We Speak in Storms

by Natalie Lund

  “So you’ve been inside before?” Callie prompted.

  “Of course,” the woman said as though Callie’s question was foolish.

  “Is it like you remember?”

  The woman moved slowly into the living room, touching the furniture and dismissing each piece with a head shake. “No, it’s very different. The furniture. The drapes. But it feels the same, you know?” Her voice quavered and she pulled a handkerchief from her purse, wringing the fabric in her hands. She stared up at the ceiling as though she were trying to listen for something above them with her good ear. Had this woman lived in the house? Was she related to the Peterson family who built it?

  “Did you ever hear weird noises when you were here?” Callie asked.

  “You mean the ghosts?”

  Callie was surprised by the woman’s frankness. “Yeah, I guess ghosts or whatever.”

  Mrs. Vidal pulled at one of her curls; her other hand worked the handkerchief into a tight ball. “I heard everything and nothing at all,” she said dismissively, like Callie shouldn’t ask more questions. But what did she mean? Was she saying the ghosts were real?

  Callie led the woman toward the kitchen, pointing to an antique cigar chest her mother was particularly proud of and a table that had been built by the original owners—too big to remove from the room without dismantling. Mrs. Vidal traced the scratches on the oak table, as though reading braille. Callie thought about the tracks she’d tried to follow in the field, about the whispers she’d tried to understand.

  “Do you remember the 1961 tornado?” she asked.

  The woman looked pained and ignored the question. “Did your mother ever tell you Lincoln stayed in this house back before he was president?”

  “No, ma’am,” Callie said.

  “You should ask her about it before—”

  Before she passes. It was how both of her parents talked now—with this acceptance of the future that made Callie sick.

  “—before you forget,” Mrs. Vidal finished. Callie blinked at her. It was rare that someone spoke to her without implying that her mother was dying.

  Callie poured a glass of filtered water and handed it to Mrs. Vidal.

  “Your mom takes such great care of this house.”

  “She really loves it.” Callie’s voice cracked. She cleared her throat, hoping the woman hadn’t noticed.

  “I’m sure you do too,” the woman said.

  Callie nodded. It was love by proxy. Love for the wraparound porch her mother had painted white, for the banister she polished corn gold, for the thick windowpanes she lit with electric candles at Christmas.

  The woman sank onto a barstool, dug through her purse, and pulled out a Snickers. She smiled, clearly pleased. “I thought there might be one in there. I always keep a stash,” she said. “Would you like a piece?”

  “No, that’s okay.”

  “You’re looking thin. Haven’t been eating enough lately, have you?”

  Callie shrugged. Had she met this woman before and just forgotten? “I guess I just haven’t been very hungry.”

  “No, I suppose not. But you need to keep that energy up with all the running you do.”

  How on earth did she know this? Callie felt the crawling sensation again, this time along her hairline. She had to get the woman out of the house, and the easiest path was to agree, like she did with her mother. “I’ll try to do better.”

  Mrs. Vidal fixed her sharp eyes on Callie and paused, mid-chew. “You know,” she said. “I lost my husband, Fred, to cancer.”

  So she definitely knew Callie’s mother. Why else would she have said that? “I’m s-sorry,” Callie stammered, thinking of what Joshua had said about how empty those words became over time. She wished she knew what else there was to say.

  “Me too. He was a good man.” She chuckled as though remembering something funny he’d done. After finishing the water, she carefully folded the wrapper around the remaining Snickers and stuffed it back into her purse.

  “Well, I better get going. I’ll be at St. Theresa’s.”

  Callie nodded, but she wasn’t sure why she’d need to find this strange woman.

  On her way to the door, Mrs. Vidal touched the buttons on the velvet dining chairs and rubbed the brass knobs on the china hutch. She stopped again in the foyer. The late-afternoon sun angled through the windows so her hair glinted like ice, her scalp the color of ripe grapefruit beneath.

