by Lou Cadle
Jim said, “I’m hungry. Is it time for breakfast?”
“We just had lunch.” But he hadn’t eaten much, and he seldom did. He was a bag of bones now. “You feel like dessert?”
He nodded. “Pie. Rhubarb pie.”
“We’ll see what they have.”
“I think we should take another cruise line next time. The buffet here isn’t the best. And they never serve their pie warm. Damned boat. We paid them good money, didn’t we?”
“Yep. You’re right about that.”
“Remind me to complain to the steward tonight.”
“After we go dancing,” she said, entering into his fantasy with him. The nurses said to keep them grounded to reality, but Sherryl wondered, to what end? What could it hurt to be on a cruise ship? “You want to dance?”
“That’d be nice.” His eyes drifted shut. “I like slow dancing with you. Always gets me horny.”
She laughed, remembering. It had, back in the day. “I love you so much, Jimmy.”
But he was asleep.
Captain T
We got our first twister today on film, uploaded and on the site, which you should check out, and I have a good feeling about getting more. That first one finished about as fast as Felix does in the sack, right, bro? Just kidding, ladies, he’s a love machine—not that I’d know from personal experience. That’s as rumor has it.
Anyway, we’re south of Indie right now, mobile Doppler on, trying to keep to the south side of that deep red, on the lookout for a telltale hook echo. The big city is getting rain, but looks like they’ll miss out on twister fun today—they’re going to be spinning up twenty miles south of the city limits, at the closest.
There’s a lot of rainwrap right now, so we’re using a bit of caution, making sure we have a southern escape route open if we need it. But we’re not chickening out—I’d like to grab some shots of tornadogenesis today for you. There’s nothing more thrilling than watching the tornado come out of nowhere, that first thin hint, the debris field spinning up, making it visible. It’s poetry in motion, don’t you think?
Time to remind you about our sponsor for today’s chase. Tires, ladies and gentleman—reliable tires are crucial to us when we chase a massive tornado and just as important to you….
Chapter 3
Greg’s cell rang at 2:02, just as he was cleaning up after lunch. He dried his hands and picked up the phone. “Duncan,” he answered it.
“Greg, it’s Rosemary.” The new chief, Rosemary Stephens.
“And you want me to come in.”
“I need you to, yes.”
“I’ve been watching the weather on the boob tube. When do you want me?”
“Asap,” she said. “I’ll put you on patrol, doubled up. I have you in Massey’s car to start with.”
Darrell Massey—old, scrawny, getting lazy, and surprisingly mean when he felt insulted. Not the best cop on the force, not the worst. He was getting near retirement and happy about it. Greg walked to the dryer to check it—still fifteen minutes to go. “Okay. He can swing by the station and pick me up. I’ll be there in twenty.”
“Make it sooner.”
“If I can.” He’d put on a damp shirt, if need be. “I may need to leave for fifteen minutes this afternoon when school lets out to get my daughter to day care.”
He heard her move the phone away briefly, to sigh, before she said goodbye. She didn’t have children of her own and didn’t have much sympathy for family issues. Well, screw it. He was coming in when he should be sleeping, so she could adjust for him, too.
Outside, a light rain was pattering against the window, making a pleasant sound. But the television, which he could still hear from the kitchen, was still saying worse was coming. Much worse.
He opened the dryer. Clothes were still damp—too damned humid today for them to dry quickly. He grabbed a damp uniform shirt, pinned on the badge, and turned the dryer back on. As he went to shut off the TV, he could hear distant thunder rumbling to the west.
*
Twenty minutes later, he was punching in the code to the police station’s steel back door. Tucking in his shirt, which still wasn’t dry, he made his way to Chief Stephens’ office. She held up a finger and continued talking—to no one.
Then he realized she was on a conference call. “So we’ll do that,” the voice came from the phone on her desk. Greg recognized the fire chief’s voice. “And I doubt we’ll have a chance to talk for the next two hours. It’ll get busy soon.”
“Stay safe,” she said.
“You, too,” the fire chief said, and he was gone.
“Anything new?” Greg asked.
“Unconfirmed tornado touched down in Union County, Indiana.”
That was just across the border. “Is it headed our way?”
“That, I don’t know. But if it is still on the ground, we may be in its path.”
“Do they know how fast it’s moving?”
“Surely someone does, but I haven’t heard.”
“How strong is it?”
She shook her head. “Been too busy to look it up. I’ll have Grace do all that in a second.”
“So what do you want us to do out there on the street?”
“I want most of you mobile. You and Massey have the southwest corner of town, Higgins and Genoa the northwest corner. Don’t worry about crossing out of town limits—I’ve cleared that with the sheriff—and keep your eye out for tornados.”
“Don’t we have a storm watch network? Radar?”
“All that. But I want troops on the ground, ready to respond the instant something goes wrong. Stay out of its way, of course. I want you on the ground, not in it.” She smiled at her own quip.
Greg didn’t. “Remember, I may have to get my daughter soon.”
“Isn’t there anyone else who can do that for you? You have family in town, right?”
“My aunt—she’s probably still at the nursing home. Her husband is ill.”
