Warm Dust, Summer Rain

By Gloria Nero

When Doug Rainey, a despairing poet, whom the author draws as a central character, drowns in a New York City reservoir he leaves sorrow and mystery in his wake. Warm Dust, Summer Rain deals in an arresting and unique way with the sometimes strange behavior of those left behind to grieve. Deirdre Rainey, the hauntingly beautiful and enigmatic sister of Rainey knows no barriers between the living and the dead. Neither does she abide by the rules of conduct set by society. Eugene Rainey, the poets son desires only to fill his fathers shoes. The lovely widow, Claudia Rainey, cannot see herself existing without a Rainey. And Gabriel Orr, the outsider, not only finds himself irrevocably involved with Raineys little family but fears the poets spirit has entered him. Set in the Catskill Mountain watershed region which Gloria Nero characteristically pictures with pastoral charm and incorporeal atmosphere, there is an intrinsic connection between story and place. And too, she creates a realistic intensity and penetration into the lives of the individuals she portrays. Ultimately a novel of passion and forbidden love, this is a startling book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 9, 2005
• ISBN: 9781477172773

Gloria Nero

Gloria Nero¡¦s first two novels „o Crazysad Heart of a Fool and Full Wolf Moon Going Down won her a wide readership for her imaginative storytelling, her visual use of the language, and her ability to create unforgettable characters. Ms. Nero grew up in northern New Jersey. She currently lives in the foothills of the Catskill Mountains with her two faithful dogs. Her passions include motorcycle riding and gardening. She is currently at work on her next novel.

Book preview

Warm Dust,

Summer Rain

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Gloria Nero

Copyright © 2005 by Gloria Nero.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This novel is a work of the author’s imagination. Every character and all events are purely fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All places named are used fictitiously.

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

[e-mail]

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

About the Author

For L. D. L. and Rowdy, true friends

Also by Gloria Nero

Crazysad Heart of a Fool

Full Wolf Moon Going Down

How fair is thy love, my sister, my spouse!

how much better is thy love than wine!

The Song of Solomon, IV, 10

O That thou wert as my brother; that sucked the

breasts of my mother!

The Song of Solomon, VIII, 1

Chapter One

GABRIEL ORR

The May rain was drenching the fields and wooded hills that rose steeply up from the village with tints of spring green, but it was coming down November gray. Heavy dark clouds hung low overhead. The mercurial fog, like smoke from a smoldering fire, merged the woods and stormy sky, capping the place. A dreary place in the rain. On a gloomy morning. The smeary gray rain beat against his face and ran into his eyes. He lowered his head and cut across the parking lot at a run, skirting the muddy puddles. He took the steps of broken concrete two at a time. Pulling open the door of the diner, a blast of hot air and the smell of bacon grease greeted him.

Every stool was taken at the counter. He edged his way through the noisy clattering and hum of male voices to a back booth. Jean was on, sliding plates of scrambled eggs, bacon and toast before two road-crew workers, she glanced up at him and made as if to give him a kiss. Puckering her lips and making a smacking sound. Mornin’ Gabe, coffee? she said. He nodded. Coming down in buckets out there, he remarked, taking off his dripping jacket, hanging it on the hook. The duck-taped turquoise plastic farted vulgarly, as he sat down. Sliding over, he leaned cater-cornered, his back against the flowery drapes. Ed Duffy swung about on his stool. How you doin’ Orr? Gabriel avoided Duffy’s eyes. Not too bad, he muttered. Unfolding the sodden local paper, he laid it out, heavyheartedly. Putting on his reading glasses, he ignored Ed Duffy’s gaze, and read the headlines again, with dismay. Local Weldor Drowns in the Reservoir. Sad business. Gabriel seldom reads the dull local news but he’d seen the headlines while waiting in line to get his cigarettes.

He pulled the cellophane off the Kools absently, tore open the pack and shook out a cigarette just as Jean appeared with his coffee. She banged it down in front of him, sloshing hot coffee over the brim of the cup. Want the usual, Gabe? He nodded and grabbed a napkin from the holder, sopped up the spilled coffee in his saucer. Her sloppiness irritated him. How’s it goin’, she said, hovering there. He could feel her eyes on him. He glanced up. She looked like she’d been hit by a Mack truck. The black liner underscoring her red eyes was already runny, the sacs beneath puffy and blue. She’d had a hard night. Ladies Night Out. Jean never missed a one. He pondered a moment on why her so-called better-half let her go? because he didn’t care? because she’d go anyway, even if he did? She gave Gabriel a wink, sighed a weighty sigh, her heavy breasts rising and falling in her tight blouse. Rain’s coming down in buckets, he said, again. He didn’t want to engage in conversation. Small talk. Conversation was something he’s never had in Mary Lou’s Diner.

Jean swung around and pushed along behind the row of men, touching a shoulder, patting an ass. Swaying her hips a little—for Gabriel’s benefit? Maybe. Jean. A coarse woman. Plays too hard for her age. She’d be better off staying home, going to bed early sometimes. But it’s none of his business. What she does.

He stuck his cigarette in his mouth and felt around in his pocket for a match. Holding the flame to his smoke, he read. At 3:30 PM, yesterday afternoon, police were called to the scene of an apparent suicide. Douglas Rainey, age 50, was found drowned in the Pepacton Reservoir near the bridge on Route 30. Elmer Loftsky, the driver of a logging rig, made the call. State Police arrived just prior to the DEP and the County Sheriff. Rainey’s body was pulled from the reservoir by the Delaware County Rescue squad. There were no witnesses as far as the police know at this time.

State Police notified Mrs. Rainy shortly before 5:00 PM. Claudia Rainey, age 42, went into shock and was taken to County Community Hospital for treatment. No suicide note has been found.

