When he was finished he went outside and stood next to an old woman who was waiting under the porch of the little entryway. Cars went by on Main Street splashing up wakes of spray, their headlights on, their windshield wipers going fast. The old woman was staring at him. You’re that preacher’s boy. My father’s a minister, yes. I recognized you. She turned and looked out at the wet street. How about this rain? I wish it’d quit, he said. Oh no. You don’t know nothing about rain out here. You haven’t been in Holt long enough. You got to want it to keep on. The rain came down hard and sheeted off the street, filling the gutters, running toward the town pond. Then as they were watching, it stopped as suddenly as it had started. The sun shone out from behind the racing clouds. That’s it. That’s all we get, the old woman said.