“A babysitter?”
“She’s a high school student, and she’s never available until after 4:00, and I think not even that today. She can pick up Holly from daycare at five every….” He trailed off, seeing her lack of interest in his child care arrangements. “I’ll stay on my personal phone about it and try to get something else arranged.”
“That’d be best.”
“But if I can’t, I’m coming back to pick her up at school.”
“Where’s her mother, again?”
“Atlanta, Georgia—a little far to make it in time for the final bell at Central Elementary.” He was losing his patience—and he shouldn’t.
She made an irritated face. “Okay. Get going.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said, leaving. He hesitated in the hallway to check his weapon. Ready to go.
He made his way to the front desk and checked on Massey’s ETA—” turning in to the parking lot right now,” said their office manager. As he turned to go, she said, “Make sure there’re two helmets in the trunk of the patrol car before you leave the station.”
“Thanks, Grace. Will do.”
He went through to the back door and held a hand up at the prowl car edging along. It came to a stop and he opened the passenger door and leaned in. “Pop the trunk, would you?”
“Why?”
“To check gear.”
“It’s fine.”
“Fine enough for two?” As they patrolled singly, usually they didn’t need to keep gear for two.
The trunk release snapped. As Greg made his way back, the rain intensified. He dug through the trunk and found two helmets, one riot shield, one respirator, two ripstop vests. Enough for the day’s needs, he thought.
He slipped into the car, running his hand over his head to squeeze some of the rain off.
“Startin’ to come down now,” Massey said.
“Yeah.” Greg wiped his hand on his pants leg. “Chief says to patrol the southwest of town.”
“I heard.” His tone was clipped
.
“Why’s everybody in a rotten mood today?”
“Low barometric pressure. Makes everybody short-tempered. At least my wife says it does.”
“How is she?”
“Same old.”
“Kids?”
“Don’t hear from them very often. You know Trent’s in Guatemala, with the oil company.” Massey steered out into the street and came to stop at one of the dozen traffic lights in town. “How’s your kid?”
“Light of my life.”
“Yeah, when they’re young, they are. And she’s a girl—that helps, too. If we’d had girls, I bet at least one would have stayed nearby.”
“At least your boys aren’t in the path of the storm today. I may have to go back and pick up Holly at 3:15 when school lets out if I can’t find someone else to do it.”
They both glanced at the clock on the dash. 2:34. “Remind me,” said Massey.
The car turned, and they were headed west, one block south of Main.
On the horizon, a vast black cloud stretched across the sky. Lightning flashed underneath it, half obscured by the rain. The brightness danced across the cloud bottoms hanging over the farmland.
Massey said, “one thousand one, one thousand two. When he reached fifteen, he gave up. There was no thunder. “Still some miles off,” he said.
“I wonder how fast it’s coming,” Greg said.
“Fast enough,” said Massey.
“Yeah,” said Greg, wondering not for the first time why people said such nonsensical things. Just to fill the air with noise, he supposed. “I gotta get on my phone and make arrangements for Holly if I can, if that’s okay.”
“Don’t mind me,” said Massey, driving toward the heart of the storm.
Greg could feel the wind picking up—straight winds, blowing almost right toward them, whistling into the cracks in the windows.
He dialed the elementary school.
*
At the nursing home, Sherryl was listening to Jim’s neighbor, sitting in a wheelchair, blocking the door, talking about cousins and second cousins who Sherryl didn’t know and couldn’t care a fig about.
“That’s nice,” she said, when the woman finally took a breath. “But I’m visiting my husband today. Maybe we can talk another day.”
“And then she said,” the old lady went on, wheezing a little as she tried to get the story out quickly with insufficient lung capacity.
The wheelchair motor ground, and its bumpers thumped against the door jamb.
“What’s that?” Jim said, waking.
She rested her hand on his arm.
“Where am I?” he said. “What’s that noise?”
Sherryl went to the door to see if the door could close, but the old lady’s legs stuck into the room. Sherryl put her hand on the door jamb to lean out over the woman and look for staff to take the lady back to the room—and hopped back when the old woman kicked her. Her foot was slippered, so it didn’t hurt, but still.
“You’re not listening!” the woman said, red faced with anger.
“I’m listening,” she said.
“You’re a liar. Just like my brother. He’s a liar, too. He said I kicked over the milk and I didn’t—” and she was off again, complaining about unfair treatment that reached back into the Eisenhower era, whining over spilled milk, literally. Sherryl wondered if she’d ever let up, or if this old complaint had been circling in her mind for that long. The things we waste energy on.
Sherryl leaned forward again to see down the hall, hoping to wave a staff member over, and this time the old woman reached up and pinched her right breast—hard.
“Damn,” Sherryl said, slapping the crabbed hand away. That hurt! Then she shouted, “Hey, can I get some help down here?” They didn’t want the nurse call button to be used except in an emergency, but she was about thirty seconds from using the button anyway.
“Just like my brother, just like my brother,” the old woman began to chant.
“If your brother had breasts like mine, I’d be surprised,” Sherryl told her. Then louder, “Hey, some help?”
