Rain Dogs, page 12
I saw your little girl yesterday. She’s gorgeous, Ab. And I stood there and watched you put her in her car seat and I hated you both for the rest of the day.
That’s what I learned about myself yesterday. I’m so sorry. I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know what I’d do anywhere else. I don’t know why I can’t move on from this, and I don’t know why I should want to. All I know is that my own daughter is buried in Chicago, and I just fucking left her there.
When he opened his eyes, he found himself on the floor. He’d propped himself up against the woodstove, bottle still clutched in one hand. At some point, he became aware of weight in the other.
He looked down and saw that he’d been to the closet. The one in the back room, above the laundry, where he’d stowed his luggage the day he first got here.
Tom didn’t remember reloading the Browning he’d taken from Scott. He didn’t remember racking the slide. But when he saw the hammer locked back in the firing position, he remembered what he’d been wondering.
He was curious.
It was as if he suddenly pulled out of the moment and saw himself: sitting on his ass on his grandfather’s pine floor, legs splayed, leaning against the iron stove. He had a gun on his lap in one hand, a bottle in the other.
When he pulled back in, he sat and considered how he felt about what he’d just seen. He realized that he didn’t feel anything at all.
He raised his hand and pressed the muzzle to his head to see what it felt like. He put his finger on the trigger to see what that felt like. He applied a little pressure. It didn’t feel like anything.
He looked up at the curtains swirling in the dark. Just then, something hot and sudden bubbled up, up and out before he could stop it, and as his shoulders began to heave he understood that he was weak.
It wasn’t a surprise anymore.
TWENTY-ONE
The kitchen faced east and sunlight came in through the windows there until noon. Dust floated in the golden beams. Based on the spot the beams touched the floorboards, he knew it was early, probably not long after dawn.
He was still drunk. From where he lay—still on the floor, still leaning against the woodstove—Tom could see into the kitchen. He could see Abby sitting at the table, hunched over the computer.
He couldn’t remember if he’d left it on but didn’t remember turning it off. He couldn’t remember if he’d gone back and hit Send, or gone back and hit Delete, or if he’d gone back at all.
When he moved, she heard his shoe scrape the floor. She straightened quickly, closed the laptop, quietly latched the screen. She wiped her eyes and stood up from the table.
After a moment, she came in with a glass of water, pretended to be surprised that he was awake.
“Hey, great. I thought I was going to have to throw this in your face.”
Tom pulled himself up and sat for a minute, forearm across a knee. He’d relaxed his grip on the bottle at some point; it had rolled away, trailing gin to the rag rug in front of the stove. The rug had absorbed what his liver hadn’t. It seemed like a waste.
“How was Lincoln?”
“The trip was fine,” she said. “Morgan isn’t doing very well.”
Tom rubbed his face, nodded.
“He seemed a little more alert yesterday. I don’t know, it’s so hard to tell. They keep him out of it so he won’t fight the machine so much. Seeing Scott seemed to do him some good.”
Tom leaned his head back against the stove. “He’s here?”
“Scott? Yes, we just got here. I thought you’d probably need him early.”
She held out the water. He shook his head.
“You’ve got a couple people waiting downstairs. I think he and Duane are loading up the bus.”
Tom looked around. The place was a wreck. Beer cans. Empty bottles. Stink.
Over in front of the couch, he saw curled photographs spread out on the empty cable spool his grandfather had salvaged for a coffee table. The photos also came from the luggage-and-gun closet. A box on the top shelf. He didn’t remember digging them out, getting into them. He wanted to pick them all up and put them back.
“Duane let you up?”
“I just came up.” She pulled over a chair with one hand and sat down. “He’s a little mad, FYI.”
“Good for him.”
They sat for a few moments—him on the floor, head against the stove, Abby on the chair, still holding the water he’d refused.
“It’s probably not the best thing,” he finally said.
“What’s not the best thing?”
“Having him around here.” He hauled himself to his feet. “Scott.”
“I’m not worried about Scott anymore.”
When he looked at her, she offered the water again. Tom held her eyes for a moment, gave up. He took the glass with him into the kitchen.
On the way past the table, he noticed the laptop’s standby light blinking. He put the water on the counter and started making coffee. Abby followed him in.
“The truth is, I haven’t seen him this happy in a long time. I can’t remember how long.”
She smiled at his expression.
“He doesn’t act like it. I know that. But I know him. It’s been good for him out here, I can tell.”
“It’s a wholesome environment.”
“I told you.” He could feel her watching him. “I’m not worried.”
Tom dumped the old grounds, got down the can and a new filter. His hands weren’t working together smoothly yet, and he spilled new grind all over the counter. Abby took a seat at the table.
“You seemed worried the other day.”
“I know. I know. I was . . . stressed. I guess.”
He put the coffee on and leaned against the counter.
She said, “Jason came to the hospital from campus Tuesday morning, and my folks. And yours. They only let a couple people in the room at a time, and it’s this whole production, you have to sterilize and put on scrubs. So Scott went up with Lois to see Morgan one more time before we had to get on the road.”
