Richard Risemberg

 

The River 

He stood in the rain, looking back along a quaintly curving street of houses half-hidden by trees and vines. He’d grabbed a raincoat and a hat before going outside, but rain dripped from the hem of his raincoat onto his shoes. He’d forgotten his galoshes. Wet feet were a small price to pay for a moment of serenity. The sky hung dark and low over the streaming rooftops, and bright drops fell from the leaves when the breeze shook them. It was a beautiful place if you liked the rain, and he did. The house he was staying in with his wife was beautiful too: two storeys, brick walls, leaded glass, finished attic, with little secret rooms, rustic furniture bought with old money, but arranged in a calculatedly haphazard way, that sort of thing. It had a back yard sloping down the river, with a little dock and a couple of skiffs waiting on it, upside down, moss growing on their hulls. A paradise of sorts. But every Eden has its snake.

He hunched himself deeper into his raincoat. It wasn’t really his, but he was the same size as the master of the house, and he was free to “borrow anything you like except my wife.” Well, he’d brought his own wife along, so there would be nothing of such. The master of the house was an old friend who’d made good by marriage, and he was taking the role of baronial lord too seriously. At least it looked like he was. Bob Parker, the man in the rain, felt terribly uncomfortable about this. He didn’t want to go back to the stately house by the river, but he would have to. He had to ask his wife what she thought. Maybe she had seen and heard what he’d seen and heard. Maybe they were both pretending not to notice. That was the way it usually happened, wasn’t it? You didn’t want to hurt a friend, so you pretend not to notice.

He had established the habit of walking every morning, sometimes before breakfast, sometimes after. It was nothing unusual, nothing to excite comment. The rain pattered on his yellow rain hat. No cars came and went along the road, which was narrow and led to nothing but houses in a cozy, quiet neighborhood with lots of trees. The houses weren’t mansions, really, but they were big. Hedges obscured the front yards or brick walls with ivy… Ivy, he smirked to himself. A good hiding place for rats. He turned back towards the house where they were staying. He had to talk to Kate. She might be up by now. His friend, Claude, would be up too, making coffee. Claude didn’t let his wife make the coffee. Only he knew the right way to make it and it took him half an hour. He was that way.

He saw Claude through the kitchen window as he passed by on his way to the back door. They waved at each other through the glass. He left the raincoat on its hook in the service porch and went into the kitchen, composing himself. Claude was bent over the coffee grinder, carefully adjusting it. Why he had to adjust it when he let no one else touch the expensive Italian machine, was just part of who he was. “Morning, Claude.” Bob kept his voice neutral.

“Out early, Bob?”

“Rain woke me up.”

“Round here, this time of year, that could happen every day.”

“It’s fine by me. Terry up?” Terry was Claude’s wife, a frail, nervous blonde from back east.

“In process. How about Kate?”

“I’m going to check on her now.”

“Coffee in fifteen minutes. Breakfast and more coffee at nine.”

“We’ll be here.” Bob went on into the living and up the stairs. On the way to the guest bedroom he caught sight of Natasha, the Russian girl who lived with Claude and Terry. The door to her room was open, and she was staring out at the rain through a leaded-glass window. The corridor ran straight into her door; all the other rooms were off the sides.

The door to their bedroom was open, but Kate was still in bed. She turned over as he came in. “Why’d you leave the door open when you went out? I was still asleep. A girl needs her privacy, you know.” She offered him a lazy scowl, then pouted her lips for a kiss. He bent to kiss them, and breathed in her scent; she always smelled good, night or day.

“I did close it. You haven’t been up to pee?”

“Before you left. You were asleep. That’s weird. Your friend Claude maybe. I think”—she hesitated briefly—”I think he’s a little creepy. I think…he might have peeked in. I thought I heard something, but I was asleep.”

Bob nodded. He waited a while, sitting on the bed and holding Kate’s hand under the blanket. “Did you notice anything earlier, when you did get up? In the night, I mean. Noises, anyone walking around?”

She sat up in bed. “I did hear someone shush someone when I went to the bathroom. What do you mean?”

“I mean…I thought I saw Claude walking around in the middle of the night when I got up to pee. He didn’t hear me. Though he must have heard the flush.”

“Well, it’s his house, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. It’s his house. That it is.”

“What are you worried about?”

“I don’t know yet. I don’t know. Get dressed; coffee’s ready.”

