Bane

January 13, 1964

Clayton felt a cold, wet droplet rolling down his cheek, uncertain if it was the lurking storm, or tears of his own making. He wiped his cheek with his sleeve, and stared at the wetted sleeve.

Not the rain, then.

For a moment on the wind he imagined he could smell Julie's perfume. It was a vibrant, clean smell somewhere between citrus and peonies.

It was only his imagination, or at least that was what he told himself. It was only guilt, arising in the memory of scent; it was only memory... the one thing memory alone was so attuned.

Thunder rumbled again, and the rain began to fall harder as the sky choked on angry, black cumulus clouds overhead.

That proverbial freight train hauling his sorrow kept right on up the tracks of time, towing its endless cars of his haunted memory into Clayton's despair.

✟ ☧ ✟

Clayton arrived home to see the soft, flickering glow of the fireplace through the downstairs window of the drawing room.

He parked his black Bentley S3 in the circular driveway and sat in it, staring into the drawing room window as rain pelted the windshield. Clayton turned the car off, and opened the driver side door without a sound. He stepped out, his heavy black leather boots sloshing on the wet concrete.

Clayton sighed.

Emily was still awake, waiting up for him. There would be a lot of questions he was unwilling to answer, then there would be an argument, and Jonathan would start crying. Emily would gather the Jonathan up in her arms, and in her callous way - only as she could do it - she would go to bed, and he would end up sleeping in a guest room.

Clayton shut the car door quietly, and stood beside his car. He lifted his face to the sky, and let the rain pour down over his red face, the cold January rain washing the salty tear stains off his cheeks. He was seldom a man of tears, but for the comfort of privacy, and isolation in the way it was every year. Monday was finished though, and there in the downpour cold on his face, and in his saturated clothes, it was a new day.

The front door opened and he could see the silhouette of Emily backlit by the hall light, standing in the doorway with Jonathan in her arm. Jonathan was big, especially for a baby only two months, and a handful of days. The silhouette of Emily stood there patiently, no malice in the way she stood.

Her voice carried through the rain. "Clayton, baby. It's raining. Come inside and sit with me by the fireplace."

Clayton tilted his head, narrowing his eyes to focus on her and Jonathan. "I'll be there in a moment, Em. Just enjoying the morning moonlight with the rain."

"Besides the clouds, it's a new moon, Clay. You're going to catch your death out there. Come inside."

Clayton nodded, and took wet heavy steps for the house. At least he was wrong.

At least Emily seemed happy enough.

As Clayton hurried up the stairs to the porch, he saw Emily's smiling face. She moved to the side, and with a skillful maneuver, helped him out of his long coat. "I didn't mean to be home so late, Em."

"Let's not, tonight." Emily took his long coat, and carried it over her shoulder as she followed Clayton to the drawing room. Clayton sat in a black Chesterfield armchair near the hearth. "You're not angry?"

"You missed Judge Grifford by about twenty minutes. He wants to see you tomorrow. Stand up, you oaf. Take those clothes off."

"I'm soaking wet, Em."

"All the better reason. You're going to ruin that chair, Clayton Walker. Off with the clothes. I'm going to put Jonathan to bed, and I'll be back to help you warm up."

Clayton nodded, and began removing the his boots, and then his waterlogged socks. He rose up, and out of the chair, unbuttoning first his shirt, and then his pants.

Emily watched as a small puddle formed beneath the dripping clothes, sighed and left the room as Clayton stripped down to his underwear. Clayton heard her stop by the washroom. He heard the sound of his wet, heavy long coat slapping against the wall, and then he could hear Emily ascending the stairs.

Clayton stood by the hearth, his wet clothes draped neatly over his arm. Emily was gone a long while as Clayton stared into the dying flames in the fireplace. He heard her return, and turned to face her.

"You have to stop staying out late when you're not out on assignment. I'm not going to ask you where you were, because you wouldn't tell me if I did. Give me your clothes."

Clayton obeyed, handing her his heavy black canvas pants, heavier still because of their saturation.

Emily lugged his clothes over her arm, and hurried out of the drawing room. Clayton heard her open the washer, and within moments the washing machine was on.

The house was quiet a while, except for the random pop of burning firewood as it's excess gases escaped from ashy burning logs.

Emily returned to Clayton in a white cotton nightgown. "Let's warm you up, Clayton Walker."