Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  He grabbed the strap of Ellen’s bag. “Let me put this in the back for you.” “No, I’d rather hold it.” The nerve of him, trying to take my stuff. He flashed Ellen a movie star smile, perfect teeth. “You from Tallahassee?”

  “No.” She told herself to stay calm as she reached inside the bag to locate the pepper spray.

  He turned to face her. “Just visiting?”

  “Don’t know, I may move there permanently.”

  “Where’re you staying in Tallahassee?”

  Ellen wanted to say none of your business, but she held her tongue for once. “With a friend.”

  “Who’s your friend? I know several people in Tallahassee. May know him.”

  Ellen studied the stranger. His red polo shirt looked soiled, and he wore black gloves. A bad sign. “Not a him, a her.”

  “Oh, sorry, but maybe I know her? I have several friends in Tallahassee.” He shrugged and winked. “I might know your friend.”

  Ellen didn’t like his wink and she was growing wary of his questions. They felt wrong, even though this guy was obviously no bum and nice enough to give her a ride. “I suppose it’s possible you know her. She’s Geneva VanSant, a well-known journalist. Her articles have appeared in newspapers all over the country.”

  The stranger’s jaw dropped as if he’d heard something shocking.

  Ellen thought he may have seen Geneva’s by-line or met her at some celebrity bash. “Do you know her?”

  The stranger pulled his Hummer onto Interstate 10. “The name sounds familiar and I’m thinking I’ve seen her somewhere. I’m not sure. Maybe it will come to me.”

  He smiled and pointed to the seatbelt, “Be safe, buckle up.”

  Ellen smoothed her Clairol-blond pixie, thinking no way she’d trap herself in this tank with a strange man. “I don’t think so. I hate seatbelts.”

  “You ride with me, you’ll wear yours.”

  Ellen’s neck hairs bristled. “Maybe you’d better take me back to MacDonald’s or drop me off here.” She inched toward the door and held onto the pepper spray in her bag.

  “In this rain?” He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. “You’re feisty I’ll give you that. Why else would a fine woman like you catch a ride with God knows who?”

  Ellen’s heart hammered, warning her. She’d made a bad choice. She’d accepted a ride with a strange man, who drove like a maniac, seventy-five in a flash flood. “Name’s Ellen. What’s yours?”

  “John.” He offered his right, gloved hand. His left hand gripped the steering wheel.

  She couldn’t make herself shake hands with that glove. Better to stare at the windshield wipers battling the rain. How could anyone see to drive in this stuff? She certainly couldn’t, though she had no problem seeing the way John gave her the once over as if she were a sexy model, not a fifty-year-old woman, forty pounds overweight. He needed to watch the road, not give her the eye.

  “What’s your story, Ellen? Where are you from originally?”

  Ellen stared at the stranger, trying to memorize every detail in case she needed to remember later. “Born in New York City, lived there for thirty years.”

  “But not now?”

  “Right.”

  “Got tired of the Big Apple? Can’t say as I blame you.”

  “Oh, no, I love New York. The city so nice they named it twice. I miss living in the city. I miss the Broadway shows, especially the opera, everything, even the rude taxi drivers.”

  He laughed. “Don’t know as I agree with you, or David Letterman, on that one. Why’d you leave?”

  “Lost my job.”

  “What kind of work do you do?” John squinted at Ellen, and she thought his eyelids looked heavy, sleepy. Could she trust him not to fall asleep at the wheel?

  “We’re talking twenty years since I worked full-time. I was a switchboard operator on Wall Street for many years.” “What do you do now?”

  “Clean trucks and houses.”

  “I’m sure there’s a demand for that.”

  “I’m good at it, too, but if I had my druthers, I’d sing for a living.”

  He laughed. “You mean sing for your supper?”

  Not funny, Ellen wanted to say when the Hummer hydroplaned, skidding across I-10. They almost hit a trucker in front of them. She screamed and gripped the arm rest. God help me. “Slow down,” she yelled. “Keep your eyes on the road.”

