Bring the Rain (16 page)

He fills the hole with cement and grabs a level, taking the timber from me and knocking it in place. We stand there for a while as he tests the cement’s hold until the board sticks stiff.

“There we go. Solid as a rock.” He stretches his back, blocking the sun, so he becomes a silhouette. “Now three more.” He moves to the next hole, but I’m struck at how clean and odd the new board, set straight among a pile of ashes and dust, appears. It’s like I lived this before, but that’s impossible.

“Why do we need the cement Dad? What does it do?”

“It helps build a strong foundation so nothing will fall.”

“Oh.” I say as I plunge a stick into the bucket of sandy grey goo. “But how?”

Dad sighs, wiping the sweat from his nose. Mom taps the window, laughing from behind her laptop. She’s working a lot today.

“The sand and limestone bond with the water, becoming a solid.” He knocks the board that towers above me around in the hole with the cement.

“Oh, like when I make play dough?”

“Right.”

“Dad,” I ask again, rolling the gooey stick in the grass, parts of the cement turn white now. “Why is it turning white?”

“It’s drying.”

“But why does it change color?”

Dad laughs. “You’ve got a lot of questions, Bug. Can you hand me that shovel?”

“Time to dig another hole?” I say as I drag the shovel to him. I grab my pink gardening shovel too. Dad says I’m an expert at moving dirt.

“Yup.”

“What are we building?” I try to plunge the end of my shovel in, lifting some grass from the earth.

Dad laughs, “Whoa, girl. We can’t dig just anywhere. Let’s redirect that energy over here.” He points to the circle he spray-painted earlier bright orange.

“You should have gone with purple, it’s way better than orange.”

“I know. Purple next time, ok babe?”

“Promise?”

“I do.”

“A deck,” I whisper.

“What’s that, Autumn?” Dad says as he pulls out another mound of dry earth. The purple spray painted dirt clings to the back of his shovel.

“We’re building a deck, right?”

“Yup. I knew you’d catch on.”

He remembered the paint. My eyes itch and I take a deep breath. This isn’t the place to cry. I rub my nose, trying to get rid of the pre-tear sting.

“You all right?” Dad asks.

“It's allergies.”

Come mid-morning, we’ve finished grounding the support posts. My back itches, the heat from the sun still finding my burns through the canvas shield. Dad keeps things simple as we work. He occasionally asks about New York, the online school, and Mom. I’m surprised he doesn’t seem to have a hard time listening to me talk about her. He nods along while he nails up support boards, but his face dulls when I mention how Mom always left me alone on business trips.

“I think that’ll be it today,” he says after I tell him about her last trip to London. He tosses the level towards the toolbox. It bounces out and he swears.

The atmosphere tightens. I pick up the level and place it in the box. Suddenly, I’m finding myself contemplating Grace’s advice.

Fight for him.

He remembered the purple paint.

“Dad.” I take a deep breath as I pull my fingers through the box of nails, aligning them in their row. “You know Mom isn’t negligent, right?” I hand him the box.

“I do. Ms. Kent watched you.”

Oh. “I didn’t know you knew that.”

“She called me twice a day. I like Ms. Kent. She was my choice.”

“You chose her to watch me?”

“Yup.” He sets his toolbox in the truck bed, tossing in the empty cement mix bags behind it.

“Why?”

“Well, your mother wouldn’t let me come out, but I won the flight to choose your sitter.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know Mom wouldn’t have let you. I would—” There’s a desperate ache from deep inside of me.… If he could have been there those nights, everything would have been so much better. I wouldn't have felt so alone. “—I would have liked you being there.”

My heart stalls when I realize what I’ve just said-- the truth.

“Me too,” Dad says, propping his elbow on a shovel.

“Why is Mom still so hard on you? She never acted weird about you around me. I thought it all ended, well… smoothly."

Dad helps me into the truck. “Well, that’s nice. Your mom wants to keep her distance because I broke her trust. I can’t blame her. I deserve worse, honestly.” He gives my knee a squeeze once I’m in the seat. “I’m thankful for the time I had with you and thrilled to see the lady you’ve become.”

