A Walk in the Rain

 

A Walk in the Rain
by Dave Wright

I study my watch. The second hand touches the 12. Six o’clock. Time for my walk, a routine I have done every day for the past ten years—except for once a couple of years ago. The evening news reported some kind of problem in a nearby neighborhood—a race riot or gang violence—something like that. I could have gone for my walk as usual. But I didn’t feel well, you see. I went to bed early that night, pulled the covers over my head, and slept until morning. Sometimes my bravery frightens me.

I check my watch again. Five after. I’m late. I bolt the back door, check the lock a second time, then shuffle to the front entry. The only sound is my slippers sliding across the linoleum in the empty house, which has been my home for fifty years. It used to ring with music, but it is deathly quiet now. I drop onto a bench by the door, grunt, and stoop to tie the laces of my walking shoes that are neatly under the bench.

I rise from the bench and reach for my .22 caliber Beretta that sits on the counter by the door. I check the safe and tuck it under my belt in the small of my back. The pistol was a gift from my father on my sixteenth birthday. It has spent most of its life in the lower drawer of my dresser, hidden under a pile of old T-shirts. But five years ago, I decided I needed a steady companion. I took it to an abandoned gravel pit and attempted to shatter a few Coke bottles with it. I didn’t hit any of them, but you don’t need to be a good shot to carry a gun. At first, the pistol felt uncomfortable in my belt, but now I feel naked without it—like I’m not fully dressed. The cold steel against my back is my personal insurance policy.

I open the door to a soft rain and suck in a deep breath of cold, evening air. Perfect. I love the rain—that fresh smell, the solitude to let my mind wander, the cleansing feel of water on my face—and no one in their right mind will be walking in this weather. I won’t have to greet anyone. I dig for a ring of keys in my hip pocket, select one, turn the deadbolt, turn another key in the doorknob, and double check the door.

Darkness settles early on this late fall evening in the Eisenhower neighborhood, a neighborhood encompassing several city blocks filled with cramped homes that are squeezed into narrow lots. I laugh at the irony of how it got its name. Back in ’52, an influential local resident recruited me and other neighbors to help Eisenhower win Minnesota’s electoral votes. Ike visited the neighborhood after he won and blessed it with his name. While he was in office, Eisenhower embraced “Operation Wetback,” a program to round up and expel Mexicans. His constituents—white guys like me—were afraid of the foreigners who were taking jobs from us after the war.

Ike should see it now.

I step onto the sidewalk. The rain patters on the leaves, and water trickles beside the curb as I begin my walk—three blocks north, three blocks west, three south, and another three to return home. Exactly one mile.

My seventy-fifth birthday is coming up next week, and the turn of the century is less than three months away. I consider the twists and turns of my life. I married Grace, my high school sweetheart in 1950 and purchased the house soon after. It’s a three-bedroom bungalow with a dormer that we hoped to fill with kids.

The family took a long time to materialize. Grace and I tried for nearly a decade before giving up on natural childbirth. Grace was desperate to have a child. We filled out the application to adopt. The day the adoption agency called to tell us we were next in line to receive a baby girl from Korea, Grace found out she was pregnant. We passed on the Asian baby and waited for Emmy Lou, who was born in 1960. Jessie came along in ‘62. Grace raised the kids while I made a living for us.

I keep my head down to step around puddles that are forming on the sidewalk.

I believe in security. I took a job selling for Sleepwell Insurance, a small company featuring low-cost policies. I preached security from eight in the morning until five in the afternoon. In the evenings I made more appointments. I was proud of the work I was doing. I became the top regional salesman for Sleepwell Insurance for five consecutive years—from ‘65 to ‘70.

I walk past the home of my first customer, Alex Smithson. This was my pitch: “Hi. My name is Emil Henson. Lovely family you have here, Mr. Smithson—a wife, three kids, and a dog. Have you ever thought of what would happen to them if you got sick—or, heaven forbid, if you died? Remember all those poor souls who caught the polio?”

I paused as Mr. Smithson swallowed hard. (Guilt is a powerful sales tool.)

“My company doesn’t offer health insurance,” Mr. Smithson stammered. “They say it’s coming soon. I know it’s important, but I’m young and healthy…and insurance is so expensive.”

