Bullets of Rain

by David J. Schow

  Lead filings began to sift into his brain. His throat was arid. He padded out to the kitchen naked, gooseflesh prickling his skin as thin drifts of chilly air eddied through his house, bullied by the blowing wind. He gulped club soda and remembered to retrieve the rest of Suzanne's rain-soaked clothing from the guest bathroom. While he urinated he noticed a fat packet of toilet paper in the trash, indicating a disposed tampon or napkin, very thoughtfully not flushed. Women tended to use a lot of toilet paper for every damned thing. Beside the small wastebasket a capsule rested on the grout between floor tiles. Before Art picked it up he washed and dried his hands, so it would not dissolve to shapeless gel in his grasp. It was like an allergy capsule, half-black, half-white. Some kind of speed? There were no batch numbers or fabrication symbols on it.

  Blitz sniffed him uncertainly as Art hung up Suzanne's sweater and gave the rest of her gear to the dryer. Art was apparently very interesting to smell, right now. He could not remember whether a condom had even been involved during that last bout, which had hit him, abruptly and powerfully, in much the same manner as the storm outside.

  Art left the capsule on his nightstand for future reference and Suzanne rolled, snuggling into his armpit. He couldn't inhale enough of her. Her hand found his cock almost tropistically, and they both plummeted in search of quality REM sleep.

  They had achieved a state from which the storm could not rouse them, though it tried mightily. The rain got worse.

  ***

  Art woke up at ten after one P.M., to the sound of heavy oceanic rainfall splatting in fat drops across the bedroom windows. He was alone in the bed and the old panic surged back right on cue. There was no Suzanne, only a particularly appealing dream, one of the few from which he could recall key details. He was so alone that most of his life had lapsed into an hallucinatory fugue state.

  "Hey," said Suzanne, tilting in through the hallway door. "I tried to make coffee on that big grindy machine; I think I got it right." She entered with two of Art's cappuccino mugs, the kind that could hold nearly a pint of liquid. "You tell me."

  Or, there was another possibility-Art had died and gone to Valhalla, or Paradise. The coffee was as rich and brown as the eyes of an Indian goddess. When Suzanne put the mug down, she noticed the black-and-white capsule on Art's nightstand.

  "Hey, where'd you get that?"

  He sat up, groggy, and oriented himself. "I think you dropped it. I found it in the bathroom. What is it?"

  "One of Price's party favors. Some kind of upper, I think." She seemed disinterested in pharmacology.

  "Want to find out, or do you want to keep it?"

  "Nah. I took one to wake up, basically. You should try it."

  "I'll save it for later." He dropped it into a leatherette box with a snap closure. The lid was filigreed with Egyptian glyphs in gold foil. The box had belonged to Lorelle.

  Why did he keep that box around, when all it did was cause him a minuscule pain every time he saw it again? Wouldn't it be better to get rid of it? He had always feared the answer, that it would be like consigning another piece of his life to the trash, and he knew he hated getting rid of anything. The box had been stationed in the same place on the nightstand when Lorelle had been taken. It endured.

  The "cold gray dawn" of cheap fiction did not penetrate the bedroom. Already Suzanne was lazily pulling on his penis, priming his pump for another round. He gulped half his coffee-she'd succeeded in making it pretty strong-and they were all over each other in another couple of minutes.

  For the duration of his marriage, Art had been faithful to Lorelle. Before her, he had juggled multiple lovers, keeping each at a safe distance with a menu of logical-sounding buffers. They all waxed and waned, came and went, each leaving something special while Art revealed precious little of his own heart. Then Lorelle had stormed into his life and swept him off his bearings. Her history had gone much the same way, so they sympathized, seeding on first contact their semitelepathic way of communicating; their secret language. They engaged each other on all the best levels and for the first time Art comprehended how valuable it was to have a soul mate who could be that mythological "one''-friend, lover, best buddy, partner. The myth was dashed by the naked reality of her. Their relationship held the peaks and valleys inherent in all human intercourse, but the special thing about Lorelle was that she scampered these outcrops with no thought that the fundamental bedrock of her-plus-him was ever in jeopardy. Nothing mattered more than the fact they had found each other; each was the reward at the end of the other's long desert quest. It never occurred to Lorelle that anything could threaten the core truth that they were together… not even when she had embarked on a brief, hasty, and ill-advised affair with someone up in the city. Art remembered the first time they had fought over this infidelity. Even then, blinded by rage, trodden by disappointment, and sinking down into sorrow, even then, when the words that confirmed the truth came from her painfully, measured in tears, he knew that for her it was not a matter of finding another, or giving up their life together. It was so simple it was outrageous. She missed the city.

