flashquake Fiction

UNEXPECTED RAIN
by Margaret A. Frey

Charlotte Snyder dried the last of the dishes while raindrops pinged the screen and splattered the redwood deck. The sky remained bright despite the renegade shower.

Charlotte lowered the sash and smiled. Water and lots of it, Peter Hanks had said after installing the fresh sod. He'd come to the back door twisting a grimy hat between his hands.

"Need to keep it moist, Ma'am. A long drink every day makes the roots thick and strong." He shuffled his feet. "Real sorry to hear about the mister. Awful shame, it was." He handed her an invoice.

She paid the balance without question having inspected the work — the sod fit tight and square like an oversized puzzle. She'd walked the perimeter, then wiped the mud from her sturdy oxfords. The lawn was blue-green and perfect, and Hanks's price was fair, not widow-inflated.

The rain meant no reason for hauling out the hose and would make it easier to convince Albert of his naptime, a routine Charlotte guarded religiously. It was difficult to convince an eight-year old how he needed rest when his small frame wagged at the sight of playmates. In the evening, while settling the boy, she often laid her hand against his breast. His chest thumped with a startling ferocity.

What she feared most was losing the child like James, dead at forty-two, his heart exploding one bright and breezy afternoon. Only later she discovered coronary problems plagued James's family, a leaky valve handed down like a house with bad plumbing. If only she'd known. She would have demanded a better diet and regular exercise. She would have cautioned James about long hours at the office, time he might have spent with her and the boy.

After James's death, she insisted the family doctor perform a complete medical, an experience the boy whined about miserably. Though the tests revealed nothing, she worried even the tiniest imbalance, an elevated temperature, the occasional dry cough, were precursors of future disaster.

She glanced at the clock. Nearly one o'clock. She rinsed the sink, swiped the water stains off the faucet and folded the tea towel. She would read to Albert, perhaps a chapter of Treasure Island. The book had been James's favorite, still the rough illustrations troubled her: pictures of bearded men with patched eyes and scowling mouths, and —

"Mommy! Look!"

She hurried to the front room. Albert's nose was pressed to the window. His hands twisted the linen drapes. "Albert, please! I've told you not to touch the curtains."

"Look! Marta's playing in the rain. Can I go? Can I, please?"

"Don't be ridiculous. Children don't play in rain storms."

Charlotte blinked as Marta Cumming's tiny frame cartwheeled across the lawn. Had the child lost her mind? Better yet, what kind of mother would permit this? The child was on her belly, undulating her pelvis, slithering across the grass. Charlotte pulled Albert from the window.

"No, no," he pleaded. "I want to see, I want to play." His shoulders shuddered; his small face turned sweaty.

She shushed the child. She told him what was obvious — that with the exception of Marta the street was deserted, and Marta was a peculiar child, who would no doubt catch pneumonia and wind up in the hospital where doctors did terrible things to sick children.

"And we wouldn't want that to happen to you, would we?"

She held the boy by the shoulders until his head sagged ever so slightly. She drew his trembling frame against her and stroked his hair. "Be a good boy. Go to your room and fold your shorts across the chair, then pick out a book. Maybe that nice flying horse story. I'll join you in a minute." The child sighed and trudged upstairs. She smiled until he rounded the landing, then she opened the door.

Marta twirled a piece of sod. The girl grasped the grassy rectangle along the edges and spun in a dizzying circle. With a "whomp," the sod smacked the ground. Marta peeled back another piece and began the same ritual — the spinning, the laughter, the ruinous letting go. A dozen muddy divots marred the front lawn.

Something white-hot opened in Charlotte. She loped through the rain and mangled grass. She yanked the child at the shoulder. She gripped the tender flesh beneath the girl's armpit and shook her. She shook until the wriggling stopped and the crazed giggle turned to a whine. The youngster wrenched free. She fell backwards, then shimmied in reverse on pale, thin haunches. Her mud-streaked bathing suit bunched up at the crotch.

"Look what you've done!" Charlotte screamed. "What's wrong with you? You must be crazy. You're a crazy child, an animal. Go home! Don't ever come back!"

The child stumbled to her feet. Her wiry body was slick with grass and mud. She flung out her arms, palms up in supplication.

"Now!" Charlotte said. "Or I swear, I'll break your neck!"

The child dashed across the macadam while the rain cut slantwise through the air. After the girl disappeared, Charlotte realized how ridiculous she must look — her hands dripping with black topsoil, her hair slick and stringy.

Rain pellets flooded the exposed soil with mud and confetti grass. It was all in ruin. A single, thoughtless act had spoiled it. She trudged towards the house. The water squished in her sensible shoes.

Albert stood at the door in his Superman jockeys. He embraced a copy of "Treasure Island." A frown worried his face. "What happened? What did Marta do?"

Charlotte lifted her chin and stared blankly at the boy. She lowered herself onto the stoop. She cradled her knees and rocked, then bowed her head in grief and confusion over the ordinary things in life, lost and so easily ruined, and all the answers she would never have.

Copyright 2003 by Margaret A. Frey

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