“Gals, I’m here for you. I am everyman. I will fulfill your every fantasy while none of you, not one, will ever be able to move me.” He smiled painfully. “I am as arid as the land I’ve come to liberate.” The declaration made his heart suddenly ache.
He pulled the shutters down, overwhelmed by an exhaustion that was spiritual rather than physical, and leaned wearily against the wall of the trailer. Stuck to the refrigerator were photographs of his four exwives and an article torn from Life magazine about a horrific British murder involving a vegetable root. Jacob had a fascination for bizarre murders and the description of the Welsh spinster murderess had captivated him. One day he was going to meet her. Smiling at the thought, his eyes wandered to a pink garter embroidered with the name Charlene that hung on the fridge door handle.
Jacob pulled it off and sniffed it. Sometimes he wondered whether he had a heart at all. He’d reached his midforties without ever being affected by anyone. It wasn’t that he was shallow—at least he didn’t think so—it was just that he had a constant sense of emotional distance, as if he were experiencing the world from the bottom of a deep clear well. The women he’d been involved with—and there had been hundreds of them—all fell in love with the idea of rescuing him from the shimmering depths of his aloofness. They would caress him, nurture him, lie down for him, dance, weep, shout and moan, but he remained untouched by any of them. And now, nearly half a century old, Jacob had abandoned the idea of love altogether. The best he could hope for was the secure feeling of being wrapped up tight, losing himself in yet another sexual conquest. The sensation made him forget his mortality, his loneliness and fears. But the feeling inevitably passed the moment he reached orgasm and then the remoteness would rush in, stronger than before.
/> He sat down at the foldout Formica table and poured himself a whiskey. He then pulled out a stopwatch and pushed down the tiny knob at the top. Ten minutes, he thought, and then they’ll come knocking.
Cheri Winchester, the mayor’s wife, still sported her hair rollers. The sun had dried her curls into stiff rivulets but she was too distracted to notice. “Applefort called in a rainmaker after three years of drought and they say that it worked a treat,” she remarked to her best friend, Rebecca, who ran the local cultural center, which consisted of a sole dusty exhibition dating back to 1954 when Sandridge won the prize for the cleanest town in the southwest.
Rebecca stepped closer and peered at the caravan across the fence. “Dangerous voodoo. Dreams destroy people’s lives, you mark my words.” She pursed her lips, remembering her own broken hopes—a fiancé who died in the first Gulf War and with him any chance of Rebecca escaping spinsterhood.
“Oh, Becs,” Cheri ventured, “you know I believe in collective hope.” Rebecca squinted at her; sometimes Cheri’s quirky ideas irritated her intensely.
“Surely if we all pray together we can make a little rain fall?” Cheri blushed, the boldness of her statement leaving her on shaky ground.
“Amen.” Stefan Kaufmann, one of the six handsome brothers, smiled sexily at her. Cheri smiled back, then to her dismay heard her husband’s car approaching.
Chad’s silver Lexus skidded to a halt. The crowd swung around. The mayor, perspiration already staining the armpits of his blue shirt, climbed out from behind the wheel. Bill Williams, the preacher, whose pale body never seemed to sweat, even in this scorching heat, tagged behind. The crowd parted as Chad strode through, his showmanship at its peak. The preacher scuttled crablike beside him. Jeremiah Running Dog, sheriff, second-largest landowner and head of the local Lions club, followed them. A bulky man in his late sixties and weighing over three hundred pounds, he was feared for his unpredictable temper. Jeremiah moved at a leisurely pace, but if one looked closer the coiled muscles at his neck betrayed his apprehension.
There were three sharp taps on the aluminum door. Jacob finished his whiskey. This was how it always started: the men of the town would make the first approach. Drought reduces people to the most basic of emotions, he mused. Dignity dissolves after the seventh month. There is something about a dearth of rain that flattens the hope out of all men, yellow, white, green, or black. He knew he could predict the reception he’d get from any small town official just by plucking a withered blade of the local grass and rubbing it between his fingers.
He stood up and stared into the mirror by the door. He slicked back his hair, adjusted his silk shirt, and practiced a smile. He still had trouble relating to the handsome man who looked back at him, always incredulous that all the heartbreak he caused had left no mark on his face. The pristine features suggested the morality of an angel. “If only they knew,” he whispered and stepped out of the trailer.
The three town representatives stood waiting. A gasp of expectancy rippled through the crowd as Jacob paused in front of them. The sunlight transformed the rainmaker’s hair into a blazing dark red halo. From the neck up he looked like Jesus; from the neck down like the devil, with his loose scarlet shirt and silver pendant of a satyr visible against his oiled chest. Smiling at the crowd he bowed elegantly, sending a quiver through the women.
The mayor decided to take charge. He cleared his throat and announced loudly, “We don’t like hawkers here, or strangers for that matter.”
Jacob leaned down and caressed his coyote with his tapered hands, his ring, its sapphire the blue of water, glinting in the sun. Eventually he spoke: “I heard there was a drought.” He lifted his face and the searing indigo of his eyes pierced Chad Winchester with a terrible longing for the sea. For a moment the mayor wondered if he wasn’t affected with the same drought madness that had caused Jeremiah’s thirty-five-year-old son to leap to his death into the town’s empty dam the summer before.
“A drought,” Jacob continued, “that is breaking the backs of animals and the hearts of men.” His resonant voice boomed around the field and caused the body hair of the crowd to collectively stand on end.
Sensing the disturbance the sheriff moved forward. “What can you do?” Jeremiah demanded, rolls of fat clinging to his sweat-soaked shirt. He tried not to stare too hard at the glinting pendant, which only added to the obvious sexuality of the man.
As Jacob walked toward them the immensity of his presence made the men involuntarily step back. The rainmaker was at least six foot five and the Cuban heels gave him another three inches.
“I can make it rain, for weeks if I choose. I can make this ground bear grass. I can turn all your crops green again.”
“Spoken like a real con artist,” the preacher muttered. He scanned the mesmerized crowd then turned back to Jacob. “What are you after, mister? Money?” Mockery tinged his voice.
“I have my conditions. Money ain’t one of them,” Jacob replied, his perfect teeth gleaming. He noted the glint of hatred in the preacher’s eye and remembered the Aryan Fellowship sign.
“So if you’re not after money, what are you after?” Jeremiah stepped between the two men.
Jacob twisted his sapphire ring. This was the moment when his intuition was really tested. The code of honor his lineage had bred into him obliged him to be truthful, but it was a truth that required diplomacy.
“You have to understand that water is an element. It needs to feel welcome. There is an emotional aridness in this town that has driven the rain away. For it to return, it needs tenderness, affection, love…sex.”
A ripple of excitement ran through the crowd at the word sex. Preacher Williams breathed in sharply, sounding like a wounded bullfrog. Jeremiah surprised himself by remembering his own secret Cherokee beliefs; next to him Chad thought about Abigail, and how the air around her often seemed moist with her juices.
Unperturbed, the rainmaker continued. “There are frictions between living souls that create an ether of invisible fluids. These fluids attract the rain clouds—they operate as a kind of magnet.”
Jeremiah, now acutely aware of his own schism between Cherokee and Christian and feeling uncomfortably compromised, spat into the dust. “Cut the bullshit. We’re not interested in your methodology, we’re only interested in results and what you’re asking for them, boy.” The last word rang out with condescension.
Jacob paused for a second, then: “What I want is one of your women.” He tossed out the sentence as if it were the most casual of requests.
The crowd began to murmur. Chad raised his hands and hushed them. He turned back to the rainmaker. “What for?”
“The only way I can induce rain is to make love to one of your women,” Jacob repeated slowly.