The smell of rain

It hadn’t rained for weeks. Months, in fact. Yellow grass sprawled lazily in the beating morning sun.

In all directions, the sky appeared blue from horizon to horizon. Today would be another scorching day.

Even the umbrella pines, used to the brutal summers, painfully arched their spines across to distribute the shade below, meagre comfort in the heavy dry air. Below it, the neighbour’s hound lazily repositioned himself, following the ever-moving outline of the shadow. The clinking of his chains broke through the cicadas’ singing.

Dust covered the paved driveways in a uniform coat, the product of dried dirt and low winds. If someone ever tried to sweep it away, it would simply rise up in plumes, refusing to gather, and descend back to the uneven stones.

In the oppressive heat, time seemed to stand still. No wind shook the trees or woke the grass, no cars drove past the house, only the odd wood pigeon signalled its presence, with three repeated coos. Days like these went on forever.

The smell of pinewood resin lingered in the air, mixing with the occasional puff of smoke coming from the man’s mouth. The burning cigarette, packed tight, intermittently gave a red light, a taunt to the scorched grass. The man’s glassy gaze searched ahead, for nothing in particular. His old, saggy skin slumped downwards in a way his dirty singlet imitated. Inhaling deeply, he burrowed the smoke deep in his lungs, and released it through his nose in an exasperated huff. When he felt the burn getting to his crooked, bony fingers, he extinguished his cigarette and left it upside down, filter standing up in a bowl of sand he called ashtray. 

He rose up from the chair with difficulty, his knuckles white with his grip on the chair’s arms and walked inside. The man then methodically but slowly closed every blind and curtain, in a futile attempt to keep the sun’s heat out. Once in the bedroom he made his way over to the clothes valet by the foot of the bed, and painstakingly changed into his suit. A white shirt covered the singlet as the man unhurriedly buttoned up. He seemed to enjoy the feeling of the ironed fabric over his parchment skin. The dark, pinstriped suit trousers gave him similar enjoyment, though he only managed to get them on with difficulty. The ordeal left him out of breath. He took a minute to recuperate before affixing the suspenders. The suit was not as old as he, but it lacked a certain firmness too. From his nightstand he took out a cloth to polish his black loafers, and slid into them. He slipped his head through his pre-knotted tie, and tightened it. Lastly, and despite the heat, he put on the suit jacket, and buttoned it at the waist. He took a brief look in the mirror, more to ensure nothing was out of place than to admire himself. He was quite familiar with the way the white pinstripes fell on the smooth, well-worn black fabric. 

He walked back to the front door and stopped an instant to retrieve his walking stick, and walked out, closing the door behind him and screwing his flat cap on. As he carefully walked down the three steps at the front of his porch, the hound gave him a half-hearted whine which the man ignored. In slow but determined steps, he reached the main road and turned left to get out of the cul-de-sac, and onto 45th Rd. As he took measured steps beneath the crushing heat, the slow beat of his walking stick and the dragging of his loafers on the asphalt barely disturbed the cacophony of cicadas. He made slower progress still on the final section, the hilliest part. Small and rare beads of sweat pearled beneath his flat cap. Atop the hill, he rested on the bench for a minute. Worried he might not be able to get back up if he stayed too long, he rose and walked the last few meters, away from the road.

He pushed the wrought iron gates of Millton cemetery, and left his walking stick to rest against them. His feet shuffled across the paved entrance, which quickly gave way to the dirt slowly swallowing it. Habit guiding his steps, he advanced toward the back of the cemetery, ignoring the vaguely familiar names he passed, and only stopped upon reaching his own. 

The marble was covered with the same dust that covered everything. His head shook in a mild disapproval. He took a small rag out of his jacket pocket and for the next ten minutes, meticulously wiped the stone, sending the dust in the air, to settle in more or less the same spot. 

He never spoke out loud, telling himself that would make him look mad, despite the cemetery being empty, as it was most days. If he did, he would have told her about the heat, how she would hate it right now. He would have slightly exaggerated too, to make himself look brave and strong.

But he didn’t speak. Out, way out in the distance, the sound of a small plane echoed, white trails growing in its wake splitting the sky in two halves. The sound quickly faded into nothingness.

He folded the rag and put it back inside his jacket pocket.

Eventually the man raised his hand to his lips, planted a small kiss on his fingertips, and lowered it down to the headstone, where it lingered. 

Slowly his feet took him back out of the dirt, and onto the paved entrance. He closed the gate behind himself and after retrieving his walking stick, carefully made the walk downhill on 45th Rd. The slope was steep, and he felt it in his knees. The sun was past its apex by the time he got to his porch. He contemplated sitting on the porch chair for a moment but went inside instead. It took his eyes a long time to adjust to the dark interior, but he didn’t wait for them, making for the kitchen instead. He put a saucepan on the hob, into which he emptied a can of Campbell’s tomato soup. While it heated he grabbed a packet of Ruffles Original chips from the pantry. 

When a large bubble rose to the surface of the bright red liquid and splattered the stove, the man turned off the heat, poured the soup into a bowl which he placed on a tray, along with a spoon, a napkin and the Ruffles Originals. Achingly, he made his way to the armchair, taking great care in balancing the tray.

Finally he sat on his armchair, every joint popping and cracking as he did so. Reaching for the remote, he turned on the television set and ate his food. 

He woke up a couple of hours later, nudged by the wet nose of the dog on his hand. It took him a minute to understand he must have slipped his collar to come inside again. It knew the man would let him stay with him until the evening. He always did. The man would say nothing, and return it to the neighbour’s yard in the evening.

The dog watched as the man ironed his shirt and suit trousers, and followed him outside when he stepped out to smoke a cigarette.

The man felt something, a distinctive smell. He used to make fun of old folks who claimed they could feel the weather in their bones. But sure as anything, he could smell the rain coming, despite the complete blueness of the sky.

He thought of Sue again. She liked that smell.

He looked at his footsteps in the dust that had gathered on the front steps. That rain would wash it all away, he thought. His mouth curled in a smile.

Once his cigarette was finished, it joined the remains of the others in the sand bowl.

He would have to remember to bring a clean rag tomorrow. The rain would mix with the dust and settle into the crevices of the headstone.

The dog sat, and rested his head on the man’s lap. He closed his eyes.