Lullaby for the Rain Girl

by Christopher Conlon

  “Thanks, baby doll,” she said. “Call me, okay?”

  I smiled wanly. “I will.”

  She opened the door, fanned her fingers at me with a smile, and closed the door behind her.

  I stood there for a long time, hollow inside. If anything, I felt worse than I’d felt before. This always happened, actually. Yet time after time I couldn’t resist picking up the phone when the long night’s cavern yawned before me and I could see no path to the light, none at all.

  I rested my forehead against the wall for several minutes. Then I moved to the kitchen, cupped my palms for a drink from the faucet, splashed some of the water on my face. My heart had begun beating hard for some reason, hard and fast, thundering inside my skull.

  Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus Christ.

  At last I moved back into the bedroom and switched on the light, which seemed to shine garishly bright. With a sensation of disgust I stared at the empty glasses, the cigarette butts in the ashtray, and, most of all, the rumpled bed sheets.

  Knocking the glasses and ashtray to the carpet, I tore the sheets from the bed and hurled them against the opposite wall. Then I collapsed onto the naked mattress and pulled the blankets up over me. I lay shivering in the hard light until dawn came.

  4

  Sunday was quieter. It had to be, after the grim eventfulness of the day before. No distraught sisters, no Alzheimer-ridden fathers, no pathetic attempted pickups in bookstores, no high-end prostitutes—my bank account was practically at zero, anyway.

  In fact, I stayed in. The day was colorless and cold—ideal weather for remaining indoors and grading papers while drinking lots of hot coffee. I had the radio on, first to the classical station, WGMS, but what they were playing was too lightweight, too Bach-baroque. I switched to D.C.’s classic-rock station, 94.7, “the Arrow,” and listened with half an ear to Queen, Bad Company, Bachman-Turner Overdrive, Grand Funk Railroad. Perfect. I cleaned up the bedroom. I did laundry. I considered taking the elevator down to the little mini-mart adjacent to the building and picking up a pack of cigarettes—I could still taste that foul Virginia Slim somewhere in the back of my throat, a taste bad enough to be unpleasant yet cigarette enough to make me crave the real thing. But I held back, chewed lots of gum, got through the day.

  In the late afternoon I turned on my computer and found, among the offers for low-cost sex toys and the Nigerian potentates wishing to hand over their riches to me in exchange for my bank account number, an e-mail from an address which made me pause.

  raingirl16@raingirl.com.

  I’d not given her a thought since Friday night, and now I felt a little guilty about it. We’d parted on bad terms. I wondered for a moment how she knew my e-mail address, but then realized that the school website had it listed.

  The subject heading read: Im Sorry!!!!

  I clicked on the message.

  Hi Mr. Fall! Im sorry about Friday. Your right I can be a nosy B**CH sometimes. Im really sorry. Plz forgive me. How r u? What did u do yesterday? Will u be at school tomorow? I guess u will be. Ill be there. Have u written any more books? Well thats about it Mr. Fall. Again IM REALLY SORRY.

  xxxoooxxooxxoxoxox

  The Rain Girl. (Or is it Rain GRRRL?! Ha!)

  I stared at the screen for several minutes. A teacher has to be careful about private communications with students—especially male teachers with female students. I could ignore it, I supposed; no doubt I would run into her at school sometime next week, after all. On the other hand I noticed that she had sent the message early Saturday morning—I wondered how many times she’d checked her e-mail to see if I’d answered. Maybe none, of course. But somehow I didn’t think so. It’s hard for a kid to write to a teacher, especially to apologize for something. I thought about all those x’s and o’s in her closing. She would want to see a reply very much.

  I wandered around my main room for a few minutes, sipping coffee and listening to the Edgar Winter Group on 94.7. Finally I sat before the computer again.

  Dear Rain Girl,

  I hesitated. A teacher addressing a female student by a pet name?

  I deleted it. Instead I typed:

  Hi!

  Thanks for your note. But the apologies are all mine. I was rude to you. I was tired and had a headache, but that’s not an excuse. Anyway, I sincerely apologize.

