The Rain

Because sometimes I just feel like writing.

 

Chet’s casket is closed, confined inside the choky funeral parlor. Corwin takes my hand in his. We move together, two shadows in black dress. Somewhere, nightingales are chirping in trees dismissed with leaves, and Ezekiel “Chet” Cue is inspiring angels with John Keats.

You won’t regret this. You were born for this.

I can almost hear Chet speaking. The echo fills the spacious room. How could it be that this young boy, so close from birth, inspired a career?

Corwin looks over to me with heavy eyelids and a heartfelt stare. He is so beautiful, even in the darkest moment of his life. My arms collect goose bumps and Corwin begins to pull at his ear the way he always does when he is uncomfortable.  I think back to the first time I met Corwin, before the training, before the tennis, and before Ezekiel.

“Are you abandoning the project” questions Luke as I interrupt the conversation by emerging on the scene.

“No,” muffles Corwin.

My first glimpse of Corwin Brookside, a Texas native, is a towering carpenter in faded denim. His blue T-shirt is stained white around his left breast. I wonder if he lost a battle with bleach. Somehow, I can tell this is Corwin’s favorite shirt. It looks as over-worn and faded as his jeans.

Corwin has two very noticeable scars on his right forearm. The pair of short twig-like lines forms a dark upside down V.   Over the still stream, beyond the shaven gray tree trunks, the now hammerless Corwin stands with one hand on his hip. His cocked head points in the opposite direction of my doughy gaze. Luke’s outdoor radio plays a Bobby Darin song. Nothing else matters right now save for Corwin and the music.

I gather my words, praying they will form something that sticks with Corwin for a long time. I watch from a post on Luke’s patio. In my heart, I am hoping for a tolerable first impression. At the very least, an acknowledgment of the fact he is male and I am female would suffice. Corwin surprises me by speaking first, although not directly at me. His eyes survey mine and without blinking, he repeats himself to Luke.

“No” is quite possibly the most powerful word to a civilization of “yes” people. It has the capacity to accuse someone of a crime, the ability to determine life or death. Corwin’s unblinking stare and burning-with-passion brown eyes author the word, transforming it into a lustful poem before me. There is a drastic physical attraction stirring around inside my body.  I feel myself becoming faint and know this man is going to be the image in my head during those lonely nights in bed.

Ahhh, those eyes! It is the desire in his eyes that stays with me more than anything I can say or do to keep him from forgetting me. The startling tick of their burning fierceness catches me in sheer infatuation. Corwin’s eyes roam strangely to my nose, and then briefly to my lips. He approaches me with a deep stare into my face. Those eager, passion drop eyes resuscitate my deadened pupils.

“Corwin--it means friend of the heart,” Corwin announces, stretching his sawdust hand to shake mine.

“Jeanne--it means I think you’re cute,” I flirt, nearly unintentional.

“Don’t hold back or anything!” Luke exclaims with wide eyes and a grin the size of a galaxy.

The handsome Corwin steps closer. Brilliantly, he tugs at his belt. I hide my smile but know it’s pointless. For once, this is too good to not be true.

Corwin touches my arm when he talks to me. It is this subtle, flirtatious gesture that keeps my interest.  Or, perhaps it is the one peculiarity he does that doesn’t remind me of Dylan.

He picks up a pair of bolt-like hardware from the ground and hands them to me.

“What am I supposed to do with these?” I question.

“Those are Zerk grease fittings. Hang on to them for me, please?”

I haven’t the slightest idea what a grease fitting is used for, but I agree to hold them.

Seeing him reminded me of how I used to wake up with my head in the clouds.  I used to long for the unswerving feeling of love. 

Extraordinarily, this man, this Corwin Brookside appeared. I no longer yearned for love, but felt immersed with it. I wanted to convince Corwin that my heart couldn’t be wrong about us.

Corwin’s hand is stained in sweat now. I can feel it getting colder, more distant. He is hurting, and I wish so much he were handing me bolts of hardware in the Texas sun. I wish he weren’t here to witness the finale of a young life. I would endure and suffer through it on my own if I could. Corwin would never see to it, though. He is here in this murmurous haunt of fly-filled summer air. Corwin always withstands the rain. Here he stands. Bold. My refuge. I know he wants to lie down and cry out to the God we both cannot completely understand in this life, but worship nonetheless.

Somewhere, the sun is not hidden inside the clouds. That little boy is smiling somewhere.