Mrs. Rainey refused to comment on a possible reason for her husband to take his life. He was in good health, she said and they have no financial burdens. They had made plans to celebrate her birthday the following evening. It’s a tragedy, Dennis Miles, a neighbor, told this newspaper. The Raineys were a couple of lovebirds. They had a perfect marriage.

Moving to Spring Clove Road in l982 from Sussex, New Jersey, (Sussex? I’ll be damned, he mouthed the words softly. He’d grown up not far from there) the Raineys ran a successful repair welding business and were thought to be the best around.

Douglas Rainey, besides being a topnotch weldor was also a poet. His work has been published and critically acclaimed. He and his wife, a landscape painter, often collaborated publicly—the latest reading and show having been at the Starr Art Center where Douglas Rainey read from his recently published book, ‘Warm Dust in a Summer Rain’ amidst Claudia Rainey’s surreal landscapes. Their work was complimentary, Claudia’s paintings of isolated still lakes and ponds corresponded with Doug’s fascination with death by drowning, commented Debra Starr of the Starr Arts Center. Douglas Rainey was obsessed with death, she told the Daily Reporter, there is a reference to death in nearly all of his poems. Particularly death by drowning. Personally, I’m not surprised, she added sadly.

You know him? asked Jean, holding his order over the newspaper. Gabriel pulled the Daily Reporter aside and refolded it. Jean dropped his plate down and casually brushing his hand with her own, refilled his cup with coffee. It’s pretty sad, he said. Yes, he knew Doug. Though not well. He’d been to the Raineys’ shop yesterday. He was an odd duck, she said. Ed Duffy swung around on his stool and butted in. You talkin’ about the welder? he asked, poking a tooth pick between his upper molars. Gabriel gave a nod as he laid his pair of drugstore glasses aside. Reaching for his fork, he reiterated. Sad business. Jean ran her wash cloth over the table. She was stalling, there was a momentary lull in the morning’s business.

Yep. Strange. If you ask me, I betcha anything he found her cheatin’. Folks spend all their time together like those two did—go straight off the wall, somethin’ happens. Ed Duffy had all the answers. He was a real gasbag. Mike Turner turned his head and added his two cents worth. You ever see her? Damned pretty lady. Yep, she could make a grown man weep. She’s an angel. That one. Wouldn’ta drowned myself, had her for a wife. Poor bastard. Wonder what got in his head?

Ha! An angel, scoffed Jean. I agree with Ed. She was probably running around on him. He was a flake, I’ve heard stories—imagine jumping in the reservoir like that. Bet the water was icy cold. Duffy laughed. Betcha folks down in the city are gonna choke on their drinkin’ water when they find out a stiff was floatin’ around in it. Duffy laughed again at his wisecrack. His joke was followed by more of the same and laughter down the line of men.

Gabriel forked up his ham and cheese omelet. And listened to the opinions and remarks. Somebody said he had one hellava hard-on in his breeches when they dragged him out. Jean pranced back to her spot behind the counter. Wish I’d seen that, she announced. Even if he was a flake, he was a cute one. Fifty years old! Who would’ve guessed. He was in terrific shape—and with those big brown eyes. Oh well, too bad. Somebody let out a snort. Too bad Jean? You mean too late, you let that one get by, did ya? More laughter. I knew him, somebody was saying, the screwy asshole was always recitin’ poems. One time there musta been seven or eight men standing around up at Johnson’s sawmill, a couple loggers from Pennsylvania, too. Rainey was weldin’ up a busted flywheel, takes off his helmet, turns off the gas and damned if he don’t get goin’ on hellfire, the slag heap of the earth, hell I don’t remember exactly what he was recitin’. Dark as hell. Always speakin’ about the Devil and spirits. No doubt he just got sucked down one time too many. Wonder who’ll take up where he left off. Betcha every single son-of-a-bitch for miles around ‘ull be knockin’ on her door. Hey Gabe, there’s one for ya!! Gabriel looked up. It was Stan Connerly talking. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Connerly. But he held his tongue.

Ed Duffy moved his hairy ass off the stool. He was one of those big men whose ass hung out of his pants to the cheeks. Gabriel looked away. Ya workin’ in the rain, Orr? asked Ed. Gabriel turned back, nodded and popped the last piece of toast in his mouth. Mike Turner got up and picked up his check. Ever notice how Orr just bobs his head, never says nothin’, Turner commented. Don’t say nothin’, nobody knows what yer thinkin’, Duffy said, pointedly. He’s a glum one in the morning, but he comes to life at night—so I’ve heard, Jean piped out loudly. Gabriel ignored them all. He shook out another Kool and lit up. It’s a cold rain, it’d been coming down in buckets all night. Which was why he’d laid a little longer under the blankets. Maybe he’ll just go on back home. It’s not supposed to clear until sometime after midnight. He doesn’t want to work another full day in the rain. He’ll find something to do.

People are insensitive, he was thinking. Though undoubtedly crude remarks, ignorant comments and jokes are their way of hiding emotions. He can’t get the Raineys out of his mind. Why on earth would a man do that? Drown himself. Jesus H. Christ! Damned sad business.

Jean rushed over to the register. Her red bug eyes irritated him this morning. He doesn’t like her fantasizing about him and her. He doesn’t like her pushing for something that’s never going to happen. It makes him uncomfortable. He’s been hearing gossip of her alluding to things. He doesn’t need her old man coming after him. And for nothing. Handing her a ten dollar bill he averted her eyes as she rang up his breakfast. When she gave him his change she laid her reddened hand in his and looked into his eyes with lowered lids. Ya gonna be at the Horsehead tonight? He took the five and singles, pulled his hand back. Don’t think so, he answered. Not tonight. She pursed her lips, stuck out the lower one—on her it was an ugly gesture. Why not? You promised me a dance sometime. I wanna dance with you, she sang. Turning away he said, Have a good day, Jean.