  He slowed to sixty-five. “I have a heavy foot, sorry.” He took his right hand off the wheel and patted her shoulder. “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, something about your singing? You said you’d like to sing for a living. Did you ever sing professionally?”

  Ellen moved away from his hand. “I studied with Luciano Pavarotti’s coach. Was second choice for ‘Aida’ once.” Ellen didn’t expect John, or whatever his name was, to believe her, though she never lied.

  He cocked one eyebrow. “Why give that up?”

  Ellen felt trapped, similar to the time she got stuck in the Empire State Building elevator. “Polyps on my vocal cords. Lost my job, then my apartment.”

  “What about family? Couldn’t they help you out?”

  Ellen bit her lip in fear. She needed to make a move, get out of this Hummer, but how? “My parents were abusive drunks.”

  John shook his head. “Life sucks sometimes.” He glanced through sleepy eyes.

  Ellen thought he might be on drugs. What if he fell asleep at the wheel? “I moved in with my boyfriend. He was an alcoholic and abusive, just like my folks. So I left him and caught a bus to Seattle but couldn’t find a job there.”

  “Why couldn’t you find a job?”

  “I don’t have enough sense to keep my mouth shut. Whatever I’m thinking comes out, but that’s okay. Now I’m glad I didn’t get a job in Seattle. It rained every day I was there, very depressing. Two people in my homeless shelter killed themselves.”

  John pointed to his dashboard. “Need to stop for gas.” He turned off at an exit where a BP station adjoined a rest area. “So, you gave up on your singing.”

  “No, I still sing. I just haven’t performed in a theater for twenty years.”

  “I’d like to hear you.” He smiled at her.

  Ellen thought, why not? She loved to sing, and it might keep him awake until she could get away from him. “Okay, I’ll sing some of Aida in Act IV when Aida and her lover Radamès are buried alive in a crypt.” Ellen transformed herself into the part.

  When she began to sing, John said, “Wow, you have a spectacular voice.”

  Ellen continued to sing, though she noticed he’d passed up the BP station and headed toward the rest area. Get ready to jump, she told herself.

  Chapter Three

  Maeva Larson, Gerry, Alabama

  The radar showed Hurricane Donald spinning in the Gulf of Mexico as a blond meteorologist reported, “...Category Five, expected to make landfall along Florida’s Panhandle. Warnings in effect for Panama City all the way west to Pensacola Beach...”

  Upset by the weather report, I ignored the ringing landline until I glanced at the Caller ID and saw Kari Ann’s number. “Hi, sis. What’s up?”

  “I’m seeing the Perfect Storm on Doppler. Edie’s in the Atlantic and Donald’s in the Gulf, fixing to mate and form a super ‘cane. We’ll have to board up the townhouses for sure.”

  We?” As if my sister out in Idaho would magically appear for the occasion. “I’ll call Jim. I refuse to drive to Dolphin in this storm.”

  “I don’t blame you. You must be exhausted.”

  I had no time for a therapy session from my psychotherapist sister. “I don’t mean to cut you off, sis, but I need to catch Jim in time to board up our places. Let me call you later. Love you.”

  Kari Ann and I hired Jim Grayson after we fired Prestige Rentals, a company that rented to the teenagers who trashed our two townhouses. Jim could fix anything. He had good references, plenty of leasing experience, three rentals of his own on Paradise Isle, meaning he kept a c
lose eye on incoming storms. Most importantly, he meticulously screened every renter and refused teenagers unaccompanied by adults.

  We paid him twenty percent for his trouble, extra for handyman chores. This time I was prepared to pay him double the usual if he’d help me out. Regardless, I had no intention of driving down to Dolphin in this storm. I’d been away from home too much lately and I had a long list of chores I needed to do. The basket in the washer/dryer room overflowed with my dirty clothes. A clean pile of laundry, that needed folding, covered the beige sofa in the living room, where my ever-expanding rock collection dwarfed the coffee table.

  My obsession with stones began when Adam gave me the two Amethysts. (Wedged together, they formed a heart.) I’m now somewhat of an expert on stone power.

