Although she had lived there for seventeen years, Callie was momentarily
daunted by the opulence of her own home as she drove up the twisty brick drive that led to its majestic front doors. As she parked her car alongside Jackson’s burgundy-colored Jaguar, she noticed Eduardo, the gardener, still tending to the exotic plants and flowers that had been imported earlier that year from East Asia.

At seven o’clock, there was still quite a bit of light left in the sky, and Callie considered, then rejected, a quick swim to neutralize the effects of the heat. As she got out of her car, she waved hello to Eduardo, then hurried inside to seek some solace from her loving husband.

When she found him, he was in the den, sprawled out on the couch, his feet on the coffee table and his eyes closed, listening to Chopin, a favorite musical tranquilizer. As his right hand conducted the invisible orchestra, his left hand grasped his two-olive martini in the long-stemmed crystal glass.

“You started without me,” Callie said.

As Jackson’s blue eyes opened, his right hand brushed a wisp of thick blond hair from his eyes. “It’s been one hell of a day.”

“For me too,” Callie said. “I went back to Rainytown.”

“I know,” Jackson said, looking to his left. “That’s why I brought you those.”

Callie looked to her right and saw a vase filled with a dozen white roses, resting on the desk. She smiled and walked over to them.

“Thanks, honey, that was very sweet. They’re gorgeous.”

“So are you. Sit down, let me get you a glass of wine. Did you get a lot done?”

Callie walked over to the couch, gave her husband a kiss, then sat down next to him. “Never even got the boxes out of the trunk. There was a lot to distract me.”

Jackson carefully placed his martini on the table, then walked over to the bar and poured his wife a glass of Zinfandel.

“Here you go,” he said, handing her the glass. “Now, just relax and listen to Fred.”

“How can you call him Fred?” Callie asked, semi-amused. “You change the music when you call him Fred. I almost expect to hear a marching band or something.”

Jackson resumed his seat and took a sip of his martini. He laughed. “I have every respect for the dearly departed March King, but John Philip could never bring me this close to nirvana.”

Callie looked at him oddly. “Well, nobody called Fred could’ve written music like this,” she insisted playfully.

“Then have it your way,” Jackson said. “And have a listen to Frédéric.”

Jackson closed his eyes and began conducting again. Callie was frustrated. She wanted his full attention.

“I saw my friend Frankie today,” Callie said. “For the first time in twenty-three years.”

“Really? How did it go?” Jackson asked, his eyes still closed.

“Awkward, heart wrenching, awful, wonderful.”

Jackson opened his eyes and smiled. “Well, when you make up your mind, be sure to share it with me.”

Callie was no longer amused, but before she could visibly display her lack of sport, his eyelids were fluttering again. “It was all of those things,” she said. “An emotional garbage dump. There it was, my former life, like a heap of junk that used to have value, waiting to be snatched for pennies at someone’s yard sale. And seeing Aunt Emily’s home again…that was too much. And Frankie, poor Frankie, her life is a mess. You should hear –”

“Let Frédéric soothe your tired brow.”

Callie, wanting to suggest a more appropriate activity for Chopin, resisted the temptation. But just as she reconsidered, Cobbles, her Persian cat, sauntered in to say hello.

“Come to Momma, baby,” Callie said, patting her lap to entice the cat. “I’ve missed you.”

As Cobbles considered his options, Hungry, the alley cat Callie had found as a kitten, walked into the room, hot on Cobbles’ trail. Hungry, out for a good time, hid underneath the chair to the left of the door. Callie watched with amusement as Hungry’s back end began to twitch, a sure sign she was about to pounce on her unsuspecting brother. And just as Cobbles had decided to grace Callie with his presence, making strides in her direction, Hungry bounded out of hiding, smacked Cobbles on the rear end, and Callie’s furry comfort went scurrying out of the room.

“That was very funny,” Callie told Jackson. “Too bad your eyes were closed.”

“Cats at it again?”

“You miss things when your eyes are closed,” Callie said.

“I’m deliriously happy,” Jackson said, feeling the swell of the music. “I’ve been looking forward to this all day. Trust me, I’m not missing a thing.”

Callie stood up abruptly. “Forget it. I’m going for a swim. I’ll see you later.”

Jackson opened his eyes. “Aren’t you going to finish your wine?”

“Give it to Fred,” Callie told him, annoyed. “I’ve lost my taste for it.”