Have a good day. Who the hell ever has a good day in the pouring rain? Five days in a row. Unless you’re a duck. Or a goose. Or a plant. He walked out into the cold wet, went down the steps of Mary Lou’s Diner, moving aside to let two tree-men pass—to avoid a collision. That irritated him no end. Would they’ve knocked him over? the two aggressive oafs. He ducked as a black smoky cloudmass let tear overhead. Jesus H. Christ, will it never stop?

He pulled open the door to his truck, got in. Turning the key, he shivered and debated. What to do? He’s on a big job. It’ll take him into September to get it done. Though they’re after him to hurry it up. Doc and his wife. Well, too F’ing bad. He isn’t about to hurry it up at all. They’d hired him because he’s the best stone-man around. Now it’s ‘hurry up’. Telling him to hire some help. Nope, he muttered, aloud. I work alone. You want my work, you wait. It takes ‘til it gets done. It’s because of the wedding they’re having up there in August. They now want the wall done by then. A wall that snakes up hill and down, that’s to arch over a gully, form a bridge, with built-in benches to face the ten acre pond. No. Not today. Not gonna work in the rain again today.

Shoving the shift lever into first, he drove on out of the parking lot of the diner. More pickups were pulling in. Jean’ll work her butt off. He felt sorry for her—in a way. She’s maybe in her early forties—or late thirties for all he knows, but she’s going downhill fast. She can’t stay home. Can’t stay true to the man she’s married. The father of her kids. George Furgeson’s a steady bread-winner, goes to work every day though he doesn’t earn enough to keep Jean happy. But it’s none of Gabriel’s business—that Furgeson can’t keep his wife happy, in bed or otherwise. Jean’s made the rounds. Has had just about everybody in town who likes an easy piece. ‘Let that one get by?’ The hell. Dream on, Jean. A cute flake! Surrounded by morons. It’s damned depressing.

Jean. She doesn’t take care of herself. Waitressing is hard on a woman’s legs, she’s on her feet all day. Jean’s getting varicose veins though she still wears her skirts short. Being exposed to doughnuts and rolls is hard on her figure. Jean’s putting on the pounds. It annoys the living Jesus out of him, what Diane told him the other day. He sure as hell isn’t after Jean. He’ll never be that hard-up.

She’d left George one time. But went back to him when the hunter from Jersey hadn’t gone through with it. Leaving his own wife and kids. Stay home tonight Jean. Get some rest, why don’t you. Watch a movie with your kids. The Horsehead. So now she knows where he likes to spend Friday nights. Damn her. And all the women like her.

He began to think about Claudia Rainey. He drove along through the rain towards home, letting her face enter his mind. It’s true, Claudia Rainey’s a pretty lady. Forty-three years old. Today. Happy Birthday Claudia. Jesus H. Christ, what a thing to do for your wife’s birthday. You couldn’t have been all there, Doug Rainey. He’d never’ve guessed it though, Claudia forty-three. She looks years younger. Yes, Claudia Rainey’s a lily in a field of daisies. She stands out. An angel? What could Mike Turner even remotely know about angels? Living with a barracuda. Yet Gabriel’s listened to those songs, too. On the jukebox. Honky-tonk angels. Blue angels. Sweet angels. Gabriel’s not looking for an angel. He’s looking for a woman. The perfect woman.

And he’s never going to find her. He laughed out loud, thinking of Connerly’s words. ‘There’s one for ya.’ Yes. Claudia Rainey would fill the bill. From the little he knows of her, she’s just fine. And it’s undoubtedly true, men’ll come out of the woodwork, to knock on her door. Unless like rumor would have it, there’s already somebody else. He frowned at the thought. He doesn’t like cheaters. He isn’t one himself. And he doesn’t like women who are; if Jean only knew what he thought of her and her kind. Yet, what he thinks of her, has little to do with what’s said of her. With him it’s the principle.

He slowed and made the turn off the county hardtop. He drove along under the pines. White pines. They darkened this end of Black Falls Road. It’s the last section of the road to thaw in April and the iciest spot in a winter storm. But it’s almost mystical beneath the soft dark branches. And the pines are generous with their fragrance. He’s always loved the smell of pines on the sunny days of summer. And in the fall, too. White pines aren’t as fragrant as some of the other pines. Where he’d grown up, the pines smelled strongly of pitch. There were times in the heat of those Jersey summers when he thought the woods would catch on fire. Heat rose up under those trees. The Jersey pines were gummier and they let in more sun. White pines are a northern tree. They need the cooler summers and offer a cool respite from the sun beneath their boughs. They cast shade. He wished he owned this land where they stand—he has bouts of anxiety over somebody coming in and deciding to level the pines.

The road took a dip and twisted to the left where it crossed over the sparkliest native trout creek around. This stream rivals the Beaverkill, in his opinion, for its sparkly little rivulets of mountain spring water. Even on cloudy days, with no sunshine, the water picks up light. He’s often tried to determine just why. Is it because of the many little jagged stones and rocks in the bed? Catching light on their multi-surfaces, fracturing it all around? Or is there a mineral in the stone that glistens under water? Today though, the water’s high and muddy, hell it’s been raining hard since the beginning of the week. He braked on the bridge, stared down at the red-brown water, rushing along to the reservoir. The reservoir. A cold death it must’ve been. To think he’d been there yesterday afternoon. At the Raineys’ shop. To think that he’d been one of the last people to see Doug Rainey alive. If they’d found him at 3:30 then Rainey had driven straight to the reservoir bridge. Because it was almost 3:00 when Gabriel had gotten to their place.