He closes the door, waves goodbye to the construction crew leader, and slides in behind the wheel. He starts the ignition then shakes his head, turning the key backwards. The engine stills. “When I betrayed your mother, I broke her heart. I broke my own heart. I don’t deserve her and I don’t deserve you. She knows this. I can’t blame her.”

“But…” I really don’t know what I’m saying. When I think of Mom, I agree with him, but when I think of me, I’m lost. Is it possible to think of the situations as separate?

“The thing is, I’m selfish. I’m still hoping I can keep part of you,” he says and then forces out a cough.

“I’m sorry, Dad. I’m just…”

“It’s okay. I understand.” He clears his throat, turning the ignition back on.

“No, it’s hard. Confusing. I’m totally…” my eyes burn and like magic, tears appear. “It's like I'm lost. I’m sorry,” I say, turning away to the window, wiping the tears away.

He stops the engine again. “I know, Autumn,” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. “It will take time.”

“But I don’t have much time, do I?” My birthday is in one month.

He doesn’t answer, as Chuck, the lead of the construction crew, knocks on the side of the truck. “Having engine trouble?” he asks. I dare not look his direction; the last thing I want is someone else seeing me cry.

“Nope,” Dad says as he starts the truck. “She works beautifully. She just needed some time.”

We work at
a creeping pace in the morning’s darkness. The hammer thuds against the board I’m holding, vibrating my arms. The construction crew won’t be helping today—it’s Saturday. But, here we are at five fifteen in the morning on a Saturday. When he finishes, I pick up my mug of dark heaven, sipping coffee. The first two cups got me out the door, and the third allows me to stand here.

“Can you hand me the drill?” He nods towards the toolbox, the light from his flashlight helmet beams on the yellow DeWalt. “Brace it here.”

I tug my work gloves back on, grasping the two corners of the frame we’re building. He’s determined to get one wall up before dawn. The dark sky is transitioning into a navy blue on the horizon, the moon fading above. He might make it. If we’re lucky, we may get half of the back exterior frames up before noon. At least, that’s his epic goal.

The drill begins and I squeeze the boards tight together. I’ve become an expert bracer in the last few days. We got half the deck built but abandoned the project as it edged closer to the home. We’ll finish that once we get these walls up.

“There.” Dad tries to wiggle the boards. They don’t budge. “Solid.”

I stand up, examining the wood beams in a square with a crisscross that lies on the cracked ground below.

“Nice.” I say, taking another sip of life juice before I yawn.

“Yup. Eight more to go.”

I eye the frame, this one two times as large, wondering how I’ll support it while he anchors it to the foundation. Not to mention the seven other massive ones.

“How do we get them standing?”

Dad shakes his head. “Eh, we’ll worry about that after we finish the framing.”

My mind clicks, buzzing pleasantly as its doors open to welcome the caffeine. “I don’t know,” I say. I reach my arm above my head. “There’s no way I can hold it all the way up.”

“It’ll work out.” He places a nail in his mouth, lips squeezing as he grabs another board from the truck.

It’ll work out? His words leave a sour taste. Why do people say stuff like that? It’s such a passive way of approaching life. But that’s him, isn’t it? The caffeine pulses through me, dragging bitterness with it. I glare at Dad, the nail still jutting out of his mouth, and I want to shake him. We’ve spent three days working together,
spending quality time
, but mostly just nailing boards.

I did what Grace suggested. We had a short conversation about Mom. I went there, but he hasn’t uttered a word about them or us since.

Does he expect me to initiate everything?

My head pounds as all three cups of brew hit at once. The escalating heat doesn’t help either. It feels like someone’s pressing the DeWalt nail gun against my feet and doing target practice. 

I massage my temples. This frickin’ blows. There’s no way I’m spending the rest of my summer fighting for a father who just thinks everything will
work out
. Not everything does. Sometimes the worst happens and all you have left are the ashes. Literally. Get up. Rebuild. Make an effort. You’ve got to fight for the things and people you love.

