Rain Over Blackwell

Blackwell kept buckets on every porch.

Not for leaks. The roofs were good enough, most of them. The buckets were for listening. When the yearly storm arrived, each metal pail turned into a bell, and the bells rang differently for every house.

Etta had never heard anything in the rain except rain.

That was what she told people, and for twenty-nine years people believed her.

Then the clouds gathered over the clock tower at three in the afternoon, dark and low, and every window in town reflected the same impossible sky. Etta stood in her doorway with one hand on the frame and listened as the first drop struck the bucket at her feet.

It said her brother’s name.

Her brother had been gone since 1998.