There Will Come Soft Rains
I knew a woman, lovely in her bones
Not long after the day of the Rainy-Morning Spider, Ronan found himself contemplating how everything had begun with Phoebe. It had seemed so playful, even innocent, he thought. That was then.
Before we delve into current events, it is with some certainty that I say you would be fascinated to hear every last detail about how this affair began; however, as the principal characters are not ready for that story to be told, you must be satisfied by the telling of what little I can.
I must also bring you at least somewhat up to date. A year or two before what the two of them had come to call the Incident Involving the Spider (IITS), Phoebe had returned from having lived abroad for almost seven years. A few months before the same incident, he had run into her, as if by chance; more accurately, as if by design.
He had heard of her return to the States from one of his erstwhile acquaintances—a woman known to envy not only women like Phoebe, but also Phoebe specifically—for reasons which may become clear one day, when you are better equipped to understand the gravity of this tale, and when I am better able to tell it. He had bent this serendipity to his advantage, poking and prodding among his associates, until he managed to ferret out where and when he might run into her casually. Having so made it his business to find her, they had finally reconnected.
Our meanderings now bring us back to the present day. A few weeks after the IITS, he noticed an identical spider—perhaps the same individual, and perhaps not—crawling audaciously across the bathroom ceiling, as he was about to shave his face. He said “hullo” to it; the spider stopped in its tracks. Within minutes, the phone rang; he knew who it was—and so do you.
“I’m coming over for dinner tonight,” she declared sweetly. Had it been anyone else, he would have thought them presumptuous and become irritated; but this was Phoebe.
As was his habit, Ronan made every attempt to delay the end of the call; he enjoyed listening to her voice, whatever she might be saying. It soothed him. When they had finished talking, he resumed his morning ablutions and attended to the matters of the day.
Later that evening, as he made preparations for her arrival, he noticed the spider had retreated from the bathroom into Phoebe’s bedroom—or, rather, into what he thought of as her bedroom. It was crawling along the wall behind the half-open door, more or less as vulnerable as he felt himself to be. Again, he spoke to the spider.
“Hullo, what are you looking for, little buddy? She’s not here yet, you know! But just wait, she’ll....” His voice trailed off.
The spider became startled and scurried away. Perhaps, like Phoebe, it had not yet been tamed. Ronan stared at the slight depression in the pillow on her side of the bed. What is wrong with me?—he wondered silently. He had never been the sort of man prone to feeling wistful.
She arrived at the appointed time and made a simple supper for the two of them. Ronan performed his customary duties as sous-chef—when he was not holding her by the waist, caressing her shoulders, or kissing her neck in that tiny spot she loved, right behind her left ear.
After eating, they withdrew into the bedroom and lay down together. The spider had retreated to one of the corners of the ceiling overlooking the bed; Phoebe did not notice it. Her body lay draped over his chest, her right hand clasped in his left, as he gently stroked her mid-back length, obsidian hair. Within a few minutes, she fell into a deep sleep, her head nuzzled in the crook of his neck. Her light breathing soothed him; he was asleep soon thereafter.
When he awoke, a good bit later than he normally did, she was gone. He did not remember her having left, but this was not so unusual: she was always careful not to disturb him in the morning, on those rare occasions when she happened to stay through the night. He arose from bed, got ready for work, and left for the day.
When Ronan came home that night, he felt compelled to go at once into her bedroom. He had failed to make the bed that morning, and the top sheet was crumpled up next to her pillow. He lay down, buried his nose in the sheet, and began weeping.
Isn’t that remarkable!—he thought. Everything came back to him at once: how it had been before she had left, how dearly he had missed her while she had been abroad, his flailing missteps during her absence. In the end, all he had wanted, it turned out, was her. It was everything about her—her smile, her touch, her voice, the preternatural way she had about her, even how she sometimes got angry, but was never cruel—her unique way of being.
He stood up and made the bed, still sobbing quietly. He wondered how little time was left until her scent would fade away from the bedclothes—and when she might return.
That night, he decided to sleep in Phoebe’s bedroom without her. As he got into bed, he noticed the spider crawling along the wall toward the door. He slept soundly, waking up very early the next day. The sheets and pillows still smelled like her.
She was still not there.
Related Reading
- Sara Teasdale, “There Will Come Soft Rains” (poem)
- Ray Bradbury, “There Will Come Soft Rains” (short story)
- The dek is taken from Theodore Roethke, “I Knew a Woman”
- Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
- Anthony de Mello, The Way to Love
- Tom K, “Parallels”
- Tom K, “The Rainy-Morning Spider”
- Tom K, “A Bit on Bradbury”
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