Closing time! I straightened my tie, opened my leather briefcase, and said, “I have just the policy for you, Alex (now using a friendlier, less formal greeting). Can we sit down at the kitchen table so we can discuss the details of what I have to offer?” I pulled out a blank application and said, “Maybe the missus could brew us up a fresh pot of coffee. After all, she’s the one we’re most concerned about. Right?”

Deal done.

I think of all the free coffee I drank, all the policies I sold, all the commissions I made. I was on track for a promotion to management…and then everything changed.

A branch falls from a tree onto the sidewalk in front of me. Instinctively, I reach for my pistol. When is the city going to replace these dying elms? I kick the branch out of the way and make the first of three left turns.

I glance at a house on the corner. Here’s where it all began. Our daughters were in grade school. Most of the other suburbs saw it coming. Ours did not. I guess we were too naïve. They called it redlining—a not-too-subtle way to keep minorities from qualifying for a home loan.

The rain intensifies. I slow and pull my hood closer to my face. His name was Harold Johnson, a Black man with a wife and a couple of boys. He worked at the flour mill and his wife was a nurse at the integrated school in North Minneapolis. I stop for a moment and turn my back to the wind. All our friends gathered across the street to watch as they unloaded their furniture from the moving van: a couch, a kitchen table and chairs, several beds. None of that surprised us, but then came the color television set. Every one of us had a black and white set. We looked at one another. What the hell? Then came the biggest surprise. A baby grand piano rolled across the ramp, up the steps, and into the living room.

I stand on the sidewalk and peer into the picture window. After all these years, the piano is still there. Harold’s wife, Clarice, sits on the bench. She’s gray and crippled with arthritis now, but she still pounds out hymns on her baby Steinway.

I am embarrassed about the piano Grace played. She had to settle for a used Spinet that I gave her for her thirtieth birthday. The Spinet sounded tinny compared to the Steinway, but Grace loved her instrument. She played for Sunday School every week.

I nod to the Evangelical Church of the Saints that stands across the street—brick red, steep concrete steps, dark oak doors. Colored light once flickered across the sanctuary through stained glass windows. Now the windows are covered with wrought iron bars, making it look more like a prison than a house of worship. I’m not religious—never have been, but Grace loved that church.

Grace’s favorite children’s song rolls around in my head like an earworm whenever I pass the church:

Jesus loves the little children,
All the children of the world,
Red and yellow, black, and white,
They are precious in his sight.
Jesus loves the little children of the world.

That song prompted an outburst of profanity from Grace that I only heard once in all our years together. She had just returned home from a deacon’s board meeting. “The deacons told me that I can no longer play that song,” she stormed. “They say it is not an acceptable song for the youth of today. Well, God damn them! Apparently, our deacons believe that Jesus loves colored children as long as they are not in sight. We are to love them if they are on a reservation, or in China, or in Africa, but if they move in next door, suddenly they are an offense.”

Grace pulled the girls from Sunday school and never returned. She hauled the girls across town to Church of the Brethren where most of the kids were colored. It didn’t matter to me one way or the other. Sunday was my morning to sleep in.

I turn into the growing storm. The wind bites my face. Ten years ago, Grace and I celebrated our sixty-fifth birthdays, which coincided with my retirement. I had waited years for that day. I postponed travel; I delayed home improvements; I saved when I should have spent. What a mistake.

I reach the end of the block. The sound of the baby grand has faded. I pass the homes that are now occupied by Blacks, Somalis…and Mexicans! Good old Eisenhower neighborhood. It was considered a suburb in the fifties, but by 1970 the suburbs had moved west. Eisenhower had become part of the inner city. By 1980, all of our white neighbors had sold and moved out—all but our family and one other.

Sharon, a kind, middle-aged woman, could not afford to leave either. Her ex-husband left her nothing but the house down the street and her son, Tony, a disruptive child with a confusing complexion. Sharon is a walker too, so we occasionally commiserate. But she is a church lady, much like Grace, and has little time for complaints. “They are just little problems,” she would say. “I just dump ‘em in God’s lap. Then they’re His problem.”

I could only respond with, “Good for you,” and continue walking.

By the time there were just our two white families in the neighborhood, I was ready to move, but Grace would have none of it. She had no problem with the colorful changes in the Eisenhower neighborhood. “Don’t worry, Emil,” she told me when I suggested that we sell the house. “They are lovely people. Have you met them?”

A noise like a whining child comes from the tree above me. I look up in time to sidestep another falling branch. I take a deep breath. Settle down, Emil. Don’t be so jumpy. It’s just the wind.

