Hurricane House

by Sandy Semerad

  “Unfortunately, I’ll have to go in,” I said, firmly. “That’s what I do for a living. I’m a CAT. I assess storm damage.”

  The guard pointed down Gulf Drive. “You should park at least a block or two away. I’ll call Mr. Peterson. I wasn’t expecting him. He didn’t say anything about your appointment. But I’ll try to raise him.”

  “All right, but if Mr. Peterson is detained or planning not to show, let me know.” I handed him my business card. “Call me on my cell.”

  “Will do,” he said, smiling.

  I returned his smile before driving a block away and parking my truck to face the high rise. I wanted to observe the building while I waited for Peterson, but after fifteen minutes of waiting, I grew antsy, tapping my fingers on the steering wheel until my cell phone rang.

  It was Jan Benson from Catastrophe Claims, Inc. “How’s it going, Maeva.” Jan’s voice seemed constricted, over-worked and underpaid.

  “It’s going.”

  “I suppose you’re trying to keep your head above water like I am?”

  I laughed, uneasily. “Yeah.”

  “I’ve uploaded twelve new claims to your e-mail. If you can’t access them, let me know.”

  The broadband wouldn’t work on my laptop. No surprise. Signal was out. I thought about going to Starbucks or Java Jay’s, but I doubted anything high-tech was operating after the hurricane. Worse scenario, I’ll go on-line at Huberta’s later.

  I continued to wait, getting angrier by the minute as I considered my claims piling up and everything else on my plate I didn’t have time for, and here I was wasting time waiting for Peterson. It was eight-fifteen already, according to my truck’s clock.

  A military jeep and a Ford Explorer from the sheriff’s department drove past, but no sign of Peterson. I’d never met the man, though I knew what he looked like: Vin Diesel with lots of hair. The local newspaper had showed him losing his temper at a City Counsel meeting when he was ordered to lop off the top floor of his house to comply with the height allowance. I knew where he lived. His house had Mardi Gras colors: yellow, green, and purple, a monstrosity that took up half the block a mile from where I sat in the Silverado. He could have walked to the appointment by now.

  I decided if he didn’t show in the next fifteen minutes, I’d drive over to his house and pound on the door. First, I needed to call the IRS guy and postpone next week’s audit. I had an airtight excuse. The Pensacola Bridge and portion of I-10 were out. No way I could’ve gotten over there unless I sprouted wings.

  I punched in Puker’s number. His voice mail answered: “Hello, this is Charles Puker...” An appropriate name for an IRS auditor, I wanted to say after the beep, but restrained myself.

  “Hi, I’m Maeva Larson. I received your letter, but there’s no way I can make next week’s appointment. I’m in Dolphin and the Pensacola Bridge and parts of I-10 are out. Also, I’m swamped with claims. I’m a claims adjuster, which you already know.” I gave Puker my cell phone number and asked him to call back to reschedule.

  After I closed the phone, I glanced at the truck clock: 8:55 and still no sign of Peterson. He was obviously an insecure control freak, forcing others to wait in order to feel more important. I wanted to drive over to his house and confront him, but I decided to pass the time productively.

  I opened Geneva’s laptop, scanned her files and clicked on the folder called Hurricane Horrors: “From my front door, I see a flood surge already in progress. The foamy gulf is roaring through the street in front of this townhouse. My Mustang won’t start and sits cockeyed in the driveway, soon to float away....” Meaning if Geneva’s car wouldn’t start, she couldn’t evacuate.

  As I continued reading, I learned Geneva called Roxanne the night of the hurricane. I wondered if Geneva saw Roxanne that night. Of course, I had no way of knowing, though I knew Geneva must be alive. She had e-mailed Ellen after the storm.

  A tap on my window startled me. I turned to see Peterson, smiling, wearing Matrix sunglasses. He wore black jogging shorts, white stripes down the sides, and a white, v-neck tee with “Dolphin, Florida” printed in blue letters above the pocket. The short sleeves stretched to accommodate Peterson’s bulging biceps.

  He opened my door. “Sorry I’m late. My owners are pestering the devil out of me wanting to know how much damage they’ve sustained, and when they’ll get to see for themselves.”