He offers the end of the board to me, nodding towards where I should line it up on the ground.

I stare at it. If I take it, I’m just going on with this insane five in the morning bonding time that’s leading nowhere. “Dad, this is ridiculous. Do we have to do this today?”

“If we get these walls built today, it’ll save close to one thousand dollars from insurance that I can put into the barn. So, yes. We do.” He doesn’t wait for me to grab the board, instead putting it on the ground himself.

“No. Not this.” I kick the dirt. “
This
.”

“I’m sorry?”

“This time together. I mean,” I touch the scar on my shoulder. “We don’t have to keep pretending.”

He grabs another board from the truck. This time not including me as he aligns it perpendicular to the other one. He grabs another board, spitting out that nail to gnaw on his inside cheek.

“See—I knew you didn’t need my help to lift those things.”

“Autumn. I know this summer hasn’t been fun for you, but I’m doing my best. Believe it or not, I enjoy spending time with you.” He extends the board. “Have a little faith, okay.”

“Faith?” I don’t touch it. “Faith in what? This place? Dad, a drought is ruining you.”

“Rain will come.” He’s still extending the board.

“We’re past the point where the rain matters though, aren’t we. We’ve barely spoken since the fire. Hell, we’ve barely spoken since I hit puberty. You don’t know who I am.”

He shakes his head, pulling the board away and hammering it in place, without my help to stabilize the two together. It’s like a kick to the gut—why the heck have I been wasting my time with him? He doesn’t need me! “So it’s that easy?”

“What’s that easy, Autumn?” He doesn’t look over.

“Just giving up on me.”

He removes his work gloves. “How am I supposed to respond to that?”

“I don’t know.” I kick a board. “Talk to me.”

“I am. Why do you think I want this time together?”

“Then why don’t you talk?”

“Aren’t we talking right now?”

I scowl at him and he grabs a drill, sinking a screw into an L bracket. He’s so frustrating. Why can’t he understand what I’m trying to say?

When the drill dies, I take a breath and dive in. I’m already this deep, may as well get really mucky. “I’m sick of pretending everything’s fine between us. You abandoned me when the court didn’t rule your way. You could’ve tried harder.” I glare at him. I can’t let him escape this moment. Not this time. “Things don’t just work out.” I continue. “Life doesn’t work that way. These walls won’t put themselves up on their own.”

His stands up, looping his thumbs through his belt. “Young lady, if you don’t want to be here, you can leave. I can’t afford another lawyer to guarantee my rights with you.” He nods to the walls then back at me. “You know I could’ve asked Todd here today. If you don’t call this trying, I don’t know what the hell you want me to do.”

“Then give Todd a call.”

“No. You’re my daughter, this is
our
house, and you will be helping me. End of discussion.” He points to the box of screws near my feet. “I need three of those.”

I glare at him, feeling like he tossed me in time out or something. Now that I’m being forced, there’s no way I’m doing that.

I take a step away.

“Okay then.” Dad snatches up the box. “I’ll put up the walls myself.”

“And you think that’s going to
just work out
. Alone?” I eye the frame he’s building. It's three times his size.

“Yes. I do.” He turns on the drill, sinking the wood into a perfect ninety-degree angle.

Screw this.

I’ve done my part-- fought, put myself out there again, and, no surprise, he just went
splat.
I’ll hoof it back to Colt’s. It’s only a twenty-five minute walk to a comfortable bed and Internet. Maybe I could connect with Mom at a café.

One month left to endure this place.

Dad doesn’t say anything as I walk down the gravel drive toward the ruins of the barn. Why does he even want me to stay if he doesn’t have the heart to stop me?

The revolting burn smell still lingers in the air as I near the barn. The sun breaks the horizon, bright orange spilling out over the sky. It reminds me of the fire, drowning in air. I kick a rock. This place will forever haunt me if I stay.

Honk.
I glance up and Colt’s battered truck pulls to a stop next to me. He rolls down the window, “What’s up?”

