Only the Rain(22)

“Can I help you?” he said, and not in any friendly kind of way. More like we were trespassing on his property instead of sitting on the side of a public street.

“No thanks,” I told him. “We’re looking for a house that’s for sale.”

“End of the cul-de-sac,” he said. He was talking to me but smiling now at Cindy.

Then he walked up closer to her, still smiling like he was running for governor or something. “Is that a wedding ring on your hand?” he asked her. “You don’t look old enough to date yet, let alone to be tied down and married.”

I was about to let the guy know how sleazy he was, flirting with a man’s wife right in front of him, but Cindy beat me to it. She looked him dead in the eye and gave his smile right back at him.

“Married with two children,” she told him. “And couldn’t be happier about it. You wouldn’t believe how many slimy old creepers have been hitting on me while my husband was fighting in Iraq. Thank God that’s over with. I mean I don’t like that violent temper he’s got, but it does come in handy sometimes, you know?”

His smile turned a little sickly then, which brought me no end of pleasure.

But that was over eight months ago, and now I’m standing on the deck, not even wanting to look her father in the face because I’m afraid I might haul off and punch him. Instead I study my grass for half a minute. Then I say, “So what are you doing here, Donnie?”

“I came to see my grandchildren. Is it okay if I smoke out here?”

“No,” I told him. “And your oldest grandchild is seven years old. She’s seen you twice so far.”

“Okay,” he says. “Truth is, I’m hoping to make things up with Janice. Figured if I could get Cindy’s blessing on it, she might put a good word in for me.”

“I’m fairly certain you can add ‘blessing’ and ‘good word’ to the long list of things you are never going to get from Cindy.”

“I don’t expect it to happen overnight,” he says.

“And where did you plan to camp out while you’re working on this miracle?”

“I guess I was hoping for an invitation from somebody with an extra room.”

I nodded. I thought about it. And then I turned to finally look him in the eye. “How’d you get here, by the way? No vehicle, no luggage?”

“Car’s a couple streets over at the convenience store.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what,” I said. “You go get your car. Then drive on out to the interstate. Six motels within a quarter mile of each other. Lots of empty rooms out there.”



Here’s another thing I’ve observed. I think it’s part of Murphy’s Law. If it isn’t, it should be. It’s the fact that when you have something important to do, something like figuring out whether or not to tell your wife you’re going to be unemployed soon—and whether or not to tell her about something very stupid you did—and figuring out why that meth lab out on 218 showed no sign of being raided—and figuring out what to do with all the stolen money crammed into your grandmother’s antique desk—and where to hide the probably unregistered .22 revolver now in your saddlebag—and figuring out why you felt compelled to take it in the first place—all while taking your family out to dinner and pretending like nothing’s wrong—then along comes something else you have to deal with first, like chasing your father-in-law away and trying to soothe your wife’s mood while the kids fight over whether to get pepperoni or not on the pizza.

On second thought, Spence, forget about Murphy’s Law. It should be one of the laws of physics: A body at rest tends to stay at rest until acted upon by a naked lady dancing in the rain. After that, it’s going to be sandstorms and IEDs all the way to the end.



Any parent who is trying to be a good parent knows that, for most of every day, their own interests have to be put on hold while the kids’ needs and interests are tended. Which meant that Cindy and I didn’t get to talk about her father’s surprise appearance until we were in bed that night. I told her how my little conversation with him had gone, and she was furious.

“No way in hell is that going to happen,” she said. I’d heard her swear maybe ten times in our entire marriage. “No way in hell is he getting back with my mother.”

“Do you know for sure she doesn’t want to? Has she told you that?”

“It doesn’t matter whether she wants to or not. I’ll never let it happen.”

“But if she wants to—”

“It doesn’t matter what she thinks she wants, Russell! Why are you fighting me on this? You should be supporting me right now.”

“Baby, I’m not fighting you. It’s just that . . .”

“What? It’s just that what?”

I thought of a couple questions I could ask her, but it didn’t seem a good time, considering how worked up she was already. “Nothing, baby. I’m sorry. I’m behind you all the way, you know that.”

“You should be,” she said, and then leaned over against me, laid her head on my chest and let her hand rest on my stomach.

We stayed like that for a couple minutes, me not moving except to stroke her hair every once in a while. It had taken me a while to learn to be quiet like that with her. Back when we first got married, I thought it was my job to solve all of her problems, so anytime she would bring something up, I would add my two cents by saying, “Maybe you should do this,” or “Have you thought about trying that?” Then one day she came right out and told me what she thought of my suggestions. “I don’t need you to fix everything, Russell. Telling you what’s bothering me doesn’t mean I want you to fix it.” She kept hitting the word “fix” like it was something dirty.