Wrapped in Rain

by Charles Martin

  That's when the sound reached me.

  Notes from Rex's grand. They filtered down through the house and lifted me out of the cellar. I walked into the den looking like I'd been shot with grape puree and found Katie sitting at the piano, singing through her fingertips. I don't know who or what she was playing, but next to Miss Ella's voice, it was the most beautiful sound to ever fill our house. Mutt walked in holding a funny-looking wrench, lifted the lid of the piano, and leaned in, listening. Every few seconds, he'd reach across the strings and tighten or loosen one just as calmly as if he were adjusting a carburetor. Mutt sat next to Katie on the bench and watched her fingers dance atop the keys. I set the bat in the corner, sat on the floor, and picked the glass from my hair, tasting the bitter wine on my lips. It stung the cuts on my face, and its acrid taste burned my throat.

  Katie played until the first hint of morning lit the window. I don't know how many pieces. Maybe a hundred. All from memory. Every few moments Mutt would stand, walk around the piano, tinker with a string, and then sit back down next to Katie. He in his striped polyester suit, her in silk pajamas, and me in grapes, glass, balsam splinters, bitterness, and beauty.

  Chapter 40

  MIDMORNING, I STOOD WITH WET HAIR, WRAPPED IN A towel, and pouring a cup of coffee when Mutt walked through the kitchen carrying a chain saw in one hand and a sledgehammer in the other. Yes, he piqued my curiosity, but given the last twenty-four hours, anything was possible.

  "Good morning," I said, but Mutt was gone. Entrenched in his own world, he had checked out and didn't acknowledge me. His face was pointed out over his plodding feet like a man walking a very big dog. I walked downstairs and began dressing when I heard the first crash.

  To be honest, I didn't care if he destroyed the entire house. Any change would be an improvement. I will say, though, that I climbed the stairs hoping Mutt was being constructive with his destruction rather than just plain destructive.

  I nursed my coffee and watched from the door while Mutt struggled to shove Rex's dresser through the window. He pushed it onto the ledge, slid it halfway through, and with a single finger, tipped it out the window and watched it fall, crashing into a dozen pieces onto the marble and granite porch below. He pulled his safety glasses over his eyes, cranked the chain saw, cut Rex's bed in two, and sent it to a violent and glorious granite death. Next, he hip-tossed the remains of the rolltop desk through the window and followed it with a Frisbee throw of the now faceless portrait hanging above the mantel. He dislodged the mantel with one strong whack from the sledgehammer, ripped the bedroom door off its hinges, and flung both onto the pile below. Having emptied the room, Mutt picked up his tools, nodded at me, walked outside, and began piling up the splintered furniture on a little section of grass at the foot of the porch. Glue sauntered across the pasture and stuck his head over the fence with curiosity. As did Jase and Katie, who were sitting on the porch by then, watching and listening to the fireworks. Mose mucked Glue's stall with a look on his face that told me he'd been expecting this. It also told me he was enjoying it.

  Mutt turned the barn inside out looking for kerosene but found none.

  I raised a finger. "I've got just the thing." I fetched Whitey's two jugs from beneath my bed, and Mutt emptied both onto the pile. "You'd better stand back," I said to Jase and Katie. He threw on a match, the white lightning sparked, and flame erupted and climbed twenty feet into the air, sending a black plume upward as it burned off the glue and fabric.

  Mutt walked into the kitchen, washed his hands, grabbed a box of popsicles from the freezer, pulled out a banana-flavored one, and peeled off the paper. With half the popsicle sticking out of his mouth, he offered the box to me. I lifted my coffee cup and shook my head. He pointed the end of his popsicle at me and said, "I don't understand why anyone would eat any flavor other than banana." We watched as the flames licked the bottom of Rex's portrait. It wrinkled like Saran Wrap on a hot stove, balled up, turned black, and then disintegrated into ashes.

  Mutt polished off his popsicle, threw the stick at the fire, and began relieving the rest of the house of furniture he didn't like. It didn't take me long to gather that if he had a negative memory associated with that particular piece of furniture, it found itself in the fire. Three dining room chairs, several rows of books, two sets of fireplace pokers, half a dozen lamps, two bar stools, pretty much the entire bar, two sofas, three large chairs, several end tables, a globe, all of Rex's clothing, shoes, or anything he had ever worn, a small oriental rug, the carpet out of one of the bathrooms, five or six paintings, a bathroom sink, every picture of Rex he could find, the dining room table which came out in pieces, most if not all of the curtains, a ceiling fan, several seat cushions, all of the bedding, and finally, the Greener. He carried the Greener down the steps and looked at me. I nodded and he threw the fivethousand-dollar shotgun atop the pile.