He drove on and began to run the details through his mind. He’d been nursing his back yesterday. Had quit early. And had decided to stop by and see Temple, to shoot the breeze. Rex had been busy fitting a Morgo pump into somebody’s Bonneville so sent Gabriel off on an errand. To drop off two cylinder heads with broken fins at the Raineys. Gabriel had encountered Doug, just about to leave, heading off to a farm somewhere, in the welding truck. ‘Claudia’s in the shop, she’ll do it,’ Doug had told him. Had Gabriel seen anything unusual? Had they been fighting? He doesn’t think so. In fact, it’d crossed his mind they’d just had a quickie. It was on their faces. On Dougs and then on hers. That dreamy, secretive look you see sometimes—afterwards. Both of them were subdued. Not quite in the here and now.

Doug had said something about the rain. What? ‘The fucking rain’ll drive a man to drink.’ Or was it ‘over the brink?’ He’d only nodded. (Bobbed his head. Guess it’s a bad habit.) Something in Doug Rainey’s eyes (his big brown eyes) had touched off an envy in Gabriel. He remembered now. He’d had a thought like Smug Bastard. Because he was horny and lonesome and Doug Rainey looked like he’d just got laid. When Gabriel goes too long without any, he starts getting jealous thoughts of everybody who might be getting some. And it’s true, Rainey’s well-built, in good shape, yeah Jean would’ve liked to jump in bed with Doug Rainey and probably a dozen other woman would’ve done the same kind of wishful thinking—hell, Jean isn’t alone in her ways. Doug Rainey had a youthfulness about him and his face was sensitive and intelligent; another aspect that had touched off an envy in Gabriel. Rainey’s intelligence. Men’ve made cracks about Rainey being a poet but Gabriel had stood a bit in awe of the man.

When he walked in the shop, Claudia was standing there looking absentmindedly aloof. She was doing something to her fingernail. She might’ve just broken it, she was holding one of those little emery boards. She looked up. He said hello. Claudia never veered off the subject at hand. Welding. She’d taken a look at the broken fins and said she could do the job while he waited. It wouldn’t take long. He watched her get into her overalls; the first time he’d seen her not already covered by the loose garment. She’d pulled the coveralls up, over a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt. She’d seemed a slight woman, but now he knows she’s not too thin. Just small boned. She has a womanly figure. Moderately full, hips just wide enough to make her waist look small, breasts just big enough to lay your face between. Claudia Rainey has the most beautiful hair. Fine textured. The color glows like the evening sun. The way she wears it, piled up softly in an old-fashioned hair-do, it looks like a halo on her head. (She’s an angel, that one.) Claudia wears her hair the way his grandmother had worn hers. In that old portrait his mother had kept on the wall. The color of Claudia’s hair is pinkish blond, strawberry blond—the color of certain maples in the fall. It’s the warm, radiant color of her hair in contrast to her large seagreen eyes that makes her unforgettable.

He’d kept quiet. Because he already knew she’s serious about her work. Never cracks jokes or makes inane remarks about the weather. As he has less than a layman’s knowledge of welding, there was nothing for him to do but stand there in admiration of her working with red hot metal. She’d put on a pair of goggles for the job. And gloves. She’d adjusted the gas and oxygen flow from the tanks so there’d been no pops, just the right amount of flame. She’s real neat, her work. Men bitch about her sometimes to one another. ‘What’s a woman like her doing, welding?’ But they never bitch about her work. And she’d done a good job on the cylinder heads, there were no bumpy heaps of slag in her beads.

As she wasn’t one to stand around and gab, she’d gone straight to writing out a bill. And he’d paid. Hoping as he did so that Rex wouldn’t stiff him, he doesn’t have much extra cash to throw around.

While they waited for the fins to cool down she offered him a cup of coffee. Though there was a coffee maker there, he’d never been offered a cup before. He’d taken her up on it. She took her coffee black. He’d added real cream to his from a porcelain creamer sitting there. He’d gone over and looked out the doorway. It was a cold rain but the back doors were opened wide in the converted carriage barn, their shop. The Raineys, being weldors, had put up an ornamental iron picket-type fence around their yard, fencing in ducks and geese. He could see a long narrow pond, a little like a canal, walled with field stone. The assorted breeds of water fowl were amusing to watch. He mentioned as much. She’d come over to the door and stood there with him. They’d listened to the rain spattering down on the bluestone walk. She told him the names of the different breeds and she knew the whole quacking and hissing flotilla by their given names. There was a Donald. Dewy, Hewy and Lewy. Daffy. Quacker Jack. Smack. She’d run off a dozen or more silly names of the ducks. There were two pairs of geese. Brown Chinese, Ti and Tou Wan and a Roman breed with white curly feathers. Caesar and Fulvia.

She spoke to him of the gates that lead into and divide the garden; ‘The Garden of Gates’. Each is a work of art that she and Doug designed and constructed. The gate before them was painted blue, intricate twists and turns of metal formed a fairy and an elf in confrontation or conspiracy. And all along the fence, tulips were holding their closed cups to the rain. Her friend had planted them she’d said and he’d felt a jealousy at the closeness between the two; expressed in her tone of voice was an intimacy with a friend that he’s never experienced.

Gabriel had stood there, struck by the beauty. Rainbow and sunset colors lit up the grayness of the rainy day. He’d been at a loss for words but finally told her how he’s affected by color. And that he builds walls for a living. Has some fine stonewalls to his credit, plus a drywall foundation or two. He told her he’s been in the Catskills for fifteen years now. That he’s never lived in a place he liked better. He said he likes using the flat, soft, flinty native rocks from the area; and of course, native bluestone.

