It began to rain the next morning. The first stippling over the river. Muted in the woods. Rigby did not leave the boat all day. Busied himself with the tasks of a mouse. When night fell he cooked a supper of pork belly and cut the slab into small pieces and forked each up for the mannequin, Mary Belle. When her rigid face failed to accept the food he threw down the fork and cast the plate to the floor. Stood barking curses at her until he collapsed into the bed. Exhaustion followed his sobbing and then he slept fitfully. He awoke at some point to find her dry wooden eyes staring back in the oil light and he rose like a child from the mattress and took her up like a stuffed toy and dragged her into bed.
In the morning there was a pool of brown water on the countertop from where the roof leaked and the drip stirred him. He went there and eyed up at where the water was falling. Scratched himself and turned to the bed where Mary Belle had her back turned. He asked her if she was still mad at him but she did not answer.
He brought a chair and climbed up and poked at the sagging patch in the ceiling with a wooden spoon. The vinyl panel tore and a moldy pocket of water fell down upon him. He waved furiously at it and in doing so rocked the legs of the chair out from under him and went crashing to the floor. Pale and naked he looked like some advanced fetus newly birthed writhing balled on the plywood.
Later in the day, in the dying, waxen light he read his magazine to her, what words he could, with her cold face laid into his chest. He’d say, See that? She’s got yer same name.
The rain came harder and the daylong the river boiled under the black clouds. The dark sky darkened even further until it was the same color as the river, with Rigby’s shadow coming out finally at night to follow him about in the sallow oil lamps like a pup.