  If that rift never closed, at least they had built a sturdy bridge over it. Ultimately, he never got the chance to propose to her, because she beat him to it. She asked him with amazement, as if she was channeling a phantom; she was as surprised as he was. She was a woman with sour views on marriage, conditioned by a lifetime of rotten, content-free, inadequate relationships, and all of a sudden this opinionated free spirit had found someone she deeply wanted to wed. Permanence had never been important before.

  In all the time Art had been with her, it had not occurred to him to be attracted away. It had never been an issue. He knew this feeling by its function, and the fact-easy to admit-that she was the person for him, rendered especially appropriate by time and circumstances no one could predict. But this was the first time he held the realization in front of him, examined it, and put words to the feelings. It had never occurred to him to be attracted away from her. No exceptions.

  Which meant that when Lorelle passed, Art had been sliced in half and cut adrift, with no backups, no old phone numbers, none of the fail-safes he had traditionally emplaced when dealing with lovers who were less important. It had been a long, lonely time since her death, and it had never occurred to Art to start shopping for replacements, since no one could fill that gap.

  Now, years later, Suzanne had materialized out of nowhere, and was busily trying to resurrect his gnarly carcass. She pounced and kissed him; he could taste his own ejaculate. Art's usual "morning bear" failed to put in a grouchy appearance.

  After some additional fooling around in the master bath's capacious shower, he loaned her an old steerhide motorcycle jacket to give her an extra layer against the cold outside. He donned a thick cable-knit sweater and threw a shearling coat over that, providing vinyl ponchos to waterproof themselves. They took the Jeep, thankful for the weight, the safeguards, the big knobby tires.

  ***

  In less than a day the coast road had become every bit the disaster area Art had anticipated, and progress was so slow it made the half mile to Price's house seem like a long-haul hour. Trees were down. Severed cable whipped from tilting light poles like deadly stingers; soon the poles themselves would topple. The road surface was completely treacherous. The storm was bumping the edge of emergency.

  Price's place, from what Art could make out in the buffeting rain and dicey light, was a modernist white two-story deal with two wings that married in a central, lighthouselike turret, which faced the ocean from the apex of the V-shape. Two outbuildings extended the courtyard area to accommodate a liver-shaped swimming pool. Art always wondered about the brand of people who needed a pool, with the ocean a stroll away.

  Suzanne pointed at the southernmost outbuilding, raggedly cordoned by about fifteen parked vehicles. "That's the garage, and there's a guesthouse over that. The other one is a cabana thing, sun-room, hobby room, whatever you want to call it." Art visualized rattan mats a
nd a wet bar constructed of bamboo, a surfer's hang.

  When Art parked, the downpour formed a curtain on the Jeep's windshield that flooded out all view. "Do you want me to just drop you, or-?''

  "No way. Come on in, by all means." She opened her own door. "Woo, get ready to get soaked again."

  As they dashed around the garage and through a wooden gate to a narrow walkway, Art could hear bass tones buzzing the walls. Suzanne led the way through an unlocked kitchen door as the music declared itself to be Asian techno-pop-drum machines hammering a high-speed beat against samples and a voice shrieking in Cantonese, with the occasional Just you! in tilted English. They shed the rain slickers and hung them outmost on hooks near the door, with other garments, some dripping, some humid and mildewy, some beyond help.