I make my second left turn and walk south. I sulked around the house for weeks, frustrated at Grace’s stubborn persistence in remaining in the Eisenhower neighborhood. She not only ignored me, she had the nerve to open our home to all those colored kids for piano lessons.

After about the hundredth version of “Twinkle, Twinkle,” I had an epiphany: They all needed insurance, and my Sleepwell policies were affordable. No one else from our company dared to set foot into their homes. I had a financial reason to stay.

I stamp my feet on the glistening sidewalk. My shoes are starting to leak, and my feet are getting cold.

They trusted me because of Grace, but why wouldn’t they? After all, I bought the same policy for my family. If it was good enough for me, surely it was good enough for them.

I submitted my 1980 annual sales report expecting accolades from my colleagues—maybe even another award. I kick a beer bottle off the sidewalk and onto the boulevard. Instead, everyone in the office mocked me. They called me a N-lover. They refused to visit me in my office. When I took a break at the coffee maker, the other salesmen backed into their offices—probably to conjure up new insults.

Even so, you have to admit a sale is a sale, regardless of who owns the policy. The premiums were paid, and I collected the commissions.

I plod along, reaching the halfway point in my walk. Who could blame me for what was about to happen? No one worried about a little fine print back then. Other companies had policies that looked just like Sleepwell’s. Insurance was insurance. If you had a policy, you were covered. That’s what everyone thought.

But rumors began to emerge that Sleepwell wasn’t paying for some medical claims.

I’m in front of Morgan Ponder’s house, a split-level with peeling paint. He complained that the policy I sold him wouldn’t cover the anesthesia for an emergency appendectomy for his son. “Prior authorization?” he demanded. “What the hell is that? My son was crippled over in agony. Did they expect him to go into surgery without anesthesia?”

“Morgan, prior authorization is common in every policy,” I explained to him, but that didn’t stop the hospital from filing a lien on his house and garnishing his wages. Now If he’s in the yard when I walk by, he looks the other way.

I continue to walk a few doors down to the former home of Abraham Gilley. He was another irate customer. “My doctor told me I needed to see a specialist for my kidney problem,” said Abraham. “Then I get a letter from Sleepwell telling me that I’m not covered for that referral.”

I reminded him that there are limits to the coverage on every policy, regardless of the insurance company. “I can give you lots of examples,” I said.

He said he wasn’t interested in other examples. Later, he became too sick to complain when Sleepwell didn’t cover his dialysis either.

Now a young couple lives in Abraham’s rambler. Two tipped-over tricycles and a rake litter the yard.

I continue past the homes of several other former customers.

They call me a charlatan. I was not surprised by the Halloween toilet paper, or by the graffiti sprayed on my garage in the alley, but when Grace’s students began canceling their piano lessons, even Grace agreed it was time to sell the house and leave Eisenhower.

That was when we got the news. It was like being hit in the gut with a baseball bat. Grace was diagnosed with breast cancer. It was only a couple months after my retirement.

“It has already metastasized,” said the doctor. “I want to refer her to Mayo. They have a new treatment. I think it’s her only hope.”

I called Sleepwell’s home office to request prior authorization for the referral and the specialized treatment. “Sorry,” said a receptionist who was more eager to scold me than to help me. “You’re an insurance salesman, for Pete’s sake. You should know what’s covered and what’s not.” Then with an icy finality, she said, “And your policy does not cover that kind of treatment.”

Sleepwell refused to pay, but I tried everything to save Grace. All that money I had squirreled away for retirement? Gone. I’m broke, and I still get an occasional call from the hospital trying to collect from me. All I have left is the house and my Social Security.

I thought the neighbors would have taken pity on me when I was drowning in the same boat as they were, but no, not even my own kids forgave me. Emmy Lou and Jessica wouldn’t even sit with me at the funeral. They sat in the pew behind me. Between sobs, I overheard Jessica whisper to Emmy Lou, “It’s all his fault. She’d still be alive if she had proper insurance. I can’t believe the rubbish he sold.”

They didn’t speak to me for two years. I tried to make amends. I invited the girls and their families for Thanksgiving, promising to serve all of Grace’s recipes. They were in their thirties then—each married with a couple of kids. I made pumpkin pie and cranberry sauce—their favorites. Thursday morning, I got up early, stuffed the turkey with onions, sage, and dried bread, and placed it in the oven. I was whipping cream for the fruit salad when the phone rang.

