by Jenna Blum
“Hope so, Hallingdahl. Let’s git ’r done.”
They haul Karena out of the cushions, making a big groaning and grunting production out of it, and set her on her feet. “Thanks a lot,” she says. “I’m not that heavy.”
“Yeah, you kinda are, K,” says Charles, wincing. “I think I sprained my back.”
“I’m sure you’ll find some holistic poultice for it,” Karena says as they go out through the front porch. Kevin rubs her tailbone.
“You doing okay, Mama?” he asks, and she rolls her eyes, then kisses him.
It is a quiet overcast day. Every so often raindrops patter from seemingly nowhere. The yellow Volvo is at the curb, a brand-new registration sticker displayed on the windshield. Who would have thought it, Karena marvels, Charles with proof of insurance. The wagon is crammed to the roof with his belongings, everything he’s amassed over the past year in his studio. On its rack on the Volvo’s rear, Charles’s bike spins its tires sporadically in the wind.
“Can you see out the rearview, Hallingdahl?” Kevin asks doubtfully, circling the Volvo to inspect Charles’s packing job.
“Rearview, what rearview,” says Charles, tying his new longer hair back with a leather thong. “We don’t need no stinkin’ rearview, Wieb.”
The two men embrace briefly and slap backs.
“Hallingdahl,” says Kevin.
“Wieb,” says Charles.
Farewells accomplished, Kevin comes up the walk and goes inside, blowing a kiss to Karena as he passes.
“Charles,” says Karena, and Charles says, “Huh?” Then he says,
“Oh, sorry, sorry, K,” and leaps up the front steps to help her down.
“Thanks,” Karena says, as they reach the curb.
“No, thank you, K,” says Charles. “Thanks for the dishes. And the sheets and towels. And for not giving me a hard time. I know this isn’t what you would have wanted for me. But I appreciate your respecting it’s what I want.”
Karena nods and tries to smile. They may yet come up with a drug Charles can tolerate. He may change his mind. She can always hope. They face each other by the passenger door, Karena planting her feet firmly in the grassy median.
“Well, sistah,” says Charles. Then his eyes fill with tears.
“Oh no, you don’t,” says Karena, swatting him. “Don’t you start. If you do, I will, the difference being I can’t stop.”
“I know,” says Charles, sniffling. “I’m sorry.”
“Let’s look at it this way,” says Karena, “it’s only until Thanksgiving.”
Charles blots his eyes on the sleeve of his Cuban shirt. “I just can’t believe I won’t be here when she’s born,” he says.
“You’ll be the first person we tell,” Karena says, inwardly shuddering at the thought of Charles and Kevin in the same delivery room. “I promise.”
“Tell her I wanted to be there but her mean daddy wouldn’t let me,” says Charles. “Tell her Uncle Charles loves her.” He bends over Karena’s belly. “Yes,” he croons, “Uncle Charles loves you, yes, he does. You know that, don’t you, Loafette?”
The baby kicks enthusiastically.
“Ow,” Karena says, gasping. “Do not call her that, Charles. How many times do I have to tell you? You know her name is—”
She repeats the name of the town in which, to the best of their knowledge, she and Kevin think the baby was conceived. Sometime during their New Year trip, anyway, the one they pretended was a reality show called Reconciliation Road.
“That’s a silly name,” says Charles. “She doesn’t like that name, does she? Nooooo, she likes Loafette. Don’t you, Loafette?” and the baby kicks again. “See,” says Charles, nodding. “Uncle Charles knows.”
“Uncle Charles better hit the road,” says Karena, “before he sends me into premature labor.”
Charles heaves an enormous sigh and looks off down the street.
“I guess you’re right,” he says. “C’mere, sistah.”
He holds out his arms, and they hug as best they can over Karena’s belly. This time, when they pull apart, Karena’s eyes are wet while Charles’s are dry.
“Here you go, K,” he says, screwing his Lakota ring off his middle finger and handing it to her. “Early baby present. Good luck.”
“Thank you, Charles,” says Karena, taking the ring, warm from Charles’s hand. She clutches it in her fist as he jogs down to the Volvo.
“Love you, sistah,” he says as he’s getting in.
“Love you, Charles,” she says.
She waves as the yellow Volvo pulls away from the curb and glides to the end of the block. It pauses at the long light there. Its left blinker pulses patiently. Then the signal changes and it cruises away and is gone. Karena stays there anyway, looking at the empty street. She traces Charles’s route in her mind: Fiftieth Street to Lyndale Avenue to 62 East to 35 South to I-90 West—Beyond this, she can’t bear to think. She realizes she is still holding Charles’s ring and starts to slip it on her left thumb. Then she switches it to her right, away from the slim gold wedding band inscribed KB1 SLM & Laredo, 2009. Best to keep those two rings separate.
“Hey,” Kevin says from behind the porch’s screen door. “Woman, are you going to stand there all day? We have guests coming.”
“They’re your guests too,” Karena says, and they are: Fern and her fiancé, Ben Hendrickson, a new Whirlwind guide Kevin introduced her to. I know I look a bit of a hypocrite, Fern wrote earlier this summer when she broke the news, but he does adore me, and now I can move to the States, and enough’s as good as a feast, isn’t it?
“In fact I believe you’re the one who invited them,” Karena says, although actually they both did. “You could do a little work around here too, you know.”
“I swear, Laredo, you are the laziest pregnant woman on the whole block,” says Kevin. “You’re already barefoot and knocked up, why don’t you get in here and cook something?”