  The bloodstones (heliotropes) are among my favorites. The most famous member of the jasper family, they have the power to heal, according to legend. Heliotropes were formed during the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. His blood spilled on the earth, turning the earth to bloodstone. Hence the definition: “the healing stone.” Sadly, none of my rocks cured my heartache after Adam was killed.

  I shook my head to dislodge the memory as I surveyed my jumbled mass of gems. If my parents were alive, they would feel embarrassed for me.

  They had taken such pride in their home. My dad—Eric Larson—designed and built the four-bedroom split on six acres of farmland and pines. It offered a tranquil view of Lake Gerry, three miles outside a town where seven thousand people still believed in the golden rule. I could not imagine living anywhere else.

  “Yup,” Jim answered on the third ring.

  “Hi, Jim. Maeva Larson. How are you?”

  “Under the gun. What can I do you for?”

  “I need you to board up our townhouses.”

  “Can’t, lovely lady. I’m shittin’ and getting’.”

  I thought I’d misunderstood him. “What’d you say?” “I’m getting the hell out before that hurricane blows me out.”

  “I can appreciate your concern, Jim, but there’s been no evacuation yet, has there?”

  “Not that I’ve heard.”

  “And no one knows for sure where this thing is aiming. Even if the hurricane aims for Dolphin, it won’t make landfall for several hours, which should give you plenty of time to get out if you take the evacuation route over the Bay Bridge. But of course, you know that.”

  “Wish I could help you, Maeva. And I would, ordinarily, but I have this wild bird feeling. And I got my own property to look after. It’ll take me the better part of the day.”

  “Jim, you’re quick enough to do your places and ours in record time, and I hope you know I wouldn’t ask you to help me if I thought you were in danger.”

  “Sorry, no can do. Turn on the Weather Channel. You’ll see what I mean.”

  “Would you reconsider if I told you I’ll pay you double?”

  “Money don’t mean nothing when you’re pushing up flowers. You ever see a funeral procession with a U-Haul behind the hearse?”

  I paced the living room while Jim retold in exhaustive detail how he almost drowned in ‘95 during Hurricane Opal. He then segued into the devastation of Ivan and Katrina.

  I started to tell him I’d worked the insurance investigations from those storms, and I was quite familiar with the damage, but he didn’t pause long enough to let me get a word in.

  When he broke for air, I said, “Could you recommend someone else? If not, I’ll have to drive down there and do the boarding myself.”

  From the picture window in the living room, I watched the storm and waited for Jim’s answer. Three pine-tree limbs broke off in the front yard. A wet wind blasted the lake and parted the azalea bushes, and I thought I saw Adam’s reflection, as plain as the rain in the window.

  “Sorry,” Jim said. “Can’t this time. I got a bad feeling.”

  Chapter Four

  Florida Rest Area Ellen Langley

  Ellen’s colloratura voice died in her throat when she saw John reaching beside his seat and coming up with a black mask, smelling of ether. Her heart did a flip. Get out quick.

  She fumbled to open the door, as she heard the lock click, trapping her inside. She tried to scream, but her throat made a faint squeak, like a dying wren.

  John grabbed her left arm, pulling her toward him, aiming the mask at her face.

  She kicked him, extended her right arm and plunged the button on the pepper spray. John’s squealed like a castrated pig when the spray hit his eyes. Ellen pulled at every knob on the door before she heard it click open. She grabbed her duffle and noticed John was still clawing at his eyes when she swung open the door and jumped out.

  She landed hard, stumbling and tripping on the curb. Shit. Now what? Where can I hide? If she ran to the BP station, a ways behind her now, John might regain his eyesight before she got there. For certain, he’d expect her to get help.

  She saw no other cars in the parking lot. The rest area looked deserted, meaning the safest place might be the woods.

  Ellen ran in back of the bathroom building and hid behind a hedgerow. From there, she watched the hummer. She’d never used the pepper spray on anyone before and had no idea how long it would incapacitate John’s eyesight.

  The pay phone was fifty feet away. Ellen started to run toward it, but changed her mind when she saw the hummer’s headlights flash on. Unbelievable, why’d I hitch a ride with a maniac?

