Summer Rain

The rain poured down in straight lines, so big and heavy that even the summer wind sought shelter under trees and tin rooftops.  Of course I begged for the dog, and when my parents finally gave in I assumed all responsibilities for him. But it was raining out, and I was a kid, and the idea of responsibility didn’t really mean anything to me. I looked at my older sister, pleadingly. My parents we’re putting up the dishes, their backs to us. She sneered at me but sweetly said “I’m going to finish my homework”. I was still learning the art of war between siblings, the subtle changes in tone and facial expression. She sauntered out of the kitchen and up the stairs, giving me a triumphant backward glance as she left the room. I had a lot to learn.

I was a surprise baby so my parents really had to tighten their belts to have me. I didn’t realize it at the time, those sorts of things aren’t just told to you as a kid. They’re unearthed, they’re discovered either purposefully or by accident. Maybe your aunt has too much wine at dinner and lets it slip, or a neighborhood kid tells you things he’s overheard from his family in hushed tones between classes. Worse yet, maybe you have a knock down, drag out fight with your sister and she delivers the revelation with so much venom it might kill you where you stand. Whatever manner of discovery these tiny family truths find their way to you over the years, and everything becomes more complicated than you could have imagined as a child. Some of them hurt for their withholding not because of the truth itself, but because they wouldn't trust you with it. You slowly realize how fragile and thin the threads of family are, knotted in every direction. 

I wasn’t privy to this knowledge as a kid, that I was a burden. If I had known how hard it was I wouldn’t have asked for the dog. My mother was against it from the start but my dad could never say no to me. We were as thick as thieves, and sure enough I got off the school bus one day to see a big red hound tied up on the front porch. He howled as I ran toward him and I’d never been happier. Dad said his coworker at the gas station was getting rid of him because he ran off constantly. The dog couldn’t be off the leash, which was trouble in our neck of the woods. If your dog got out and killed chickens it’d be on your head, and the highway was a regular pet cemetery for all those dogs that had to chase cars. So my dad said very seriously that in order to keep him I had to accept a lot of responsibility. I said yes, of course. I signed a contract without knowing how to read, responsibility an abstract concept.

That whole day I bellyached about having to take the dog out in the rain. Finally at dinner my mom had enough. She looked over her shoulder at me, giving me the big eyed stare that comes with a threat of grounding or a lecture or both. My dad cut her off, putting himself between me and a loaded gun so to speak.  “Oh I’ll walk him, I have to get the mail anyways” he said affably. “It’s not your dog Bill” my mom said shooting him a look. Again I worked hard to decipher these mismatching words, tones, and facial expressions. Whatever it was I knew it wasn’t good, she’d used my dad’s first name. He had joined me in hot water. “Don’t worry honey, I’ll be right back in and we can watch our program. I need the walk after dinner anyway.” He smiled at her uneasily. 

After he finished washing the last dish it was my job to dry them. I nervously walked toward the sink and started in. My mom gave me a stern look before heading into the family room. She put on the police scanner and I knew not to bother her. Dad whistled for our dog and grabbed the thick leather leash off of a hook on the wall near the back door. The hound bounded in barking excitedly, my dad gave me an exasperated look. “You’ll walk him first thing in the morning, rain or shine. I’m not doing this again” he said looking tired. “I promise” I almost shouted, meaning it in the moment. Promises are easy to make at that age, responsibilities verbalized when responsibilities are typically homework, taking out garbage, and pinky swears to friends. He smiled warmly at me showing some of his teeth, a soft exhalation came with it. I didn’t understand what was funny at the time, but returned the smile and laugh. This in turn made him laugh in earnest. 

Then just like that the dog was on the leash and they were both out the door. I finished my chores and kept my eyes down as I walked through the family room toward the stairs. My mom didn’t say anything to me but I could feel her eyes on me, my face hot. I crept up the stairs and caught my sister’s attention as I passed by her half closed door. Knowing full well my mom could hear conversations in the hallway she made a disgusted face at me. “You’re such a baby, making dad walk the dog” she hissed quietly. I stuck out my tongue and kept walking, starting to feel guilty. 

Time dragged on and dad wasn’t home. My mom figured that a neighbor had stopped him at the mailbox to talk. Depending on the neighbor it could take ages. My dad used to joke that when the widow Redfield came by the gas station he wondered if he’d be back in time for my graduation. Eventually though, in the morning we heard the news. The night before mom had heard about it over the police scanner, but didn’t want to wake us until she was sure. Dad had been struck by lightning at the mailbox.

Lightning doesn’t always kill you, in fact only ten to thirty percent of people actually die from being hit. At least that’s what the paramedics told us. I didn’t know why they mentioned it back then, but I realize now they were just talking to break up the silence. It’s unbearable the silence of grief. 

Apparently he’d experienced a direct hit, killing him instantly. Another fact that was supposed to provide comfort I suppose, a chorus of “at least he didn’t suffer” was soon to follow from neighbors and family. His hands curled reflexively into tight fists creating a steel grip on our dog’s leash. The leash itself was leather so the lightning didn’t hurt the dog at all. A passing neighbor realized something was wrong when he saw the dog barking its head off, the leash seemingly tied to the nothing. As he approached he saw my dad’s stiff pale arm holding the end of the leash among the tall summer grass. 

All the gruesome details were put together by my sister and I over the years, hard fought for family truths that had to be unearthed like any other family secret. 

That night after the medics left and before the funeral planning began, the silence of grief deafened our ears. We all cried softly in different rooms, realizing the part our father played in our fragile family dynamic. We didn’t eat, or talk, or make any movement that resembled living. Finally around midnight the hound barked at the back door, having been inside all day. I floated down the stairs, feeling so empty that perhaps if there was no roof on our house I might drift off into the sky. That thought was strangely comforting, like the world would make more sense from up there. I’d be too far away for people’s condolences and unwanted consolations.

I stopped in the doorway to the kitchen, hidden by a thick frame separating the two rooms. Mom stood in her nightgown at the back door. She opened it slowly, first the wooden one then the screen door. She seemed half awake, almost a ghost. The dog had no collar on, no leash. He bolted off into the cool summer night, a flash of brilliant chestnut red dissolving into all the deep blues of the nearby woods and fields. She stood there staring out into the darkness long after he disappeared, and I quietly crept back the way I came. As I climbed those stairs which felt endless, everything changed. These walls used to hold my family and everything I loved most.There was a certainty to it.

I finally entered my room and closed the door with a soft click. I collapsed into my bed and stared at the ceiling for a long time. Everything was just as I’d left it before climbing down those stairs. My posters rested on the wall by the window, a hairbrush on the dresser, dirty clothes in the hamper and on the floor. Trinkets and knick knacks, toys cluttered my closet. I closed my eyes ready to  spend my first night in a house that used to be my home, not understanding how everything can be the same and different all at once. 

When I left for college many summers after that one, I wasn’t a kid and hadn’t been one for years. I knew what responsibility meant, knew the weight of a broken promise. My new friends and roommates complained of homesickness and excitedly shared plans for holiday break. In my mind I could see the four walls that sheltered my mother from rain, her cooking with no one to help her do the dishes. I thought of going back to my house, of course, knowing I could never go home again.