“Oh, I’ll cook something all right,” says Karena. “Just you wait, mister. You’re toast.”
She takes a last look at the empty street, then starts trundling determinedly up the walk. This is her life now: this house and this man and their daughter. It will be a quiet life, maybe not what Karena dreamed of when she was a kid—but what did she imagine then, exactly? Now that she thinks about it, she never did have much of a plan for her future—not one that didn’t involve Charles. And she was always too busy scrambling to catch up, to control the damage. But if she had dreamed something, it might have looked like this. Predictability. Acceptance. Peace. The knowledge that sometimes when you throw yourself upon the world, it will hold you up.
Kevin steps out onto the stoop, damp and spicy-smelling from the shower. “You need some help there, Laredo?” he asks.
“No thanks,” says Karena, “we’re fine,” but she does take the hand Kevin holds out to her and lets him haul her up. Her shoulder hits the bronze wind chimes Charles has given them as a wedding present, making them stir and bong, and as if in answer, the breeze gusts from the lake. But there is no severe in the forecast for the upcoming week, Karena knows. The season is almost over. This is just a little local front moving through, and that’s another thing that is amazing, Karena thinks, as they go into the house: how warm the day can be when the wind is at your back.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
First, a word about storms and chasers: I’ve been really lucky to get to know many stormchasers while researching this novel, and they’re a generous and exacting bunch. Any chaser reading The Stormchasers will recognize I took liberties with its storms, changing dates and locations. I’m grateful for their appreciation of poetic license.
I did, however, attempt accuracy with the meteorology. Everything I know about weather I owe to the guides of Tempest Tours, whom I’ve been privileged to chase with every summer since 2006: president Martin Lisius, Bill Reid, Brian Morganti, Keith Brown, Rob Petitt, Chris Gullickson, Dr. Bob Conzemius, and Jennifer Dunn. If you ever want to
learn about big weather, go with Tempest (www.tempesttours.com); there’s none better. I am especially reliant on the knowledge provided by Weather Radios Across America president Chad Cowan, whose expertise helped inspire many fresh scenes; my chase partner, Marcia Perez, the Ansel Adams of storms, whose exquisite photos bless this novel’s cover; and my cherished mentor, Master Kinney Adams, whose wisdom about storms and life sustains me. These chasers have been endlessly patient with my questions, and everything that’s right in these pages is because of their teaching. Everything that isn’t is because of my persistent ignorance.
I would also like to thank my family: Franny Blum, Joey Blum, Judy Blum, and my dad, Bob Blum, in memoriam; Woodrow; and the Joergs, for their unremitting love and support. Chief meteorologists Pete Bouchard of Boston’s WHDH Channel 7 News and Belinda Jensen of KARE 11 News in Minneapolis, who were kind enough to let me crash their studios and answer all my weather-geek questions. Christina from Doc’s in Spring Grove, for everyday coffee and conversation. My O.G. editors Jean Charbonneau, Stephanie Ebbert Devin, and Sarah Schweitzer for seeing me through two novels now. Dr. Kathy Crowley and my Puppet Julie Hirsch, for their medical and psychological proof-reading. Bram and Elizabeth deVeer, captive but willing stormchasers. Houston County, MN, Sheriff Doug Ely, for showing me around the Caledonia courthouse/jail and troubleshooting my scenarios. Hope and Mark Foley, my personal Red Cross, the most amazing neighbor-friends ever. Stormchaser-photographer Ericka Gray, for the read and the Flarp. Grub Street Writers, the very best writing community in the world, and especially my beloved Council. The Guymon girls: Elvia Hernandez, Melyn Johnson, and Rachel Sides; I’d ride fences with you ladies any day (and a tip of the hat to the Guymon, OK, fire chief for letting me kidnap Elvia). Sandy Hanson and the Monday Night Trash Gang for watching over me in Caledonia. Dennis Larson, Esq., of Decorah, Iowa, for helping me with legal logistics. Sonya Larson, for vetting the twins. The Patel family, owners of the Caledonia, MN, AmericInn, who were such gracious hosts during my two-month stay there to write the first draft. The Perez family in Oklahoma City, who provide my stormchase home away from home. The Tempest Repeat Offenders: Leisa Luis-Grill and Rob Grill, foxy Kirstie Johnson, Stacy Williams, and David Yamada. Brian Tart and the wonderful crew at Dutton, especially Erika Imranyi, who has two tools no editor should be without: eagle eyes and a delicate touch. The Writer Girls, Cecile Corona, Kirsten Marcum, and Erin Almond, for listening to my ideas about this book through so many incarnations over the years.
To my wonderful readers: Not a single day went by that I didn’t open my e-mail and receive kind comments from you on my first novel, Those Who Save Us, and questions about The Stormchasers. “When is the second novel coming out?” was your persistent refrain. Here it is, with my deepest thanks for the daily inspiration you provided—there is none better. I am so obliged to you for hosting me in your homes and communities, inviting me to speak about my writing, making my dreams a reality and keeping my characters alive in your hearts and minds.
Finally, my greatest gratitude to three extraordinary people: Dr. Lydia Baumrind, who led me out of the woods. The incomparable, fierce, and dedicated Stephanie Abou, who demanded a scene a day and gave so much more. And Andrew Brewster Ballantine, my trusted navigator in all matters. This book would not exist without them.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
JENNA BLUM is the New York Times bestselling author of Those Who Save Us. She lives in Boston, Massachusetts, and teaches creative writing.