LEIGH K CUNNINGHAM
RAIN
Copyright 2011 by Leigh K Cunningham
All rights reserved.
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ISBN-13: 978-981-08-8279-2
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Cover design by Elizabeth Boté
To my husband, Steve, my love, my life, my reason. Because of you, I have become me.
In memory of my brothers, John and Paul.
PART I
Chapter One
July 1965
MAINE was a town with immunity from outbreaks of new ways of thinking. Bohemians had never penetrated its outer limits, nor had the beatniks, and the Hippies would go the same way—around the perimeter. The Aquarian age that blew through elsewhere releasing seeds that would sprout rebellion and enlightenment, passed over Maine at a great altitude.
Helena Wallin had no desire to leave her hometown, especially not for Sydney given the unfortunate family connection with the place. For Helena, Maine was a diamond in a black velvet bag—there was no need to display it, enticing outsiders who would bring with them the ways of a lesser world. The insularity was comforting, not at all claustrophobic, and a stagnant population of thirty thousand agreed. To leave would be to settle for a lesser gem, and Sydney, after all, was a mere emerald city.
Life was near perfect, but for a solitary discontent that vested in her heart and its potential receiver. Two decades earlier, the X-chromosome had not only prevailed in Maine, it had conquered, guaranteeing a battle to the aisle unless reinforcements came from elsewhere, and at twenty-two, Helena was beyond her use-by date. At twenty-one, Grace was similarly disadvantaged, but to a lesser degree: she was a living commercial for an expensive shampoo while Helena was the Homy Ped: sensible and comfortable.
Helena's readiness to inherit the mill, passed father to daughter that generation, not to son, not to Robert, countered the absence of a husband and children. The mill would be hers, and she chose not to dwell on the circumstances that made it so. But there was atonement, and Helena added the cause to a childhood preoccupation with parental appeasement, which is how she came to date Greg Allerby albeit just the once.
Greg Allerby ranked one with parents who measured eligibility in terms of upbringing, education, and job prospects. His more widely accepted profile however, was that of veterinarian with the exuberance of a dead fish, startling resemblance to Groucho Marx, and member of The Lodge, which was in itself a reason to defer. Helena, and most definitely Grace, utilized other rankings based on looks, charm, and prowess, preferably of a sporting nature.
Michael Baden's appeal lay in his preeminence on one set of rankings and complete absence from the other given his known past and predicted future. Helena did not understand her interest in him, but figured she was merely following popular opinion unable to think clearly on the issue of men for herself. Whether or not Michael Baden could ever summon an interest in her did not matter while other obstacles stood in the way. First, there was Grace, who was free to choose whomever she wanted. Then there was the mill rule that prohibited employee fraternization, and her father’s Wallin Guidelines, which recommended against consorting with sportspeople in general and footballers in particular. And the defining impediment—in male company, other than her father, Helena was a blubbering idiot.
While the latter obstacles were problematic, Grace Convention guaranteed that Michael Baden had just three months until he was cast adrift like his predecessors when the yellow patina of old varnish displaced his porcelain veneer. There was time for Helena to buoy her flagging confidence by shifting the resilient mass on her hips and thighs. She would start a new diet the following day when the bouquet of Millie's freshly baked apple crumble had dissipated.
December 1965
For three months, Helena plowed her way through sticks of celery, grapefruit doused in Sucaryl, boiled eggs, tomatoes, and not much else. It was worth the misery as a conspicuous loss of bulk revealed itself just in time for the regulation three-month Grace break-up and emancipation of Michael Baden. Motivation waned in the fourth month due to the momentum of summer, and Grace's failure to observe tradition with Michael Baden still in tow. Early morning walks became isolated events, then non-events when it became clear the incentive for the program had been a figment of a foolish imagination. By the end of the fifth month, Helena had regained the weight lost plus interest—the spinning pin, having rested at an alarming number, sparked a gastronomical bender.
If Grace had known the source of her sister’s compulsion to eat everything in sight, she could have eased it, for Michael Baden was soon to be ex-ed arising from a deal she had struck with her father: funding for a salon and apartment in Sydney.
Grace had never surrendered her dream, and contrary to popular opinion, did in fact possess a mild sensitivity to other issues that crossed the grain of her self-absorbed marrow: her parents had lost their only son, and everything life might have been if not for that tragedy twelve cloistered years before, was mere speculation.
Unlike Helena, Grace did not care for the multi-generational Wallin sawmill nor crave the daily joy of working side by side with her father nor hold qualms for disappointing him as he had her. She was not Robert, the first-born, a son, or the natural heir to the mill, yet she had been educated beyond what was normal for a young woman in the day. Her life, because of her father, because of Robert, had been stifled and orchestrated, and Maine meant nothing but social deprivation and life in a cesspool of virtue where minds had been set in concrete. It was a place without soul, and Grace craved what Sydney offered.