  “Can’t say that I blame them,” I said, closing Geneva’s laptop. “They plunked down...what? More than a million for a beach getaway they can’t use and a whopping how much in monthly association dues?”

  “Nine hundred.”

  I reached for my leather binder containing my pen, writing pad and Peterson’s insurance information. “You should have called to let me know you were running late.”

  Peterson extended his hand and laughed, as though I’d told him a joke. “Hi, I’m John.”

  I took his hand and his offer to help me step down from the truck. “I’m Maeva Larson, the lady who’s handling your claim, as if you didn’t already know.”

  Peterson’s grip hurt. The turquoise ring and the diamond solitaire, cut into my fingers, pinching to the point of pain, but not nearly as painful as the memory of the night paramedics found the engagement ring inside Adam’s jacket. It was still in its velvet case along with the blood-stained card, “Maeva, don’t say no. Love forever, Adam.”

  I freed my hand from Peterson’s grasp. “Your high-rise leans like the Tower of Pisa and needs to be condemned.”

  Peterson slid his Matrix sunglasses on top of his head. His tiger eyes, yellow and brown, frowned. “I refuse to let anyone condemn my building by painting an orange C on it.” He made a motion of a C in the air. “I’ve got a crew coming with jacks and steel netting like you wouldn’t believe.”

  “Not a permanent fix.”

  Peterson exhaled, making his lips vibrate. “I’m about to tell you how I’m going to fix the problem, if you’ll be patient.”

  In a perfunctory, business-like manner, I opened my folder. Then I grabbed my pen and wrote down what Peterson said about the steel netting. “The netting will be attached to four of the largest cranes made.” Peterson pointed to the top of the complex where a construction crane extended over the top like a lopsided, rugged cross. “Next thing we’ll do is jack up the bottom slab. Then we’ll drill holes and pour concrete in. The concrete will fill in where the sand washed out.” Peterson paused and squinted as if he’d forgotten what he was about to say.

  “And,” I prompted.

  “And after the concrete starts to set, we’ll remove the jacks. The overlapping concrete will extend out from the building and form a barrier wall. We’ll forge steel posts through that barrier wall on all four corners and bury the posts ten feet beneath the ground. They’ll run all the way to the roof.”

  Peterson closed the door of my Silverado. “My owners don’t want me tearing down and starting over from scratch.” He walked toward the high rise. His legs were like a dancer’s, as muscular as Baryshnikov’s in White Nights.

  I took long, quick strides to catch up with him. “How do you know the owners don’t want you tearing down and rebuilding?”

  “Like I said, they’ve been calling all morning.”

  “Are all the units sold?”

  “I have twelve three-bedrooms still available.”

  Peterson stopped and turned toward me. “Why? You interested in buying? Two-thousand-square-feet, Mexican marble and hardwood floors, every amenity you could ever want or need, view of the gulf and harbor like you wouldn’t believe.”

  I laughed. “B. S.”

  Peterson jumped in front of me and walked backwards, talking and facing me. “You’re a tough little lady, you know that?” He reminded me of a kid playing games, and I refused to participate. So I raced ahead of him.

  “I take it you’re president of the association, collect all the dues?”

  Peterson caught up with me. The man didn’t even break a sweat. “Ev
en though I designed that beautiful complex, you know damn well we have a board of directors with a treasurer handling the finances. All legal.”

  “If all the units aren’t sold, and you hold the mortgage on those unsold condos, I’d say you have the deciding vote.”

  “Believe me, I wish I could give up my decision-making powers and all the stress and shit that go with it.” Peterson waved to the security guard who walked out and handed me a hardhat.

  I felt uncomfortable when Peterson nudged my arm and said, “Now for the grand tour.”

  I slipped the hard hat over my head then rammed my elbow into his ribs to teach him not to elbow me.

  Peterson jumped away, his tiger eyes widened in surprise as he opened the glass double doors to the lobby of Paradise Palms.

  I walked ahead of him. Sand and broken glass covered the pink and turquoise marble floor. A chandelier in the center of the lobby sparkled in the sunlight, streaming through triangular windows. Two of the windows in the lobby had imploded.

