Rainwater (15 page)

He looked like an angel today. She’d dressed him in a white linen shirt and matching shorts, which she’d bought at a rummage sale last summer, hoping that by this year he would have grown into them. His shorts attached to his shirt with large round buttons. His kneesocks were spotless; she’d polished his shoes last night. This morning, she’d managed to rake a comb through his pale hair several times before he began squealing and flapping his hands at the sides of his head.

She went to great pains every Sunday to dress him up, knowing the effort was wasted. No one noticed how well he was turned out, only that he was different, that he wasn’t “right.” Which was all the more reason for his appearance to be superior.

When they were settled in the pew, an usher kindly offered her a hymnal opened to the song being led by the twenty-voice choir, which, despite the two basses and one baritone, always sounded tinny.

She’d brought along a small bag of empty spools to keep Solly occupied during the service. Prayers were said, more hymns were sung, the offering plates were passed. The pastor began his sermon.

This morning’s message wasn’t all that inspiring. Ella’s attention began to drift, and so did her gaze. As it moved across the congregation, she spotted Mr. Rainwater. He was seated at the end of the pew, on the outside aisle, about midway between where she sat and the altar. He was looking directly at the minister, so to Ella, his face was in profile. For once the errant lock of hair that usually defied his hair tonic had remained in place. She was taken again by how pronounced his cheekbones were, how well defined his chin was.

He had an aspect of quiet intensity, attesting to his total absorption in whatever he was looking at or listening to. But his eyes were never passive. Even when they were still, there was industry in their depths. Like that of a spring-fed stream, the surface remained relatively calm despite the undercurrents.

She was surprised to see him. To her knowledge, this was the first time he’d attended services. He was seated with Dr. and Mrs. Kincaid, who was presently admonishing one of her restless sons with a warning glare to sit still and stop pestering his brother.

The Ellises were occupying their customary pew, the second on the right-hand side of the center aisle. No one else would dare sit in their pew. If a visitor did so unknowingly, another seat was suggested to him.

Even from the back and sitting still, Conrad looked pugnacious. Perhaps because his large head sat upon his wide shoulders with barely an inch of neck supporting it. His hair was as curly and dense as wool, covering his head like a tightly fitted cap. It added to his belligerent look.

Mr. Ellis sat beside him. He was a smaller man than his son, much less brawny, but he led with his chin, his head jutting slightly forward of his shoulders, in a way that looked aggressive, competitive, and combatant.

Although Mrs. Ellis, decked out this morning in pink voile, was the best dressed woman in town, she was not admired or well liked. The general consensus was that she put on airs and was stingy with her contributions of time and money to charities and civic organizations. She hosted social events in her home, but only for her fancy friends in Waco, never for local women.

It seemed to Ella that everyone in the church heaved a sigh of relief when the pastor finally wound down and closed the sermon with a prayer. At the end of it, he beseeched God to give direction to the misguided. It seemed an odd note on which to conclude the service, but it was explained when Mr. Ellis said a resounding, “Amen,” from his pew.

“I think Ellis wrote the closing prayer.”

Recognizing the voice, Ella turned. Mr. Rainwater was beside her, but his gaze was on the family currently talking to the pastor. As they watched, Mr. Ellis clapped the minister on the shoulder as he enthusiastically pumped his right hand. Mrs. Ellis fanned her face with a lace hankie that matched her dress. Conrad, looking bored, walked away from the group and lit a cigarette.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Ella said. “Mr. Ellis is a very influential member of the church.”

“Was it just me, or did you detect a subtle warning in that prayer? Who do you suppose determines who is and who isn’t ‘misguided’?”

She knew Mr. Rainwater’s question was rhetorical, so she didn’t venture an answer.

He looked down at Solly, who was standing docilely at her side, staring at the panes in the stained-glass window. “I didn’t hear a peep out of this young man. Can’t say the same for Murdy’s boys.”

Ella laughed. “They’re a handful. But today Solly was very good.” She was aware of eyes on them, especially when Mr. Rainwater politely cupped her elbow as they started down the steep front steps of the church. When they reached ground level, she slipped her arm free but covered the move by saying, “I haven’t seen you here before.”

