The rain continued steadily all afternoon. Around dinnertime the wind picked up. Jessie could hear it whistling under the eaves, swirling around the house as if it were trying to pry loose a board and find a secret way in. Outside, the trees in the woods creaked and groaned, and a shutter that was loose on the back of the house started to bang. The late-afternoon light faded, and darkness draped itself over the house. She watched old reruns on TV, trying not to think about the long night ahead.
At nine o’clock, Jessie was brushing her teeth when the power went out.
“Evan! Evan!” she shouted, spitting toothpaste into the pitch-black darkness.
“I’m coming! I’m coming!” he called back. “Keep your pants on!”
Jessie felt for the edge of the sink, repeating, “Keep calm and carry on. Keep calm and carry on.” It was just darkness. There was nothing in the dark that wasn’t there in the light. There was nothing to be afraid of. But the sudden plunge into black made her heart race and her brain freeze up.
“Where the heck are you?” Evan’s voice came from the hallway, and then there was a bouncing circle of dim yellow light and Jessie could see the faded outlines of things. Evan’s face looked ghostly in the feeble glow, but at least it was Evan. “You’ve got toothpaste all down your front,” he said, pointing the flashlight beam right at her heart.
Jessie did a quick rinse and spit, and then the two of them went down to the kitchen to arm themselves with flashlights. Jessie wanted two: one to use and one to keep as a backup.
When she got up to her room, she realized something much worse. There was no night-light. Jessie always slept with a night-light. It helped keep bad dreams away.
“You can use a flashlight,” said Evan. “Just keep it switched on.”
“It’ll run out. In the middle of the night.” And that would be the worst. To wake up in the middle of the night. Alone. In the dark. With a hurricane raging outside. “Can I sleep with you?”
Evan made a face. “You kick.”
“I know. I’m sorry. I can’t help it.”
“I can’t sleep with you kicking all night. And there isn’t enough room. We’re both too big.” He shrugged, as if there was nothing he could do about that.
The wind outside howled, and there was the sound of something ripping away from something else, followed by a loud, rattling bang.
Jessie shook her head. “I can’t sleep alone without my night-light.” Evan would have to think of something.
“We’ll share Mom’s bed. It’s bigger.”
This was a great idea. Jessie hurried ahead of Evan, hoping to claim the side that her mom slept on. But once she had buried herself under the sheets, she noticed that the bed didn’t smell like her mom.
“It smells like Dad,” she said.
“Yeah,” grumbled Evan, climbing in on his side.
“Good night, Evan.”
“Night, Jess.”
They both lay silent for several minutes. Jessie felt herself tense up every time the pitch of the wind rose. Something was scraping against the window, and Jessie told herself over and over that it was just a tree branch from the maple in the side yard. Still, it sounded like a demon trying to break in.
“Evan, are you awake?” she asked.
“No,” he answered, and that made her giggle. “We’re going to be okay, Jess. Just go to sleep, okay?”
“Okay,” said Jessie. “I’ll try not to kick you.”
“That would be great.”
Then they both fell asleep, first Evan, then Jessie, while the hurricane came closer and closer.
Chapter 14
Disorientation
disorientation (n) a technique whereby a magician confuses his audience, often with rapid patter and flourishes, so that they don’t notice a gimmick or sleight
When Evan woke up at dawn, he didn’t know where he was. He’d been dreaming of an elephant caught in a trap, and the cry of the elephant howling in pain was still in his ears.
But this wasn’t his bed. And there was a strange sound—something was rattling. Something was trying to break out or break in. Evan sat up. The room was nothing but shadows. His T-shirt was plastered to his back, and the bedsheets were twisted around his legs. He couldn’t figure out where he was.
And then something kicked him, and he realized that Jessie was sleeping next to him, and suddenly he remembered. The howling was the wind, and the rattling sound was the windows of their old, drafty house, shaking and raging against the storm.
Evan got out of bed to get a drink of water. The wind was louder than anything he could remember hearing. He could feel the house shake under his feet. The windows were rattling so much he thought they would shatter. Occasionally something thudded against the house, and Evan wondered what it could be.
He looked out the window. Through the smudgy daylight he could see the rain blowing sideways against the house. It looked as though someone had turned on the sprayer of a giant garden hose and was aiming it right at the window. There were no streetlights or house lights on. But as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he began to see certain shapes. Several large tree limbs were down, and one of them was lying across the road. Part of the fence in front of the house across the street was knocked flat, and the gate had blown up against the mailbox on the corner. Strangest of all, something was stuck high up in the tree right in front of their house. At first Evan couldn’t figure out what it was: some big, round object with polka dots painted on it. Finally he realized it was one of those plastic kiddie pools, wedged in the branches of the tree, thirty feet off the ground. As he turned away from the window, he saw two lawn chairs chasing each other down the middle of the street.
Evan climbed back into bed. Jessie was snoring loudly, but he could hardly hear her over the roar of the storm. Something banged outside. The house creaked like a ship tossed on open water. It’s going to fall apart, he thought. It’s too old and broken-down. What would they do then? He struggled to settle his mind, and after what felt like hours, he fell asleep.