  What did I do yesterday? Not much. A teacher’s life is pretty boring. Like today—all I’ve done is grade papers. (Be glad you’re not in my class. I’m fierce!) I hope your weekend has been better than mine. See you at school tomorrow!

  Mr. Fall.

  I looked at the last line; it seemed too formal. I struck it out.

  Ben Fall.

  The whole message looked a bit impersonal to me, so I typed:

  P.S. Maybe you should take my class—your spelling and grammar need help! (Please, it’s “you,” not “u”!)

  But she might take that as an insult.

  I struck out the entire P.S. and hit “Send.”

  To my surprise, the flag of the little mailbox at the top corner of my screen popped up only a minute or two later. I clicked on it.

  raingirl16@raingirl.com.

  I opened the message.

  Hi Mr. Fall! Your message made me feel SOOOO MUCH BETTER. Im glad your not mad at me. But why are u apologizing, u didn’t do anything wrong? Hey I didn’t do anything this weekend either. My life is as borring as yours HA HA. Maybe we should get together and be borred together!

  xxxoooxoxoxoxxxooo

  The R.G.

  I stared at the message, noticing again all those x’s and o’s—and, this time, an invitation, even if it was couched in humor, to “get together.” It was no doubt completely innocent, but I decided to tread carefully.

  Hi!

  Maybe we’ll talk next week about whose life is more boring! Meanwhile I have to shut off the computer now; it’s back to papers for me. See you Monday!

  Ben Fall.

  I hit “Send.” Then, just to be sure, I switched off the computer.

  # # #

  Monday was chaotic, as Mondays—especially rainy ones—tend to be. Students show up late in the morning, they don’t have their homework, they’re tired and cranky. I fumbled through my morning composition classes well enough, but found myself short of energy by lunchtime. Normally I just sit at my desk and eat whatever I’ve brought with me—the faculty room is a den of smoky temptation—but today I felt the need of a caffeine jolt, so I headed downstairs to the soda machine outside the main office. Frosty Coke can in my hand, I stepped into the school library on impulse, waved toward Mrs. Lewis behind the desk, and wandered over to the Mystery section, hunted around for Leprechauns Can Be Murder. I looked at the most recent checkout date; I was surprised to see that the book hadn’t been taken out in a year. Well, no, that didn’t surprise me; but I’d assumed my young friend had taken the book from here. Surely she hadn’t read the whole thing while sitting at one of the tables? Odd.

  Afternoon classes were better than the morning ones. The advanced class got into a healthy argument about why Gatsby stopped hosting his parties, and whether he was actually in love with Daisy at all.

  “He’s a stalker,” Annie declared, certain of herself as always. “He built his mansion just to be close to her but he didn’t even tell her he was there. He’s not in love with her. He’s obsessed with her. He’s creepy.”

  “She’s creepy,” Dion said. “I mean, what’s the matter with her? She’s crazy.”

  The discussion narrowed to the burning question of who was crazier, Gatsby or Daisy—not the deepest or most probing line of inquiry, perhaps, but they were staying on-task, which is half the battle. The kids in the back were unengaged, of course, but they were quiet enough. Overall, it was a good class period.

  Unfortunately, once the bell rang I knew it was time for our staff meeting—always the deadliest part of any week. After gathering my things I shuffled lifelessly toward the school cafeteria, our usual meeting spot,
and found a seat. It occurred to me that I’d not seen my young friend anywhere around today; I wondered if she might be outside waiting for me. But why would she wait for me?

  When Barb Seymour blew into the room, papers falling this way and that from her grasp, I waved her over.

  “Hey, Ben!” she said in her breathless way, depositing her pile of work on the table and sitting.

  “See the agenda?” I asked.

  She chuckled. “I saw it.”

  “How much will you pay me for not revealing the secret of the stolen chalk?”

  “I’ll pay you in sexual services,” she said, brushing hair from her eyes. “How’s that?”

  I laughed. It was easy with Barb exactly because, except as friends, we were utterly unattracted to each other.

