John Grisham - The Rainmaker

“You don’t understand. Bruiser is not gonna miss it.”

“Fine. Let him get his fat ass in a scuba suit and dive for bodies.”

“Could be a gold mine.” Deck is driving rapidly across town. We ignore each other as downtown approaches. An ambulance races by us, and my pulse quickens. Another ambulance cuts in front of us.

Riverside Drive is blocked off by dozens of police cars, all with lights streaking through the night. Fire trucks and ambulances are parked bumper to bumper. A helicopter hovers in the air downriver. There are groups of people standing perfectly still, and there are others scurrying about shouting and pointing. The boom of a crane is visible near the bank.

We walk quickly around the yellow caution tape and join the crowd of onlookers near the edge of the water. The scene is now several hours old, and most of the urgency has worn off. They’re waiting now. Many of the people are huddled together in horrified little groups sitting on the cobblestoned banks, watching and crying as the divers and paramedics search for bodies. Ministers kneel and pray with the families. Dozens of stunned kids in wet tuxedoes and torn prom dresses sit together, holding hands, staring at the water. One side of the paddle wheeler sticks ten feet above the surface, and the rescuers, many clad in black and blue wet suits and scuba gear, hang on to it. Others work from three pontoon boats roped together.

A ritual is under way here, but it takes a while to comprehend it. A police lieutenant walks slowly along a gangplank leading from a floating pier, and steps onto the cobblestones. The crowd, already subdued, becomes perfectly still. He steps to the front of a squad car as several reporters gather around him. Most of the people remain seated, clutching their blankets, lowering their heads in fervent prayers. They are the parents, families and friends. The lieutenant says, “I’m sorry, but we have identified the body of Melanie Dobbins.”

His words carry through the stillness, which is broken almost instantly by gasps and groans from the family of the girl. They squeeze and sink together. Friends kneel and hug, then a woman’s voice cries out.

The others turn and watch, but also breathe a collective sigh of relief. Their bad news is inevitable, but at least it’s been postponed. There’s still hope. I would later learn that twenty-one kids survived by being sucked into an air pocket.

The police lieutenant walks away, returns to the pier, where another body is being pulled from the water.

Then a second ritual, one not as tragic but far more disgusting, slowly unfolds. Men with somber faces ease or even try to sneak close to the grieving family. They have small white business cards which they attempt to give to family members or friends of the deceased. In the darkness, they inch closer, eyeing each other warily. They’d kill for the case. They only want a third.

All of this registers on Deck long before I realize what’s happening. He nods to a spot closer to the families, but I refuse to move. He slinks away into the crowd, disappearing quickly into the darkness, off to mine his gold.

I turn my back to the river, and soon I am running through the streets of downtown Memphis.

The board of law examiners uses certified mail to send the results of the bar exam. In law school, you hear stories of rookies waiting, then collapsing by the mailbox. Or running wildly down the street, waving the letter like an idiot. Lots of stories, stories that seemed funny then but have lost all humor now.

Thirty days have passed and there’s no letter. I used my home address because I damned sure didn’t want the letter opened by anyone at Bruiser’s.

Day thirty-one falls on a Saturday, a day on which I am allowed to sleep until nine before my taskmaster beats on my door with a paintbrush. The garage under my apartment suddenly needs painting, she has decided, though it looks fine to me. She lures me out of bed with the news that she’s already prepared bacon and eggs, and they’re getting cold, so hurry.

The work goes well. Painting produces immediate results that are quite pleasing. I can see progress. The sun is blocked by high clouds, and my pace is leisurely at best.

She announces at 6 p.m. that it’s time to quit, that I’ve worked enough and that she has wonderful news for dinner — she will make us a vegetarian pizza!

I worked at Yogi’s until one this morning, and I have no desire to go back for a while. So, typically, I have nothing to do on this Saturday night. What’s worse is that I haven’t thought about doing anything. Sadly, the idea of eating a vegetarian pizza with an eighty-year-old woman is appealing.

I shower and put on my khakis and sneakers. An odd smell emanates from the kitchen when I enter the house. Miss Birdie is buzzing around the kitchen. She’s never made a pizza before, she tells me, as if I should be pleased to hear this.

It’s not bad. The zucchini and yellow peppers are a bit crunchy, but she loaded it down with goat cheese and mushrooms. And I’m starving. We eat in the den and watch a Cary Grant-Audrey Hepburn movie. She cries through most of it.

The second movie is Bogart and Bacall, and the aches in my muscles start to set in. I’m getting sleepy. Miss Birdie, however, sits on the edge of the sofa, breathlessly absorbing every line of a movie she’s watched for fifty years.

Suddenly, she jumps to her feet. “I forgot something!” she exclaims, and hurries to the kitchen, where I hear her digging through some papers. She races back to the den with a piece of paper, stops dramatically in front of me and proclaims, “Rudy! You’ve passed the bar!”

She’s holding a single sheet of white paper which I lunge for. It’s from the Tennessee Board of Law Examiners, addressed to me, of course, and in bold letters across the center of the page are the majestic words: “Congratulations. You’ve passed the bar exam.”

I whirl around and look at Miss Birdie, and for a split second would like to slap her for such a gross invasion of privacy. She should’ve told me earlier, and she damned sure had no right to open the letter. But every one of her gray and yellow teeth is showing. She has tears in her eyes, hands to her face, she’s almost as thrilled as I am. My anger quickly yields to complete elation. “When did it come?” I ask.

“Today, while you were painting. The mailman knocked on my door, asked for you but I said you were busy, and so I signed for it.”

Signing for it is one thing. Opening it is another matter.

“You shouldn’t have opened it,” I say, but not really angrily. It’s impossible to be furious at a time like this.

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d want me to. But isn’t it exciting?”

Indeed it is. I float to the kitchen, grinning like a goofy idiot, taking deep breaths of unburdened air. Everything is wonderful. What a great world!

“Let’s celebrate,” she says with a naughty little grin.

“Anything,” I say. I feel like running through the backyard, yelling at the stars.

She reaches far into a cabinet, fumbles around, smiles, then slowly extracts an odd-shaped bottle. “I save this for special occasions.”

“What is it?” I say, taking the bottle. I’ve never seen one of these at Yogi’s.

“Melon brandy. Pretty strong stuff too.” She lets forth a giggle. At this moment, I’ll drink anything. She finds two matching coffee cups — drinks are never served in this house — and fills them half full. The liquid is thick and gooey. The aroma reminds me of something from the dentist’s office.

We toast my good fortune, clink our Bank of Tennessee cups together and take a sip. It tastes like children’s cough syrup and burns like straight vodka. She smacks her lips. “We’d better sit down,” she says.