But while she had protested through five years of high school and three more in business school, Grace had been mindful all along of the virtues of being one's own master not answerable to anyone—that was her desiderata. The mill however, was not part of the plan for she was born to coif. Before the ink on her graduate certificate had dried, Grace had applied for an apprenticeship at a local hair salon, started work, and informed her father by presenting him with a small yellow pay packet and a smile.
The terms and conditions of the Sydney deal raised the arch of a tailored brow, and had the scent of bribery. Her father stooped lower implicating her mother, Millie, in the decision making process, which was akin to labeling Mahatma Ghandi a violent anarchist. Grace wanted to raise an objection, but suspicion had not incapacitated good sense, and progress to this milestone had been a lifetime in coming.
The first condition had some legitimacy: self-sustainment within a year, which did not seem at all onerous for a woman with her potential and education. The second condition though, the dismissal of Michael Baden, was spurious. Irrespective, she chose freedom, no contest. There would be other Michael Badens.
Grace had taken up with him primarily due to his good looks, but also because it was sure to irk her father. Everyone knew the mill rule—no dating the Wallin girls, and so Grace assumed Michael’s interest rose similarly from the challenge. There was no sign of a deeper caring, and she did not expect any grief from the imminent dissolution. The timing was also right, as one always had a sense of life's possibilities when bathed in the summer’s warmth.
The handsome duo ambled down Waterloo Street after the Friday night dance at the town hall, stopping under a lamppost to gather the fallen flowers of a Honeysuckle tree. Grace stroked the dark leathery leaves, and admired the silvery down on the underside. She lit a cigarette,
Ingrid Bergman in style, and inhaled the nicotine with the midsummer scented with honey. As usual, she was purse-less, a wealth creation strategy that worked well for her.
“I have some news,” she said.
“Good news?” he asked positioning a yellow floret behind her left ear.
“Great news,” she said. “I'm moving to Sydney.”
He probed her face and waited as she blew smoke into the moth-ridden light. “I'll come with you,” he said when she failed to insist.
“You can't.”
“I can.”
“My father wouldn't like it.”
“Your father? How come you're suddenly concerned with what he wants you to do?”
“I'm sorry, Michael.”
“You're sorry?”
The question had no immediate answer, and Grace watched as reality set in causing deep lines to form on his forehead and around his mouth.
“You're breaking up with me?” he asked.
“You know this is what I want.”
“It's not what you want, it's what your father wants, isn't it? Isn’t it?” he yelled.
“Calm down, Michael.”
“Calm down! Why is he against me?”
“This has nothing to do with you. You're over-reacting.”
They walked together in silence, hands rigid by their sides. Grace lamented the demise of the flawless night, the Southern Cross now fittingly masked by heavy clouds that subdued the constellation's domination of the night sky.
“He wouldn't have to know,” Michael said after a while.
“He's not stupid. If you resigned from the mill, and suddenly left Maine at the same time, he would know.”
“Explain to me again why it would matter if he knew?”
“Why are you making this so hard on me?” she asked resorting to a faithful tactic. She paused in search of kind words. Nothing came to mind. “The truth is, Michael, I don’t want you to come. This is my dream, and I want to do it on my own.”
Time was dormant. There was no way to know how long their feet occupied that land, his hurt evident. He kissed her with feather-like lips that rested on hers for the longest while. She stared into his eyes then stepped back before walking away. It was not a time for sentiment. “Because I love you,” she heard him whisper. She stopped for a moment then continued alone into the soulless dark that came to life briefly under each lamppost.
Chapter Two
December 1965
THE Royal Hotel beckoned. Michael would stay until the pain mollified and he was no longer solvent or sober, whichever came first. Grace had lied—her kiss said so. The move to Sydney was not her idea, but a cowardly guise instigated by James Wallin who hid his prejudice behind a skirt. Michael was not worthy—on that point, there could be no argument—but he at least deserved the truth without prevarication.
Michael had always planned to marry-up given that there was no way to marry below his life’s station: a ladder only had so many rungs. He hoped to like his future wife, even a mild liking would suffice, and then there was Grace. Loving her was unexpected, and she came with the Wallin affluence: moderate with distinction. He had long observed the wealthier classes from his objective ground zero, and recognized the dichotomy that was prosperity and respectability—moderate wealth with distinction always outweighed wealth that was obscene in dimension and nature.
At the base of Michael’s suitor triangle, a Milky Way from the tip was a dense listing of acceptable, low to mid-tier non-socialites from suburbs with slightly more respectability than Park Lane. A considerable number had already showered him with interest, but matrimony was not the objective—the institution of marriage relegated in favor of the institution of finance, and only one who had stood for a second in Park Lane footwear could possibly understand.
The whites of his pockets languished over dark trousers when he finally vacated his preferred stool at The Royal. As he tried to stand and scull the last few mouthfuls of beer, he found himself spread-eagled on the butt-layered tiled floor. A couple of patrons in a similar state helped him to his feet. One tied Michael’s shoelace, hinting that it may have been the cause.
