Page 23 of Sing it, Sam

“Whatever,” I blurt out. “How ’bout we talk about how everyone else’s writing is going?”

I don’t miss the gooey-eyed looks they all give me before Janice takes the reins of the group, as usual, and talks about her latest writing crisis. Sometimes I wonder if she’s crazy, the way she talks about her characters speaking to her and bombarding her. When she first told me how she wanted one ending but her characters wanted another so she went with that, I thought she was loopy.

I kind of still do.

***

When I get home, Butch is snuggled up in his bed in the laundry. He doesn’t budge an inch as I walk into the room.Worst guard dog ever. I guess he makes up for his shortcomings by being incredibly cute and great company when he’s not tearing shit apart in a hangry frenzy.

“I’m home, bud. Shit day out there.” I’d tell him that I’ll take him for a walk tomorrow, but you cannot under any circumstances say the word ‘walk’ around this dog unless you mean it. Otherwise, he will grab the lead in his mouth and incessantly bug the crap out of you until you do.

He opens his eyes, raises his ginger brows, and stretches his mouth wide with an almighty yawn. I scratch the top of his head and then set about making my bed.Not that anyone ever visits to see it. That’s when I notice the book on my bedside.Sam’sbook.

I succeed in getting him to focus on something other than four walls and then I take it away from him?Genius move, Jane.

I should drop this off to him. What else is he going to do with his weekend? Besides, I’ll only be stuck inside, thanks to this weather.

I grab a raw chicken wing from the fridge and feed it to Butch. That should keep him out of mischief until I return.

***

By the time I’ve run from my ute to the front door of the building, my hair is starting to frizz out of control. I wave to the lady on weekend duty, scan my pass and make my way to his room.

It’s quiet, out of the ordinary from what I’m used to, but Kathleen says the rain always has a calming effect on the residents. There are a lot of retired farmers in here. After decades and decades of fighting drought, the rain seems to give them some peace.

When I reach his room, Sam is sitting in his wheelchair, facing the glass doors which open into his private courtyard. Droplets cascade down the panes, seemingly mesmerising him.

“Don’t you just love the rain?” I say and step closer.

He turns his head towards me. His brow furrows. “Hey.”

I move over to the double doors and open them, anchoring each one to the walls outside. Fresh air flows into the stale room, causing the bottom half of the sheer white curtains to billow out.

“I love the smell of it even better,” I say, drawing the cool air deep into my lungs. Earthy tones tease my nostrils as the cool breeze licks at my goose pimpled flesh.

Sam arches his back as he draws breath, his chest expanding. “Oh yeah,” he growls. “That’s incredible.”

For a few moments, a calm envelops me with the hypnotic pitter-patter of rain.

“Wait, it’s Saturday,” Sam says, his brows pulling together as he studies my face. “Isn’t it?”

“Correct,” I say, and rock back and forward on my heels.

“You don’t work Saturdays.”

I shake my head. “Nope. You mind if I sit?”

He nods. “Sure.”

The chair legs protest against the linoleum floor as I move closer to him. I sit and hug my handbag to my chest. As I look him over, I notice his eyes aren’t watery, or spidery, and there’s more colour in cheeks. “You look better than you did last night.”

He takes his time looking me up and down. “Better now, Janie,” he says with a devilish smirk. “You look good in normal clothes.”

What is it about the Marshall boys dishing out compliments? Their mother certainly taught them well.

I glance down at my white cropped T-shirt, three-quarter blue jeans, and not-so-white Converse sneakers. “What, these old things?”

“Yeah.”

---