  “I just gotta breathe it in one more time,” she said. Callie froze. It was something her mom used to say before they left for vacation, or now, for chemo appointments, a goodbye that ripped Callie to shreds inside because it suggested—as all things did now—that there wouldn’t be another time.

  “Bye, dear,” the woman said. “See you soon.”

  Without answering, Callie shut the door, aware of her heart beating in her throat. It wasn’t just that the woman had said Callie’s mother’s words. There was something about her eyes, how shrewd and knowing they seemed, but desperate, too, like she had something for Callie and needed something from her in return.

  Callie drew aside one of the heavy drapes and peered out the window, watching as the strange woman climbed into the antique black Chevy. As the car pulled past her house, Callie saw that the trunk was folded in on itself, the bumper practically meeting the back window. Either she’d been rear-ended or something had dropped that car from the sky onto its taillights. Callie slid the curtain closed, her arms prickling with goose bumps.

  Joshua usually lay in bed until his mother or hunger drove him out. It wasn’t that he was asleep; he just needed to gear himself up for another day of floating, invisible, through his high school. Today breakfast was calling to him. He could hear his mother moving around her bedroom and the music Ruthie woke up to every morning—pop music that contrasted so starkly with his reluctance to face the day that it made him feel jangled inside.

  Joshua settled onto the couch in their living room and ate a Pop-Tart out of its foil wrapper. From the bay windows he saw a large wild-haired young man walking down the street, carrying something gray draped over his arm. His hair wasn’t slicked down, but otherwise, this man looked like the volunteer firefighter he’d seen in the mechanic’s uniform after the tornado—the Wolverine. Now the man was wearing an undersized vintage Mercer FD T-shirt and too-short shorts. The thin T-shirt fabric tugging at his pecs and shoulders stopped Joshua’s breath. The man’s legs were equally breathtaking, with their down of black curled hairs, angular calves, and overlapping diamond-shaped quads. Even the bruise on his knee was beautiful—like a fist of smashed blackberries.

  Joshua could imagine him frame by frame in a comic: glimmering claws sprouting from his knuckles, teeth baring, and shirt splitting, then the crouch and the bulging crotch shot, and finally the spring, the slash, the starburst of red and orange.

  The Wolverine stopped at the foot of the driveway across the street and turned to look at Joshua’s house. Joshua’s heart skipped a beat, and he sank low into the couch, wondering if the man had seen him staring. Why else would he be looking this way?

  “Joshua! Ruthie! I have to run. Don’t be late,” Joshua’s mother called. He heard her footsteps on the stairs, a fast trot.

  “Bye!” Ruthie yelled from upstairs.

  “Bye,” Joshua echoed. She waved at him as she rushed by the living room. Probably on her way to court.

  “Don’t forget to take out the recycling!” she shouted before the back door slammed and the garage door groaned open.

  When he returned his gaze to the window, the man was gone. The front door to the house across the street was slightly ajar. No one had lived in that house for months. Maybe the Wolverine-man was moving in?

  Joshua heard a heavy set of footsteps on the stairs. Not Ruthie, certainly, but Lawrence usually had first shift at the meatpacking plant and was gone long before they we
re awake. Joshua couldn’t help rolling his eyes when Lawrence appeared, tapping his phone with his large forefinger in what seemed like frustration. The man was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt that emphasized his large stomach. He’d been a linebacker in high school, but over the years, his muscles had given way to fat. It wasn’t loose and jiggly like Joshua’s, but drum-skin tight, the belly of a pregnant woman. Lawrence’s face, on the other hand, had a sort of gumminess to it, as though he were wearing a rubber mask.

  “What are you doing home?” Joshua asked.

  Lawrence jumped at the sound of Joshua’s voice. He’d been so engrossed in his phone, he must not have seen Joshua in the living room. If he had, he probably would have walked right past. He was an expert at putting rooms between them. Even now he looked ready to backpedal, to rewind the tape until he was back upstairs.

