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“No gold,” said Mr. Smith. “And what’s more, I’ll make you a bet—no rain. No rain tomorrow or the day after the day after tomorrow. No rain all the rest of this year.”
The three old men sat staring at the big sun-yellowed moon that burned a hole in the high stillness.
After a long while, painfully, they began to rock again.
The first hot morning breezes curled the calendar pages like a dried snake skin against the flaking hotel front.
The three men, thumbing their suspenders up over their hat rack shoulders, came barefoot downstairs to blink out at that idiot sky.
“January 29 …”
“Not a drop of mercy there.”
“Day’s young.”
“I’m not.” Mr. Fremley turned and went away.
It took him five minutes to find his way up through the delirious hallways to his hot, freshly baked bed.
At noon, Mr. Terle peered in.
“Mr. Fremley …?”
“Damn desert cactus, that’s us!” gasped Mr. Fremley, lying there, his face looking as if at any moment it might fall away in a blazing dust on the raw plank floor. “But even the best damn cactus got to have just a sip of water before it goes back to another year of the same damn furnace. I tell you I won’t move again, I’ll lie here an’ die if I don’t hear more than birds pattin’ around up on that roof!”
“Keep your prayers simple and your umbrella handy,” said Mr. Terle and tiptoed away.
At dusk, on the hollow roof a faint pattering sounded.
Mr. Fremley’s voice sang out mournfully from his bed.
“Mr. Terle, that ain’t rain! That’s you with the garden hose sprinklin’ well water on the roof! Thanks for tryin’, but cut it out, now.”
The pattering sound stopped. There was a sigh from the yard below.
Coming around the side of the hotel a moment later, Mr. Terle saw the calendar fly out and down in the dust.
“Damn January 29!” cried a voice. “Twelve more months! Have to wait twelve more months, now!”
Mr. Smith was standing there in the doorway. He stepped inside and brought out two dilapidated suitcases and thumped them on the porch.
“Mr. Smith!” cried Mr. Terle. “You can’t leave after thirty years!”
“They say it rains twenty days a month in Ireland,” said Mr. Smith. “I’ll get a job there and run around with my hat off and my mouth open.”
“You can’t go!” Mr. Terle tried frantically to think of something; he snapped his fingers. “You owe me nine thousand dollars rent!”
Mr. Smith recoiled; his eyes got a look of tender and unexpected hurt in them.
“I’m sorry.” Mr. Terle looked away. “I didn’t mean that. Look now—you just head for Seattle. Pours two inches a week there. Pay me when you can, or never. But do me a favor: wait till midnight. It’s cooler then, anyhow. Get you a good night’s walk toward the city.”
“Nothin’ll happen between now and midnight.”
“You got to have faith. When everything else is gone, you got to believe a thing’ll happen. Just stand here with me, you don’t have to sit, just stand here and think of rain. That’s the last thing I’ll ever ask of you.”
On the desert sudden little whirlwinds of dust twisted up, sifted down. Mr. Smith’s eyes scanned the sunset horizon.
“What do I think? Rain, oh you rain, come along here? Stuff like that?”
