The Rains Come Down by J. M. Strother

Too late. Lester McGivney stood on his porch watching rain splatter in the murky pools growing in the front yard. The dual wagon-wheel grooves in the path to the barn looked like twin canals, with spotty islands of green and brown running between them. The rain came in waves, a steady drizzle replaced periodically by windblown bursts which drove Les back to stand against the front door. Rain, in one form or another, had been coming down now for a week and a day. Seed sat unplanted in the barn. Pasturage, at first much relieved by the rain, now threatened to drown. The unplowed fields and the quarter mile drive to the county road were naught but muddy quagmires. By all appearances the two year long drought was over. But the rains had come too late to matter. Les readjusted his chew and spat a long stream out into the mud.

He half-turned toward the sound of movement in the kitchen – Erma puttering about, getting the fire started and fixing to make breakfast. Soon the smell of bacon frying would bring Ben, Molly, and John down from the second floor, after which time there would be no peace at hand for the rest of the day. While he considered himself blessed, with three healthy children, they were non-stop commotion which he normally did not have to endure. He enjoyed the solitude of the fields – the steady breathing of the mules, the creak of leather against wood, allowed a man to think in peace. This simple joy was now stolen by the rain, and soon to be lost forever.

Movement down the lane caught his eye. Les edged forward, to the very brink of the porch. Squinting through the rain he could just make out the shape of a Studebaker struggling up the drive.

He turned back and shouted toward the door, “Grumpy's here.”

The loud bang of a pot on the stove was the initial reply, followed shortly with, “In this weather?”

Les sent another stream of tobacco juice out into the storm. “He's just doing his job.” The pot banged again.

He watched as the automobile slithered its way up the lane. Almost predictably, it slid off into a deep rut on the final rise into the yard. The car lurched backward, then forward, gears grinding, one lone wiper flailing ineffectively at the rain. Each change of direction mired the car deeper and deeper into the mud.

“Oh, Hell.” Les reached inside the door for his oiled coat and hat.

“And just what are you doing, Lester Calvin McGivney?” came Erma's sharp rebuke. She stood by the stove, arms folded tightly across her breast.

“He's stuck,” Les explained.

“Good. Let him rot.”

“Don't be like that, Erma. We knew this day was coming.”

She turned her back to him, pretending to busy herself with the stove.

Les slogged across the yard to the barn to hitch up the mules. Bright Eyes, the team leader, looked at him mournfully, as if sensing what was about to happen. When they were all harnessed he threw open the barn door and lead them out into the storm.

As he approached the Studebaker the driver's door opened and Sheriff Arnold Grump emerged, tugging his hat down tight upon his head. Grumpy pulled up his collar against the weather and stepped around the door, extending his hand. Les took it and they shook like old friends.

“Got stuck,” Grumpy said.

“So I see.” Les eyed the situation.

“I guess you know why I'm here?” Grumpy cast his eyes down, as if ashamed to bring the subject up.

“Reckon I do.”

Grumpy reached into his breast pocket, produced a manilla envelope, and handed it toward Les.

Les watched the raindrops accumulate on the damned thing, turning it from light to dark brown. Grumpy looked up and gave his head one long slow shake, obviously displeased with the task at hand. At last Les reached out and accepted the eviction notice.

“You've been served,” Grumpy said.

Les nodded, then tucked the papers into his own breast pocket.

“Reckon I have.”

“I'm real sorry, Lester.” They stood there in silence regarding the mud about their feet for some time. “Fergus says to come by and see him.” Hadly Fergus ran the garage in town. “Might just have a job he can give you...” He trailed off into awkward silence.

Bright Eyes let out a nicker and gave a soggy stomp, impatient to be out in all this rain. Les patted her on the withers.

“Well, help me hitch you up, and we'll get you out of this damn mud. Come up for some breakfast?” Les asked.

Grumpy looked up to the porch where Erma stood glowering down at him.

“Best just get me turned around, Les. Maybe some other time.”
~

© 2013 by J. M. Strother, all rights reserved.

Photo, Four Mule Team, circa 1940 from the OSU Special Collections & Archives via Flickr Creative Commons, no known copyright restrictions.