  “Cat got your tongue?” Joshua didn’t have to censor his tone; his mother wasn’t home to scold him. Lawrence always left the discipline up to her, seemingly bewildered by bad behavior—like Joshua and Ruthie were two stray dogs who’d wandered in off the street to chew on pillows and pee on carpets.

  “I’m feeling sick,” Lawrence said, his voice raspy. Now that Joshua thought about it, Lawrence looked even worse than usual. His eyes were bleary and ringed in dark circles. Lawrence held up his phone as though it helped explain why he was home.

  “I don’t think the phone is going to make you soup or diagnose your illness,” Joshua said.

  “I’m trying to schedule one of those walk-in appointments, but I can’t get it to work.”

  If it had been his mother, Joshua would have taken the phone and scheduled it for her, accustomed to being the cross-generational technology interpreter in their household, but for Lawrence he just raised his eyebrows. “Did you try turning it off and back on again?” he said, his voice flat with mockery. “Or you could just call them.”

  Lawrence seemed to hate talking on the phone. It was as though he couldn’t remember what order words were supposed to go in as soon as a device was pressed to his ear.

  “No,” Lawrence muttered, rubbing his eyes.

  “You really don’t look so good.”

  This, Joshua knew, would make Lawrence puff up his chest with indignation. Linebackers were supposed to be tough. Meatpackers even more so.

  “You know what? I’m just going to go there.” Lawrence started for the back door as though he couldn’t leave fast enough.

  “Good luck with that,” Joshua said.

  The door to the garage slammed in answer. A moment later Lawrence reversed down the driveway, not even glancing back at the house. He probably knew that Joshua was still in the front window, daring him to make eye contact.

  When Joshua finally returned his attention to the house across the street, he saw the curtains in the front bay window shift, but he couldn’t make out anything beyond them. He knew the house’s floor plan mirrored his own. Joshua and Ruthie had explored it a few months back when they realized the realtor had a habit of leaving the door unlocked.

  Was the Wolverine-man watching him from the window? Why?

  “You coming?” This time his sister’s voice interrupted him. He hadn’t even heard her on the stairs. Ruthie had her pink backpack that she’d covered in Sharpie doodles over one shoulder. Her almost-invisible eyebrows were raised.

  Joshua glanced back at their neighbor’s house. He couldn’t go to school yet; he had to investigate what was going on. “Our new neighbor is going to drive me,” Joshua lied. “I’m supposed to go help him out in a few minutes.”

  Ruthie peered over his shoulder and narrowed her eyes at the house across the street: a face he called the camera because it felt like she was zooming in. “We have a new neighbor?”

  “Yeah, he’s inside.”

  “The For Rent sign is still up.”

  Joshua shrugged. “I guess they just haven’t taken it down yet.”

  “Do you know this person?”

  “Yeah, I met him before. The other night, actually.”

  “Where did he come from?”

  “Across town,” Joshua said, though he had no clue.

  “Where does he work?”

  “He’s a firefighter.”

  “Okay,” she said, drawing the a sound out. “I’m telling Mom if you get axe-murdered or something.” It was a joke, but she was biting her lip, nervous.

  “Fair,” he said. “But don’t worry; you won’t have to.”

  Still frowning, she let herself out the front door and started for the bus stop. He caught her looking back over her shoulder.

  Joshua sat on the couch a moment longer, waiting for the squeal of the bus brakes to indicate he was truly alone and trying to make out the silhouette of a man behind the curtains.

  Once the bus left, Joshua opened the front door. He became acutely aware of his big toe poking out through the hole in his Chucks, the grease smear on his glasses, the sickly sweet smell of Pop-Tarts on this breath. He crossed the street, kicking rocks. Casual. All he had to do was talk to the guy, see if he could learn more. He took a breath and rapped lightly on the door.

  Silence.

  Joshua pushed the door gently.

  “Hello?” he called.

  It was dim inside and he could see dust motes dancing in the shaft of sunlight from the open door. The air smelled musty, like old books.

  A dark shape moved in the living room shadows. A man. Someone had been watching from the front window. Joshua took a step back, suddenly feeling exposed, like he was standing before someone who could devour him.