  The meeting commenced. My attention wandered, as it always does. I heard talk of sports schedules, of paperwork, of plans for Thursday, the last day of school before Winter Break. Someone suggested that the teachers have some sort of small party that afternoon. Our dyspeptic principal, Mr. Geiger, assured us it wasn’t in the budget. Our vice-principal, the young go-getter Mr. Russell, said that there was some discretionary petty cash that might cover it. Food was suggested. Pizza was discussed and agreed on, but then someone else said that not everyone liked pizza. There should be salad. Others suggested cheeseburgers, Buffalo wings, desserts. Mr. Geiger told them the school wasn’t a catering service. Pizza was returned to as the main item, but there were holdouts for salad. It went on for nearly half an hour, and in the end, nothing was decided, which meant there would be no party at all. This kind of thing happened all the time.

  By the time we got to the chalk it was nearly four o’clock. Geiger berated the entire staff while Barb and I maintained caught-in-the-cookie-jar poker faces. An argument ensued concerning how the principal could be so sure it had been a teacher. How could he know that it wasn’t a student, or a member of the administration, or not simply a clerical error? It went on for another twenty minutes with no resolution before, everyone exhausted and demoralized, the meeting broke up.

  “You caused that last bit,” I said to Barb reprovingly, smiling as we stood.

  “Oh, come on,” she said, gathering her things. “If it hadn’t been that it would have been something else. It’s a miracle we’re getting out of here at four-thirty. That’s pretty good for old Geiger-counter.”

  “True.”

  “Need a ride?”

  “Um…” I hesitated because I wondered if my young friend was outside, but I knew I was being silly. “Um—sure, Barb. That would be great.”

  As we left the building I looked around, but no one was in sight. Barb and I packed into her predictably stuffed-with-garbage VW Bug and pulled away from the school.

  On the way to my apartment it crossed my mind that I’d never called Vincent. Well, I knew there would be a message or two waiting on my message machine. But it was a quarter to five; perhaps I could successfully duck him for another day. I’d not even glanced at the settlement papers he’d handed me on Friday—they were still sitting on my dining room table. Even thinking about them depressed me. The rain spattering the windshield of the VW didn’t help.

  “Want to come in?” I said as she pulled up in front of my building.

  She brushed the hair out of her eyes. “Nah. Gotta get home. Thanks, though.”

  “Well, thank you for the ride.”

  “No problem, Ben. You’d better get home and make your Y2K preparations.”

  I smiled. “Would you lay off about that?”

  “I’ll lay off when the world becomes a primitive wasteland filled with wandering bands of savages out of The Road Warrior sometime in the overnight hours of January the first, 2000. By the way, did you know that the end of 1999 isn’t even really the end of the millennium?”

  “Yeah, I heard that.”

  “There was no year zero. A millennium starts with year one, not year zero. So technically—”

  “I’ve heard that, Barb.”

  “Well, you think about it, buster!” She grinned as I stepped out of the car. “Ta-ta!”

  She pulled away, the VW burping and gasping. I loved her teasing; it made me feel lighter somehow, connected to the world. But I knew what was waiting for me in the apartment. Vincent, which meant Kate. Maybe Alice, which meant Dad. Piles of grading. I stepped under the awning of the building to get out of the rain but then just stood there, trying to think of a reason not to go in.

  “Was that Ms. Seymour?” said a voice behind me.

  I knew whose it was without looking.

  “Yes, it was.”

  She stepped in front of me. She had on the same light coat as before. Her hair hung straight down onto her shoulders. Her eyes were wide, guileless.

  “Do you like her?”

  “Like her? Of course I like her. She’s my friend.”

  “I mean like her like her.”

  I thought for a moment. “No. Not like that.”

  “Why not?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know why not. Some people just don’t connect that way, that’s all.”

  “Oh.” She looked out at the rainy street. “I sent you an e-mail.”

  “Did you? I haven’t looked since yesterday.”

  “Well, I sent you one.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Will you answer it?”

  “I don’t see why I wouldn’t.”

  “Good.”

  “I didn’t see you in school today.”

  “No? I saw you, though.”

