rain

She darts through the dark alley, trying to dodge the pellets of rain. She falters on the uneven pavement but is able to steady her balance. After each loss of footing, she acquires more of a sixth sense as to looming dangers. She is carrying her newborn, merely weeks old, swathed in a papoose tightly attached to her back. The baby is quietly asleep, oblivious to the maelstrom.

The rain whips at her cheek like a razor blade as if the gods are punishing her for the sin she has committed and the sins she is bound to commit in the future. She has chosen to lie with an unworthy man. As a result, she has brought another life into this hostile world to join her as pariah. The lashing of the rain is pleasing, and deserved.

She finally reaches her destination, a rusty green, metal gate. Her fist rattles the door and the clanging is heard even through the torrential downpour. A middle-aged woman scurries to the door; she is the housekeeper and recognizes the woman but does not offer a welcome.

Finally, with hair drenched and beads of sweat mixed with rain running down her face, she asks, “Is he here?”

The housekeeper tells her, “No,” then motions the new mother to come inside. They hurry across the courtyard and reach the porch that is protected from the weather by its tiled roof. As she takes off the papoose, her slight frame is evident with barely a waist. As the mother swaddles the baby and hands her over to the housekeeper, she says, “He’ll come for the baby.”

One week has passed and she has made another journey back to the green gate with its patches of copper. This day, the sun is out intense and fierce. The same housekeeper opens the gate shielding her eyes from the glare. Silently and without hurry, she follows the housekeeper through the courtyard and into the main house. She finds herself staring at the baby lying in the middle of the room wrapped in the same papoose. She picks up the cooing baby and then puts her down again.

“He has not come,” adds the housekeeper breaking the silence. She cannot tell whether this is true. All she knows is that the baby is still here. It has only been a week she tells herself.

The baby starts to wail, as if she has finally felt the first drops of the tempest brewing. “I will be back tomorrow,” she sighs, and walks out of the room. She continues into the hallway but this deluge is more stinging. She tells herself this is just another squall, which too shall pass.

She does not yet know that he will never come for her or her baby. He is already a husband and father of two boys. He has used her, as people are wont to do, as the baby already knows too well.