It was a sound like an explosion that yanked Evan back awake. At first he thought he hadn’t slept at all, but then he saw that there was daylight outside—a dark murkiness, but daylight nonetheless. The sound was so loud, it even woke Jessie, who could sleep through an army invasion.
“What was that?” she shouted, looking at Evan with wild eyes. The sound of the outside storm seemed even louder than before, as if it was rushing into the house through a gaping hole.
Evan and Jessie hurried out of their mother’s room and followed the noise of the storm. When they looked in Jessie’s bedroom, they couldn’t believe their eyes. A large tree limb was sticking right through the wall and lay across Jessie’s bed. There was a hole about the size of a car door, and rain was pouring through it, soaking the bed and the floor. Chunks of plaster from the ceiling had fallen on top of the mess.
Evan looked at Jessie, expecting her to flip out, but the expression on her face was very still. Jessie didn’t like anything to mess up her room, not even one tiny bit. What was she thinking now?
Jessie pointed at her bed. “If I’d slept there, I’d be dead,” she announced, like a reporter stating a fact.
“Nah,” said Evan, who didn’t even want to think about that. But what if Jessie had been in her bed? What would he have done then? To shake the thought loose, he asked, “What tree is it?”
They carefully crossed the room to the hole in the house and peered out.
“Oh, Evan! It’s the Climbing Tree!”
It was true. The Climbing Tree had snapped in half, and the top of it had crashed into their house. Evan felt a stab of pain—it was almost as if someone had died. The Climbing Tree was more than just a place to hang out. There were times when it had felt like Evan’s only friend in the world. Times when he’d needed to get away—from the house, from Jessie, from the fighting between his mom and his dad, from his own impatience or frustration or confusion. And the Climbing Tree had always welcome
d him, held a place for him, and let him just be, without asking one single thing in return.
Evan felt like raising his head to the sky and howling. But he couldn’t. Jessie was here, and she was looking at him. Waiting.
“Look,” he said. “We should probably . . . um, do something . . .” He pointed to the open gash in the house. He just wanted to go into his own room and close the door and bury himself under the covers on his bed. He wanted someone—anyone—to take charge. And once again, that old fury rose up in him. His father should be here.
But he wasn’t. He’d left. Disappeared when they needed him most. And there was no point in getting mad about that now. There were things that needed to get done. Things that couldn’t wait.
He thought about Pete and the repairs they’d made to Grandma’s house after the fire. He remembered Pete’s words. Instructions, strong and clear.
“We need to stop the rain that’s coming in,” Evan said. “It’s going to wreck the house.”
“Wreck the house?” shouted Jessie, waving at the tree in her bed.
“Well, even more,” said Evan. “Water is a house’s worst enemy.” It was as if Pete were standing there. You gotta keep the water out. That’s job number one.
Evan sent Jessie down to the garage to grab the plastic tarps that their mother kept there.
“How are we going to hold the tarps in place?” asked Jessie when she came back upstairs.
Evan looked at the hole. “Nails,” he said decisively.
Jessie’s eyes grew wide. “Nails? In the wall? Mom is going to kill you if you do that!”
“Jess, look at this! It’s a disaster. I don’t think a few nails in the wall are going to make it any worse!”
So they pounded about twenty nails into the wall, securing the tarp at the top of the hole. Jessie had the bright idea of hanging the bottom of the tarp over the tree branch and out the hole so that the water would run off outside. Even so, a fair amount of water was still pushing its way in around the sides of the tarp, which flapped in the vicious wind. The tree was also acting like a straw, drawing the water in from outside and dumping it on the bed. Jessie, who was good at figuring out how things work, had an idea. She and Evan wedged the two smaller tarps between the tree and the mattress, and then they shaped the tarps so that there were two gullies in the plastic. The water that poured on top of the tarp gathered in the gullies and ran off into two buckets that Jessie positioned on the floor. It was sort of like the marble tracks that she and Evan sometimes built.
“That’s the best we can do,” said Evan.
“We just have to remember to change the buckets, because they’re filling up pretty quick,” said Jessie. It was true. There was already almost an inch of rainwater in each bucket. How could the sky hold that much water?
They carried the heavy, sodden towels they’d used to wipe up the puddles down to the laundry room and piled them on the dryer. No electricity, so there was no way to dry the towels. In the kitchen, they each poured a bowl of cereal, but decided not to open the refrigerator door, in the hopes that the food inside would stay cold enough until the power came back on. They sat in the dim room, away from the sliding glass doors in case any more tree limbs fell, and ate their bowls of dry cereal.
“Do you think this is as bad as it’s going to get?” asked Jessie. Evan had been wondering the same thing. Without a battery-powered radio, there was no way to get news of the storm. No TV, no Internet, no phone. They were completely cut off—as if they were living in Antarctica, with no connection to the rest of the world.
“Maybe we should go to the Kapours’,” said Jessie. The Kapours were their neighbors on the right.