  Through the corridor of kitchen, Art could perceive the ebb and flow of a crowd, like goldfish in a pet-store display tank. An inversion layer of smoke hung above them as they shouted party talk over the music. They appeared monied and trendy, and summarized the world outside Art's secure cocoon.

  Suzanne dragged him by one hand into the melee.

  Art's eyes watched the walls. The place had probably been tacked together in the mid Eighties, if the long rectangular windows were any clue. The fixtures were mostly brass. Carpet everywhere. He could see the seams in the drywall, plastered over to imitate stucco. The picture-window moldings were plastic strips patterned after wood veneer, the tinted all-weather glass held in place mostly by its own weight. Bad news, if the storm got worse. Art would have replaced these with his own special polymer. He could see an exterior deck hemmed by tubular aluminum rails. Definitely a rental party place, not a residence.

  It was pretty clear which one was Price. He held court in one corner and had just smoked a cigarette down to the filter, his attention on his immediate circle, his eyes sweeping the whole room. He was ectomorphic and sinewy, tall but not thin, wearing a skintight T-shirt under a zippered leather vest and worn jeans cuffed above low-heeled engineer boots, all black. As Suzanne maneuvered Art closer, Art could see the guy had the sort of head that clearly indicated the contours of the skull beneath. Price's features were totally symmetrical, and his slightly receding hairline had been buzzed into a military crop that fit him like a skullcap. His ears were pierced, but he wore no jewelry, not even a wristwatch. Long, pianist fingers with nails bitten or trimmed to nothing. He'd suffered bad acne as a teenager, but the rough complexion somehow fit him, as though his visage had been hammered from pitted pewter. His eyes tracked Art all the way across the room.

  "This would be our Good Samaritan," Price said.

  "Price, this is Art." Impressing him seemed important to Suzanne.

  "Art, as in the Art?" Price tilted his head sideways, as if he had just been introduced to an inflatable toy as someone's beloved date. "You sure it's not Artemis or something spelled weird?"

  "Just Art, I'm afraid."

  "Fear nothing, neighbor." Price shook Art's hand-not crushingly, not blandly, just right. "Here you can be whoever you wish to be. We all need to thank you for rescuing our little lost Suzanne.'' He kissed Suzanne on the cheek and then forgot about her. "This is what you call your basic party. We got food, booze, drugs, boys and girls-help yourself." Price had mastered the art of making his voice heard above the music.

  Art had to lean forward, like someone getting the feel of a recording booth. "You've probably heard there's a hell of a storm coming in."

  "We're not going to talk about the weather, are we?" Price shot his eyes sidelong, as though awaiting a knowing, on-cue laugh from his cabaret audience.

  "It might be a good idea to put all these people to work boarding up your windows."

  "On the other hand," said Price, "it might be cool to see what they do." This gave Art pause, because it was essentially the same reason he had chosen to stick around his own house. "Look at these people, Art. What kind of quality job do you think I'd get out of them if I gave them all hammers and nails and plywood?" An Asian woman with an incredible fall of glossy black hair laughed at this. Price squeezed her into a one-armed embrace and kissed the top of her head. "This is Shinya. Call her a whore and she'll roll both eyes and think it's funny."

  "You're such a dick," she said, smiling and socking Price in the arm with no force.

  "This is Shinya's date, Tobias." Price indicated the man leaning against the wall opposite. Price was between them.

  "Hey." Tobias pulled a hand out of his pocket and shook Art's, damply. He was wearing a huge, untucked work shirt buttoned all the way to the neck, and his eyes were hidden by blocky spectacles with lozenge-shaped tinted lenses.

  "I probably won't be able to remember everyone's name," Art said, thinking he already sounded like a dope.

  "Tobias and I have a bet that Shinya will be on her ripe little knees and blowing him by midnight,'' said Price.

  Shinya hit him again, giggling. "You do not! God, you're such a dick!'' To Art, she added, "He's just fantasizing about what he can't have."

  Art was not sure what the response to this should be.

  "Come on, Art, let's you and me talk like grownups." Price cut Art away and began touring him. Suzanne tagged along behind them, uncertain whether she'd been invited.

  "What's the party for?'' said Art.