  It was a warm fire. Expensive, but comforting. Mose walked out of the barn with a pitchfork in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other. He leaned against the fence, smiled, and raised his cup at me. Katie walked off the porch and said, "Tuck, aren't you going to stop him?"

  .Why?„

  "Well"-she waved her hand across the house"couldn't you two do something good with all this?"

  "Like what?"

  "Sell it."

  "Yeah, but the money we earned wouldn't buy as much therapy as that fire. I'm thinking about grabbing some marshmallows, a few Hershey bars, and pulling up a chair."

  While the flames grew hotter and higher, I sat down, crossed my legs, and basked in the glow. Jase ran off the front porch, jumped on my lap, and said, "Unca Tuck, do you think Unca Mutt would like to drink some beer with us?"

  Our therapy burned on for several hours, but the plastic box in my pocket and Mutt's quick disappearance reminded me that the inevitable was coming. Maybe this was the calm before the storm. What would he do after the fire died? Late in the afternoon, I dialed the number. It rang once. "Gibby, this is Tucker."

  "Tucker, good to hear you. How is he?"

  "That depends. Some days, I see progress. Others, I see digression. But ..."

  "Tucker, what is it?"

  "I think I found the root."

  "How do you know?"

  "It's a long story, but you remember him telling you about that dream where he was caught under a desk or table and unable to help someone in need?"

  "Clearly."

  "Well, that actually happened. About fifteen years ago. We were both there and I didn't know it until last night. I'm ... I'm at a loss. When I look at him, I think he could both slowly improve and spontaneously combust."

  "Christmas is day after tomorrow. I'll overnight a different medication that should arrive on the twenty-sixth. In three days. Think you can make it that far?"

  I had lost track. I had no idea it was the eve of Christmas Eve. "I think so. Maybe. I don't know. I don't know if his fuse is burning fast, slow, or not at all."

  "Have you used the injections? The Thorazine?"

  "No, not yet."

  "Keep them close. If he's half as bad as you say, that may he your only salvation."

  Gibby was right, but now I had two problems-Mutt, and what to get Katie and Jase for Christmas.

  Chapter 41

  GROWING UP, MOST OF MY FRIENDS DREAMED ABOUT fighting fires, shooting the bad guys, hitting the winning home run, saving the girl, or even getting kissed. My dreams had nothing to do with firemen, cops and robbers, girls, or playing first base for the Atlanta Bravesthat all came later. My first dreams, at least as much as I can remember of them, revolved around Rex coming home early from work, putting down his briefcase, picking up a glove rather than his glass, and throwing me the ball. And if he could have done all that without screaming and hitting me, well then, all the better.

  I daydreamed that Rex would step out of his black Lincoln or Mercedes, wearing his white, starched, Frenchcuffed, embroidered, Egyptian cotton shirt, sweaty and stuck to his back, his tie swinging side t
o side with every toss, smiling and offering a slow, steady stream of encouragement. "That's right, keep the elbow up. Point, step, and throw. And hit the target. Throw through the mitt." Rex could have told me that I was the most important kid in the world by hurrying home during a summer deluge, tossing me my glove, and saying, "Hurry, before it lets up." When it didn't happen, I threw the ball to myself, pretended, and made excuses for his absence. It didn't take me long to run out of excuses.

  Pretty soon, I realized baseball just wasn't Rex's thing, so I developed secondary dreams. These dreams revolved around him asking me to join him in whatever he was doing. I told myself he was busy, powerful, wielded influence, that he had a lot going on. My secondary dreams looked like Rex asking me to help him muck the stalls, mow the grass, clean his shotguns, cook breakfast, chop wood, build a fire, groom the horses, go fishing, drive the tractor-anything-but Rex didn't do those things. He paid someone else to do it because he didn't care the first thing about them. Not doing those things allowed him to spend more time chasing Thomas Jefferson or his secretary or disassembling a sweat-equity, family-owned business in Decatur.

