Quitz barked again, and the wind bounced and ricocheted off the boarded windows.
Charlie looked one last time around the room, and then he walked over to the fireplace mantle. He picked up a photograph, stuffed it into his bag, and then he followed Quitz out the door.
He’d purchased flood insurance long ago, and unlike Alice, he’d been careful to keep his payments up to date. Whether his house stood or not didn’t matter. Not now.
What mattered most was being certain his friends were safe—all of his friends, including Alice and Moose. Alice was well on her way out of the danger zone. He’d drive out to find Moose, force him into the truck, and get off the island.
Only it wasn’t as simple as that. “It hardly ever is,” he muttered.
Debris had blown onto the main road, blocking his path. Emergency personnel were clearing the trees, timbers from a busted wharf, and even someone’s boat as rain continued to spatter against the pavement.
“You’re going to have to turn around and go the other way, Charlie.” Officer Gage had to yell to be heard over the roar of the wind. Nicholas Gage was closing in on sixty if Charlie remembered right. Probably he was nearing retirement, an idea that would appeal to any sensible man trying to facilitate an evacuation while a Cat 4 storm barreled toward him. Gage had gained a fair bit of weight in the last ten years, but he managed to look solid even wearing the rain slicker. He was also as obstinate as an old mule.
The rain began to fall in sheets, obscuring everything beyond Charlie’s windshield.
“I can’t leave just yet, Nick. Moose is still out there. I have to go and get him.”
“I’ll call the Coast Guard. They can attempt a rescue—”
“Even if they made it to his place, I doubt he’d go with them. I need to talk to him. You know how unreasonable he can be.”
“So let him stay—”
“We can’t just leave him out there!”
“We can and we will.” Gage didn’t look happy about it, but he did look determined.
“I’m going to check on him one way or the other. If you make me go around by the back roads—”
“They’re washed out.”
“If you make me go around, it will take me that much longer.”
Gage looked as if he’d like to argue, but in the end he halted the line of cars north bound long enough for Charlie to slip through and head south. He was surprised to see that the line heading away from him, heading toward Corpus, was actually quite short. It appeared most people had heeded the warnings and left the island early.
As he passed the state park, he noted the entire area was basically deserted. No cars at the condos. Gas stations were closed. No lights shone from the convenience store windows. The place looked abandoned, but Charlie knew a few of the old-timers had sworn they wouldn’t leave. They had various reasons, all of them lame in light of the hurricane pressing toward them. Perhaps in the end it came down to fear. Their fear of leaving outweighed their fear of facing the storm. Whatever the reason, they were the diehards and no one could force them to evacuate—mandatory was that in name only. It meant that if you chose to stay, you were on your own, at least until the storm abated and rescue teams could be deployed.
Charlie prayed as he drove, that the men who came to his mind, nearly all widowers, would have seen the severity of the situation and left. He prayed for wisdom in speaking to Moose.
The man had lived a more difficult life than most, and perhaps that was part of the reason for his obstinate nature. But he’d also been a good friend to Charlie, visiting every day when Madelyn was sick, and before that helping them to rebuild after Hurricane Celia. No, he wouldn’t be leaving Moose Davis on the island.
Charlie knew better than to panic. He still had plenty of time to make the bridge, so he kept his speed well below the limit. The rain had eased a little, but the winds buffeted his truck. The occasional canopy or trashcan blew across Highway 361. The road he turned west on led to one of the most sparsely populated parts of the island. Moose’s neighborhood was isolated on the best of days. Charlie didn’t see a single person. Quitz sat staring out the window, and Charlie’s gaze turned again and again to the rearview window and the menacing, black clouds as day gave way to night. The last of the sun’s light bled into the horizon.
It would be easy to be mesmerized by the wall of clouds churning out over the water. He tore his gaze away and focused on the road. He was looking at the bay side, and he could see that it was rising as well. They would have to hurry, but he vowed they would make the bridge before hurricane force winds hit.
He reached over and patted Quitz. “Don’t worry, girl. We’re going to check on Moose, and then we’re headed for the mainland. We’ll watch Orion deliver its worst from the safety of Corpus.”
CHAPTER 11
Becca sat at the kitchen table, separating pinto beans. She put the good ones into the pot of water beside her. They would soak overnight and be ready to cook in the morning.
Her mother worked at the end of the table. In front of her were various pencils, a sharpener, and an open sketchbook.
“Working on the fall postcards?”
“I am. A few sets are finished, and if I can put the final touches on these, you could take them all to the dry goods store for me tomorrow.”
“Sure.”
“Are you looking forward to helping Rebecca Byler?”
“I suppose. I’ve never done inventory before, but I’m glad she asked me. She says it will be gut practice and that I’ll be able to tell if I want to work there during the holidays.”
There wasn’t a lot to do in Cody’s Creek, and Becca always enjoyed visiting the store and walking up and down the aisles. She also liked the idea of earning a little extra money. Actually, she rather liked going into town for any reason, so she was looking forward to everything about the day—other than worrying whether she could do the job well.
“You and Daddi looked to be having a nice visit this afternoon.”
