in and exaggerates the lack of head and legroom by scrunching up into a little egg. The smell of his Old Spice fills the small space.

  “You don’t have to keep driving me,” he says.

  “I like to.” I want to get to the point where I trust him to get to the church every night at seven, but that will take time. Sometimes he is so sad and quiet on the way I feel certain that if I weren’t there he’d pull into Shea’s, the liquor store, and down a quart of vodka in the car, or head to the Utleys or the Bridgetons, who were sure to be having cocktails on their patios.

  After I let him out at the church, I walk to the carnival. The fried dough is calling me. I have nothing due, nothing to research, no deadline. My mind keeps moving to that list and finding it empty. Over and over. Each time my body grows a little lighter.

  It’s hard to recognize the park when the carnival is planted in it. All the structures—the swing set and slide, the baseball diamond, the gazebo—are swallowed by it. As a kid I had a hard time holding the two concepts in my head at once, and if on occasion I did notice that it was the baseball bleachers people were sitting on to eat red foot-long hot dogs before going on the roller coaster beside them, it was like discovering an artifact from another lifetime, the way they discover the Statue of Liberty at the end of Planet of the Apes.

  I pay the six-dollar entry fee and go in. They’ve put down hay to protect the grass. It used to be free to wander around the carnival, and no one ever cared about the grass. It always grew back. Ashing is starting to be self-conscious that way, with its new matching awnings above the storefronts and the renaming of certain streets I read about in the paper. Snelling Street is now Coral Avenue. And Pope’s Road has become Bayview Lane. But the music at the carnival is the same as always, “Sweet Caroline” and “Mandy” and “My Eyes Adored You.” I can see Jonathan rolling his eyes, but he’d be singing along with me anyway. He’d know all the words. It’s packed, full of kids and teenagers and brand-new families, the parents my age, the children in little pouches and
strollers. Again I feel like an interloper, a spy on my own past.

  I go directly to the fried dough window. The woman hands me an enormous slab with pools of oil on top, and I shake the plastic tub of cinnamon sugar over it until it’s a deep, dark brown. I mean to find a bench and eat it slowly, but it’s so good I polish it off right there next to the condiments. After I buy a small book of tickets I go in search of the Tilt-a-Whirl. It’s right where it always was, to the left of the Ferris wheel, its hooded blue and white cars just coming to a slow undulating stop on their circular tracks. Mallory, Patrick, and I probably took this ride together over a hundred times. I always sat in the middle because Mallory and Patrick were heavier and could make the car spin faster by leaning to each side. Mallory screamed shrilly in my ear and Patrick kept his mouth shut, making little ghostlike moans every now and then. Just the sound of my feet on the thin metal steps after I give over my tickets brings whole summers back to me. The seats are still smooth red leather, the bar that comes down over your knees the same scallop shape. I have the same rush of anticipation as the man pulls the lever, and the belt that all the cars are on begins to move. I sit on one side of the car to make it spin more. Soon I’m being flung in circles so fast my brain gives up trying to ground itself, and I am left with that rush of abandon that is one small part fear and the rest sheer ecstasy. I hear myself shrieking along with other shriekers. There are moments on the Tilt-a-Whirl when you can raise your head and look briefly around before you are sent into another vortex. At one point I look up and see Neal Caffrey on a bench watching me. The next time he is gone. When the ride ends I stumble along its edge to give the operator more tickets and go back to my red seat. While I am spinning it’s impossible to think about Jonathan or Oliver Raskin or the cottage with the yellow door.