Read Online Rain Song by Alice J. Wisler - Free Book Online Page A

and she’s not answering her door.” She gasps for air.
    “Did you ring her doorbell?”
    “I did, Nicki. She didn’t come to the door. What do you think is wrong with her? I counted to at least twenty waiting for her to answer. Remember you told me to always do that since Ducee can be slow getting to her front door?”
    Well, this certainly puzzles me, because I never recall giving my great-aunt this advice.
    Iva inhales. “But she didn’t come to the door.”
    “The doorbell is broken.” Doesn’t she remember this about Ducee’s house? Broken doorbells, phones the woman won’t answer.
    “What? What?” Iva sounds like a kid who has just learned that there is no Santa Claus.
    “The doorbell doesn’t work.” I use my calm and clear teacher’s voice.
    “I thought she got that fixed.”
    “No. Knock loudly.”
    Slowly, Aunt Iva says, “Are you sure?”
    “Sure as the sun.”
    “I called her on the phone after I got home. There was no answer.”
    “Aunt Iva, you know that Ducee never answers her phone.”
    “What am I going to do?”
    “Ducee is fine.”
    Iva’s coughing reminds me of my garbage disposal when a fork gets stuck in it.
    After clearing her throat, Iva says, “Are you sure?”
    Aunt Iva is a lot like one of my students. Clay’s known for asking questions, and while the rest of the class might be bothered by them, these very questions are what endear me to Clay. “Ms. Michelin,” he’ll say as he raises his arm, “how do you know that Walt Whitman was a man? Huh? George Eliot was a woman. How do you know?”
    I can’t find fault with Clay or Iva. I’m the one with a past of uncertainties, the looming questions. It is only fair for me to allow them their barges of apprehension to motor down their streams of life.
    Softly I say, “Ducee is fine. She was fine yesterday, remember?” Yesterday, Iva called wondering where Ducee was, only to find her in the backyard feeding a baked potato to Maggie, the donkey. Maggie is fond of baked potatoes, making my grandmother convinced that the beast is Irish.
    “Why won’t she let us have cucumber sandwiches?”
    Is Iva whining now? “She’s just being Ducee.”
    “Do you really think it’s not proper etiquette?”
    “I don’t know.”
    “Cucumber sandwiches are my favorite.”
    “I know.”
    “Do you think she’s okay?” Iva is lighting a cigarette; I hear the lighter click. I know it’s the silver lighter she received upon retiring from the Mount Olive Pickle Company, where she worked for thirty years.
    “Yes, you better hurry over there for tea.”
    After inhaling, Iva says, “I suppose I should. If it gets cold on account of my tardiness, she’ll never let me hear the end of it.”
    I smile. “You know Ducee despises cold tea.”
    “Unless it’s iced tea.”
    “That’s right.”
    Monet is now jumping on one leg and laughing. The hot dog has been consumed; the ketchup is smeared on her mouth.
    “Nicki? It’s hard to hear. Is your TV on?”
    “No.”
    A slight pause and then, “Nicki?”
    “Yes.”
    “I hope there’s room.”
    “Where?”
    “What if someone takes my plot?”
    Her plot! She must be talking about The Meadows, the cemetery where all of the relatives from North Carolina are buried, even Mama. “If you’ve paid for it, it’s not going to be given to anyone else.” I rest the receiver against my right shoulder and neck. I hear Monet squealing in the living room. She was just here in my sight. I hope my fish are okay. I carry the phone into the living room to find Grable cradling Monet on Aunt Lucy’s chair, Pinocchio open in her lap.
    Grable sees me and gives me a sleepy smile.
    “But what about Usella?” Iva’s voice cracks.
    “What?” I enter the kitchen again.
    Iva lets out a long cough. “In the paper this morning. Do you get the Tribune ?”
    Okay, I’m cheap. I’ve never subscribed to the local paper, the Mount Olive Tribune . If I really want to read the news, I can always find a