  John’s car circled the parking lot three times. The fourth time around, the big tank stopped ten feet in front of Ellen.

  She grabbed her duffle and crept deeper into the woods, hiding behind a row of pines. Please, God help me.

  John walked in her direction. She could hear him panting as he aimed the flashlight and crept closer, almost like he knew her location.

  She was searching for another hiding spot when she heard a helicopter circle the area. She peered out at a rain-drenched John, frowning at the chopper then running behind the restroom building.

  Taking a chance, Ellen crisscrossed her arms over her head, hoping to flag down the plane. The chopper was spotlighting the area, but the light never landed on her and her frantic waving, although it circled several times.

  As soon as the plane zoomed away, Ellen spotted John walking toward her again. She turned to run, but tripped over a fallen pine. She wedged herself next to the tree and covered her body with wet kudzu and pine straw.

  A spider crawled over her face, but she didn’t dare move a muscle as she strained to hear the slightest footfall. Several minutes passed before the Hummer’s motor revved up. Is he leaving or tricking me?

  Crawling on her hands and knees with her duffle on her back, she clawed her way through the kudzu, pines and prickly shrubs until she reached her original hiding spot behind the hedgerow. She peeped out and saw an empty parking lot, no sign of John or the Hummer. Was he hiding? Is that his shadow next to the building? Is he planning to ambush me?

  Shaking with fear, Ellen waited another fifteen minutes before she ran to the payphone and dialed 911. A man answered, “What’s your emergency?”

  She held her throat, as if she could force the words out, but no sound came forth. She jumped when she saw lightning, and a loud crack of thunder, popping a transformer and shrouding the rest area in darkness. Scared to death of lightning, Ellen dropped the phone, ran into the Ladies Room and bar-locked herself in one of the stalls. To become invisible, she drew her feet up on the toilet seat.

  Hard footsteps walked into the bathroom, peed, flushed the toilet and ran water in the sink. Oh, please God, not John. Ellen withdrew the pepper spray from her duffle, aimed it at the stall door and waited. Her heart was pounding in her throat by the time the main door to the Ladies Room slammed shut. She felt relieved, thinking it was someone other than her attacker, but in the hours that followed, she began to worry about everything. She worried about where John might be. She worried about her vocal cords. If they were inflamed like twenty-years ago when she had those pol
yps, it would be quite a while before she could talk, meaning she’d have to find another way to communicate.

  Ellen searched through her duffle, but she couldn’t find a pen or a single piece of paper to write on. What now? She wanted to get out of the bathroom and go for help, but the lightning scared her too much. She’d seen a woman struck by lightning on Fifth Avenue years ago. The woman was dressed up like she’d stepped from a Vogue cover. The lightning not only burned her to death but cracked the concrete. No way would Ellen run to the BP Station, a mile away, with all of this lightning popping. Not only that, but she had a feeling John had parked his Hummer along the roadside, hidden from view, expecting her to go for help.

  Her left arm, the one John had pinched, throbbed painfully. Her mouth felt as dry as cotton. Only one sip left of the bottled water in her duffle.

  Pooped, she wrapped her arms around her legs and slept fitfully with her forehead against her knees. In her years as a hitchhiker, she’d learned to sleep in every possible position. No surprise she could fall asleep this way, crouched on a toilet seat.

  At sunrise, Ellen rubbed the sleep from her eyes; then massaged her legs back to life. The trauma of last night lingered like the smell of homeless piss, but she managed to crack open the stall door. Her whole body trembled with fear as she stepped out and saw the main bathroom door pop open.

  She held her breath, expecting to see John, but thank God, no. It was a woman carrying a baby. Ellen tried to say good morning, but her vocal cords refused to work. Not being able to talk, or sing, had plagued her two times before. First time she was only ten years old. Her uncle had raped her and told her not to bust him or he’d kill her. Maybe if she was unable to speak and tell on him, he’d let her live, she thought. The second time, she was twenty-one, working with a famous voice coach and close to reaching her dream. The ear, nose and throat doctor blamed the polyps. Ellen blamed herself and her screwed up life.