She asked him some good questions—she knew something about stonework. She pointed out the field beyond her garden and the duck pond. Asked him if he ever repaired original walls. Somebody had taken stones from the boundary wall years before they’d come there; she as much as hired him on the spot. Next spring, he’d said. He’s on a big job that’ll take him ‘til fall.

As he pulled into his driveway it began to rain harder. He reached inside his slicker and pulled out his pack of smokes. Sticking one between his lips, he lit up. No reason to get out just yet. He sat there smoking his Kool and considered his home. He’s proud of it. The little house he’s built. From salvaged materials. The old clapboards were unpainted, weathered gray like the barn. The barn had been caving in for want of a roof and there was nothing but a cellar hole left where the original farmhouse had been when he’d first come there. Bought the place. He’s never thought of planting tulips. It’d be real pretty, all those bright reds and oranges and yellows. Bet when the sun comes out and they open up it must be quite a sight, he’d said to her. She’d told him to stop by again on a sunny day. She had tulips blooming until the first week of June.

He sat there daydreaming about how pretty it’d look; funny how he’s never given a thought to planting flowers, though he’s always admired the wild ones. Buttercups. Daisies. Asters. Goldenrod. He’s got the perfect backdrop, his quaint little house, barn. Stonewalls. His dogs started barking. Wondering what the hell he’s doing, they heard him pull in. He took a last drag on his cigarette, stumped the butt in the ashtray and got out in the torrent.

Ducking low, he ran along the wall and over the stone pathway to the back door. He prepared himself as he opened the door. The dogs burst out exuberantly, yapping and jumping. OK boys, OK, down now! Mose ran off to sniff the truck tires, gage where Gabriel’s been; Sandy followed suit, both dogs lifting their legs. Percy took up the rear, adding his squirt or two on the subject. Beanie ran over under the pines and squatted. C’mon now, get back in here. Hurry it up or I’ll shut you all out. None of his dogs like getting wet, they all came racing back, shaking rainwater off their coats. He closed the door. It was nice and warm in the house. Flipping the switch to the wall lamp, he headed for the fridge. Though it was early, still he took a Miller out of the twelve-pack. Pulled the tab and raised the can to his mouth. Mose was hanging on his heels. Go lay down boy, he grumbled. Gabriel’s mood had taken a dive. He’d rather have gotten in a days work. But his back was sore. And the damn rain kept on falling. Hell, it’s Friday. He’d put in 43 hours this week. That’s respectable.

He went over to the window and stood a minute. Looked out at the blowing rain. The rain was silvery, not dismal and gray as in the village; it was coming down like liquid silver against the soft tapestry of muted colors. A shimmery veil. The heavy pewter-colored sky and the wisping fog over the spring mountain made him think of the oil paints, turpentine and brushes, the prepared canvases he’d bought several years ago—seven years ago to be precise. Damn, could it be that long? He’d bought the supplies with the intention of painting again. Painting the mountain like it was now, the maples and poplars, birch, just budding out. But he’s not so much as made a dab. He put the can of beer to his lips, took a sip and got out a smoke. He stood there deep in thought.

Maybe he ought to just do it, get out the canvas and paint. Give it a try. He’s been stuck in a rut. If he’s not working, he’s just sitting. Alone. It’s about time he explores his other interests. Look at Claudia and Doug Rainey, weldors but also accomplished artists, she a painter, he a poet. He’d like to be friends with Claudia, maybe now with Doug gone she’ll need a friend, perhaps he could ask to give him lessons. Yeah. Maybe. Perhaps.

Claudia Rainey was on his mind. Damn, he feels bad for her. He drained the can of beer. Go easy, Orr, he told himself. He turned away from the window, went over and stoked the woodstove, opened the draft. Move over you mutts, he said to Beanie and Percy. Sitting down on the sofa, he bent over and untied the laces of his boots. He shoved one off and then the other. It’s raining and he’s lazy. Depressed. He has no motivation, no one to talk to about anything. He’s lonely. He doesn’t own a TV set, or a computer. Everybody’s always telling him to get with it. Warning him he’s becoming an old fossil. An old fossil. He used to call everybody over thirty an old fossil when he was a kid. Now he’s heading for the big 5-0. Forty-nine until October. It’s coming up awful quick. Had come up on him unawares. In a way.

Gabriel hadn’t planned on living alone all his life. It’d just happened. Well, at least he’s accustomed to being alone, waking up alone most mornings. Think of someone like Claudia Rainey, married for eighteen years and then whamo—she’s all alone. Her husband’s dead. Bad enough if Doug had had a heart attack or a stroke or something but to have smiled like that at her and then go jump from a bridge. Damn, how’s she supposed to live with that? Did Rainey jump from the bridge? Could a man survive the jump? Had Doug Rainey broken his neck? Jesus H. Christ. Will you just knock it off, Orr. C’mon. It’s got nothing to do with you. Beanie moved closer and snuggled against him, looking up with her little brown terrier eyes. He put his hand on her lovable little head. Love ya Bean, he whispered. Yeah, he loves his mutts. And is loved back. Man’s best friend. Four hairy smelly dogs. His pedigreed family. Love bought and paid for with hard-earned money.

Well, read or something. Don’t just vegetate. He thought of the old book he’s been reading. Found at a flea market last fall. Nikolai Gubsky’s Bitter Bread. It’d begun to depress him. Yet it’s interesting. Still, he’s feeling too low to read a depressing book about a dejected man; out of work, out of touch with the society in which he lives. Gabriel senses that Goring, the central character is fixing on taking his life too. Gabriel shoved himself up and went over to his tape player, put on Vern Gosdin. Then he went into his bathroom and got his cowboy boots out of the closet. It’s Friday. He always goes out on Friday nights. But he’ll stay out of the Horsehead for a while. It ticks him off that Jean’s thinking of pestering him on a Friday night.