“First time.”

“What did you think?”

“Boring sermon.”

“Even the diehards were snoozing this morning.” They smiled at each other, then she ducked her head, grateful for the brim of her hat, which helped conceal her face. “Margaret’s made a pork roast and two pies for Sunday dinner. I’ll see you then.” Pulling Solly along behind her, she turned and headed down the sidewalk.

“I’ll walk you to your car.”

“We came on foot this morning.”

“Then I’ll drive you home.”

“Thank you, Mr. Rainwater, but we have a … an errand to attend to.”

“I’ll drive you wherever you need to go.”

“Our errand is here, actually.”

He looked toward where she indicated: the cemetery that was adjacent to the church.

“I brought some cuttings from the yard for my parents’ … For my parents.” Because of his prognosis, she felt too uncomfortable with the subject of burial to say the word graves.

“Where are they? The cuttings,” he said, when she showed her confusion over whether he meant where were her parents or where were the flowers.

“I put them in the shade before we went into the church so they would stay fresh.”

He made a motion with his head for her to lead on.

“You don’t have to stay with us,” she said.

“Do you mind if I do?”

“Not at all. It’s just awfully hot today.”

“It’s hot every day. Heat doesn’t bother me that much.”

She saw no way of dissuading him without drawing the attention of lingerers still in the churchyard. Without further argument she led him around the corner of the building to the deep shade, where the bouquet was where she’d left it. Still in the Mason jar of water were colorful zinnias, a pair of creamy gardenias, and some late-blooming yellow roses, which so far had defied the summer weather.

Mr. Rainwater picked up the jar. “Very fragrant.”

“I thought it was nice.”

Together they covered the distance to the cemetery and went through the iron picket gate. He didn’t seem upset to be in a place so remindful of death. He read with obvious interest the names and dates on the headstones as they moved among them on their way to the plot shared by her parents.

She let go of Solly’s hand and took the jar of flowers from Mr. Rainwater, then knelt down and set the jar in the center of the headstone on which were engraved their names, their dates of birth and death, and a simple inscription: UNITED IN HEAVEN FOR ETERNITY.

Flanking their graves were two smaller ones with only brass plaques, flush to the ground, designating the individuals buried there. Ella removed two roses from the jar and laid one on each of these graves.

“Your twin brothers?”

She nodded, wondering if Mr. Rainwater noticed her exclusion from the family plot. No contingency had been made for her interment.

She pulled up several weeds, rearranged the flowers in the jar, then brushed off her hands and stood up.

“Do you come here every Sunday?” he asked.

“Once a month, maybe.”

“Is your husband also buried here?”

The question was unexpected. “No, he isn’t,” she said as she reached for Solly’s hand and started quickly retracing their path to the gate. “He wasn’t from Gilead. He was born in a small town in the Panhandle and grew up there. He liked the wide open spaces of the plains. He told me on more than one occasion that he wished to be buried out there.”

“I see.”

They walked on, but when they reached the gate, Ella stopped. Mr. Rainwater did likewise. By now, even the stragglers had left. The doors to the sanctuary were closed. Only Mr. Rainwater’s car remained parked in front of the church. The sun was reflecting off its windshield, radiating blinding shafts of light.

A lone woman, whom Ella recognized as one of her former schoolteachers, was walking away from them along the cracked and buckled sidewalk, carrying her handbag in one gloved hand, her large black Bible in the other. “Miss” Winnie had been a childless widow for as long as Ella had known her, and she wore the same hat to church every Sunday, regardless of the season. Perhaps she was very proud of the feather that curled around the crown of it. She spoke of her many cats as though they were children.

Something twisted inside Ella. She wished she’d seen her former teacher earlier so she could have invited her to join them for Sunday dinner. Otherwise, Miss Winnie would no doubt eat alone, then spend the rest of the day in solitude, with only her cats for company.

“My husband didn’t die, Mr. Rainwater.”

He remained silent and unmoving at her side, as still as the oak trees shading the graves. Eventually she turned to him. “I don’t know why Dr. Kincaid told you that I was a widow. To spare me embarrassment, I suppose.”

