THE RAINY SEASON, Laura Sanger Kelly 2/11
2.
“It is a cry for help.”
"Sorry I seemed blasé the other day," he said. He held out his hand.
She shook it. "I was a little wrecked.”
"My name's Barb.” He was tall, heavy set. His short-cropped hair was brightly bleached. Little chains and silver jewelry rattled when he moved.
"I'm Rachel. I inherited the house from my friend.”
“The suicide?”
“She killed herself in the parking garage where she worked.” Rachel paused. “Is Barb a nickname?"
"Smart lady who lives next door," he said. "I play in a band and Barb is my stage name. My given name is Patrick. But I took "Barbara" as a confirmation name. She’s a cool saint. The patron saint of artillery. Big guns and a strong woman."
He smiled; his teeth were big and white with furrows between them.
"You chose a female saint's name?"
"Mom and Dad wanted a girl. They were planning on naming her Barbara. They got four boys. I figured I'd do something to make them happy."
"That's sweet." Rachel took a small stack of mail out from her mailbox: All forwarded bills.
"Does it bug you that you inherited the house through suicide?" he asked.
"She used a permanent solution to a very temporary problem." Rachel felt exposed by the question, like she was somehow an accomplice after the fact in that she had benefited from Karen’s death. That bothered her.
"Well, I guess you fit in now." Barb replied.
"How so?"
"Every house on this street had at least one suicide in its history, except Karen’s. No you have your house covered. At least the suicides keep the property values affordable. This is prime real estate, in the shadow of the skyscrapers. A ten-minute commute to downtown. But you get a bargain moving in Suicide Central."
Karen’s estate attorney had not mentioned that the neighborhood was plagued with suicides. The omission was probably not legally actionable: no death had actually occurred in the house Rachel inherited. But she was uncomfortable; it wasn’t normal to have death so close a neighbor.
"Time to go," he said. "I have a rehearsal. We got a gig."
“Congratulations,” she replied.
He turned away, humming to himself. It was a rambling tune in a minor key, with no real beginning or end.
Rachel looked down the long street, after he had left. The street was lined with old, wooden houses sitting on pilings and weed-etched concrete.
A dozen skyscrapers were visible above the old treetops. She could see the city skyline from her front yard; beautiful modern glass towers stood unwaveringly next to those with more ambitious facades. One building even bore a temple-like structure at its pinnacle, a lovely addition that seemed timeless in the sky. The soft buzz of the freeway was ever present in the background, providing soft white urban noise.
Bright paint covered most of the homes.
Rachel’s was the only yellow house on the street. The only one without a suicide within its walls, she thought. Sadness tainted the too-bright houses. It was as if the colors themselves were an attempt to compensate for tragedy.
She was glad she had beer in the fridge.
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