As he saddle-soaped his expensive leather boots he gave some thought as to whether he really wants to go out to a bar. In the mood he’s in, he’ll drink too much. He sure doesn’t need to get a DWI. He’ll never forget the years he spent behind bars. And ‘they’ (the lawmakers and enforcers) are getting serious about drunken driving. Another prison sentence and it’d break him. Even the fine would break him. He can’t afford to lose his license either. Or spend an F’n month in a State Rehab. Trouble is, a man lives alone, gets real lonesome. The few friends he has all like to drink. Designate a driver. Just where’re you supposed to find a driver who’ll accompany you to a bar and then not drink? Who in the hell wants to spend time with drinkers and not have a few?

Gabriel started thinking about Doug Rainey again. Why the heck would a man do that? Take his life? And when he had such a nice woman for a wife. Because a wife isn’t a cure for despair, that’s why. Yet Gabriel’s always figured it’d help. Figured if he had a partner in life, his own tendency toward glumness would lessen. Gabriel’s never married. Hasn’t come close. He applied polish to his boots. Maybe he could keep it down. Just have a few beers. Lay off the Jim Beam. He listened to the words of Gosdin’s song. Is it raining at your house Claudia Rainey, like it’s raining at mine? he improvised the words. Be years before Claudia Rainey would want to go out with somebody. And why the heck would it be him?

Maybe he’ll meet somebody tonight. Sure. That hasn’t happened in a good long while. Meeting a woman to bring home to bed. Still he’s game. Besides, he likes to dance. The only contact he can hope to have with a woman is out on the dance floor. They’ll dance with him but they need to see ‘credentials’ when it’s time to leave. How much have you got, have much can I get. The phone rang. He set the boot he’s polishing to a high shine down and got up. It was Rex. Gabe, figured you wouldn’t be out there in the pouring rain—say, how about comin’ over. You hear about Doug Rainey? Gabriel pulled the cord along to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Got out another Miller. I did. Too bad, hunh! Rex was all excited. Man, it gives me the creeps. You were there, weren’t you? Did you drop off those heads? Gabriel yanked the tab. Lifted the can, took a sip. Got them done. They’re in the truck. You owe me seventy-five bucks. Yeah, I was there. Saw him leave. He must’ve gone straight over to the bridge. It’s damned sad. Rex was saying, wow, man. Then. Didya see anything goin’ on? I mean what the fuck? What coulda happened to the guy?

Gabriel took out a smoke. I don’t know. Feel bad though, I know that. I’m feeling depressed as hell. Read about it down at Mary Lou’s. Can’t get my mind off it. Rex commiserated. Bring the heads over here. C’mon. Kerry’s home, she’ll make ya a sandwich. Bonnie’s here. We’ll have a few. Christ, the rain’s enough to make anybody jump in the reservoir and not come up for air. Does he want to go over there? He’ll drink too much. He’ll never make it out tonight. He likes Bonnie but not the way she likes him. Though it’d seem he’s in no position to be choosy. Bonnie’s nice but nice isn’t enough. And she has a serious weight problem. He’d never be happy with a fat woman. And because he likes Bonnie as a friend, he’d never use her. Wouldn’t do it to her. Is he up for it, having to put her off gently? Tell her no again without hurting her feelings?

He finished polishing his cowboy boots and put his work boots back on. C’mon Mose. Sandy, he called to his dogs. You stay here Percy, with Beanie, by the fire. He shut the stove down and turned off the lamp. He grabbed his slicker off the hook, Mose and Sandy were scratching impatiently at the door. Hold on now, get back or you’ll stay the hell home. He should’ve said no. But what the hell. The day couldn’t be gloomier. He’s feeling low as whale shit. A little company wouldn’t hurt.

He ducked his head and went out into the rain. He opened the door to his pickup, let Mose and Sandy jump in first, getting mud on the seat. He took a rag and wiped the torn vinyl dry. Getting behind the wheel, he leaned back. Sighed. It’s no big deal. He’ll stay for a little while; he doesn’t need to make a day of it.

The hard-packed clay of the road was slick. The truck fishtailed in the curve. His back tires are wearing thin; he’d better go over to the junk yard. Find a better set. Doesn’t look like he’ll be buying a new truck this year. Not now. Now that he needs to remortgage. He’d gone to a Dealer, though. Priced the ‘94’s. He’d been hoping to swing a deal. In a year-end sale. But he might as well just forget about it. Might better have his engine over-hauled. Carrying stone’s hard on a vehicle. Snow-plowing, too. Like always on days like this, he considered the alternatives. What it might’ve been like had he finished college. To have a steady salary, benefits. Instead of always robbing Peter to pay Paul. Breaking his back hefting stones into place. Over-dosing on aspirins to ease the back pains.

He turned onto the county hardtop, drove the four or five miles to Rex’s place. Bonnie’s Jeep Cherokee was parked there. Rex had the lights off in his shop. Gabriel stared a moment at the rusted Royal Enfield mounted on the roof, alongside the sign. Two Wheels, Temple’s British Motorcycle Restoration. He thought of the old Beeser Rex had just restored. He has a serious case of the ‘I want its’. Forget it. You don’t need another motorbike, Orr.

