Send Down the Rain(42)

“Every six or eight months I’d drive down to check on you. You were mostly alone, and the restaurant looked old and needed a face-lift. I heard that Jake had convinced you to reverse mortgage the restaurant. Then he convinced you to let him give the money to an investor who promised big returns, although he failed to mention the high risk and lost it. Although, knowing what I know now, I have my questions about that money and whether or not it was really lost. At the time, I figured it was none of my business, and as bad as things were for you, you were still better off without me.

“So I returned to my cabin and turned sixty alone. I figured the best of my life had passed me by. Then came sixty-one. Sixty-two. Life was just clicking by, and I thought I’d die in some snowbank surrounded by bad memories. Then about a week ago, I heard this kid scream in the distance. And when I did, I heard you screaming from your bedroom, and in my mind I saw your mom on the floor and . . . the next thing I knew I was running through the snow.”


AS I HAD NO food in my cabin, we stopped and bought groceries and dog food. Enough to last a day or two. Highway 221 passed under the Blue Ridge Parkway. Afternoon had given way to evening, and that beautiful purplish-blue light hung atop the mountains. The clouds had sunk down in the valleys. Stuffed like cotton balls in the cracks. Up here, on the ridgeline, the night air was cool and clear. I exited the paved road onto gravel and then dirt. We rolled slowly a few miles. When the road turned up, I shifted into four-wheel drive and began crawling toward the cabin. Allie watched the road with curiosity. When we leveled out onto the top of my mountain and rolled to a stop in front of my cabin, I finished my story. “Here we are.”

With the temperature in the thirties and Allie wearing a T-shirt, I grabbed her a fleece jacket, a down vest, and a wool scarf and beanie. I lit a fire in the cabin, bathing the inside walls with a warm light that had become a comfort to me over the years. Allie kicked me out of my kitchen and made us some soup and cheese toast. Rosco stretched out on his bear rug, and we ate in front of the fire, peeling off the fleece and down as the inside temperature of the cabin grew cozier.

It was the most at home I’d felt anywhere in a long, long time.





24

With Allie asleep, I tucked the blanket around her, but she never moved. Her sleep was peaceful and deep. At nine o’clock I tuned in Suzy, and I listened as the fire crackled and wind pulled on the evergreens outside.

In the early years of my calling Suzy, her producer would answer and then put me on hold like all the other guys. They’d make their way down the line and vet each of us, asking us what we wanted to talk about. What was “on our heart.” I never really knew how to answer that. For a year or two I’d wait an hour. Sometimes two or three. Somewhere in the third year, Suzy was vetting the callers and she said, “What’s on your heart, soldier?”

I responded honestly. “I’m not sure my heart can answer that.”

She sounded surprised. “You don’t know what your own heart feels?”

I spoke quickly. “You’re assuming my heart can feel anything at all.”

From then on, they patched me through.

I dialed the number. My caller ID registered. Suzy answered, and her voice walked three thousand miles through the line. “Jo-Jo! How you doing?”

Not wanting to disturb Allie, I walked outside and closed the door behind me. “Not real sure, Suzy.”

She heard the uncertainty in my voice. “You okay?”

“Rough couple of days.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

She knew me well enough by now not to push it. She changed the subject. “What’d the doctor say?”

“Says I’m fine.”

“Which means you haven’t been to see him, have you?”

“I saw him.”

“But . . . he wants to schedule a procedure and you’re stalling.”

“I feel fine.”

“Except when you don’t.”

“It’s getting better.”

“You still eating antacids like chocolate chip cookies?”

“Not as much.”

“How many a day?”

“I don’t know—”

“Be honest.”

“Fifteen. Twenty.”

“Joseph, that’s not normal. You need to see someone about that.”

“Why is it when somebody wants to say something serious to me they always say my whole name?”

“Because we’re trying to get your attention, but you’re stubborn.”

“I’ll move it up on the priority list.”

“Jo-Jo?”

“Yeah, Suzy.”

“Tell me something you remember. Something good.”

A memory flashed across my eyes. “I had a friend one time. He had my back. He plucked me out of more than one bad situation. Most mornings, we shared coffee. At a table overlooking the South China Sea. He’d light a cigarette and let it burn on the table between us, keeping the mosquitoes at bay. When we finished we’d leave our empty cups on the table and say, ’Till tomorrow.’”

“Why?”

“Because there was no guarantee of tomorrow. Only the hope of it.”

Maybe it was the tone of my voice, but she let it go. “Can I play you something?”