  Peterson opened a glass door leading to the stairwell. “Hope you don’t mind taking the stairs. Elevators don’t work without power, but then you know that, don’t you?” He gave me a condescending smile. I exaggerated my frown, imitating a clown’s face. “Yes, I know that, Mr. Peterson.”

  “I should have given you the choice of taking the crane, you seem macho enough.”

  I let Peterson’s rude remark slide as I followed him up to the second floor. Each step on the stairwell vibrated, a collapse waiting to happen. God, how I hate high rises. They monopolize the view and are downright dangerous after a storm. “Have you gotten estimates on what you think your repairs will cost?”

  “Do I look like a fool?”

  “That’s a loaded question, Mr. Peterson. Out of courtesy, I’ll not answer.”

  He smirked. “I prefer ‘John’ if you don’t mind. And yes, I have estimates. The lowest, twenty-nine million, four hundred thou, will barely cover what the insurance will pay. But because I’m in the construction business, I can do it for that.”

  “Are you telling me you have an estimate from a reputable company that you’ll need twenty-nine million, four hundred thousand dollars to fix Paradise Palms?”

  “Yes, and I have the paperwork to prove it, although I’m baffled as to why you’re complaining, knowing the commission you’ll make.”

  When we reached the second floor, I said, “Mr. Peterson, I enjoy claims work, and I want to keep doing it. At the risk of seeming immodest, I have a reputation for being fair and honest, because I carefully document and verify every claim I handle.”

  Peterson held up his hands, a cocky, bad guy surrendering to the sheriff. “Please, Maeva, I didn’t fall off the turnip truck yesterday.” Well, now, there’s a surprise. “Let me finish. Once your insurance company disperses your funds, you must make the repairs and prove to your mortgage holder you’ve done so. Understand?”

  He didn’t respond.

  I noted all the condos facing the gulf had lost their balconies.

  Peterson motioned for me to follow him into one of the bedrooms where a storm window was shattered into a spider web design. “They’re all like this, but getting back to what you said, I’m aware of my responsibilities to my lender.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, and I know Sandra Eddelman will be also.”

  Peterson screwed up his face. “What?”

  “You know, Sandra Eddelman? Lives in your cottage on Mackerel. She’s a single mom. Has a two-year old, named Lexie. You rent to her.”

  Peterson grunted. “I know who Sandra Eddelman is.”

  “She and her daughter are victims of the storm. There’s black mold everywhere. The carpet is unsanitary. It’s inhumane to expect a young mother and her baby or anyone to live under those conditions. Sandra also tells me your wiring is faulty. As you know, that’s a definite fire hazard, not caused by the hurricane.”

  “I beg to differ. There’s nothing wrong with the wiring in that place.” Peterson perched his hands on his hips like Yul Brynner in The King and I. “So what you’re saying is, you’re handling that claim, too. Is that right?”

  I withdrew a piece of paper from the back of my folder. “Here’s a rundown.”

  Peterson glanced at the itemized list of damages. “According to this, it’ll cost me almost as much in repairs as I paid for the cottage ten years ago. And guess what? I’ve got an offer from a prospective buyer willing to pay six times that for the property. He plans to tear down and rebuild.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Sandra Eddelman is history. I don’t have to rent to her or anybody. She has no binding lease.”

  “Okay, so that means you won’t be collecting the insurance money for the repairs?”

  “On the contrary, I own the house and land, free and clear. So why shouldn’t I take what’s coming to me.” He winked.

  Unbelievable. “Getting an offer on a piece of property is one thing, closing the sale is entirely different.”

  Peterson smirked. “The guy who made me the offer is pre-approved.”

  “But until you close on the property and until that cottage is torn down, Sandra Eddelman and her baby have squatters’ rights.” I imitated Peterson’s wink. “So, if you don’t make the repairs, you might get busted by the local paper, the health department, FEMA and...”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “I’m being realistic, Mr. Peterson. I’m asking you to consider what might happen if FEMA and the county health department condemn your cottage. The media will jump all over the story about how a single mother was forced to live in squalor, especially when reporters find out the condemned cottage is owned by none other than the celebrated John Peterson.”