“Ya.” Becca finished with the beans. She scraped the bad ones into the trash can and then carried the pot over to the stove, covering it with its lid.
She picked up her bag of crochet work from the sitting room and brought it back to the table. She wasn’t particularly good at knitting, but even she could crochet—and crocheting a rectangle was no problem at all. The blanket was meant to be a baby gift.
“Nice colors.”
“Danki.” Becca stared down at the soft pastel yarn—a variegated pink, blue, yellow, and white. She liked it. Even though she hadn’t decided whom she would give the blanket to, she knew that someone would be needing it. So many babies were born in their community each winter that it was hard for her to keep up.
“About your daddi… ”
“How did he hurt his leg, Mamm? I don’t remember him ever telling me.”
“It happened when I was young, before we moved here. Dat was working a team of horses and one spooked—a snake in the field, I think. Anyway, the horse reared and then the other panicked. They tossed him off and the harvester he was pulling ran over his leg.”
“Rather like what happened last year to Anna Schwartz.”
Anna used to live on the other side of Cody’s Creek. She’d been rendered a paraplegic after being thrown by horses.
“I suppose. Your daddi’s leg healed, but he was left with a limp.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Ya, it was bad. This was before Dat was called to be a bishop. Sometimes I think maybe it was the way that he handled that period of his life, or perhaps the work that Gotte did in his heart during that time, that caused the community to put his name down for nominees.”
“And then he pulled the Bible with the marker in it.”
“Indeed.”
Becca thought about that as she crocheted. There had never been the need to choose a new bishop in their community, at least not that she could remember. Bishops were chosen for life. The only reason to elect a new one was
if the bishop died or maybe the bishop moved to a different community.
For as long as she could remember, their bishop had always been her grandfather. But she’d heard about the process of electing a new one. Bibles were placed near the back of the schoolroom. Each man walked in whose name had been placed in a hat as a candidate. Each man picked up a Bible.
When all were assembled, the current bishop, or deacon if the bishop had passed, led the group in prayer. Then the men opened their Bible. The one with a marker in their Bible was chosen as the new bishop. In this way, they believed that God picked the man He wanted to lead them, and the man that God picked He would equip. No special training was required.
“I think Daddi is a gut bishop.”
“I agree.” Her mother laughed. “Your mammi, though, she wasn’t sure she was cut out of the right fabric to be a bishop’s wife.”
“Really?”
“She was afraid everyone would judge her by a harsher standard, and she didn’t want the extra attention.”
Becca considered her mother’s words as she crocheted another row of the baby blanket. She didn’t like attention either. Maybe she was more like her grandmother than she’d realized.
Her father walked into the mudroom, knocking the dirt off his shoes and hanging his jacket on the hook on the wall. They each had two hooks—for jackets or scarves, hats or kapps. And under those hooks ran a shelf for shoes.
“An afternoon snack would be gut.” Her mother glanced up from the postcard she was working on. “Would you fetch that cranberry bread I baked?”
“Ya.” Becca put away her yarn and hook before retrieving the bread from the back of the stove where it had been cooling.
“I smell something wunderbaar.” Her dad collapsed into a chair beside her mother.
“That you do, dear.”
“Has Becca been baking?”
They all laughed. It was a joke between the three of them, because several of Becca’s attempts had turned into disaster.
“Becca will try again next week,” her mother assured him. “I baked this cranberry bread.”
She set aside her drawing supplies and stood to gather glasses and the pitcher of milk. Becca sliced the bread and carried it to the table. She thought about resisting the urge to eat a slice, but then she noticed that her mother had added walnuts. Who could resist walnuts and cranberry? Who would want to?
Becca had eaten one slice and was considering another when she remembered her mother’s question she hadn’t answered.
“Daddi talked to me about going on a mission trip with the Mennonite Disaster Service group.”
Her parents exchanged a knowing look, but neither spoke.
“I don’t even understand the MDS program. And why are you two smiling at each other like that?”
“Your mother and I met on a mission trip.”
“I never knew that.”
Her mom shrugged and sipped her milk.
Her father sat forward, arms crossed on the table, and smiled at her. He had always seemed like a pillar of strength to Becca. More than anything, she appreciated the way he always spoke to her honestly—as an adult, not as a child. She liked that she could trust him to be truthful even when it hurt her feelings or she didn’t agree. Like the time she’d thought that going on a liquid diet would change her appearance, maybe even change her life.
He’d gently reminded her, “We dress plainly because we do not want to promote pride. It is gut to be healthy and to take care of the body Gotte has given you. But comparing yourself—physically or any other way—to other girls will only bring anxiety and strife into your life.”
She’d given up the liquid diet that night. One of the other girls, Sarah Yoder, had continued it for several weeks and actually fainted at church. It was later discovered that she had an eating disorder. Folks thought the Amish didn’t have those sorts of problems, but they did. And if it hadn’t been for the candid words of her father, Becca could have fallen into the same trap.
“I know that part of what we contribute in our tithe offering funds MDS,” Becca said. “I suppose I’ve known that for years. Is it only Amish who volunteer?”
