Only the Rain(8)

One of the things I liked to do best back then was to find an unfamiliar road and explore it, just to see where it might take me. I would turn this way or that, taking any stretch of blacktop that promised new scenery. And somehow I made it onto SR218, a narrow piece of road flanked mostly by fields or hardwood forests, full of tight turns and a couple long straightaways. That was all I remembered about the road, except that it ran basically north to south and joined up with Route 62 at the Get-Go station. Route 62 junctioned with Route 7, my usual road home.

I wasn’t on 218 more than a few minutes before the rain let up to a drizzle. I was able to loosen my death grip on the handlebars, and some of the tightness in my back and shoulders lightened up too. I was still getting drenched, not that any more rain could get me wetter than I already was. Still, I started breathing a little bit easier. A ride on the bike always does that for me once I get away from the traffic. And I couldn’t have been more alone on that back road. Plus, still having to keep my speed down to forty or so, I could smell the wet fields and trees now. The fields were thick with either corn or soybeans, two shades of green both darkened by the gray sky, but the air was sweet and cool, and even the water shining on the blacktop made it all look cleaner.

And then I passed the house off to my right at the bottom of a low hill. I saw the girl from maybe fifty yards away. She was dancing in the yard and she was as naked as the day she was born. At first I assumed she was a little kid, but that impression didn’t last. She was a long way from being a kid, in her midtwenties probably, maybe even closer than that to my own age. And I will admit that the moment I saw her I started slowing down. A fine young girl dancing naked in the rain is not something you’re likely to see every day.

This one was making slow turns with her arms held out at her sides. Sometimes she’d be looking up at the sky, sometimes down at the muddy ground, weaving and swaying. It kind of reminded me of some scene from a movie, like a pagan rain dance, you know? In the background the thunder was still rumbling now and then, but getting farther and farther away from us.

Between the rumbles I could catch bits of what must have been very loud music coming from inside the house, which was a run-down kind of place with a couple of blue plastic chairs on the front porch, another chair holding open the door. I can still hear that music in my head, though I didn’t hear it clearly that day until I shut off the bike. But every time I hear it these days I can still picture her dancing, still see her long mud-splattered legs, her small breasts and the hair that I thought then was brown. I saw her afterward, in drier times, and that was when I realized her hair was strawberry blonde. It was the rain that made it look darker. So now every time I hear Gregg Allman singing “Someday Baby,” whether I hear it on the radio or in one of the dreams I sometimes have, I see her and I see the brindled pit bull pulling at his chain, barking and wagging his tail like he’s going crazy wanting to dance with her. But she always keeps a step or two beyond the reach of his chain, which is looped around a big black oak to the side of the house.

So I go riding past her house as slow as I can without coming to a stop. If she sees me, she gives no sign of it. I’m still taking quick looks back at her even after I pass the house. And that’s when I see her go down in the mud. I see one bare foot slip out from under her, go up in the air, and then she goes down hard on her back.

I come to a stop as fast as I can on the slippery road, turn around on my seat and wait for her to get up. But she isn’t moving. The dog is straining at his chain harder than ever and barking like he’s possessed. I keep waiting and waiting, because the one thing I do not want to do is to be caught leaning over a naked woman who is not my wife. Make that two things: I also do not want my throat ripped out by a pit bull.

But in the end I have no choice. I sit there watching for what seems at least a couple of minutes but is probably less. She’s as motionless as a doll laying there in the mud. I can’t just ride away and leave her there.

“This is where a guy gets himself into trouble,” you said one time. “Helping somebody that don’t want help.”

You were saying it to that guy Keith who nearly got himself—

Gotta go. I hear Cindy in the bathroom.



Sorry about bailing last night, brother. Turns out Cindy had too much iced tea before going to bed. But I made it back under the sheet before she even knew I’d been gone. Not that it would have been a big deal or anything; she’s used to waking up and finding my half of the bed empty. But she worries when that happens, you know? Always wants to talk it out. Which is the last thing I want to do with a civilian. Wouldn’t do either of us any good.

So back to what I was saying last night about helping somebody who don’t want help. I remember you warning that big goofy guy from Ohio named Keith. He was standing there shaking like a leaf beside an Al Jubouri woman on her hands and knees screaming over the body of a guy who turned out to be her husband. Before this our platoon had been standing around the outdoor market that morning, keeping an eye out for anybody looking out of place, the gunners behind their .50 cals in the HMMWVs, same old same old. The woman had been doing her damnedest to raise one of those pull-down metal covers on a shop front, but the thing was stuck and the man with her never once offered to help, just stood there chattering away in Arabic. I could tell by his tone he was criticizing her, maybe even threatening her. That was when Keith broke away and walked over to her and bent down and put his hand on top of hers to help lift the cover.