“Oh, good. We can hear Claude pontificate on anything and nothing again. That poor wife of his! She never gets to talk.”

“Yeah. That poor wife of his. Her too.” Kate raised an eyebrow at him, but he had nothing more to say.

When they got downstairs to the kitchen, Claude had just poured out cups of coffee at all the places around the heavy wooden table. Claude’s wife Terry sat hunched over her cup, and Natasha sat rigid and silent as usual in her place. Natasha was fourteen, skinny and stiff, and almost pretty. Her long, lank black chair did her no favors. Claude and Terry had taken her in as a foster in lieu of having children of their own. Terry wanted a child, but Claude nixed the idea as she was older than he was and he feared genetic debilities. Natasha apparently came with the usual backstory: alcoholic parents, poverty, foray into drugs from age eleven, running away from home, involvement with the social services and foster care. Her parents had overstayed their visas but Natasha was American-born, though she spoke more Russian than English whenever she spoke at all.  Claude had given them the brochure version of the story at their first dinner together while Terry looked on in her usual wide-eyed silence, and Natasha stared into her plate. Everyone was bundled in sweaters; the kitchen was all window along one wall and never did heat up except in summer. Claude slouched in an oversized wooden chair at the head of the table. A Labrador retriever sprawled at his feet, staring up at his master. The Parkers had been worn out with traveling; they made a good, quiet audience.

Kate greeted cheerfully as they sat down: “Good morning, world! How are we all today?”

“We’re hungry,” Claude grunted. “Glad you finally got up.”

“Morning, honey,” Terry said to Kate. “Hi, Bob.”

“Morning, Terry. Coffee smells good, Claude.”

“Ought to. Ethiopian, hard to find. Got it at a little place on East Burnham, almost out of town. No one knew about them so they closed down last month. Won’t be able to get it again. Try it black. Omelets today, my special recipe. Eggs came from my pal Chrissie’s chickens. Also east side. Good things happening there lately.”

Claude got up and attended to the array of pans over the stove. Kate looked at Natasha: “How are you this morning? We hardly see you except at breakfast.”

Natasha didn’t look up. Bob studied her face: a neutral mask. She was quite conscientiously ignoring everybody. “I am okay,” she said. “Terry I want tea please. I don’t like coffee. Can you make me some please?”

“Of course, honey. But please call me ‘Mom.’ Please try.”

Natasha kept staring at her plate.

“She’s been here four months,” Claude said. “She ought to stop holding back.” He bent over the burners, shuffling the pans and dropping spices in with exaggerated gestures. The scraping of a spatula announced the first omelet. “I love this stove,” he said. “Six burners, so I can get us all served at once. Found it in a junkyard and got it refurbished. Must be fifty or sixty years old. Work cost me more than the stove itself, but it’s worth it.” Pans clattered and dishes clanked. “Terry, get this stuff to the table, will ya? Then get the rolls out of the oven. They’re from that new bakery. Good like you wouldn’t believe.” Terry stood up, too quickly, and spilled some of her coffee on her sweater. She seemed not to notice. She put the cup down absent-mindedly and hurried to the counter to pick up the plates. Claude turned his attention to the coffeepot and carefully adjusted the fire underneath. Raindrops rolled down the other side of the window. A crow called harshly outside, and the Labrador looked up for a moment, then put its head back on its paws. Claude brought the coffeepot to the table and distributed more coffee before taking his seat. “Well, what are you waiting for?” he said. “Let’s eat.”

The rolls were good, and the omelets were perfect.

“Going into town today?” Claude asked. Bob presumed he was addressing him and Kate.

Kate answered: “With a beautiful place like this to stay in, I’m tempted never to leave the house. I might just read in one of those little attic rooms, and look out at the river and rain.”

Claude frowned. “Well, it sure is a beautiful house. I was lucky to find it. But you ought to see the city. You won’t believe the good stuff that’s out there. Little places, mostly. Let me make you a list. Maybe you should go in with Terry when she goes to the doctor. Don’t forget, eleven-thirty with Dr. Meyers.”

Terry nodded. Natasha picked at her omelet. Bob wanted to raise his eyebrows at Kate, but Claude was watching them closely. Kate broke the silence: “Delicious omelets. I’ve never been able to get them right.” Claude smiled, and everyone continued eating.

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