Finally, an orderly came from down the hall. Sherryl pointed at the woman and said, “Maybe get her back to her room before she bruises me again?”
“C’mon Mrs. Bronsen,” said the orderly to the still-chanting woman. “Cake.”
“Cake?” The old lady let go of her brother mantra and perked up.
“Let’s go,” he said and steered the woman away.
Sherryl closed the door after them. Ack, old people. She hadn’t liked children when she was a child, and now that she was an old person, she didn’t want to be in this group, either. She’d rather have been born 35 and died that way—but still have gotten her 65 years in.
Jim was fussing with his sheet. He pointed at her and said, as if continuing a conversation they’d been having all along, “And all they talk about is Kim Kardashian anyway.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Sherryl said.
Outside, a rumble of thunder sounded in the distance.
“Getting darker out there,” said Sherryl, going to the window. The clouds must be thick to cut out so much light, and wind was whipping through the spring leaves on the trees.
“Is she out there?”
“Kim Kardashian?” she asked him, staring at the sky. It looked nasty.
“My wife!” he said, irritated at her obtuseness.
“I’ll keep an eye out,” she said. “I’m sure she’ll be back any second.” She rubbed her right breast where the old claws has pinched it. Her breast was going to be purple by tonight. She bruised so easily these days. Old age was such a delight.
She was studying the dark clouds when her cell phone rang.
*
Malika passed the sheet music up through the altos who passed it on to the student chorus assistant. She checked the wall clock and saw that she had twelve minutes to pee and get to debate club. She wanted to wash her face, too—it had been so muggy today, she felt like a walking Crisco can.
She draped her pack strap over her forearm and left the choral room, following a tall white girl in a skirt and high heels that click-click-clicked on the tile floor.
Outside, Adam was waiting. For her?
Yes, for her.
She motioned him back from the flow of students heading for the door, back toward the band practice rooms. “Don’t you have jazz band now?”
“Yeah. We’re on a break.”
“I have debate.” She made a point of looking around for a clock, even though she knew the time.
“I just wanted to talk to you. You never said no.”
“I said I was working. But yes, that meant no.”
“I don’t get it. Its just a movie. Or if you want, something else. Saturday morning is good, too. We can take a walk. Or I’ll take you to the outlet mall, if you want.”
“I’m too busy. I want to finish school, Adam. I want to do well in school. I want to ace my last finals.”
“Why? You got into Kenyon, you got your scholarship, you have your future all planned out. This last month of our senior year, we’re supposed to slack.”
“I don’t have slacking in me, I suppose. I’m just not a quitter.”
He raised his eyebrows, and his look said, Yeah? You quit us.
She couldn’t deny that. “Gotta go.”
“I wish you’d talk to me. You said we could still be friends, and we’re not even that, now.”
“You’re my friend,” she said, without meeting his gaze.
“No. I’m not.” He was following her. “You aren’t treating me like a friend. You never did tell me why, Meek. If I’m your friend, don’t I at least deserve to know the truth?”
“I did tell you. I’ll tell you again in an email later today, if you want. But I have to get to my club.”
“Don’t bother with writing me some lame excuse,” he said. “I deserve better than an email. And I deserve better treatment than this.”
She walked a
way, not trusting herself to look at his face before she left. The truth? She was glad he was angry at her, there was a truth. Anger was easier to deal with than begging. Better than his looking hurt. Anger, she understood. She could stand tough against anger. Anger was like a wall you could punch. His hurt was like mist that you couldn’t push against. It just wrapped itself around you and made you feel lost.
She detoured into the only girl’s bathroom in the music wing, ending the discussion, and she looked at herself in the mirror there. “I know what I want,” she said to herself, to distract herself from feeling bad about Adam. “Top three in class. Graduation. Boys later—maybe in junior or senior year, but maybe only after college. Marriage when I’m established solidly in a profession. Babies, never. Unless I marry a rich man, never.” She knew she couldn’t have it all. That wasn’t possible for girls like her. And she had made her choice. She was going to be someone.
“Talking to yourself?” one of the pretty white girls—cheerleader or pep squad type—said, exiting a stall, and brushing by her. “You know what that’s a sign of.”
The door swung shut behind the girl.
“Don’t wash your hands or anything,” Malika said to the door, then quickly ducked down to check the other stalls. She was alone now. But she was done talking to herself anyway.
She ran the hot water at a trickle for a few seconds to get it warm. She dug in her pack for her own facial soap, wrapped in tissue paper in a zipper plastic bag. She’d never been to the ocean, but the soap smelled like she imagined the sea might. She had it in her hand, sniffing it in pleasure, when, in the distance, the town storm siren went off.
Captain T
It’s Captain T again, standing at the state boundary between Indiana and Ohio. It’s 3:12 p.m., and what you’re looking at right now is not me—obviously—but a front-flank supercell storm, a textbook structure, shot from the south. It’s moving east of northeast, at maybe twenty-five miles per hour. You have (camera pans right) the leading edge of the storm, with rain visible beneath. Behind that, I can guess from radar there’s a wall cloud, but I sure can’t see it. And there’s a distinct tail cloud, the only clear feature, visible in the space before the next cell off to the west comes along.