“This is Emmy Lou. Afraid we can’t make it today. The kids are throwing a tantrum and don’t want to come.”

Oh well, I thought. Jessica’s family will be hearty eaters.

The phone rang again.

“Hi. It’s Jessica. We can’t come today. Joe’s mom just moved into the nursing home, so his dad will be home alone. We’ve invited him over for Chinese take-out. It’s the only restaurant open today. You should try it. Bye.”

I choked down turkey leftovers for a week and threw the rest in the trash.

I lean into the wind. The rain washes a tear from my face. I feel the pistol as I wrap my arms around my coat.

Another memory seeps into my thoughts. It was the incident five years ago that prompted me to carry the gun. “Hey, muthaf----a. You don’t belong here. Why don’t you leave with the rest of your whitey friends,” said one of the punks that accosted me as I stepped out of my car one evening. “My pa’ died because of you and your worthless insurance. Get the hell out of our neighborhood before we do you some real damage.”

The words roll around in my head like crashing bowling pins.

The rain increases to a steady downpour. I can barely see. I turn the final corner and begin walking east—only three blocks left. Sharon’s home is just ahead—a two-story house sided with tan, weathered shakes. The porch out front has been missing a screen for nearly a year.

Almost home. A figure approaches. I squint into the dark. Is that Sharon?

She worries about Tony. I think he was one of the thugs who jumped me that night five years ago, but I haven’t told her that.

I’m in no mood for a religious lecture tonight…I’m in no mood to talk to anyone. I step off the curb into a sloppy pile of leaves and hurriedly cross the street.

A block later, a dark shadow races in Sharon’s direction. I hear a shout from a woman’s voice, but I can’t tell if it’s her. The shadow crosses the street beneath the streetlight. It’s wearing a hoodie and is carrying something. I pull my Beretta from my belt and fire three quick rounds.

The shadow disappears between a couple of houses.

What have I done? My hands shake. Now all I smell is gunpowder. Porch lights flicker up and down the block. A siren wails.

I run for home. My aches and pains are gone for the moment. I fumble for my keys. Why so many locks? Click…click. Finally. I step into the entry dripping wet. I kick off my shoes and throw my raincoat in a heap in the corner. I turn off the lights and wait.

I peer between the curtains. Red flashing lights reflect off one house, then the next. Officers pound on doors. My house is next. My heart thumps in my chest. What do I do? Claim self-defense? Say I’m a terrible shot? I watch the officer. He pauses at the end of the sidewalk leading to my door. He points his flashlight at the number on my door, then consults a notepad.

He moves on to the next house.

I endure a fitful night and wake to a bleak November sky. It is slate gray and offers little hope for the day. A knock at the door. I look through the window.

“Sharon?”

“We should talk,” she says, as I open the door a crack.

“Did that kid in the hoodie hurt you last night?”

“What were you thinking, Emil?” she demanded. “That was my son, you old fool.”

“Oh no,” I groan. “He was carrying something. I heard a woman shout. I thought you had been mugged. Everything happened so fast.”

“He wasn’t hurt,” she says in a more conciliatory voice. “Can I come in?”

Sharon steps into the entry and glances at the wet raincoat and shoes piled on the floor.

“I’m relieved,” I say. “It was foolish of me, but I was trying to help.”

“It might have been for the best,” says Sharon. “Tony was apprehended late last night. He confessed that he had stolen an Xbox from the Target store a few blocks away. He was being chased by the police when you fired your gun.”

“Where is Tony now?”

“In jail. I left him there for the night. I told him I’d post bail for him later this morning if he goes to the Target store and apologizes to the manager. That won’t get him off the hook for shoplifting, but it may teach him a lesson.”

Sharon notices the gun on the counter by the door. “Why do you carry that thing around with you, Emil?”

“My life is complicated, Sharon.”

“Whose isn’t?” she replies, and then asks, “Would you come over this afternoon and apologize to Tony? It would make him feel better to know you make mistakes too, and I think it would do you some good.”

I consider for a moment. “Yes,” I say. “I’ll do that, but only if you’ll take a walk with me this evening. I’d like to explain.”

“But it looks like rain,” she says.

“I like the rain,” I say. “It’s cleansing.”

“The same path you always take?” she asks.

“No. It’s time for a change. My gun would be better off at the bottom of the river. Let’s walk there instead.”

Sharon smiles. “That will be worth a walk in the rain.”

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