Friday, July 15, 2011
One Rainy Afternoon
The knock was loud and urgent. She’d walked nearly a mile in the sprinkling rain. The damp hem of her dress carried the red clay of the roadside, barely showing against its deep rust color. The short sleeves of her thin sweater seemed to shiver against the warm drizzly afternoon, though her slender arms were still, her long fingers absently caressing the the roundness of her belly.
She swallowed the desperation in her voice as she asked to use the phone. “I’m locked out across the street,” she said. “If I could just use your phone…” Her voice trailed off.
She followed the secretary down the hall, unknowingly leaving a trail of small red foot prints on the tan carpet. As she listened to the phone ringing, she saw the glaring red on the carpet at her feet and her heart slipped a bit more. Must things always go wrong? Or more truly, not quite right?
No answer. She pushed the tears down again as she dialed another number. She wondered if it showed; the fray at the edges of her life, as though only the slightest pull would unravel the whole thing. Her hand instinctively went again to the life she carried inside her.
Still no answer. One last number to try. Her shoulders relaxed only slightly when the third ring was interrupted with an answer. “Where’s Mama?” she asked. A pause, only a moment too long. A deep breath, and then, “I’ve been waiting at the house since ten o’clock.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw the secretary glance at the clock as the secondhand swept around 1:14pm. Sweet of her to appear busy, attempting to ease the awkwardness of the stretched out minutes of waiting, wondering. Maybe the secretary wouldn’t notice how her lip trembled as she listened to her Mama’s answer, hoping it was not overheard. “Okay.” And she hung up.
A solitary tear slipped from the corner of her eye as she pushed against the arm of the chair to stand up. Pretending there were no tears gathering just behind her eyes, she forced a weak smile and thanked the secretary. With small steps she retraced her steps, pausing at the door, pushing it against the wind as she began her journey back to the place where melancholy lived, and hope hid itself so well in the dark corners.
She didn’t know how the secretary’s heart broke, just a little, from the weight of the somber encounter. She didn’t know the ache the secretary felt as she sensed the magnitude of the story left untold, sensing it’s heavy shadow over the slight figure of the young woman whose life had brushed hers for a few moments one rainy afternoon.
