Mystery in the Rain Part Two

My Muse found me a Maxwell sedan from the 1920’s and as improbable as that was, I figured I might as well go where the magic led me.

Besides, who was I to deny the universe?

So, despite the rainy night, I was out on the streets enjoying the ambiance of a 1920's Maxwell while driving in the direction of the Park Hotel.

Suddenly, the drizzle turns to a downpour so intense I can barely see more than a dozen feet ahead. I stop at a red light and a girl who’s waiting for a bus comes over, opens the door and sits in the rear seat.

“Take me home, Max,” she yelps.

I smile at her moxy. “Sure, Babe—where’s that?”

“The Park Hotel, of course—unless you’ve forgotten.”

I look at her in the rear view mirror—red lipstick, dark hair, a black cloth coat and a sequined hairband—nobody dresses like that anymore. She deserves a ride on that basis alone —and also, of course, because she’s beautiful.

Yeah, I happen to notice small things.

Drive, she says, so I drive.

It’s Sunday—nobody’s out on the street, which is kind of strange, but then again, it’s raining.

Torontonians, I smile inwardly—for all their staunch endurance when it comes to winter, they’re particularly squeamish when it comes to getting a little wet in rain.

But the streets do look funny. It reminds me of that weird feeling I had driving back into the city after a vacation in Florida. Everything seemed alien and it took me days to recover that familiar feeling of being comfortable in my surroundings.

The rain’s pouring down steadily now but she insists we park on the street and go up the old service elevator to her suite. Just like that—doesn’t even ask if I want to come up, just assumes I will.

And of course I do, because it’s not every day I get asked up to an apartment by a beautiful girl, and besides, I’m looking for adventure.

Her rooms are huge and have a great view of the city, but the shimmering jewel box of millions of lights is dark and mute tonight.

“The power must be off,” I tell her, and she says, “Oh good! I love candlelight.”

So we sit in her darkened front room watching rain trails melt down the pane, drinking red wine and nibbling sharp cheddar cheese.

It's a mystery but I accept it because as I said before, who am I to deny the universe?

It turns out the girl’s name is Edith and she works for the Canada Life Insurance Company.

“You know, the Beaux Arts building on University Avenue with the weather beacon on top?” She seems as proud of that building as the company that built it back in the Depression.

“I’ll bet the beacon is flashing red right now with all this rain,” I tell her.

The idea of a color-coded weather beacon seems dated, but charming nonetheless—sort of like Edith, with her dated name.

She puts on some music—it turns out she has this antique phonograph—you know the kind that makes the hissing sound when the vinyl spins? Of course the song is Stormy Weather, but not a version I know.

“Who’s singing that song?”

“Where have you been boy?” Edith smiles. “That’s Ethel Waters—I just love her voice.”

She gets all dreamy listening to the recording, and then suddenly asks, “Say, what kind of music do you like?”

I hate questions because my mind just goes blank and I get brain freeze.

“I like Cat Steven’s Cats in the Cradle,” I tell her, and then wonder if I’m losing my mind.

Where did that come from?

Her eyes go all huge and her jaw drops.

“Murder! Here I am taking you for some ordinary Joe and you like Swing Music! What’s your story, morning glory?”

Nothing about this experience is making any sense and what’s more, I’m feeling kind of weird and shaky as if I’m trapped in some celluloid movie from the Depression.

I look at her and it’s like looking through a grainy film—the candles add to the effect by fluttering and everything seems tinged with a patina of age.

I’m scared and feeling very claustrophobic. I need to get out.

“Hey, are you feeling okay? You look kinda Joe’d.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well,” I tell her, “I’ve really got to go.”

“Oh, so this is the kiss off, huh? I get it. I shouda known better than to get into some fancy flivver with a swell.”

“I’ve got to go,” I mutter as I push past her towards the door.

She grabs my arm and swings me around to face her. Her huge eyes are staring up into mine.

“I liked you, you know? We mighta been okay together.” She leans in and kisses me tenderly, “You know where I live.”

Why does this seem like a Bogart and Bacall film—in noir, for that matter?

I push out the door and find my way down the staircase to the street. The cool breeze revives me and I stand there leaning up against the hotel wall allowing the rain to pour down upon me.

The next day, Musey gets his way. My writers block is gone and I find myself writing for eight hours straight about a girl from the Thirties who finds herself marooned in the 21st century.

Muse Cat is content, my neighbour in the next apartment envies my 1922 Maxwell Four Door Sedan and Harry, my agent, is taking responsibility for jumpstarting my writing career again.

He’s even intending to sign up for courses in Acceptance and Commitment Therapy, planning to branch out into a side business of mentoring struggling writers.

Good luck with that.

As for me, I soldier on.

And, as for Edith, well I think that ship has sailed.

Even if I went back to the Park Hotel, I doubt she’d be there—in this era at least.

I suppose she falls into that category of lives unlived and roads not taken—the unfinished relationships that haunt all of us for the rest of our days.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved


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