A Fistful of Rain

“Go back inside,” Mikel said. I could hear him moving, getting out of bed. There was nothing else in the background though, so I guessed that meant he’d been sleeping alone. “Go back inside and wait for me, all right? I’ll be right there.”

“I’m all right now,” I said. The lie didn’t even sound believable to me.

“You’re always all right. Go back inside, I’ll be about ten minutes.”

“Mikel,” I said, but he’d already hung up.

It took him closer to fifteen minutes before he parked his Land Rover beside my Jeep. I’d spent the time drinking my Coke and smoking my cigarettes, standing by the pay phone, and when Mikel hopped out he was wearing a scowl, but he didn’t say anything until after he’d wrapped me up in a big hug, and I gave it right back, pressing my nose into his chest. I hugged back harder than I meant to at first, but it felt good and it felt safe.

“I told you to wait inside.”

“And I always do what you tell me,” I told his chest.

He let me go and looked me over, showing me the worry in his eyes. Mikel is three years my senior, just touching thirty, and every day he looks more like I remember our father, big and strong. We have similar features, but I got my mother’s body type, which makes me pretty small. Mikel’s got straight black hair and an angular face, blue eyes, broad shoulders. He looks like he could be in construction or some sort of physical labor, but that would require too much work, and one thing Mikel hates is work.

When pressed, he tells people that he’s in computers, doing Web design and software work, but that’s only half-true, and certainly doesn’t earn enough for a Land Rover. What earns enough for the Land Rover is selling pot and X and coke to the hip urban professionals who live on the west side of the river. He doesn’t use. He doesn’t take anything stronger than caffeine, ever. But he’s more than happy to sell.

He was dressed very Gap casual, hastily assembled, a sweater and corduroys.

“You should have waited inside,” he said.

I shook my head, not wanting to explain my reasons, not wanting to say that the clerk had figured out who I was, and that had I gone back into the store I’d have been trapped in twenty minutes of pretending to be nicer than I really am. Maybe it was selfish, but maybe I was entitled a little bit, and it wasn’t something I wanted to defend.

Mikel sighed, world-weary with his sister’s strangenesses. “What happened?”

“Not here,” I said. “I don’t want to talk about it here. I want to sit down someplace warm and drink coffee and feel safe.”

“You have breakfast?”

“They fed us on the plane, just before we landed in L.A.,” I said. I didn’t add that I’d thrown it up shortly thereafter.

“You up for some Strong Bread?”

“The one on Sandy. Not the one near your place.”

“Why not the one near me?”

“Because I get recognized more at the one near your place.”

“Poor little princess,” he said, but he said it with a smile, and I wasn’t sure what was teasing and what wasn’t.

CHAPTER 5

The sky was lightening, but the rain was still falling when we reached the Cameo Cafe. I parked behind him about a block from the restaurant, and we scurried from the wet into the warmth and noise. On weekends it can take up to an hour to get a seat at the Cameo, especially in good weather, but even though it was noisy inside, the restaurant wasn’t full, and Mikel and I got a table near the back. It’s cramped inside so that when it’s really hopping, even someone of my size feels that she has to walk sideways to work her way between the tables, but once you get a seat, it’s pretty comfortable. The grill is right behind the counter, so all conversation is accompanied by the sizzle and smell of cooking food.

One of the Korean women who run the place dropped menus in front of us and gave us cheerful good- mornings along with two mugs of watery coffee. I drank mine greedily, as Mikel doctored his own cup with cream and sugar.

“So what happened?” he asked.

It was harder to tell it to him than it had been to tell it to the cops, maybe because I knew how he’d react to certain parts. I told him about my stalker who the cops were certain wasn’t a stalker at all, and he listened, fiddling with his silverware and watching me intently the whole time. His face tightened when I told him about the back of the truck, but it smoothed when I told him what the police had said.

“They don’t believe me,” I finished.

“I’m not sure I do, either,” Mikel said, slowly.

“How can you say that? Jesus Christ, Mikel! The guy could have raped me!”

“Well, don’t take this the wrong way, but why didn’t he?”

“I don’t believe you just said that.”

“Stop being such a Drama Queen and think about it. It doesn’t make much sense, does it, Mim? You said your stuff was on the porch, yet it’s inside when you come home? You say you got kidnapped and stripped at gunpoint, but you don’t have a mark on you?”

“Would you rather that I’d called you from the fucking hospital?”

“Mim, you’ve been lying your whole damn life. You can’t expect me to take this one at face value.”

I got up, but he reached out for my wrist as I was squeezing around the table, taking hold, his fingers digging into me.

“Don’t run away from me,” Mikel said.

I yanked free. My voice was tight when I spoke. “I’m not lying. I’m not a liar. It happened. And I’m not going to sit here and have you tell me it didn’t.”

Mikel glanced around, then back to me. “For someone who doesn’t want to be recognized, little sister, you’re making a very big scene. Sit back down.”

I checked, saw that he was right, that heads had turned my way and were staying there.

“Sit down, Mim.”

“You’re a bastard.” I sat down.

“I am well aware of your feelings about our father.”

“You’re more like him every day,” I said.

It was a bald-faced lie, but it scored a point, and it forced silence for almost a minute.

“You said the alarm was off?” he asked.

“Not off, in reset.”

“See, that I believe.”

“Oh, just that?”

“Well, that’s my fault.” Mikel looked at his menu, then back to me, embarrassed.

“How is that your fault?”

“I had it shut off in August.”

“I was out of town and you had my damn alarm shut off?”

“The contractors kept setting it off when they were working.” He sat back, getting defensive. “I’m on the contact list. Whenever it went off, I got called.”

“Because you’re supposed to be looking out for me!”

“I was looking out for you. Every time there’s a false alarm, there’s a fine, Mim. It went off six separate times—that’s over two grand in fines—before I called and had it disconnected.”

“But they finished, the contractors finished.”

“Yeah.” He frowned. “I forgot to have it reactivated.”

I stared at him, and then the waitress came and we each ordered breakfast, Mikel asking for the Korean