  "For nothing," said Price. "Because I can." He grinned. "Actually, you're correct-I did hear about the storm, that it might even be a hurricane, and that decided me. See all these people? I get them together in rooms, like ingredients in a recipe. I like to watch what happens when you mix spice with sweet, or salt, and let the crock-pot bubble. So, that architectural wonder up near the radar-dish thing, that's yours?''

  "Yes, I designed and built it."

  "A being of accomplishment." Over his shoulder, Price told Suzanne: "Thanks for bringing this breath of fresh air; I was beginning to wonder whether I'd ever be able to have a conversation above fifth-grade level. Now stop heeling like a dog and go find your friend Dina. She needs to know you're okay so she can get back to her own emotional difficulties."

  Suzanne retreated, but grasped Art's hand, enough to turn him. "Don't leave without finding me, okay?" Then she headed for the stairs.

  Price had one eyebrow raised. "Why, Art… did she fuck you already?" Art was mustering a properly outraged response when

  Price clapped him on the shoulder and interposed: "Never mind. Unfair question. Rude, even. Presumptuous. I apologize; I don't even fuckin know you, right?"

  "Something like that," said Art, not sure if he'd just been headed off, shut down.

  "Normally, Suzanne is the world's biggest child twatling. Stuck-up, whiny, always bitching about how no man in the world can live up to her needs, which equals your basic daddy fantasy. She hooks up with these muscle-bound losers she thinks will protect her, and it always goes wrong. You want a Dr Pepper?"

  Art expected the offer of a beer, or something stronger. It was almost as if Price was reading his mind.

  "I mean, you look like somebody who did their drinking yesterday, and you need to spell yourself. Pace is the key. Have a fizzy brown caffeinated beverage."

  Art accepted while Price popped not a beer for himself, but a ginseng soda. "If you don't like Suzanne, why did you invite her to come here?"

  Price's expression was open and placating. "Don't get me wrong, I love Suzanne. I knew she'd come with Dina-her pal-and I needed all these ingredients for the current recipe."

  "She was pretty upset, last night."

  "She'd have to be, to get lost on the beach in a storm. Why'd you let her in? Scratch that; another dumb question. It must have been weird for you."

  Art was not sure to which aspect Price was referring.

  "You know, a stranger out of nowhere? A castaway delivered to you by the storm, who just happens to have a lush little body? it's like a letter to Penthouse."

  "I couldn't very well tell her to go away, not in her state."

  Price laughed out loud, heartily. "I'll bet
! She didn't even have any shoes!" He drained most of his ginseng soda in a single robust pull and pitched the empty toward an overflowing bin. Two points.

  The music-which seemed up until now to consist of a single tune an hour long, unvarying in tone-paused off for a moment during which Art could hear several people go awww. Then it recommenced with a vengeance.

  "You know most of these people have been conditioned to hear music only in four/four time, at a hundred and twenty beats per measure? It's not that they can't listen to anything else; it's that they literally will not hear it as 'music.' "

  "It's kind of loud." Art winced as he said it.

  "Next you're gonna say, That's not music, that's just noise. Are you feeling old all of a sudden, Art?"

  Spoken in another way, by another person, it might have been an insult, but Art was beginning to feel Price said nothing by accident, and divulged nothing unintended. He looked up right into Price's gaze. His eyes were the color of… air. He seemed to have a membrane around him that insulated him from distractions, loud music, annoyances, anything that would disrupt the focus of his attention or interest, which was always direct and penetrative.

  "I've had older," said a voice behind them. A hand lit on Art's shoulder to turn him. As he faced the woman who had intruded, she kept talking to Price. "First off, Price, that Japanese club shit, or whatever it is, sounds like having a locust stuck in each ear." She nailed Art directly with wide, viridescent eyes.

  "That's my house mix," said Price. "For my dance fever crowd."

  "That's also Price's idea of a little joke," said the woman. "Do you see anybody dancing? Then don't call it dance music."

  "Well, some of them are sort of… spasming," said Art, with an expression still leery of offending his hosts.