  I'm not so poisoned that I can't see what a gift Rex had for making money. Everything he touched turned to gold. But the gold-touching secret would have been the last thing Rex would have ever shared with me. It was his secret, and he was quite happy to let it die with him which it will-because I was competition. His goal was plain and simple. Rex hired Katie's dad to get rid of Katie because having her near me made me happy. And if he wasn't going to be happy, then no one else was either.

  Lastly, my dreams dwindled to fantasies of recognition. If Rex wasn't going to play catch with me in the rain, then he could have at least taken me by the hand, walked me through the front door of his skyscraper, patted me on the shoulder, and said, "Hello, Mr. So-and-So, I'd like for you to meet my son," let me stand on my toes and punch the elevator button for the top floor, parade me into his office, ask his secretary to bring him his coffee and a hot chocolate topped with little marshmallows he'd bought just for me, and then let me sit next to him while he made phone calls, attended meetings, or did something important. Because if I had been included in what was so allfired important, then maybe that would mean I was important too.

  On the other hand, I didn't have to ask Miss Ella if she loved me. I knew. She told me every day but seldom used words. From the age of five, Miss Ella taught me how to spell love, and I've never forgotten it.

  It's spelled T-I-M-E. And it's something Rex knew absolutely nothing about.

  The look on jase's face told me he was suffering from the same dilemma. He was bored. By 9:00 a.m., he had ridden two hundred loops around the driveway and even started setting his own baseballs on the tee. He needed an activity.

  Mutt, on the other hand, needed a total hygiene overhaul, but I didn't know how to tell him. His beard was going on two weeks, but he shook so badly he couldn't draw a straight line, and I didn't want to suggest he do it himself for fear that he'd slit his own throat. Rather than risk insulting him, I tried the end-around approach. Mutt was just getting dressed when I popped my head atop the ladder. "I thought maybe I'd get a haircut today. You want to tag along?"

  jase heard me from the foot of the ladder and said, "I do. I want to go!" Mutt looked at me with curiosity. "What time?"

  I shook my head and said, "Anytime."

  Mutt looked around the barn like he was checking his internal calendar, looked at his left wrist where he had never worn a watch, and nodded. "Five minutes?"

  "I'll be in the truck."

  I dangled my keys at Katie, who ran her fingers through her short hair and smiled, "No thanks, I don't think I need Clopton's finest stylist touching my head."

  "You want me to bring you a bottle of color?"

  She rolled her eyes.

  There's an old adage that says never let a bald barber cut your hair, because jealousy may set in. Peppy Parker is bald as a cue ball and always has been, but all of Clopton has filtered through his chair. He's a Clopton establishment all to himself. Not to mention his barbershop. For as long as I can remember, Peppy has worn dentures that look two sizes too big and cause him to whistle through his teeth. He's never without a dip of snuff and ushers a brass spittoon on the floor beneath his chair like a soccer ball as he works a circle around you.

  At seventy-five, his bear paw hands are still rock-steady with a straight razor, he's a gentleman's gentleman who calls everyone by name, and he's never been in a hurry. He's also never dallied. "Time is money," and when he says that, he's talking about yours, not his. For all his adult life, Peppy has worked fifty weeks a year, given forty haircuts a week, and concluded every single one with a firm handshake and a "Good to see you. Tell your family I sent my best, and come back and see me." More than one hundred thousand haircuts, handshakes, and blessings.

  I met Peppy twenty-six years ago when Rex pointed his finger in Miss Ella's face and said, "Sit there and tell Peppy to cut it short, high, and tight!" He did too, which meant that my head stayed cold from that day until I left for Georgia Tech. Since then, it's been a bit warmer. Rex would call my longer hair a rebellion, but Miss Ella liked to run her fingers through it. I figure Peppy has cut my hair an average of eight times a year, and each time, I've looked more forward to the next than I did the previous.

  In cutting most of Glopton's hair, he's learned a good bit about everything and everybody. If you want gossip, go to The Banquet Cafe, but if you want the truth, go see Peppy.

  Mutt, Jase, and I walked into Parker's Barbershop shortly after he opened at nine.

  "Morning, Peppy," I said.

  "Good morning, Tucker. How's the world traveler?" Peppy placed the kid's seat atop the adult armrests of his chair and dusted it with his apron. "And who is this young man?"