“Mom and Dad came up?”
“For a couple hours, yeah,” she said. “I called them and told them we were there.”
“Oh.”
“So we went down to get coffee. We were standing around in this family area, just chatting. You know what I saw?”
Tom waited.
“Guy wearing a sport jacket. With a bulge under it.” She shrugged. “His bulge started ringing.”
Tom felt his mouth twitch. “What happened then?”
“He answered it.”
“Answered his gun, huh?”
“Just a cell phone.” She gave a wan smile. “In a little plastic holster thing on his belt.”
When the coffee finished brewing, Tom got down two mugs and filled them. He put one down in front of her and took the other chair. She sat with her finger through the thick ceramic handle and blew the steam into swirls. He saw her glance at the laptop. She saw him see her do it. Neither of them said anything.
In a few minutes, Tom heard the bus growl to life outside. He heard the trailer clatter over the washboards on the way out. He heard the growl deepen as the bus rounded the trees.
When she’d finished her coffee, Abby got up and picked up the knit shoulder bag she carried for a purse. It had a picture of a Parisian cabaret dancer on it.
“I’d better get back to the house. Dan’s mother has Hannah. She’s got to get going soon.”
“Okay.”
She turned to go.
“Hey,” he said.
Abby stopped, turned back.
“When you came in.” He looked toward the sink as he sipped his coffee. For the first time it occurred to him that he didn’t know where he’d left Scott’s gun. “Was I holding a cell phone?”
She didn’t say anything.
He looked up, saw her arm over her purse, holding it close against her ribs. Her expression remained neutral. He looked at her and waited.
“I don’t remember seeing one,” she said.
TWENTY-TWO
They heard it was coming on the noon news.
They spent Wednesday afternoon preparing for the onslaught anyway, working through lunch and past supper, into the evening.
Tom did the books. When he was finished, he went out and mowed the main grounds—partly because they needed it, mostly because he wanted to sit on the mower in the punishing sun and think and be left the hell alone.
Duane and Scott handled the few customers who lingered from the weekend or showed up for an early start on the Fourth of July holiday. Otherwise, Duane worked on the bus. Scott picked up trash and stocked the shop. Tom finished mowing and helped Scott haul firewood until after dark.
Late in the afternoon, a breeze picked up. The temperature suddenly dipped, then hung. Flies grew thick on the screen doors and around the garbage cans. By nightfall, the breeze had stiffened and picked up a moist earthy scent.
Around ten P.M., Tom made a dozen bologna sandwiches. He grabbed a six-pack for the three of them from the fridge, a couple bags of chips from the shop. They ate on the deck. After, they sat around like stuffed furniture, all three of them grubby and beat.
Nobody spoke. Even Duane seemed to be out of things to say. It was dark over the river: no stars tonight, no moon. The breeze stirred the treetops and cooled their necks.
Soon the air turned rich and wet all around. Soon after that, they heard rain whispering in the trees.
According to the weather, the big system out of the Rockies was still developing, getting ready to move.
“Twenty bucks it misses us to the south,” Duane said.
Scott sipped his beer. “I’ll take that action.”
Light showers for now.
They hadn’t had a drop in weeks, and Tom had forgotten how a Nebraska summer could wear you down. So they sat on the deck and sipped their beers and listened to the sound of rain on the river, a hollow patter on the tin roofs of the buildings and over their heads.
Thursday morning broke to a hard gray sky.
Tom came downstairs early. He could hear Duane and Scott clanking around outside. He stepped out on the deck with a cup of coffee and saw them hauling canoes out of the big shed, laying them out on the soggy ground.
The cool air smelled fresh and mossy, laced with clay mud and the bright tang of wet cedar. From where he stood, Tom could see a blue heron fishing on the ford. He saw the bird stab at the water with its long beak, come up empty.
He went back inside.
The clock above the candy rack said six-thirty. If anybody had ridden out the night without heading for town, nobody had shaken off the water and made their way in from the campground yet.
As he went around to the register to lay in the cash for the day, something caught his eye. A book rested on the counter, slightly askew, as though it had been tossed there. He hadn’t noticed it on the way out.
Tom picked it up now, looked it over. He looked out the big front windows. He looked back at the book.
It was a slim digest with a cheap glossy cover that bowed away from the pages like wings. The art was a grainy, badly reproduced black-and-white photo of rolling prairie under a low-hanging sky. Thin laminate coating had begun to peel back from the corners in yellowed curls. The whole volume contained about forty staple-bound pages and looked like it had been read and reread to death.
Hidden Treasure: The Ogallala Aquifer
Not exactly a grabber, but the author’s heart had clearly been behind it.
Daniel B. Greer. Circle Slash Publications.
Tom held the book in his hands. Through the deck railing, he caught a glimpse of Scott’s yellow poncho down by the shed.
As he opened the book and read the first few paragraphs, heavy footfalls climbed the stairs outside. In a moment, the bell jingled. The screen door creaked, then banged. Tom looked up.
When he saw who it was, he closed the book and put it aside. His plan changed.
