Wrapped in Rain(86)

"Before we left Atlanta, the attending doctor told me Rex needed round-the-clock help. I only knew of one place, so when we pulled into Clopton, I drove directly to Rolling Hills. I paid his deposit, and then two muscular men dressed in blue Dickies pants and brown Carhartt shirts lifted Rex out of the truck, rolled him down to the showers, and hosed him down. After his cleaning, they slipped him into an adult diaper and placed him in a room with a quadriplegic named judge Faulkner. When we walked in, the judge was watching Dr. Phil. `Howdy, son. This your dad?' he asked me. `Used to be,' I said. The Judge nodded, licked his lips, and said, `Mmmm, sounds like you two might have some issues you need to deal with.' `You might say so,' I responded shortly. `And we might if he could talk or even count to ten, but since he can't, looks like I'll just have to maintain a lifetime of issues.' The Judge blew and sucked on his little mouth diaphragm that used differing air pressures to operate various electrical devices. His blowing and sucking, which initially grossed me out, turned off the TV. He licked his lips again, another thing that grossed me out, and he said, `I don't think Dr. Phil is going to be much help here. I'd offer to lift a hand but can't. Haven't since that little squirt stabbed me in the back with the letter opener just as I was about to give him ninety days probation. But that's no excuse for bad manners. Son, I'm Judge Faulkner. You can call me judge.' I looked around at that cesspool and it struck me right there and then. I had found the perfect place for Rex Mason. I stuck out my hand and then quickly withdrew it. `Tucker Rain. This"-I pointed to Rex-"is Rex Mason."'



Katie looked away while I looked deep into the past. "For five years, the judge has talked to Rex. Nonstop." I shook my head. "Rex couldn't stand to be around people who talked incessantly, and the judge does just that. It's fitting justice."

I paused, and a few minutes passed again while Katie looked out the window of Rex's room, trying not to make eye contact with me. "In the weeks that followed, I picked up my camera, Doc started me traveling forty to fifty weeks a year, and I began seeing my name in the photo credits of magazines across the country."



Katie turned and crossed her arms. She looked cold again. I noticed the goose-down hair at the base of her neck. Her Julie Andrews hair had grown and the roots were no longer blond. They were brunette.

She leaned against the window and studied the pasture behind the house. "Have you always felt this way about your dad?"

"What do you mean, `this way'?"

"Hated," she said thoughtfully.

"You don't dodge hard questions, do you?"

She shook her head. I thought about stepping inside the room but decided against it. "Yes," I said and let the sick gravity of that sink in. "I think there must have been a time when"-I looked around the room-"when I was younger that I probably had hopes, but he didn't let me live in that fantasy very long."

She looked at me and didn't say much. Her eyes studied my face and made me uncomfortable. She was looking for something, and I wasn't sure I wanted to give it to her. I pointed out the window, toward the nursing home. "If he could speak, he'd be cussing me a new lineage for putting him in Rolling Hills. That thought in itself brings me great comfort."

She bit her lower lip and studied my face. "You talk about him as if he's not even a real human being. Like there's no attachment to him at all."

"You miss one baseball game and you're working to support your family. You miss two and maybe you've got a job that takes you away from home more than you'd like. Maybe an overbearing boss. You miss three and maybe you're just working too hard. You miss three hundred and eighty-seven and you're a demon from the pit of hell."



She sat down on the floor and looked at me through quizzical eyes. I walked into the room and stood in the place where I had shoved the barrel down Rex's throat. I looked into that wrinkle in time and could still see him standing there.

Katie looked out the window and wiped her face with her shirtsleeve, trying to stop the flow of mascara across her face. The silence was difficult, so I filled it. "A few years ago, Doc sent me to an oil rig in the Atlantic-to shoot a day in the life of an oil rig. I didn't know it at the time, but I had scratched my best and favorite lens. My 17-35 millimeter. A wide-angle. Looking through the viewfinder, I couldn't see the scratch. It was too fine. But it was there. I should have checked my lenses. I knew better, but I was in a hurry and not thinking. When Doc got the film, he was furious. `Tucker, you should know better!' And he was right, so he sent me back. The scratch didn't just mess up one picture; it messed up every roll of film until I started shooting through a different lens. Ultimately, I had to replace the lens. The imperfection in the glass permeated every shot. There was no way around it. If I was taking pictures through that lens, which I used about 90 percent of the time on that shoot, it was there."

I sat down on the bed and looked at the floor where Miss Ella had lain and tugged on my pant leg. "I think the heart is like that lens, and the soul is like that film." I stood and walked to the window, studying the pasture below. "I think I had some good times growing up, but as hard as I try, I can't remember many of them. They're covered up in blood, harsh words, bad memories, and the smell of bourbon. My Rex-colored glasses. But life's not like photography. I can't just switch lenses."