Read Online Lullaby for the Rain Girl by Christopher Conlon - Free Book Online
Authors: Christopher Conlon
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tell me what you want me to do.”
“Nothing, right now. Let’s just stay here for a while.”
“Fine with me.”
We lay there together, my arm around her in the darkness. I could hear the night wind pressing lightly against the bedroom window. It felt good to be there with her—warm, soft, quiet. I felt I could nod off to sleep with her, wake with her the next morning. How I wanted to—how I didn’t want to have to return to this bed alone, pulling the covers over myself, blocking out the world. But I knew I would. She’d already said she had to go. I knew she wouldn’t stay.
I studied her body absently, touching the freckles on her shoulders and stroking her little round bottom. Time drifted. I think I nodded off to sleep for a time, then woke again to discover her still there beside me.
Sorrow poured over me then in sudden black waves and I felt dirty, ashamed of myself; for a ghastly moment I thought I would start to cry, but I held it in. Finally I guided her hand to me and we tried again for a few minutes, but there was nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last, sorrow and shame sheeting through me.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Want to do something else?”
“I guess not. Unless you’ve got a cigarette.”
“Ha! That, I do have.” She reached over to the chair where she’d left her purse and pulled out a package of Virginia Slims, one of my least favorite cigarettes of all time—surely the bland, unsatisfying things were created by some non-smoker somewhere with the specific intent of killing a person’s desire to smoke. But right now it didn’t matter. We lit up and drank what was left in our wine glasses.
“You okay?” she said at last.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Wish you smoked a better kind of cigarette, though.”
“Hey, these are the healthy kind. Smoke away.”
I chuckled. I genuinely liked Tracy, who had a good sense of humor—or seemed to. It was hard to tell, really, since there wasn’t a single moment we ever spent together in which she wasn’t playacting, pretending to be my sweet and supportive quasi-girlfriend.
At last it neared ten o’clock and, with a final, quick kiss, she got up and dressed. I wanted to pull her back into the bed, but I just watched until she was finished, then got up and wrapped my bathrobe around myself. We made our way back out into the main room and as she pulled on her coat I found my wallet and brought out the three hundred dollars, handed the wad of bills to her.
“Thanks, baby doll,” she said. “Call me, okay?”
I smiled wanly. “I will.”
She opened the door, fanned her fingers at me with a smile, and closed the door behind her.
I stood there for a long time, hollow inside. If anything, I felt worse than I’d felt before. This always happened, actually. Yet time after time I couldn’t resist picking up the phone when the long night’s cavern yawned before me and I could see no path to the light, none at all.
I rested my forehead against the wall for several minutes. Then I moved to the kitchen, cupped my palms for a drink from the faucet, splashed some of the water on my face. My heart had begun beating hard for some reason, hard and fast, thundering inside my skull.
Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus Christ.
At last I moved back into the bedroom and switched on the light, which seemed to shine garishly bright. With a sensation of disgust I stared at the empty glasses, the cigarette butts in the ashtray, and, most of all, the rumpled bed sheets.
Knocking the glasses and ashtray to the carpet, I tore the sheets from the bed and hurled them against the opposite wall. Then I collapsed onto the naked mattress and pulled the blankets up over me. I lay shivering in the hard light until dawn came.
4
Sunday was quieter. It had to be, after the grim eventfulness of the day before. No distraught sisters, no Alzheimer-ridden fathers, no pathetic attempted pickups in bookstores, no high-end prostitutes—my bank account was practically at
“Nothing, right now. Let’s just stay here for a while.”
“Fine with me.”
We lay there together, my arm around her in the darkness. I could hear the night wind pressing lightly against the bedroom window. It felt good to be there with her—warm, soft, quiet. I felt I could nod off to sleep with her, wake with her the next morning. How I wanted to—how I didn’t want to have to return to this bed alone, pulling the covers over myself, blocking out the world. But I knew I would. She’d already said she had to go. I knew she wouldn’t stay.
I studied her body absently, touching the freckles on her shoulders and stroking her little round bottom. Time drifted. I think I nodded off to sleep for a time, then woke again to discover her still there beside me.
Sorrow poured over me then in sudden black waves and I felt dirty, ashamed of myself; for a ghastly moment I thought I would start to cry, but I held it in. Finally I guided her hand to me and we tried again for a few minutes, but there was nothing.
“I’m sorry,” I said at last, sorrow and shame sheeting through me.
“Hey, don’t worry about it. Want to do something else?”
“I guess not. Unless you’ve got a cigarette.”
“Ha! That, I do have.” She reached over to the chair where she’d left her purse and pulled out a package of Virginia Slims, one of my least favorite cigarettes of all time—surely the bland, unsatisfying things were created by some non-smoker somewhere with the specific intent of killing a person’s desire to smoke. But right now it didn’t matter. We lit up and drank what was left in our wine glasses.
“You okay?” she said at last.
“Yeah, I’m okay. Wish you smoked a better kind of cigarette, though.”
“Hey, these are the healthy kind. Smoke away.”
I chuckled. I genuinely liked Tracy, who had a good sense of humor—or seemed to. It was hard to tell, really, since there wasn’t a single moment we ever spent together in which she wasn’t playacting, pretending to be my sweet and supportive quasi-girlfriend.
At last it neared ten o’clock and, with a final, quick kiss, she got up and dressed. I wanted to pull her back into the bed, but I just watched until she was finished, then got up and wrapped my bathrobe around myself. We made our way back out into the main room and as she pulled on her coat I found my wallet and brought out the three hundred dollars, handed the wad of bills to her.
“Thanks, baby doll,” she said. “Call me, okay?”
I smiled wanly. “I will.”
She opened the door, fanned her fingers at me with a smile, and closed the door behind her.
I stood there for a long time, hollow inside. If anything, I felt worse than I’d felt before. This always happened, actually. Yet time after time I couldn’t resist picking up the phone when the long night’s cavern yawned before me and I could see no path to the light, none at all.
I rested my forehead against the wall for several minutes. Then I moved to the kitchen, cupped my palms for a drink from the faucet, splashed some of the water on my face. My heart had begun beating hard for some reason, hard and fast, thundering inside my skull.
Jesus Christ, I thought. Jesus Christ.
At last I moved back into the bedroom and switched on the light, which seemed to shine garishly bright. With a sensation of disgust I stared at the empty glasses, the cigarette butts in the ashtray, and, most of all, the rumpled bed sheets.
Knocking the glasses and ashtray to the carpet, I tore the sheets from the bed and hurled them against the opposite wall. Then I collapsed onto the naked mattress and pulled the blankets up over me. I lay shivering in the hard light until dawn came.
4
Sunday was quieter. It had to be, after the grim eventfulness of the day before. No distraught sisters, no Alzheimer-ridden fathers, no pathetic attempted pickups in bookstores, no high-end prostitutes—my bank account was practically at
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