  “How are you always seeing me when I don’t see you?”

  She smiled, very slightly, glanced at me and then away. “Some people are observant,” she said.

  “When did you see me?”

  “At lunch. You came downstairs and got a Coke from the machine.”

  “Why didn’t you say hello then?”

  She shrugged. “I like just watching you.”

  I looked at her for a moment. “I—I have to go in now,” I said hesitantly. Once again I wondered if this girl was homeless or a runaway or what. The last class discussion came back to my mind: words like creepy and crazy. Yet in truth there was absolutely nothing creepy about this girl and she did not seem in any way crazy. She was just there, utterly plain, bland, quotidian. I would never even have noticed her if she hadn’t shown up in my classroom after school the previous Thursday.

  “Okay,” she said, stepping out into the rain. “See you.”

  I turned to the building and was through the doors before I thought to check my optical illusion from last week: how she stood in the rain without apparently getting wet. But by the time I looked she was gone.

  Upstairs I saw the blinking light on my message machine and the flashing number 3. Ignoring it, I went to the bedroom and switched on my computer; I changed clothes and grabbed a soda from the refrigerator while I waited for it to boot up.

  Finally I was online. Ignoring the spams I went straight to raingirl16@raingirl.com. The heading simply read, “No Subject.”

  I clicked on the message.

  I LOVE YOU, BENJA-ME-ME!

  xxooxoxoxxxoxoox

  Your Rain Girl.

  Something bloomed dark and sour in my heart. My breath came fast. The floor tilted; I nearly fell from the chair. It wasn’t the declaration of love or the x’s and o’s that did it. It was the name.

  Benja-me-me.

  A heavy black wing swooped over my mind, blotting out the world.

  I just made it to the wastebasket as my stomach seized up, and I vomited.

  5

  I almost called in sick the next morning, but realized that the worst course of action for me would be to sit around the apartment with nothing to do. The day floated by in a kind of phantasm—not threatening, but remote and something less than completely real. I felt as if I were on some odd kind of drug, one that didn’t make you high, exactly, but which removed you just a step from reality. Yet it wasn’t like a hallucinogen, either.
I was able to teach my classes and interact with my colleagues but part of me wasn’t quite there.

  I knew I would see her again, of course. What I didn’t know is what I would say to her. My mind had run through a thousand possibilities, rational explanations, and yet: there were none. It wasn’t possible. She wasn’t possible.

  At the end of the day I sat at my desk in my empty classroom, staring out at the light rain streaking the windows. There were papers in front of me but I didn’t look at them. I had no thoughts in my head, just an overwhelming sense of disturbance, of the past as a quiet, still pool suddenly alive, tempest-tossed and thrashing. I had no specific memories, just distant disconnected sounds, pictures clear for an instant then splintered and blown in the air and kaleidoscoped apart again.

  “Hi, Ben.”

  She wasn’t at a desk in the back now. She was in a chair next to me, only inches away. She looked the same as she had every time I saw her. The eyes, the hair, the bland appearance—but it was something other than blandness, I realized. Something more. Unfinished, that was it. She looked somehow unfinished, like a statue the artist had left off from too early. There was something vague, unspecific about her. That’s why it was so difficult to remember what she looked like whenever she wasn’t with me. Her skin didn’t have the kind of lines or pores or smudges or pimples or anything one might expect a sixteen-year-old girl’s skin to have. Her eyes seemed to lack individuality, spark: they were animated enough, but they could have been anyone’s eyes—they didn’t seem to be hers, somehow. That was why she was disturbing, even though there was nothing even vaguely threatening about her.

  “Hi.”

  “Did you get my e-mail?”

  “Yes. I got it. I…”

  “What?” She cocked her head, studying me.

  “How…how did you know?”

  “About…?”

  “The name. How did you know about the name?”

  “Oh, that.” She stood up suddenly, wandered over to the bookshelves and tilted her head to look at the titles on the spines. “I just made it up, that’s all. I hope you don’t mind. You don’t, do you? Hey, are any of these books any good? I need a good book to read.”