Jackson, bewildered by the rebuttal, shrugged his shoulders and closed his eyes again. He was too immersed in his comfort zone to ask any questions. He figured that Callie wanted to talk, as she often did in days of late, but he’d had a very stressful day and had no desire to relinquish the quiet time he’d so painstakingly earned.

“We’ll talk later, honey,” Jackson said, but Callie was long gone.

***

Normally, Callie loved the hard pounding of rain, but not on the days when she had to go out. She liked it on the days when she could sleep late and didn’t have much to do but curl up with a good book or spend some time on her treadmill. But this was not one of those days. Today, in another part of town, Callie’s life was waiting for her, tapping its fingers with cool insistence. Hurry up, Callie. Get over here. You’ve got work to do.

Half asleep, curled up on her left side, she wondered why the rain sounded so much louder than usual, as if it were raining right there in the bedroom. But being in a quasi state of slumber, it took her some moments before she could laugh at her own confusion, Jackson is taking a shower, dummy! Wake up.

Wake, however, was not what she wanted to do. With her right hand, Callie punched her down pillow for renewed comfort, then adjusted her body in preparation for an extended snooze. Still not comfortable, Callie punched the pillow again, this time with increased effort.

“Get up, my little pugilist!” Jackson said, walking into the bedroom with a towel wrapped around his waist.

Callie’s eyes opened halfway, then closed again. “What are you talking about?” she mumbled.

“I’m talking about the right hook you just gave that pillow,” Jackson told her. “Pillows are sensitive little creatures. They don’t like to be punched. Especially so early in the morning.”

“Oh, be quiet,” Callie said, burying her head in the pillow. “Before I punch you.”

“Waaa di you saaay?” Jackson said, speaking in mock muffled tones. “I caaan heh you.”

Callie turned her head around and opened her eyes all the way. “I said, be quiet before I punch you too!”

Jackson smiled. “Good morning, love.”

“Good morning is an oxymoron,” Callie said groggily. “How can anything that happens in the morning be good?”

Jackson looked at her knowingly, then broke into a broad grin. “We’ve had lots of good things happen in the morning.”

Callie gave him a dirty look.

“You’re still angry with me, aren’t you? Jackson said. “You disappeared last night, and you didn’t even eat dinner with me.”

“I was out by the pool,” Callie said. “You knew where to find me.”

“I figured you needed some time alone. I thought, and wrongly so, that you would want to have dinner later on.”

“I did have dinner. By myself. Leftover fettuccine Alfredo and salad.”

“So that’s where that went to,” Jackson said. “That’s what I was going to have…once I realized I would be dining alone. C’mon, Callie. All I wanted was to relax after a rough day at work. That was no reason for you to take a hike; we could’ve talked over dinner. And for whatever reason, you saw fit to wait until I was sound asleep to come to bed. No wonder you’re so tired this morning. How long are you going to hold this grudge against me, anyway?”

“I’m not holding any grudges,” Callie relented. “I just needed to talk. I really did. But you weren’t—”

Jackson smiled. “You want to talk? Good. Because there’s someone here who wants to talk to you. Wait, I’ll go get him.”

“Who’s out there? Don’t you dare bring anyone into this bedroom,” Callie shouted. “Are you crazy?”

“Just a little bit,” Jackson said devilishly. “Hold on.”

Jackson ran back to the bathroom, only to return seconds later with his wet blond hair slicked back, and the towel he had been wearing around his waist draped around his shoulders like a cape.

“Oh no!” Callie said, covering her eyes. “Not him!”

“That’s right!” Jackson said, “It’s your friend and mine. Come to call!”

“No,” Callie pleaded mirthfully, “Not Naked Matador! Not so early in the morning!”

“It’s never too early for Naked Matador,” Jackson said, grabbing his “cape” and coming toward Callie as if she were a bull. “I ees going to get you! And we can have zee nice long chat. You’ve heard of zee pillow talk, si?”

Callie couldn’t help but laugh as she observed Jackson’s antics. There he was, the dignified and respected CEO of his own construction company, prancing farcically about the room with his manhood swinging back and forth like a pendulum gone awry.

“I’ve got you!” Jackson shouted, as he threw himself on top of her. “You, Señora, are mine to ravish! Mmmm. You taste so good!”

And as the rain continued to pound outside, Callie silently agreed that Jackson had been right. Maybe there were some good things about morning.

***

 “What a rotten morning!” Ruby said, glancing toward the window as Frankie entered with a tray. “Look at it. It’s raining cats and dogs.”

“It shouldn’t bother you,” Frankie said, putting the tray down on the folding stand by Ruby’s bed. “It’s not like you’re going anywhere today.”