  “H-hi. I live across the street.” The man startled at the sound of Joshua’s voice, as though he hadn’t expected him to speak. What did such a tough-looking man have to be jumpy about?

  He stepped into the entryway, his wolfish brown eyes bouncing from Joshua to his house in the distance and then back again—like he couldn’t quite connect all the dots. Finally they settled somewhere near the center of Joshua’s forehead. He felt the heat in his cheeks rise and knew that his embarrassment would now be visible, the red patches blossoming on his face and neck at the not-quite eye contact from, perhaps, the hottest guy he’d ever met. How old could he be? Twenty? Twenty-one?

  “Are you moving in?” Joshua asked. “This house has been empty for so long.”

  The man was silent a moment and then nodded, shifting on his feet. Was he nervous? He spoke then, his voice gravelly and unsure of itself: “I recognize you. Saw you the other night. On the bike.” Joshua’s heart kicked in his chest. So this was the Wolverine! And he’d spotted Joshua with all that was going on?

  “Oh. Yeah. I guess I wanted to see if I could help or something,” he lied. It sounded stupid. What was he going to do on a bike built for a fifth grader?

  The man nodded as though he understood.

  “Do you need help moving anything?” Joshua asked.

  “Nothing to move,” the man said. “Isn’t there somewhere you’re supposed to be?”

  “Yeah, but school doesn’t start for another hour,” Joshua lied again. “Can I come in? I want to see how much the house is like ours.”

  The man squinted like he didn’t quite believe Joshua, but he nodded again anyway. “There’s nowhere to sit or anything.”

  “That’s okay,” Joshua said a bit too eagerly.

  The man gave a half-hearted tour of the first floor, gesturing vaguely at rooms and allowing Joshua to name them for him: “The living room. The dining room. The laundry room.” The man moved stiffly, with a bit of a limp. Had he been injured rescuing people from the tornado?

  They stopped in the kitchen. The gray object Joshua had seen the man carrying was draped over the counter. The mechanic’s uniform, Joshua realized. There was a hole in the chest—no name patch—and a corner of notebook paper peeked out of the pocket.

  “You s
een the news about the tornado?” the man asked, still skittish, his eyes shifting from the fridge to the back windows to the linoleum floor.

  Joshua tried to clip his sentences like the man. “Heard they haven’t found the driver yet.” Was the man trying to see what he knew? Or tell him something? “Think the driver could have gotten to a ditch before the car was picked up?” Joshua asked.

  “I suppose so,” Wolverine said, rubbing his stubble and musing—not a confirmation, but not a denial, either.

  “You must be getting ready for work,” Joshua said, pointing at the uniform.

  The man grunted, but he picked up the uniform and stepped into the legs. He yanked the top half up and over his shoulders. The paper fluttered to the floor. It was old, Joshua could see, the ink faded to a light blue and the paper spotted with brown.

  His new neighbor didn’t seem to notice it had fallen, so Joshua bent, pretending to tie his shoe, and palmed the note. When he straightened, the man was still tucking his T-shirt in and fiddling with the zipper.

  Joshua slipped the note into his pocket. “I should get to school,” Joshua said, wanting only to get out of the house before the man noticed the paper was missing. “I’ve still got to put out the recycling.”

  “Okay,” he said. Was it just wishful thinking, or did the man look disappointed? Joshua started back to the front door and the man limped after.

  Joshua stepped outside and turned around, suddenly feeling compelled to announce his name like an idiot: “I’m Joshua, by the way.”

  The man smiled, a tight, close-lipped expression that was hardly more than a grimace. He didn’t offer his own name and Joshua didn’t ask, preferring the one he’d invented.

  “Don’t let them get you down, Joshua,” Wolverine said just as Joshua turned to leave. He stopped and blinked at the man. Was it that obvious that he was down? It was like the man knew about Tyler and Lawrence, about the whole high school, the whole town.

  “Okay,” Joshua said. What else was he supposed to do?