When It Rains

When It Rains  (E) It's a week since Deirdre's son has died and she still hasn't cried. #1650387 by Nom D. Guerre

When it rains in Dahlia County, it really rains. You can see the dense black clouds from a distance, and then, before your very eyes, the clouds are over your house. The rain is both a blessing and a curse. The land needs it, and drinks it up, and everything turns green overnight. But then, the turkeys need to be brought in as quick as possible because when it rains they cock their heads up and open their beaks and drown of their own accord. My brother, Avery, brings in the turkeys as quick as the rain itself, shooing them with great movements of his strong arms, and kicking the coop door closed with his big black galoshes. As least, he used to. My dad is chasing the turkeys around now, nudging them gingerly with his ridiculous fleece ugg boots, screaming at them to go inside, and finally, picking up armfuls of turkeys with his bare arms, so that they peck and squall and scratch until his arms are red raw. I would have laughed if it wasn’t so depressing.

My mother is still sitting at the kitchen table in her Sunday best, but it’s a different Sunday best than what I am used to. It’s a soft black rayon pinafore, with black stockings, black shoes, and a veiled black hairpiece. She stares at the table, unblinking, unfazed by the screams and squalls coming from the turkey coop. I walk towards her, and put my arms around her. It’s like hugging a concrete buttress, all cold and rigid. I feel my eyes fill with tears, and I turn away and sob. Afterwards, I wipe my face with the hem of my own black dress, and eat some grapes from the bench.

A week ago, today, my brother Avery died in a tractor accident, and I’ve cried everyday since. Big cries, little cries, drizzly cries that seem to go on for days, and abrupt angry explosions of tears that last for no longer than a few seconds. My father has cried too, not as much as I have, but enough so that I could hear him through the papery walls at night. His cries affect me worse than my own, because they are so tormented. He puts on a brave face for most of the time, but at the funeral today, he let himself go. I have reason to believe that half of the people at the funeral today were not crying because of Avery’s death, but because of my dad’s crying. I know that seems like a bad thing to say, but most of the people there didn’t even know Avery well. Some of our city relatives had never even met him, yet they cried harder than anyone else.

My mother hasn’t cried at all. Not once, since Avery died. I think it might be because she was the closest to him. Maybe she doesn’t want to believe that he is gone. All I know is that I’m scared for her. She is so detached, just staring into nothing, unblinking. And you know what they say - the silent ones are the ones you have to watch out for.

“Them turkeys have got some life in them,” Dad mumbles, showing me the scratches on his arms. He runs his wounds under cold water, and pats them clean with a new dish towel. Red stains spring up on the soft white material. This would have incurred a round of yells and screams from my mother a week ago, and a tirade of the amount of effort she expends to keep the house clean. Instead she just keeps staring at the wood of the kitchen table, unbothered.

“Do you want me to get some antiseptic for those cuts, Dad?” I ask, grimacing.

“Nah, I’ll be right. I don’t ever get infected,” he grunts with an over-virile countenance.

“I’m going to get you some antiseptic,” I say disapprovingly, and walk to the hallway cupboard. I return will a bottle of brown antiseptic and a cotton pad. Dad rolls his eyes and holds out his arms.

“Go easy on ‘em, eh? That stuff stings.”

I nod and dab at his cuts gingerly. He winces a bit, and I apologise.

“Sorry, Dad.”

“Eh? Oh, that’s alright, love.”

I take his other arm and begin to dab, but I forget to the excess off the pad. A heavy drop of brown liquid seeps into one of his deeper cuts.

“OUCH!” Dad flings his arm up, yelping in pain, his hand flies out, hitting a bowl of fresh grapes into the air. We both watch helplessly as it soars on a set collision course with the kitchen table.

“Oh!” I yell, but my screams can do nothing. The bowl of grapes lands right under my mother’s nose, the purple beads scattering a rolling off the table, many landing in her lap.

“Oh, dear,” Dad mumbles. He ambles over to help clean the mess, but is stopped dead in his tracks by an unusual sound.

“Deirdre?” He seems staggered. My mother is laughing, but not just laughing, roaring and moaning with great gulps of air in-between. She collapses onto the table, shuddering, her great shoulders shaking, in pure hysterics. Soon the laughter turns into something else. My dad walks over and takes her into his arms, absorbing the tears like a human handkerchief. She is distraught.

“My boy!” She wails into his shoulder. “My boy is dead!”

“Yes, dear, he is. He is dead,” Dad says shakily, and I realise that he is crying too. He hugs her around the waist and takes her upstairs, where she cries all night without stay. I stay downstairs alone the entire night, knowing that this is both a blessing and a curse. The curse is felt now, and the blessing comes later. It will be over by morning, but for now, it will come as hard and unbridled as ever. Because when it rains in Dahlia County, it really rains.

Ó Nom D. Guerre