I shrug. “Just checking out the wreckage of my life.” I toss out a pathetic smile.

“Sounds serious.” He climbs out and wraps me in his arms. I breathe in his scent and let my muscles melt. At least this feels right.

Honk, honk, honk!
What the heck? I rise up on tiptoes to peer over Colt’s shoulder. Trucks and cars stream past Colt’s, continuing down the drive toward Dad.

“Who are they?” I ask Colt.

His eyes twinkle. “Everyone.”

“Everyone? As in…”

“Pretty much the whole town.”

“The town? Before dawn?”

His hand finds mine, leaving his truck behind and leading me back down the drive to where the house should still be standing. “We’re having a good ol’ fashioned barn raising.”

“On this?” I draw my toe through some of the ash under my boots.

“Well, eventually. Maybe we’ll be raising the barn next Saturday, but today, we’ll raise the house.”

I gaze in the distance. People pour out of their trucks, giving Dad hugs and patting him on the back. He pulls on the rim of his hat, pointing to the frame we just built and gestures with his hands widely in the air. Todd and a few guys I recognize from the construction crew grab the frame and carry it to the house. In a fluid movement, they raise it into place.

My eyes wet.

Dad was right. Just like that, it works out.

“Come on. I’m hungry.” Colt squeezes my hand and together we walk the driveway. It’s a humble path that I could’ve never done alone. Grace waves at me as she anchors a pole for a canvas sunshade, while trucks and cars continue to drive past us, honking hello.

Grace points Colt toward the building project and positions me in the middle of the driveway so I can direct toward parking. I open my arms, hugging strangers like I’m the guy in time-square with a sign that says Hug Me. Cookies, hot dishes, egg bakes, and pans of fried chicken pile up around my feet. Gina hops out of a random truck and I yelp. “You’re here!”

“Of course, I wouldn’t miss this, babe.” She points to her feet. “Gifts here, people!” Like magic, young children run forward with bags filled with things.

“This is insane.”

“Ha. Exactly how I’d describe the country,” she says while she balances a few egg dishes on her arm, taking them over to Grace.

Twenty minutes later, as I’m discovering one of the nice old casserole women is my third cousin, Grace rings a bell. “Breakfast!”

A few men have set up tables and spread blankets on the ground. Two canvas tents provide shelter from the sweltering sun. That blond school teacher from the bar hands me a plate and moves me to the front of the line, where Dad waits.

“Autumn.” He puts his arm around my good shoulder, giving me a gentle side hug. He clears his throat, turning and looking out at the crowd.

A hundred some faces beam back at us.

“This summer has been far from ideal for us ranchers,” Dad says. An older couple nods in the front row. “Drought. Fire.” He hesitates, squeezing my arm. “But there’s family. There’s friends to help you through it.” He opens his mouth again, but this time no words form. Squinting, he fights back the tears. He’s totally gone.

I gulp, stepping forward.

“What he’s trying to say is, thank you for your help. We appreciate it.”

“Yes,” Dad recovers. “With you here, I know it’ll all work out.”

I clear my throat as my eyes burn. This is all too crazy for me. I search the crowd for those blue eyes. There. I connect with Colt, struggling to stay composed while Dad prays for blessing on the food and the needed rain.

“Amen,” the town says together. Gina shouts it twice. I struggle to swallow. This is surreal. None of my friends from New York City would believe this even if I had it on video—ever.

Grace plops a spoonful of egg casserole on my plate. I add a muffin and banana and a middle school aged boy offers me coffee. I pass, taking water instead. This moment is enough of a buzz to last me the rest of the day.

***

I spend the morning under the canvas with Gina, a group of flower-scented older women, and young children while every able body is helping with the house. Nearly all the exterior walls are up and it’s not even noon. I sit on my knees on a red blanket a woman named Nellie laid out for me. I smile at the ladies surrounding me, all crossing their ankles like a southern lady should while resting on their foldout chairs. Kids run around us like they’re at a circus or something. “Here you go,” Nellie says, handing me the first gift.