“Nein. Mennonites participate as well.” Her father helped himself to another piece of bread.
Her mom ran the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass. “Brethren in Christ too, even some Christian groups who are not associated directly with our Anabaptist tradition.”
That sounded like a lot of people to Becca.
“Who coordinates it all?”
“Each site has a crew manager,” her father explained. “That person may vary from week to week or may stay through the entire length of the project. While there, they oversee volunteers as well as construction materials and the like.”
“So it’s not a lot of youngies running around on their own.”
“It isn’t. MDS does serious work, Becca. We assist people who don’t have the means to recover from various disasters.”
She thought about that a moment, while her finger traced the bread crumbs on her plate. “Like what kind of disasters?”
“Floods, hurricanes, fires. Pretty much any type of disaster where we can provide relief.”
“I don’t remember you two participating. Did you only go that once? The time you met?”
“We went on three different trips,” her mother said.
“Three?”
“Two before we were married and one after.”
“And then?”
“Then you came along, and we both felt we needed to stay home.”
What did that mean? Would they resume going on mission trips once she had married or moved away? She’d never thought about her parents’ life after she moved on—if she moved on. This conversation was opening up an entire new bundle of questions she wasn’t sure she wanted to address.
“Would you like to go on a mission trip?” her dat asked.
“I don’t know. It sounded like something fun to do. Well, maybe not fun exactly, but you know… different.”
“Except… ” Her mother studied her as she waited for Becca to finish her thought.
“Except I’m not sure I want to be responsible for someone else’s recovery. I don’t know anything about that.”
Her father smiled and slapped the kitchen table. “We will pray on this. All of us. You will know, Becca. If Gotte wants you to serve somewhere, you will know it is the right thing to do. Gotte will provide for you and equip you.”
Her father tromped back outside to finish his afternoon work.
Her mother continued adding final touches to the postcards.
And Becca crocheted. As she did so, her father’s words continued to ring through her heart. “Gotte will provide for you and equip you.” She’d never thought of herself that way before—as a tool in the hand of God, something He could use to help others. The idea was rather exciting and frightening at the same time. It was with those emotions stirring in her heart that she stored her crochet work, checked on the chicken dish cooking in the oven, and began to cut up vegetables for a salad. Even she couldn’t mess up a salad. If she did go on a mission trip, she hoped that they wouldn’t ask her to cook.
CHAPTER 12
Charlie knew that when the outer rim of a hurricane made land the weather would change instantly. He’d experienced it before, and still he was stunned by the wind that pushed his truck like a giant hand and the rain that obscured everything around him.
Quitz whined and hopped down into the floor area in front of her seat.
“I don’t blame you, girl. We must have been crazy to stay this late.” He should have left like Gage told him too. He thought of the picture in his bag, of the promises he had made to Madelyn. He prayed he would be able to keep those promises.
Though he’d slowed the truck’s progress to a crawl, Charlie somehow managed to miss the turn into Moose’s place. He reversed the transmission, prayed he would stay on the road, and backed up until he could just make out the lan
e leading to his friend’s bay front home. It was a secluded community, and houses to the right and left were spaced a good distance apart. On any other day, Charlie would be able to see them, but not now. He saw nothing except a deluge of rain falling outside his windshield.
Like Charlie’s house, the living portions of Moose’s home were built upstairs. After Hurricane Celia, nearly all houses and condos were built this way. Any new construction in downtown Port Aransas was required to be built at a minimum of nine feet above sea level, which usually necessitated that fill dirt be brought in to raise the floor of the building to the minimum height. All new home construction had the same requirement—it was mandatory if you wanted to purchase FEMA flood insurance. If you had a loan to fund the construction, flood insurance was required.
Being on the bay side of the island helped a little as far as weathering the severity of your average storms, but it would make no difference during a Category 3, 4, or 5 hurricane. The waters of the gulf and the bay would simply meet—and most everything in between would wash away.
Moose had boarded up the main windows in his living area, but the smaller windows near the top of the rooms that usually allowed in the gulf sunshine remained uncovered. As Charlie drew closer he saw light peeking through these top windows and through the seam where two pieces of plywood met over the front windows.
Moose was in there all right, just as Charlie had feared he would be.
Should he take Quitz or leave her in the car? The dog practically clambered into his lap when he turned off the truck’s engine. “All right, but we’re both getting soaked. As long as you realize that.”
His memory didn’t prepare him for the physical violence of the storm. He struggled to push the door open, and then had to hold it with all his strength so that the wind didn’t tear it from his hands. Quitz jumped out, splashed through the downpour, and bounded up the front steps. Charlie glanced once at his bags in the backseat. Best to leave them where they were. He was not riding out Orion here at Moose’s place. The question was, how was he going to convince his friend to leave?
He leaned into the truck door and managed to close it. Then he dashed for the porch. The wind pushed him left, pushed him forward, and threatened to send him into the bay. Charlie fought it, head down and shoulders hunched. He lunged for the porch railing and pulled himself around and then up the stairs. Quitz was baying as if tomorrow wouldn’t come when Moose opened the door.
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