"Did you know, Dylan, that the people on T.V. can see you?" Taylor asked, grinning at his much-too-younger brother.
"Yeah, right," Dylan said, turning around and smiling up at Taylor from the floor. Taylor knew that the way Dylan had said "yeah right" just then meant that he believed him.
"They can!"
"Than what do they have to say to this?" Dylan said, holding up his middle finger to the reporter's face on the television. "See! The guy didn't say anything to me. He didn't give me the finger back!"
Taylor cursed to himself under his breath. He glanced over at his grandmother, who was washing leftover dishes from lunch with a towel draped over her shoulder.
"You're not teasing Dylan, are you, Tay?" she asked.
"Nope," he hollered back, nudging Dylan's shoulder.
"What?" he demanded as he changed the channels.
"Did you know that Flipper has been processed into one of those Fish-of-the-Sea Tuna cans Grandma bought a few days ago?" Taylor covered his mouth and tried to hold in his laugh as Dylan looked off into space to try and remember the cans of tuna.
"What does 'processed' mean?"
Little, ghost-sized bits of laugh were escaping through the corners of Taylor's mouth, spittle forming and buzzing.
"It means chopped up into little bits." He took his hand away from his mouth and told himself that he was able to keep in his laugh. Dylan was only eight years-old and he believed...well, almost, anyway, whatever Taylor had told him. He was his older brother.
"Gram? Is Flipper in one of those cans of tuna you bought the other day?" He asked.
She turned the knobs on the sink and the water stopped. She wiped the warm water and suds from her prunned hands onto the dish towel on her shoulder and gave Taylor a look that could have cut him in half, then she turned to Dylan.
"No, sweetheart. Of course not."
That look she gave Taylor made him nervous. He knew once she told him to do something, he did it, and if he disobeyed her once more he would be in trouble.
Dylan turned and looked up at Taylor from his Indian-style position and snickered, his mouth smeared with chocolate, pointing a marker-stained finger at him. Taylor sneered back and mouthed, "You little shit!"
The candles Grandma had it on the windowsill served as little beacons of light and gave forth not even enough to read the title of a book. Outside, it began to drizzle, the droplets blowing sideways in the chilly wind brought from the surface of the lake and splattering against the window panes.
"Hey Dylan?" Taylor said.
"Shut up, Tay!" Dylan screamed, turning up the television. Dylan thought that his loud screech would get Taylor into trouble because he'd figured that his Grandmother would hear him and then assume Taylor was teasing him again. He was smart, because it worked.
"Taylor, one more time and you're going to bed," she hollered from over the counter, pointing an arthritic finger at him. "I'm not going to listen to that all night. I'm tired. Cut it out!"
"I'm sorry, Grandma, it's just that I'm bored," Taylor whined.
"Do you feel like running down to the A&P and getting me bread crumbs then? I need to bread this chicken," she asked on a more pleasant note.
"It's raining out," Taylor said, pointing at the window.
"You're just lazy," Dylan said, watching as Sylvester the Cat got smashed with the broom again from Granny for trying to eat Tweety.
"Oh darn, it is? They said that the rain was going to hold-off until tomorrow afternoon..."
"Well, all weathermen are liars." Taylor added.
"I'm going to run down to the A&P anyway. I'm starving and we need to eat sometime tonight!"
"Yeah, I'm pretty hungry, too."
"Can I trust you to watch Dylan while I run down there?"
"Of course," he said, excitement running up and down his arms and spine. He sat up straighter in the couch now.
"And you won't tease Dylan?"
"Nope. I promise." "Yeah right...", he mummbled out of the corner of his mouth soft enough so that Dylan didn't hear him.
"Dylan, I'll be right back. Taylor is going to watch you while I take fifteen minutes to run down to the A&P for bread crumbs, ok?" He didn't answer. The TV was too loud. Taylor got up and lowered it.
"Grandma's talking to you!"
"What?" He asked.
She sighed. "Taylor is going to watch you while I go down to the A&P for bread crumbs. Taylor will watch you. I won't be any longer than fifteen minutes, ok?"
He glanced up at Taylor quickly. "Ok."
"It's quite late, so the stores are probably nice and empty. It shouldn't take me anymore than fifteen minutes, guys." She looked at Taylor before exiting and waved a finger in warning. He shook his head in an "I-know" manner.
Soon after she left, Taylor started.
"Hey Dylan, did you ever notice that when you're in a car the moon follows you?"
"Don't start, Taylor," he said, which sounded like some sort of warning.
"No, I'm serious! Ever notice how when you're in the car and you look out at the moon it looks like it's following you? Well it is!"
"Whatever," he said. He was beginning to catch on to Taylor's pathetic jokes and how untrue they were. Then Taylor asked, "And did you know that old people melt in the rain?"
Outside, thunder cracked off in the distance and a strip of lightning followed. The patter of rain became even more heavy against the window panes now. Dylan turned and looked at Taylor.
"Good," He thought. "I got 'em!"
Taylor shook his head. "Yup. Ya' know why?"
"Why?" He asked, eyes wide.
"Because of all the Metamucil they eat."
"What's Meta--moo--sul?" He asked.
"That's the stuff old people eat because they think it makes them healthy."
"Grandma..." Dylan whispered, looking out the window. The wind and the patterns the droplets of water made on the window, mixed with the light given off by the candles, cast occult-like shadows on the walls. Taylor felt bad now because he realized that Dylan believed his little joke.
"Really, Taylor? Does the rain melt old people, Taylor?"
Taylor hesitated for a moment, hating what he would have to do next.
"No, Dylan. The rain doesn't melt old people."
From the glare and gloss in Dylan's eyes, Taylor knew he still wasn't at ease. His eyes were still wide and he stared out the window at something that wasn't there as if black ghosts danced about within the thick panes of warped glass.
"Dylan, don't worry. Grandma's OK." Taylor had scared even himself. He had become caught-up in his joke now. "She's not going to melt."
"Are you sure?" He asked again, still staring at the window. The rain came harder and the wind screamed hideous growls that were heard around--and under--the sides of the poorly-insulated windows.
"Grandma will be home soon..."
Taylor got up and closed the curtains.
"Just keep watching cartoons, Dyl. She'll be home soon..."
One hour later, their Grandmother still hadn't gotten home yet. It was still raining.
The story No Rain is Copyright 1998 by Jack Fisher.
The collection of works called Fish Eggs For The Soul is Copyright 1998 by Brian Rickman.
Copy edited by Sara Fawbush, editor of The Young Writer's Collection.