“Morning,” Larry Salinger said.
Tom sipped his coffee. “Back again.”
Larry chuckled and worked his feet, wiping what looked like a new pair of hiking boots on the bristle mat inside the door. “Glad I remembered to waterproof my tent.”
TWENTY-THREE
By the morning of the biggest day on the river, the campground at Coleman’s Landing had all but cleared. None of the new reservations showed up. A few people called in but most didn’t bother.
Even Larry Salinger finally surrendered and came in for shelter. Around midmorning, Tom looked up from his reading and saw the small SUV round the tree line, wipers beating, tires caked with wet sand.
On the deck, Salinger shook water off his hands. He wore a cap with an Ilford logo stitched on the front, water dripping from the bill. He took off the cap and wiped his face and said, “Nice day.”
“If you’re a duck. Want coffee?”
“Pretty please.”
Tom stood from the table, closing the book over a finger, turning the cover from view. He took it with him inside.
Duane and Scott came up from the bunkhouse for lunch. The four of them spent the rest of the afternoon on the deck, playing cards and shooting bull. The rain came down beyond the edge of the roof like a string curtain beaded with glass.
During a lull, Scott wandered down to the river. He stood on the bank above the ford, hands on his hips, studying the sky.
Duane Foster took the opportunity to spark up a joint. It must have been a straggler from the old stash. Foster offered a hit to Larry, but Larry declined. Tom had already switched from coffee; he raised his mug and shook his head. Foster just smiled, leaned back, and took another hit for himself.
When Scott came back up, he said, “Looks like it’s coming.”
Salinger looked at the bright plastic poncho like it might unfold itself and attack.
“Are you serious?”
“That Ford has four-wheel drive, right?”
Larry nodded skeptically.
Tom grinned and held up the new bottle of Gilbey’s he’d brought down from upstairs. “It’ll be something. I promise.”
“Can I take your word for it?”
From the table, Duane and Scott watched the exchange over their cards with curious expressions.
“Hey, boss?”
Tom could see what was coming by the look on Foster’s face. “Tell me I remind you of anybody and you’re fired.”
Duane glanced at Scott and rolled his eyes, made a curlicue around his temple with an index finger.
“Hey, seriously, it’s gonna hit hard,” Scott said. “You guys might want to, like, not be in it.”
“Don’t worry, we’re journalists. We’ll be fine.” Tom shook out one of the ponchos and bagged himself in it. He tossed the other into Salinger’s lap. “Come on, we’re going to miss the whole thing.”
In the midst of all the water from above, he’d been learning about a freshwater sea underground.
Not a sea, precisely. More a heavy-laden sponge with great ancient pockets and stores. According to the capable reportage of Daniel B. Greer, this was the Ogallala Aquifer, spanning more than a quarter million square miles beneath the High Plains.
From South Dakota to Texas, the formation’s three-billion-plus acre feet comprised the largest groundwater system in North America. If you could squeeze the sponge dry, you could fill Lake Huron and have enough water left over to flood a town.
The sponge was thickest here, beneath the Sandhills. The region itself—all twenty thousand square miles of porous, grass-stabilized sand—served as one giant charging unit for the aquifer. In turn, the aquifer charged the river and created marshes, seeped to the surface in the form of puddles and temporary ponds.
There was an ecosystem to consider. Wildlife habitats. There were millions of dollars in domestic food and textile production to which the aquifer contributed annually. According to Dan Greer, without wise stewardship the whole thing could be depleted in a matter of decades. On the bright side, it wouldn’t take more than a few thousand years to replenish it again.
For now, even beneath an area crippled by drought, water still hid everywhere.
As Tom read about it, he thought of the slop hole Scott had pointed out the other morning on the way to Abby’s. It turned out the kid hadn’t been jerking him around after all. He’d simply been pointing out a spot where the surface had eroded to the water table beneath.
Mostly, as he sat and read, listening to the rain tattoo the roof over the deck, Tom thought about all that water, trickling down and collecting.
He thought about years of rains and melts, trapped in subterranean layers, waiting to bubble up.
By the time they pulled to the shoulder, the sky hung so low over the road that it made Tom want to duck his head. Mean thunderheads piled up on each other as far as they could see. It was late afternoon and dark as dusk.
“Jesus.”
“Puts things in perspective, doesn’t it?”
Larry took a swallow from the bottle and passed it back. He pulled himself forward by the steering wheel and craned a little, peering out under the edge of the windshield.
“Anyway,” Tom said, “what’s the Fourth without fireworks?”
“If I feel my hair start tingling, I’m driving like a bat out of hell.”
Tom laughed and Larry broke down; they passed the bottle and sat in their rain slickers giggling like idiot kids. Lightning strobed in the cloudbank above them, muted flashes behind bruise-colored pockets and smoky whorls. Thunder rumbled continuously now, still distant but louder than before.
“Hey, don’t let me forget. I have some stuff to give you.”
“Stuff?”
“For your story,” Tom said. “I found this great book about the aquifer.”
“Yeah?”
“Thought you might want it.”