Michael staggered toward the west side of town, resting at each landmark along the way. With half the distance traveled, he reclined against a supportive tree trunk, one of many that lined the avenue-like entrance to the Wallin Oval. Even with his vision blurred, he could see shapes of words on a bronze plaque, and knew what they had to say—honor to James Wallin, his father, and father’s father. Veins ruptured inside his head, pushing him from the arbores column. An agile leap, incredibly, catapulted him over the turnstile, and a forwarding momentum introduced a fist to the wall of the canteen. He jabbed with both knuckles in tandem until bloodied and exhausted he collapsed to the concrete and fell into a wasted sleep.
Sergeant David Mackelroth arrived at the Wallin Oval in response to a 000 call, without the siren or flashing lights. In Maine, residents dialed 000 for any unexpected occurrence whether an incident required immediate urgent action or not.
From the turnstile, his torch light converged with a holey wall and below it, a human mass in a curved position, almost fetal. Sergeant Mackelroth moved in for a closer inspection of the fibrolite panel, and its perpetrator, or victim.
“Come on, Michael,” he said, bending to lift the lifeless weight to sit against the punctured wall. He huffed a few times to expand his energy reserves then yanked Michael up onto his uniformed back, tying flailing arms around his neck as an anchor. The sergeant heaved as his body took the weight. “I’m going to need your help here,” he said as they approached the turnstile. “Stand up, mate…just for a second.” After a brief stint on his feet that swung him through the revolving gate, Michael grounded again face first into the dirt. Sergeant Mackelroth hauled him to the patrol car with his hands gripped under odorous armpits as paralytic legs generated a light dust storm behind them.
Michael slept while Sergeant Mackelroth tapped words into his police incident report. He came to a halt after ‘Baden’, the word evoking memories of a schoolyard confrontation involving his guest for the night. He had tried for years to extinguish the retrospection—of an acerbic pack circling the youngest Baden on the playground—but the memory possessed its own disquieting longevity. In turn, they had run in from the perimeter to punch the eight-year-old while he fended off attacks from another direction. Occasionally, instead of a pummeling, his pants, handmade from a potato sack, found his knees. All seven of the Baden boys wore that particular beige textile, gathered around the waist with a piece of frayed cord. Their clothing was the primary source of their misery, and it served as an involuntary barrier to the outside world. Not surprisingly, they all left school by thirteen with their spirits squeezed sour like sugar-less lemonade.
David Mackelroth, twelve then, was not a participant in the persecution that day, but a bystander, and equal in guilt for being so. He joined the police force at the end of his final year of school compelled by that single incident to help the victimized in future instead of observing their torture.
Sergeant Mackelroth ripped the report from the typewriter’s vice, crumpled it into a ball, and pitched it across the room at the injustices of the world. He turned his attention to other work to distract his mind. The image of that child—tugging at his pants clutched in one hand and flailing at assailants with the other—would never leave him. He shook his head several times in an attempt to dislodge it.
The night aged quickly and caught the sergeant off guard. He wanted Michael back in Park Lane in advance of the lightened sky when early risers would witness the delivery, and tongues would wag with enthusiasm for days, weeks, forever.
“Come on, Michael,” he said, tugging at a lifeless arm. “It’s time for you to go home.”
Michael took a few moments to adjust to sitting before attempting a stand.
“What hurts more—your hands or your head?” asked Sergeant Mackelroth, guiding Michael toward the back door of the country stati
on.
“My heart,” he replied, and waited for the giddiness to pass before following Sergeant Mackelroth, unaccompanied, to the patrol car.
They drove a while in silence, Michael’s head still not in sync with a morning. “How long before it ends up in court?” Michael asked as the patrol car crossed the railway tracks to the wrong side of town.
“What?” asked Sergeant Mackelroth.
“The shed…incident.”
“Oh, you mean the damage to the canteen. Well, Michael, the problem I have is this—no witnesses. Happens that way sometimes. Comes with the job.”
“Thanks, David,” Michael whispered.
“Just keep those fists in neutral for a while. The Rotary has a working-bee coming up at the oval. We can fix the wall while we’re at it. You might like to come along and lend a hand, pardon the pun, assuming your knuckles have regained some movement by then. They’re going to be sore by the look.”
Michael glanced down at the red-spotted white bandages expertly wrapped around his knuckles. “I’ll be there, David, and thanks again.”
The patrol car eased to a stop behind the water tower, away from neighborly inferences. Sergeant Mackelroth waited at the wheel, observing while Michael plodded the rest of the way like any man without hope. He stepped on to the footpath out front of a house that had seen a better day a long time ago.
Mrs. Baden scuffled out to meet him, panicky at the sight of her son with bandaged hands. She was a tiny, elderly woman, and kindly, having raised eight children in unenviable circumstances, and she showed all signs of battle weariness. Gossipers alleged she was not Michael’s mother, but Sergeant Mackelroth had never subscribed to a mill that merely sought to push those who had no further to fall.
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