You boys stay here, he said to his dogs. He picked up the cylinder heads, banged the door shut. Walked to the overhang of Temple’s place of business. He glanced at his favorite poster, weather-proofed with a thick coat of polyurethane, plastered on the wide door with all the others. A l930’s ad for Ariel Motorcycles. A woman in a red cloche, tweed suit; her red necktie blowing back; gauntlet leather gloves, fancy dress heels. Seated on a Single with dual fish-tail pipes; speeding along on a country road. A self-satisfied smile on her face. She’s not a doll, not showing off big tits or a bare belly like in the sixties and later posters. No, she’s a rider. Where do you find one? A woman like that. Yoo-hoo, Kerry called from the back door of the house. We’re in here.

She gave him a hug as he entered the kitchen. Hello, you handsome brute, she said with a laugh. He nodded to Rex who was sitting at the table, breaking up a bud from last year’s harvest. Hello, Bonnie he said, giving her a light squeeze. The room reeked of homegrown. Rex prided himself on the best around. Rex held up the bud. Ever see anything to beat this? Saved the best for last. Rex let out a chuckle, put the marijuana to his nose. Nice weed. Get a whiff of this.

Kerry handed Gabriel a Genny from the fridge. They were all three drinking. Were happily lit already. Took a day off, Kerry said, smiling. Still in her bathrobe and slippers, she lifted her beer and lazily sat down next to her husband. Bonnie, wearing tight black leggings, was perched on a stool, her wide ass hanging over either side. Gabriel leaned back against the counter and wondered why a woman would wear something like that, nothing was left for the imagination.

The talk was gossip about the Raineys. He knew it would be. He doesn’t know why he feels so defensive about Doug and Claudia Rainey. They were hardly good friends of his. Bonnie apparently had been at the hospital when they’d brought Claudia in. And too, she’d gotten wind of the county coroner’s report. Doug Rainey’s autopsy verified death by drowning. He was in perfect health otherwise, she said. Creepy, suicides are real creepy, she added, taking a hit from the joint Rex was passing around. The Raineys acted like they had the perfect marriage, guess a lot more was going on behind the scenes than they let on; Claudia’s always been so ‘above it all’, bet she doesn’t think she’s so smart now. Now that her husband’s dived into the reservoir to get free of her, Kerry said. Gabriel wished they’d stop talking about the Raineys. Yet he knows it’s why Rex asked him over. He waited for the questions to start.

You must’ve been the last one to see him alive, buddy, said Rex, coughing after sucking in a mouthful of smoke. He handed the joint over. Gabriel took a light hit. Rex’s dope is heavy duty. He knows to go easy. Yeah, that’s right. Me and her, he eventually said. Nobody responded for a moment but Bonnie and Kerry exchanged a meaningful female glance. She weld those fins? asked Rex. Gabriel nodded. You’ll hardly need to file out the seams, he answered. She did a good job.

She’s damn good, can’t nobody say she’s not. Wonder if she’ll keep on? Rex paused a minute to finish off his beer. Get me another one, Kerry my dear. Kerry got up absently. Did as Rex asked. She’s one of those women who’d drive a man to kill himself, behind closed doors, Bonnie said. Kerry’s right, she acts so cool and above it all. You should’ve seen her at the hospital. She wasn’t crying or anything, you would’ve thought she’d be hysterical. It wasn’t shock, she was supposed to be in shock, but if you ask me she just didn’t care. Soon’s they brought her in, she called somebody to come and get her. She sat and waited three hours. Not a tear; nor a hair out of place. And it was a guy who came, can you believe it? I betcha anything he’s her lover. I didn’t get to see him myself, but everybody said there was something between them. Bonnie’s large breasts quivered like bowls of Jell-O as she shuddered in disbelief. Or envy. He stared at Bonnie. She’s big, all the way around; huge arms, melon size tits and wearing a tight black top with no bra underneath. Always has on something low-cut. Short-sleeved. Seems she has a higher body temperature than most people. Gabriel’s got his long johns on under his denim shirt and jeans. And he’s not uncomfortable. Temperature-wise.

The talk finally turned to something else. They’d exhausted the speculation—nobody knows. Why? One guess’s good as another. He’s not said much. He just told about the smile. Between Doug and Claudia. Doug had told him Claudia would do the job, said she was in the shop and looked to the window. Smiled. When Gabriel had turned, involuntarily actually, her face was there and the smile on her face matched her husbands. Creepy, Bonnie and Rex muttered simultaneously. Like they were up to something. Planned it.

Kerry got up to go to the bathroom. He was a vet ya know, piloted Slicks, Rex said. Did two tours, maybe it caught up to him. Gabriel hadn’t known that. That Rainey was a veteran. Wait here, buddy. Rex got up and padded out of the room, stood a few minutes in front of the big-screen TV set that was never turned off, then went on up the carpeted stairs. Bonnie turned to him and smiled. Sit down why doncha. He returned her smile but remained leaning against the counter. He was feeling uncomfortable, wanted to go home. Rex came rushing back down the stairs like the house was on fire. Take a look at these, Rex said excitedly. Mounted behind glass, on black velvet were all the medals given Rex over in Nam. Gabriel wasn’t interested; more times than not Rex went into fits and seizures over being a grunt in that war, but every chance he gets, drags out the ribbons and tarnished metal. Rex is still looking for the praise and approval none of them ever got; Gabriel never gave a damn about the tokens the fucking army handed out like penny candy. Gabriel stood by his beliefs, didn’t waver. The metals meant shit to him, offered as they were in a shit business.

