Lily King - Father of the Rain

“Yup, she’s right here,” he says, holding the phone out to me. But there is only the dial tone.

I put the phone back on its cradle.

“What happened there?” my father says.

“We got disconnected, I guess.” I’m trying to keep my voice steady.

“That your boyfriend?”

I nod.

I can’t eat what’s on my plate. I have no way to call Jonathan back. He’s already on the road by now. I’m not sure talking would help anyway.

The next morning my father is in a coat and tie. “I’m going to go in and meet with Howard this morning.”

“Howard Gifford?” The name of his divorce lawyer brings back pains in my stomach.

My father nods. “I want to get this thing moving.”

“If that’s what you’re sure you want.”

“Christ yes.”

After he leaves I unload the dishwasher. I carry the stack of plates into the pantry where Catherine kept them and stop in the middle of the room. I don’t have to put them there anymore. She isn’t coming back. Everything — silverware, napkins, glasses, salad plates, cereal bowls — can go back where they belong. As I work, I catch myself in conversations with Oliver Raskin or Jonathan or some amalgam of the two, trying to convince them that I have no choice but to stay here for a little while, that it is my duty not just as a daughter but as a human being.

When everything is back in place, I dig out the leashes in the coat closet and clip them on the dogs. They don’t know how to behave on leashes; my father only uses them for trips to the vet. As we make our way down the driveway, they weave themselves into tight tangles over and over, little Maybelle practically dangling off the ground.

“You guys are pathetic,” I say to them when we reach the street, and honestly their heads seem to lower in shame. “This is what we need to do. Sadie, you need to walk out that way, to my right; Oscar, way out to my left; Yaz, in front, and Maybelle, I’m attaching you to my waist like this.” I thread the small handle of her leash through my belt loop. “And now we walk.” We take up the whole sidewalk and the grass on both sides. Anytime Oscar looks interested in Sadie’s grass I tell him to cut it out and keep his eyes ahead. They obey me. Yaz, the biggest of all of them, pulls us all forward like a sled dog.

We pass the Vance sisters’ old driveway, filled with bright plastic tricycles and trucks, an enormous garage where the chaotic garden used to be, then take the shortcut, down Lotus Lane to the sandy path, ignoring the new NO TRESPASSING signs. I am having some trouble breathing properly. It feels like there’s a baseball in my lungs, taking up most of the room. I can really only half believe that I had that conversation with Dr. Raskin, and only half believing is shocking enough. The dogs, hearing the waves, smelling the smells, strain hard on their leashes. When we reach the boardwalk, the sea suddenly below us, I unhook them all and the two big dogs take off down the weathered wooden steps. They sprint to the water in a spray of fine white sand. Maybelle stays by my feet, taking each deep step down with brave caution.

Warm air rises from the sand and cold air comes off the water. Gulls screech and waves swell and break in gorgeous white diagonals all the way down the beach. Farther out the water is pale and glossy or a rumpled deep blue, depending on how the wind is touching it. Seeing the Atlantic is always like seeing an old love: a familiar ache, a tremendous pull, and a deep sadness. It’s so vast, so muscular, so devastatingly beautiful. Jonathan and I have never seen any ocean together. We were waiting for California. Our cottage is 2.4 miles from a beach. He clocked it when he was out there.

The big dogs stay in the shallows, barking at the waves as they grow and retreating when they shoot to shore. I take off my shoes. The wind flaps my T-shirt and shorts. I try to take in deep breaths.

There is a smattering of people down the beach near the main entrance, setting up their umbrellas, spreading out their towels. But down here there is only me, the dogs, and an old couple in coats, walking toward the rocks. I wonder if my father will have lunch in Boston with Howard Gifford. The dogs see the old couple and begin to run toward them. They will go to Locke-Ober’s and Howard will order a drink. When I call the dogs, my voice is thin and they don’t hear me.

Back at the house I sit at my father’s desk with a blank sheet of paper — it wasn’t easy to find one that didn’t have his name and address embossed on it — and a ballpoint pen. I have to write Jonathan, and I have to get the letter in the mail this afternoon so that it arrives in California when he does. I want to tell him that I need a little more time here, less than three months. And then we can go to Crater Lake. Maybe we both can apply for jobs in Philadelphia for next year. I can see him in his truck, the truck he couldn’t drive when I first met him, heading toward a job he didn’t even want. He wanted to get back to Philly. That had been his plan.

But nothing about me was in Jonathan’s plan. And he always has a plan. It’s the way he copes with fear. The way I cope is to never have expectations, so I’m not disappointed. Even with Berkeley I never let myself get attached to the idea. I wanted it, but I didn’t expect it. Maybe that’s why I can let it go now. I never really believed it was mine. And with Jonathan, too, I held back, until he called me on it.

“I want to have a relationship with you.”

I laughed. We were both naked. “I think we are having a relationship.”

“But these things need to be said. I think you don’t think I’m serious. Or maybe you’re not serious. What are your intentions toward me?’

I laughed again.

“I’m serious, Daley. What are they?”

“My intentions? You act like I’m angling to marry you or something.”

“Are you?”

“No.”

He was quiet.

“Aren’t you relieved?”

“No. I’m not interested in being glib.”

“I’m not being glib.”

“I’m not sure any of this is meaningful to you.” He put his hand on my chestbone. “You’re all sealed up in there.”

It was true. I loved him so much, and I was desperate to hide the extent of it. But slowly, he cracked me open. He pulled out all my feelings and made me talk about them. He had the ability to articulate emotions that most people simply feel as a clump in the belly. Carefully, patiently, he built a strong platform for us, and I came to trust that I could put the whole of my weight on it. It’s because I am standing on that platform that I am able to help my father now.

I stare at the page. It all feels so raw and wordless and unbelievable. He is driving west and I am not there. I am not going to open the door. I have broken my promise. I put my head on the paper, and soon the page is wet and buckled. I toss it in the trash and go up to my room.

On my bed I think back to our last night together, before Garvey called, lying with him, his finger slipping up into my underwear. He is on me, heavy, hard, his lips on mine. I want to fuck you, I whisper, and he pushes in and I come quickly. Too quickly. I lie there for a minute, sadness pooling, and then I take it slower, and come deeper. I can feel it spread everywhere this time, beneath my toenails, across my scalp. I feel close to him, lying here. I don’t want to stop and feel the distance between us again. I start moving my fingers again in the syrupy wetness until I hear hard knocking on the kitchen door.

I zip up my pants and smooth down my hair in back. My limbs feel loose but strong as I go down the stairs.

It’s Barbara Bridgeton. She frowns at the sight of me through the screen door.

“Have I woken you?”