  “Fuck the reporters, fuck the health department, fuck FEMA and funk...” “Me? Is that what you want to say? No thanks, Mr. Peterson. I’ll pass.”

  Chapter Twenty-six

  As I drove away from my meeting with John Peterson, he stood, hands on his hips, looking angry enough to chew nails, meaner and more stubborn than a one-eyed mule with no intention of helping Sandra and her baby. Had I been tough enough? Had I failed Sandra and Lexie?

  Not knowing the answers to those questions, I fought back tears, confused, thinking I’d gotten too personally involved, unable to compartmentalize my feelings. Adam was a whiz at compartmentalization. Unfortunately, I had never learned the knack, despite hundreds of hours of Jujitsu, meditation once a day, the Irish green Malachite in my glove compartment, not to mention all of my other rocks.

  “You’re co-dependent. That’s why you can’t compartmentalize,” Kari Ann said recently. Then she used eye-movement therapy on me. It didn’t help.

  As a last resort, she handed me a book to help me nurture the little girl inside. I had been meaning to read the book and do the exercises in it, but I never seemed to find the time.

  From Paradise Palms, I drove to Mackerel Drive. It took me five minutes. Mackerel—a side road off of Gulf Drive— ran halfway to the Harbor and then stopped, unlike the other connecting arterial roads on the Harbor side.

  As I drove near the cottage, the crystal around my neck turned from pink to dark red. It got so hot I had to place the stone outside my shirt to keep it from burning my chest.

  The mountains of sand on both sides of the road kept me from parking near the cottage. I had four-wheel drive, but I needed to be careful in newly bulldozed sand. Otherwise, I’d get stuck.

  As I parked and jumped from the truck, I heard a baby screaming. Lexie?

  I raced to the door, knocked and waited, but no one came. “Sandra?” I called out. I placed my ear to the door, listening to the screaming child.

  Not knowing what else to do, I turned the handle, opened the door and followed Lexie’s hysterical cries. I found the toddler in the bathroom, shaking all over.

  It’s okay, Lexie,” I whispered, trying to comfort the child. I saw no cuts or bruises.

  “Mommy, Mommy...” Lexie cried a
nd held tight to me. “Mommy’s gone.”

  “It’s okay Lexie. It’s okay. We’ll find Mommy.” I patted Lexie on the back and carried her into the kitchen. “I bet you’re hungry.”

  I opened the fridge. Empty.

  The day before, I remembered seeing Sandra transferring the contents of the fridge to an ice chest. Sure enough, when I opened the cooler’s top, I spotted a carton of milk. The contents tasted okay. I filled up Lexie’s sippy cup and handed it to her.

  Lexie stopped whimpering long enough to gulp down the milk. Then she pointed to a package of precooked turkey wieners. “Dog-dog, eat dog-dog.”

  I put Lexie in her high chair and peeled out a wiener from the package. I knew I couldn’t heat up the wiener without electricity, but the package said “precooked.” So I figured it would be okay eaten cold.

  I cut up the wiener on the tray in front of Lexie. “You eat, Lexie. I’ll be right back.”

  “Cheeeese,” Lexie said.

  “Okay, okay, let me see.” I searched the cooler and found a package of cheese slices. I cut up a piece and gave it to her.

  While Lexie ate, I searched the house. Sandra’s bed was messy. A bad sign. The day before, this bed looked immaculate. I pulled back the rumpled covers and saw splotches of what appeared to be blood. Oh, God, Sandra, what happened?

  I carried a sick feeling in my gut as I used a clean washcloth to open the closet door. Inside, I saw Sandra’s shoes and clothes, but nothing suspicious. I searched Lexie’s room. I saw baby pajamas laid out on a changing table. Didn’t look good, and I knew I couldn’t handle this alone.

  I thought about calling Keith Harrigan. Paula knew how to reach him. Good thing I’d called Paula last night. Her number was easily located.

  When Paula didn’t answer, I left a message about Sandra and asked Paula to call Keith. “It’s an emergency,” I said, hoarsely and almost called 911, but changed my mind. I didn’t want to give the impression Sandra left her baby unattended. I was afraid DFACS (Department of Family and Children’s Services) would take Lexie away from her mother.