“It’s depressing,” Ruby told her. “Besides, Paulie might not show. He hates rain.”

Frankie was unsympathetic. “Yeah, I know. It messes up his hair, poor boy. Well, I for one like rain. We need it. Cool things down a bit.”

“What’s that slop you brought me?” Ruby said, looking at the tray.

“Oatmeal, Ma. You know what it is.”

“I hate goddamned oatmeal. Putrid slop. Just like all the food you bring me.”

“I’m doing everything I can for you, Ma. Can’t you give me a break? Can’t you just eat a little?”

“I called Arlene Humphries last night,” Ruby said. “To thank her for the flowers.”

“Good, I’m glad.”

“And she told me that Callie Mason had been by. That she’s the one’s gonna be cleanin’ out Emily’s place. Never would have thought—”

“That’s right. Paulie and I saw her yesterday.”

“How come none of yous told me about it?”

“We’re not hiding anything from you, Ma, just didn’t get a chance to tell you yet.”

“Arlene says she’s a fancy society lady now. Got a BMW and everything.”

“Eat your oatmeal, Ma,” Frankie said, placing the tray on Ruby’s lap. “Or it’ll get cold.”

“Too bad you didn’t marry rich like that,” Ruby said.

“Callie had lots of her own money anyway,” Frankie clarified. “You knew that.”

“Too bad you didn’t marry rich like she did,” Ruby repeated, impervious to Frankie’s explanation. “Then you could hire some fancy doc to fix me and some fancy nurses to take care of me. And a damn chef.”

“It’s not about money, Ma. Rich people die from cancer too. Your doctors are doing all they can for you.”

Ruby looked down at the bowl of oatmeal on her lap. “This is what it comes down to, don’t it? To hell with my nursing career. Lost any chance of that when I married your father. Gave up every damn thing to become Mrs. Louie Cavalese. And what did it get me: dumped for some trashy, home-wrecking bitch. And what did I end up with: a million years behind the register at the Save-Your-Goddamned-Money supermarket with two kids to raise. So what do I got to show for my life now: a bowl of putrid slop and a body filled with cancer. That’s it, Frankie. That’s all I got.”

“What about me? Don’t I matter to you?”

“Gave up nursing school to raise you, didn’t I?”

“How about Paulie? Didn’t you make sacrifices for him, too?”

“Yeah…whatever,” Ruby said. “My life was one big, goddamn sacrifice.”

“How about mine?” Frankie asked bitterly. “I’m forty-one years old, and I’ve never lived anywhere but here with you. You wanted to be a nurse? I wanted to teach art to little kids. But instead, I worked for fifteen years at the damn diner. And now, I’m on a leave of absence from the same miserable supermarket so I can take care of you.”

“I told ya, Frankie. You shoulda married well, like that Mason kid.”

Frankie began pacing the room. “Oh, come on! How can you say that? You never wanted me to get married. Why won’t you admit it? You piled as much guilt on me as you could to make me stay here in this dump with you. Tellin’ me only an ingrate would abandon you and shit. Like I owed you everything for raising me up or something.”

“Least I did that!” Ruby snapped. “Your old man didn’t do no raisin’ up. Yeah, he talked a good line ’bout how much he loved you, but I’m the one who stayed with you…took care of you, wiped the food from your mouth, the snot from your nose, and the crap from your behind. What a damn hypocrite that man is with his sweet-talkin’ garbage. Know what he used to tell me all the time? That his little girl was so perfect, she must’ve hung the moon.”

“He did?”

“Don’t go gettin’ cocky ’bout it, Frankie. Just look outside tonight, after it gets dark. You’ll see what I see: a damned crooked moon in the sky. I wouldn’t go braggin’ to no one ’bout this.”

“Oh right! I brag about my wonderful life all the time.”

“Least you’ve got a life!” Ruby said. “Mine’s almost gone.”

“And what kind of life do you think I have?” Frankie raged.

“A better one than I got,” Ruby shot back. “Now, take this putrid slop and leave my room.”

“I’ll be back later,” Frankie said, fighting the taboo urge to cry. “Just eat something. Please!”

“I said, take this now!” Ruby insisted.

“Later,” Frankie countered angrily.

And with that, Ruby’s weak arms picked up the bowl and hurled it toward Frankie, her meager toss splattering the oatmeal at the foot of the bed, drenching the cherished afghan that her late mother had made.

Frankie, stunned, stopped in her tracks to assess the damage, then looked at Ruby.
Ruby, suddenly quiet, turned away.