  "Peppy, this is Jase Withers. A good friend of mine."

  "Well"-Peppy patted Jase on the knee and handed him a piece of Double Bubble chewing gum-"any friend of Tucker's is a friend of mine." Jase smiled and stuffed the gum in his mouth. Peppy looked at me. "How's he like it?"

  Before I had a chance to answer, Jase said, "Unca Tuck, I want it cut like you."

  "What do you mean?"

  "Like in that picture above the fireplace."

  "Ohhhh." I squinted at him and thought about the ramifications of such a decision. "Little buddy, I'm not too sure your mama's going to like that."

  "But you will."

  Peppy looked at me with raised eyebrows and smiled. "It'll grow back. Every boy needs to be a boy. It's part of living."

  "Yes sir, they do. And it will." I looked up at Peppy. "That'd be a number one."

  Peppy clipped a number one comb on an old polished chrome buzzer and flicked it on. The buzzer spat, hiccupped, coughed, and gave up the ghost. "Well, after fourteen years"-Peppy shrugged-"it's about time." He unplugged it, rolled the cord around the end, and pitched it in the can. Without a second's hesitation, he pulled his newer, seven-year-old buzzer off the wall and began systematically buzzing the hair off Jase's head.

  Mutt tapped me on the shoulder with a rubber-gloved hand, pointed to my pocket, and held out his hand. I gave him my Swiss Army knife and he dug the buzzer out of the trash can. While Peppy buzzed, Mutt tinkered.

  Four minutes later, not one single hair on Jase's head was longer than half an inch, and I could almost hear Katie screaming in horror at the sight of her son. It was a glorious picture. Peppy clicked off the buzzer, ran his fingers beneath the wall-mounted machine that warmed the shaving cream, and began dabbing it on Jase's neck.

  `lase, sit real still," I said with my hand on his shoulder. "Mr. Peppy here is giving you the works." Peppy stropped his straight razor about three licks and gently shaved the fuzz off Jase's neck. Peppy pulled off the apron and held up the mirror for Jase. He smiled earlobe to earlobe, his ears appeared to stick out wider, and his chest grew six sizes.

  Mutt sat in Peppy's chair, and Peppy almost didn't recognize him. I didn't need to te
ll him the story. He already knew most of it. Peppy cut his hair, shaved his neck, and even shaved his face. When he finished, Mutt looked better than I'd seen him in a long time. Peppy dabbed both hands with a liberal dose of Clubman's aftershave and slapped it on Mutt's neck and cheeks.

  Jase tugged on my pant leg. "Unca Tuck, what's that?"

  "Oh, that's the real deal. That's Clubman's. You probably need some of that. I think your mom will really like it." I knew this was not true and that I had in fact just told a bold-faced lie, because no woman in the history of womanhood had ever liked Clubman's aftershave. Only men did, but I figured Jase didn't need to know this, and once Katie got over the shock of his total absence of hair and the accentuated Dumbo look of her son, she'd go along with it. Peppy wiped Jase's neck and face and even ran a little through his hair.

  I glanced at Mutt, who was engrossed in the guts of the buzzer, which were spread out across the floor.

  "Tuck." Peppy slapped his chair with his apron and blew off the remaining hair with a blow dryer. "How 'bout it? Have you come to your senses yet?"

  "I thought maybe I'd just let you trim the edges."

  "That's what I figured. Still rebelling, are you?"

  "Something like that."

  "Have a seat."

  Peppy cut my hair and even managed to honor the trim rule. While I paid, Mutt replaced the last screw, walked over to Peppy's station, plugged the buzzer back in the wall, and sprayed down the back side with disinfectant spray. He clicked it on and held it to his ear. It looked and sounded brand-new. He handed it to Peppy and tried to force the words percolating in his brain down through his mouth. After a minute of struggling with his lips, he said, "F-f-f-fourteen years."

  Peppy smiled. "Mutt, I've always preferred the feel of this one in my hand. Thank you." He put his hand on Mutt's shoulder. "It really is good to see you." Mutt blinked several times, and his eyes began darting back and forth. He fumbled with his hands, nodded, and finally shoved his left hand into his pocket, where it wrapped around whatever happened to be in there. I had a pretty good idea what it was.