She glanced down at Solly. He seemed fascinated by the even placement of the pickets in the fence. He swayed back and forth as he studied them. Rays of sunlight speared through the branches of the nearest tree, shining on selected strands of Solly’s hair, making them appear almost translucent. Ella lightly stroked them with her fingertip. He jerked his head away from her touch.

“The truth is, my husband abandoned us six years ago. One day while I was out, he packed his belongings and left. I have no idea where he went. Back to the Panhandle perhaps. Or to another state. I don’t know. He didn’t leave a note, nothing. I never heard from him again.”

She turned her gaze back to the man beside her. “You’ve been kind to Solly and to me. In good conscience, I couldn’t continue lying to you.” Before he could say anything, she ushered Solly through the gate, having every intention of walking home.

But Mr. Rainwater went ahead of her and opened the passenger door of his car, motioning her in. She hesitated but saw no reason to refuse his offer of a lift. The visit to the cemetery had taken time, and her boarders would be expecting their dinner at two o’clock sharp.

Placing Solly in the middle of the seat, she climbed in after him. Mr. Rainwater closed her door, walked around the hood, and got in. He started the motor, then let it idle as he stared through the windshield for several moments. Finally he turned his head. She braced herself for the dreaded questions.

“What kinds of pies?”

“What?”

“You said Margaret made two pies for dinner. What kind?”

For six years she had withstood the gossip, speculation, insinuation, blatant nosiness, and sympathy of everyone who knew her. To newcomers in town, she was identified as the woman with the retarded boy whose husband had deserted them. She had borne the humiliation and pity with as much fortitude as she could muster.

Mr. Rainwater had subjected her to neither.

With emotion in her throat, she replied, “It’s a surprise.”

TWELVE

“It wasn’t just a stomach flu, was it?”

Ella and Margaret were in the kitchen, pickling cucumbers, okra pods, and watermelon rind. It was hot work, and there were no shortcuts to the process. The vegetables and rinds had to be thoroughly washed, sliced, and blanched. The Mason jars and their lids had to be boiled. The spices and vinegar were simmered together to achieve the best flavors.

Everything in the kitchen was steaming.

Including Ella, who pushed back coils of hair that had escaped her bun. She looked at Margaret, who was ladling a hot vinegar mixture redolent with dill over the cucumber spears she had packed tightly into a jar. Ella was prepared to play dumb or fib in reply to Margaret’s question, but when her loyal maid looked back at her, she knew that duplicity was pointless.

Margaret knew, or at least sensed, that Mr. Rainwater suffered an ailment, and she hadn’t been fooled by the explanation they’d provided the day Dr. Kincaid had been summoned to the house to treat him.

“No, Margaret. It wasn’t just a stomach flu.”

“He don’t eat much. Less ever’ day. I thought it was just the heat.” Margaret set the seal on the rim of the jar, then twisted on the ring. Wiping her hands on her apron, she turned to Ella. “Is he bad sick?”

“Very bad.”

Ella didn’t need to elaborate. Her tone spoke volumes. Tears filled Margaret’s eyes. “Poor, poor soul. How long?”

“No one knows that for sure.”

“A year?”

Ella shook her head. “Not that long.”

Margaret raised her apron to catch a sob in the hem of it.

“But please don’t say anything about it to anyone, especially not to him. He doesn’t want anyone to know. He doesn’t want a fuss made. Don’t act any differently toward him. Promise me you won’t.”

“I won’t,” Margaret mumbled as she blotted her eyes. “But it ain’t gonna be easy, ’cause I think a lot of him. He’s a gentleman, about the most decent white man I know.”

“If you feel that way about him, the nicest thing you can do for him is to treat him normally. Don’t let on like you know.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ella began slicing cucumber disks for her bread and butter pickles.

“Miss Ella? Did you know? Before that day we had to call the doctor?”

“I knew before he moved in.”

“You a good woman.”

Holding her knife poised above her chop board, Ella raised her head and looked through the window over the drainboard. Steam had fogged the windowpane. As she watched, it condensed into an iridescent bead of water that trickled down the glass like a raindrop, or a tear.