Frankie blotted a dab of water from her left eye, then glanced at what should have been her mother’s breakfast. Ruby, covered with anguish and wrapped in disgrace, could not even glance in her daughter’s direction. But Frankie, needing so to believe in her mother’s remorse, looked kindly at the withered woman who had just been silenced by her own shame.

“You take it easy, Ma,” Frankie said lovingly. “I’ll be back soon to clean this up.”
There was no response. Just a cold, hard stare in another direction.

“Okay then, Ma,” Frankie said quietly, taking the soiled afghan in her hands. “Hang in there. I’ll hurry as fast as I can.”

***

Numbed by her perceived inadequacy as a daughter and caregiver, Frankie let the afghan drop once she reached the hallway. The enormity of her tribulation was too much to shoulder. She looked down at the small, faded blanket that now cradled her feet, then at the oatmeal that ironically had fallen in such a way as to cover an old stain on the hallway runner.

 The once-tomboy, so afraid of tears, was no longer tempted to cry. Instead, she rested against the wall and prayed for the strength to continue. But her burden had rendered her temporarily unable to bear even the weight of her own body, and she slid helplessly to the floor, her limp and weary arms flopping to either side of her.

Callie, weary from a diminished sleep and an unscheduled morning exercise session, stirred in her bed, soundlessly cursing the digital display that reminded her of the hour, as her weary arms clutched the soft down of her pillow.

For years, Callie had barely been able to make peace with her privileged lifestyle, yet she was scared to death of losing it. Every day, she wondered what purpose she had in the world, what she had done to deserve the pretty toys she had been given, and who and what she would become should they suddenly disappear. Often, she felt covetous of her household staff for their daily sense of pride in a job well done. They knew the value of a hard day’s work, something Callie believed she had rarely encountered. She gave herself no credit for raising two wonderful children and for providing her family with a happy home. She believed that the aid of household help negated such worthy accomplishments, just as Anisa’s former misuse of domestics had negated her maternal value in Callie Mason’s eyes. Sometimes, Callie sought self-praise for the many charitable efforts she had made over the years but inevitably concluded that volunteer work was simply a merit badge of the idle rich and deserving of little reward. But on this particular day, when Callie actually had something of vital importance to do, in loving tribute to the woman who raised her, she did not want to do it. And as she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling fixture, she felt the guilt chip away at her soul.

Frankie stared at the dust on the baseboard and listened for her mother’s cries. There were none. The distant sound of rain transfixed her as the crying sky wept in her place. She wondered what time Callie would arrive and how she could arrange to run into her. Then, she banished the thought and ran her forefinger through the dust, staring with empty eyes at the streak that it made.

Callie, who had finally made her way to the shower, scrubbed her body with Jackson’s oatmeal soap, as she wondered what to wear to Rainytown and if Frankie would be any happier to see her today. Oatmeal made good soap and good cookies, Callie thought, but she hated it for breakfast.

It was putrid slop. Frankie agreed with her mother. How could she expect Ruby to eat it when she could not even bear to clean it off the floor? But the job had to be done, in loving tribute to the woman who raised her. And so, Frankie took the afghan, and with one fell swoop, wiped the floor and baseboard clean, then hurried downstairs to do the laundry.

***

Well over an hour had passed before Frankie returned to her mother’s room with the cleaned afghan and a wet cloth. Ruby, curled up in a fetal position, was sound asleep. Frankie prayed it would be a long, dreamless sleep. No distractions. Just rest. Rest for her dying mother and for herself.

She placed the afghan down on a nearby chair and walked to the foot of the bed to inspect for any oatmeal fragments left by the cereal grenade. Finding three small patches on the sheets, she wiped them clean, then bent down to pick up the plastic bowl that had landed on the floor.

Slowly, as if with a newfound calm, she walked out to the bathroom to discard the bowl and the cloth, then went back to the bedroom, where she returned the afghan to its rightful place at the foot of the bed.

As she stood looking over her mother, she asked God to show mercy on them all and to find a small piece of joy for Ruby’s dying heart. Then she walked over to the front window to watch the rain and to look up into the skies and pray some more.

Another day, Frankie might have laughed out loud to see Callie fumble so comically as she attempted to remove a stack of flattened boxes from her trunk. Today, Callie had managed to find a parking space right outside, but that didn’t really help matters. The boxes were far too large to be held with ease, and even from Frankie’s second-floor vantage point, she could see Callie’s increasing agitation as the heavy rain threatened to destroy the boxes’ utility with each additional second that she faltered.