Rain Song Read Online Free PDF

paper towels it is going to take to clean the outside of the tank after she is gone.
    “I don’t want my mama to know about Dennis. Not yet.”
    “Have you told anyone?”
    Grable whispers, “No, but Iva . . .”
    “Iva?”
    “She suspects. You know, guesses something is wrong.”
    I nod, because I know she does and I know that she’s running with her suspicion. I don’t tell Grable that Grandmother Iva’s guesswork was blurted out to both Ducee and me recently. That she stated Dennis was no good from the get-go, just as Clarisa Jo, Grable’s mom, states. I wouldn’t be surprised if the whole staff at the Mount Olive Tribune already knows about how Dennis is never home.
    Grable studies her shiny nails. “Mama didn’t ever approve of Dennis,” she says as though to all ten of them. I see her diamond on her left hand, the diamond that once had all the relatives talking because it is two carats and all the way from South Africa. “Mama just thought Dennis was a playboy, you know. Still thinks it.”
    “Oh.” It sounds like such a dumb thing to say. The alternative would be, “I know.” And how much dumber would that be? I could gush that Dennis is great, but that would be lying.
    He did, at one point, seem good to me. Tall, broad shoulders, eyes that sparkle, and hair the color of coal. I must admit I was jealous of Grable the first time she introduced me to Dennis. He was too handsome. His eyes could melt butter. His smile showed rows of perfectly shaped teeth, an orthodontist’s dream. Then it happened. I turned my gaze away from those two beams of light and those flashing teeth to notice Dennis’s ears. They point at the tips. Not just a little, but a lot, like triangles. At first you don’t see beyond his face, but once you do, you can’t help wondering if he could wear a green cap and double as one of Santa’s elves.
    Suddenly we are aware of the quiet. Grable speaks first. “Where’s Monet?”
    “She’s probably on the floor.” Sometimes Monet likes to sit cross-legged on my dining room floor, rock back and forth, and try to whistle. My eyes scan the floor. When I don’t see her, I look at my aquarium, as though maybe she fell in there. All I see are the smudged glass sides. Every single side has been fingerpainted by Monet. This is the type of art the child enjoys.
    I’ll have to buy more Windex.
    I count; the fish are all there, even the eel, poking his tail out near the clump of swaying seaweed.
    “Monet!” How could we have lost her? I stride to the front door and open it. Surely, she didn’t venture outside into the cold.
    “Monet!” I glance around my lawn, even look up at the branches of the gnarled oak tree. Those branches are high up there, but part of me wouldn’t be shocked to see Monet swinging from one of the limbs, waving one hand, and honking like a flock of geese on an autumn day.
    Grable is by my elbow. “She never leaves the house to go outside without her jacket,” she informs me.
    Oh. Well, this is fascinating. The child will dump a whole container of fish flakes into my aquarium, but she doesn’t go outside on a winter’s day without her jacket?
———
    Grable holds Monet’s violet jacket as though walking around the house with it in her hands will make her daughter appear from wherever she’s hiding. “Monet!” She uses her harsh voice, even though the doctors tell her she must always deal with her daughter calmly. “Monet, come here! Come here right now!”
    I wonder if Monet can hear her mother. A year ago the child had a hearing aid attached to her left ear. But I didn’t notice it on her today.
    Entering the kitchen, I look around, but it appears the same as it did an hour ago. The teakettle is on the stove. Next to it is a pan I boil eggs in. Boiled eggs with salt are another one of God’s finer creations. Pantry and cabinets are shut. I listen and hear nothing except for a neighborhood woodpecker that spends time in a tree across the street.
    I