“No,” said Evan. “We don’t need them. We’re fine.” He knew this wasn’t true. There was a hurricane raging outside and a hole the size of a bathtub in their house! But he didn’t want to tell anyone that their dad had left them alone. That their mom had gone to California and not come home when she promised. He didn’t know what would happen if anyone found these things out, but he didn’t want to risk it. It was better to stay where they were and ride out the storm.
“But what if . . .” said Jessie. “What if . . . the house falls in on us? Or . . . a window breaks and there’s glass everywhere. Or what if . . . the basement floods and water starts to come up the stairs . . . ?”
Evan looked at Jessie, and he could see that the same thought was forming in her head that was taking shape in his. A picture of water seeping into the basement, creeping up, inch by inch.
“Oh, Evan,” said Jessie, running to the basement door. “We left Professor Hoffmann down there. All alone!”
“Wait!” said Evan. “We need a flashlight!”
He ran upstairs to his mother’s bedroom and grabbed a big Maglite, the strongest flashlight they owned, then grabbed a second one for Jessie. When he got back down to the basement door, Jessie was already feeling her way downstairs, gripping the railing and testing each step with her foot. Evan shined the light ahead of them, but they both stopped short before reaching the bottom step.
The basement was completely flooded. Water leaked in through the cracks in the cement, streaming down the concrete walls like waterfalls. Evan guessed the water was about a foot deep, since the bottom two steps of the staircase were completely submerged.
“Where is he? Where’s his box?” screeched Jessie. Her flashlight beam was jiggling all over the basement, making the room seem to jump before his eyes.
“I don’t know, Jess,” said Evan. “Just hold steady. Stop flashing your light everywhere. Here. You look on that half and I’ll look on this half.” There were so many things floating in the water: old sneakers and a box of light bulbs and a plastic car. Evan pointed his beam of light at a half-inflated beach ball and Jessie’s old coloring books. Two Easter baskets floated by, bobbing in the water like toys in a bathtub.
But then Jessie shouted, “Look!” and pointed to the corner where her flashlight was aimed. Evan swung the beam of his light, too, and they both saw. Something floating on the surface of the water.
It was Professor Hoffmann’s cardboard box, torn apart and flattened, soaked through with water—and empty.
Chapter 15
Disappearance
disappearance (n) a magic trick in which an object, person, or animal seems to disappear
Jessie ran upstairs to get her high rain boots, then sloshed through the rising water in the basement, calling out, “Professor Hoffmann! Where are you? It’s us. Come out!” She looked on all the shelves, thinking that perhaps he’d jumped up, trying to escape the flood. That would be a natural instinct in an animal: to seek higher ground. But Jessie looked on every shelf in the basement, and there was no sign of the rabbit.
Evan, who didn’t have rain boots, stayed on the stairs and held the flashlights. But after ten minutes he said, “Jess, we can’t stay down here. The water’s getting higher, and I think there’s yucky stuff in it. See?” He pointed to the water near the furnace, and Jessie could see that there was an oily slick on the surface. “Come on.”
At the top of the stairs, Jessie pulled off her boots. “Where do you think he went?” she asked, but in her mind, she knew the answer. Professor Hoffmann had drowned, and when the storm ended and the water emptied out of the basement, they would find his small, limp body, and he would never do a magic trick again.
Jessie had never loved an animal before, but she loved Professor Hoffmann. She loved him because he was quiet and predictable and simple and didn’t need much. Sometimes he was calm, and sometimes he was nervous. But mostly he just wanted to eat lettuce and occasionally a radish. He needed water and his box cleaned out from time to time, and you could count on him to do his job. He was an easy rabbit to understand.
She tried not to think too much about what he had gone through at the end. She told herself that rabbits don’t feel fear the same way humans do. But as the morning stretched on and the storm continued to rage, Jessie grew more and more frightened he
rself, and she couldn’t help thinking that Professor Hoffmann had felt some of the same things she was feeling now.
“Evan, the buckets are overflowing!” Jessie shouted, looking in her bedroom for the fifth time that day. It was incredible how fast they filled now that the rain was coming down harder than ever.
“Give me a second,” Evan called back. “There’s another leak in the kitchen!” The ceiling in the kitchen had started to drip in the afternoon, and Evan and Jessie were on steady patrol, checking each room for new leaks. So far there was one in their mother’s bedroom, one in the bathroom, and three in the kitchen. The only room that had managed to stay completely dry was the family room, and that’s where Evan and Jessie had moved their supplies to and where they would hunker down between patrols.
“This is hard,” said Jessie at one point. She was trying to open a jar of pickles. Jessie loved pickles, but her mom never let her have more than two at a time because eating too many gave her a stomachache.
“I can do it,” said Evan, reaching for the pickle jar. He was eating tortilla chips dipped in cold hot-fudge sauce.
“That’s disgusting,” said Jessie matter-of-factly.
“Actually, it’s not half bad,” said Evan, returning the pickle jar with the lid loosened. “Don’t eat more than two.”
“I know, I know,” said Jessie. She didn’t like touching food with her hands, particularly wet, cold food, so she used a fork to stab a pickle and fish it out of the jar. As she crunched, she thought of Professor Hoffmann and said again, “This is hard.”
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