Kerry set out the fixings for sandwiches and bags of chips. Gabriel watched Bonnie grab four slices of white bread and plaster them with olive loaf and processed cheese. She heaped her plate with salty ruffled chips. He guessed she doesn’t care about her weight. She eats like a pig. But he realized it was an unfair thought. Kerry too loaded up her plate but because she’s thin it didn’t seem piggish. He felt a warm feeling inside him, a feeling of compassion for Bonnie. But it was short-lived. Stuffing chips by the handful into her mouth, she began discussing a mastectomy. She had to have both breasts removed. And she was only thirty-one. Her nipples had already inverted. Kerry munched away. What does that mean? she asked. Gabriel hates hospital talk. Bonnie has no end of dreary tales of operations and hellish ailments. Gabriel tried to listen to Rex’s long-winded tale, one he’s heard countless times about the night Rex earned his bronze star. Kerry thrust a baloney with bright orange American cheese sandwich at him and changed the subject to giving birth. Bonnie again got rolling on detailed descriptions. Rex must’ve heard something on the TV that he wanted to see as he jumped up and carried his beer and plate to the living room. It fascinated Gabriel that although Rex’s mouth could be going nonstop, he could still listen and hear what other people were saying. It was a sports program, a replay of a car race or something.

Gabriel stopped listening to everything around him. He was getting in a real shitty mood. Chewing the gummy contents of his tasteless sandwich, he considered ways to make an abrupt exit without hurting anyone’s feelings. He sloshed a swallow of Genny around, loosening the paste-like ball gluing itself to the roof of his mouth. It’ll pass. Eventually. His shitty mood. If he waits it out. He began looking around Rex’s kitchen. Where he’s been hanging out for fifteen years. Rex recently put in new cabinets. Kerry is Rex’s third wife and it’s the third major redo of the kitchen. The new cabinets were bright white. The floor was white tile. Appliances, gadgets and decorative stuff were white. White on white; everything was bright and white in the spotless and sterile kitchen.

It was because of Rex that he’d come through here all those years before—on his way to see his Mom. He and Rex had been buddies over in Nam for a short while, Rex’s tour of duty being nearly over when they’d met. They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years. Rex had been the one to convince Gabriel to stay—at first. Then the Catskills themselves got a hold on him. So he’d bought the old barn, forty acres of woods and swamp. And finally had a permanent home. Back then he figured he’d find a partner, a woman to call his own. He was even thinking of having kids. But it never happened. He’s known his share of women. Seen his share of other men’s kids. I oughta get going, he said. His mood was definitely introspective. Oh stay Gabe, Kerry said. Yeah, want ya to look over that Rocket Gold Star, Rex called from the living room. Been thinking it over, you want it, I’ll sell it. Gabriel wanted it. But he doubted he could afford it. Rex had put a lot of time in the rebuild.

You’re so uptight, said Bonnie, getting off her stool. She told him to sit down. Let me give you a massage, sit here. She wiped her greasy fingers on a napkin and pulled a chair back. C’mon, it’s good for relieving tension. He sat down reluctantly and Bonnie put her hands on his shoulders. God, why are you so tense? She began to work on the muscles, kneading her soft fingers into the knot at the back of his neck, after pushing his hair aside. Her hands felt good. He imagined then that making love to her would feel good too. But he’d never take up with her seriously and Bonnie was looking for that. A serious relationship. Though she’d had one. Bonnie, he said. Heard from Joel lately? Joel had moved down to Tennessee after Bonnie split with him, but the man’s still after her to change her mind. Join him. She let out a laugh and squeezed her fingers into his biceps. Fuck him, Gabe Orr. Joel’s history. She laughed again. A nervous giggle. Got my sights on a new man. Kinda man dreams are made of— He fumbled for a cigarette. Hold still, she said, pressing deeply into his shoulders. Kerry, come here and feel how hard this man is— Bonnie and Kerry giggled. Don’t dare. Rex would throw a fit. You bet, yelled Rex. Kerry wants to feel somethin’ hard, I got just the thing. Come in here my dear. The girls exchanged a look between them. Gabriel couldn’t see Bonnie’s face but Kerry’s eyes crinkled with amusement. They burst into laughter.

Will you be at the Horsehead tonight, Gabe Orr? asked Bonnie, leaning her chubby round face close to his ear. Her breath was hot and her perfume an overwhelming smell of ripened fruit. Don’t think so, not tonight, he answered. Oh darn, I was hoping for the dance you promised me. Jesus H. Christ. Bonnie too? When’s he doing all this promising to dance? First Jean. Now Bonnie. He’s going to need to go into hiding. Stop going out altogether. And stop drinking so much. Some other time then, he grumbled. He saw Kerry raise her eyebrows in a knowing gesture. He’s seen this exchange between the two numerous times before but this was the first time he felt himself the brunt of their amusement. Bonnie’s got a serious crush on Jocko, Kerry said. Don’t get jealous now. Jock Nunn. He’s a drunk. Gabriel spoke without thought. Then added. And he’s old enough to be your father, Bonnie. Bonnie drew back, removing her hands from his neck. Old enough to be my father? We’re talking about Jock Nunn, not you. That ticked him off. You know what he’s known for, Bonnie. To think of it, Bonnie taking up with a known womanizer like Nunn. You were working over at Valley Hospital when they brought Christine in—you saw what happened to her. Bonnie snorted and went over and yanked open the door to the refrigerator. Grabbing a Genny she turned to him, her dark eyes flashing daggers at him. Christine asked for what happened to her, she was always teasing men. Pushing the limit. She got what she deserved. And nobody knows who did it. Bonnie was either egging him on or just plain stupid, afterall. He was at a loss as to what to say. You don’t have any right to call him a drunk, you’re the biggest drunk around Mr. Stand-offish Orr. Bonnie was flaming mad, her cheeks had turned bright pink. I like him. And though it’s none of your business, he likes me too. Gabriel got up from his chair. "Bonnie you got two little girls, as pretty and sweet as they come, if you don’t care about yourself, think about them. You know as well as I do, I’ve heard you and Kerry talking about it—Nunn’s known for hitting