R. Stine - Red Rain

“No. I’m fine.”

“Sure? I have plenty of water.”

“No. Really. I saw enough water driving here.”

His joke fell flat. He knew it wasn’t much of a joke. He shouldn’t try to be funny. No one expected it of him. But what was this obsession with water? In every city at every bookstore, they tried to shove bottle after bottle of water at him.

“The rain is from the hurricane,” she said, “but we’re lucky. I have the radio on. They said it’s veering out into the ocean. We’ll just get the rain.”

“Hurricane?”

She squinted at him. “You didn’t hear? It’s a big one. Down South.”

Mark felt his throat tighten. “My wife is down South. On an island. I didn’t know. I had my iPod in the car. I-”

“Maybe you should try to call her.” She turned and saw the line of customers at the front counter. “I’d better get back.” She gave his wrist a quick squeeze. Like saying Good luck . Then she turned and made her way back to the other two clerks at the counter.

She stepped behind one of the cash registers and pulled on a pair of tight white rubber gloves. To protect herself from money germs?

Mark slid his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans, raised it to push Lea’s number. Then stopped. No bars.

I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll phone her after the book signing.

He stepped toward the back and leaned against a bookshelf where he could watch customers enter. He could see a gauzy reflection of himself in the front window, floating over the pyramid of display copies of his book. A gust of wind rattled the window and sent rivulets of rainwater streaking down the glass.

“Where do I put this?” A man in a brown rain slicker and canvas tennis hat shook his umbrella in a red-haired store clerk’s face, sending a spray of rainwater over the front counter. The young man pointed to the tall can by the door, already jammed with wet umbrellas.

The store was small, narrow and deep with two aisles leading back through tall wooden bookshelves. Rows of low-hanging fluorescent lights sent down a pale glare, making everyone look a little green. At the back, a steep stairway led upstairs to the author event area.

Mark felt his skin prickle. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks. The air in the store felt hot and damp despite the cold blasts every time the door opened. He could smell the ocean.

In a few hours I’ll be home.

He could hear a low mumble of voices from upstairs. A respectable crowd on a stormy Wednesday night in Easthampton. Please-let there be fifty people. That’s all an author cares about. A crowd big enough not to be embarrassing. Please-not four people who all choose to sit in the back row.

To his relief, he saw several couples lined up at the cash register. They all had his book in their hands. Did they look happy? No.

They’ve all come for a fight .

He turned back toward the front door and felt his stomach rumble. Not from stage fright. He looked forward to another confrontation. If only he could keep them from shouting this time.

He suddenly pictured the young woman in Boston who turned purple and started to tremble. That was awkward . And the angry couple who followed him to the parking lot and refused to let him get into the car until they had their say.

His stomach churned again from the bacon cheeseburger he had eaten too fast at Rowdy Hall, the noisy, crowded hamburger joint across the street. He always ate too fast when he was alone.

I’ll be home tonight.

His house in Sag Harbor was twenty minutes away, maybe a little longer if the storm continued. He had driven to the bookstore directly from MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. He hadn’t had even two seconds to stop at home and say hi.

Ira and Elena. When did he see them last? Two weeks ago? He talked to them on the phone every night, and he Skyped them when he could. But the conversations were always forced and hurried.

Elena was okay. Even at the gawky age of fourteen, she bobbed merrily through life like a kite in a strong wind. Ira was the sensitive one, always overthinking everything, so shy and serious. Poor guy. Sixth grade. His first year in middle school.

Mark should have been there to help him get through it. Or Lea. But she was away, too. He hated it when they were both away at the same time.

“When you write a travel blog, you kind of have to travel,” Lea had said.

“I’m not accusing you of anything,” he had countered. “I’m just saying. .”

“That one of us should stay home.”

“No. I’m just saying it’s a shame that one of us isn’t staying home.”

That made her laugh. “I love your subtle distinctions. I wasn’t a psych major like you, darling, but I know when I’m being guilted.”

Guilted?

No way he could convince her to stay home till he got back. Travel amp; Leisure had let her go. Budget cutbacks. The usual thing. Now Lea was determined to produce the best adventure-travel blog in the universe, build a huge audience, collect millions in advertising, and show her old bosses what a mistake they had made.

She was ambitious. And she was a fighter. The youngest of seven, with four brothers and two sisters, Lea was used to fighting for what she wanted.

And so. . they went their separate ways, and Mark’s sister, Roz, stayed with the kids.

Mark had to admit, the ten-city book tour was not as glamorous as he had imagined. And he was taken by surprise by all the anger waiting for him at every bookstore. After all, he’d only written a book. He hadn’t murdered anyone.

He wasn’t naive. He knew his book would spark controversy. But he never dreamed that parents would react with such alarm, as if he were threatening parenthood itself.

Which maybe he was.

Because of all the controversy, Kids Will Be Kids was at the top of the nonfiction bestseller list. Exactly what he had strived for. He wanted to reach as many parents as possible.

He wasn’t trying to become famous by stirring things up. He believed his studies of his young patients validated his parenting theories.

He glanced at the clock, then watched more rain-soaked stragglers push into the bookstore. Someone tapped his shoulder. The red-haired store clerk- Adam, it said on his ID badge. “Mr. Sutter, can I get you some water?”

“No thanks. I’m good.”

“You sure?”

He turned to the steep wooden staircase. He could hear the crowd up there shifting, folding chairs squeaking, the mumble of voices. Someone laughed loudly.

Showtime.

Not quite ready. He made his way toward the bathroom behind the office in back. A large man in a gray hoodie and faded jeans blocked the aisle. He was scanning a shelf of fiction, but turned as Mark approached.

“Hi. Are you here for my book talk?”

The man shook his head. “No. I’m not much of a reader. I’m here for my wife.”

“Your wife?”

“Yeah. She heard there’s a new James Patterson.” He swung back to the bookshelf. “You’re not him, are you?”

“No. No, I’m not. Sorry.”

Sorry? Why did I say sorry?

Mark edged past him into the phone-booth-size bathroom and checked the mirror. Brought his face close and grinned. He rubbed his front teeth with one finger. No hamburger or lettuce there. Nothing hanging from his nose.

He smoothed a hand over the stubble on his cheeks and brushed back his short hair, his hazel eyes dark in the dim light from the ceiling. He wasn’t admiring himself. He was preparing himself.

Lea called him Gyllenhaal. She said he was a dead ringer for the actor. Flattering? Yes. A two-day stubble, short, dark hair and big eyes, and he was Jake Gyllenhaal to her.