Twistered

by J. L. Wilson

  Twistered

  J L Wilson

  Copyright, 2012, J L Wilson

  All rights are reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portion thereof, in any form. This work may not be resold or uploaded for distribution to others.

  This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination, and any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, go to http://www.jayellwilson.com

  Dedication

  To my Oz sidekick, Sonja. Friends for fifty years and counting.

  Acknowledgement

  The author would like to gratefully acknowledge L. Frank Baum and the imagination that brought us The Wonderful Wizard of Oz, The Marvelous Land of Oz, Ozma of Oz, and so many other stories. He has led generations of children (and adults) on a truly magical journey.

  Chapter 1

  I was driving home from the library when the tornado sirens blasted their discordant wail. I had closed early at five and sent everyone home as soon as the tornado alert came on the radio. As I drove down Elm Street I eyed the boiling black clouds in my rear view mirror. I've lived in Kansas long enough to recognize twister clouds when I see them. I needed a basement, fast.

  "Dorothy Gaylord, if you survive this, you can have a DQ hot fudge sundae," I promised myself. I'd been denying myself a Dairy Queen HFS for three weeks since I started my diet, but if I faced death and survived it, I deserved a treat.

  I spun the dial on the radio, trying to tune in KYOZ, the nearest station to Broomfield, but all I got was a bunch of static. I glanced in the mirror again. No wonder I was getting static. The wind was whipping the tree branches, green-black clouds were scuttling, and dust was flying in the distant farm fields. We had a wet spring which meant late planting. Here it was, the end of May, and a tornado was going to wreak further havoc on the farm economy.

  My knee bumped the dangling Wicked Witch key fob hanging from the ignition and the familiar voice of Margaret Hamilton blared, "I'll get you yet, my little pretty, and your little dog, too!" I once again made a promise to myself to remove the damn thing from my keychain at the first opportunity. It had the annoying habit of startling me when I least expected it. I bought it on a whim a few months earlier and the humor had long since died.

  As I passed the city park on my right and Hank's Hardware Heaven on my left, I saw three familiar figures arguing under Hank's red awning. Silver-haired town matriarch Glynnis Samuel was berating her daughter, Country Club social leader and resident Queen of Real Estate, Mina Wickman. Mina was trying to pull the old woman through the store's entrance while Hank tried to tug Liza, his niece's retired miniature guide-pony, into the store. Hank often brought Liza to the park where she could graze and hang out with the kids playing on the swing sets. The resulting confluence of the two elderly matrons, Liza and Glynnis, caused a traffic jam at the entrance to the store.

  I debated stopping to help but Glynnis shook off Mina and put a hand on Liza's brown shoulders. Liza, accustomed to guiding people, promptly walked into the store, 'leading' Glynnis. Mina tossed up her hands in exasperation and followed.

  Hank saw me and waved. "Under control," he called. "Get on home!"

  I took his advice and tromped on the gas, blowing by the police station. One squad car was in the lot but the other three were gone, probably to help warn people or to tornado-watch. I zipped down 4th Street in my ancient Ford Escort and four blocks later took the corner with a screech at Garland Lane in the Hamilton Hills subdivision.

  The houses on the street had grown up around my little white frame starter home, which was partway up the hill leading to the old Burke farmhouse, now owned by Hank and his wife, Mel. I looked across the street at my neighbor, Dr. Franke's house, but there was no sign of the retired college geography professor. I hoped he was inside, hunkered down and safe.

  As I pulled into my driveway I swept my gaze up the gravel path leading from my house to the original farmhouse on the hill. I saw Mel emerge from the old barn, easily recognizable by her mop of curly brown hair. "Hank's got Liza!" I shouted in case Mel was searching for the elderly pony.

  She waved acknowledgement. "Maybe this twister will miss us!" she yelled back. "I hate to think it could happen again!" She scurried to the storm cellar door that sloped off the side of the house and dragged it open. I briefly considered joining her but a glimpse of the sky over my shoulder made me drive into my garage, park, and leap from my car in record time. The rainbow I saw in the western sky didn't fool me. The churning clouds in the southwest sky weren't slowing.

  I kept my purse slung over my shoulder as I entered through the side door into the kitchen. SoSo, my bad-tempered Siamese cat, was waiting for me. I didn't give him a chance to express his displeasure about his empty food bowl. I scooped him up in my arms and headed for the basement steps, located between the kitchen and the living room.

  When I bought the house after my divorce fifteen years earlier, I remodeled the basement and transformed it from a damp, cobweb-laden cave to a brightly painted, cozy space divided into two rooms. One side housed the laundry and storage and the other was my work space, where I did my half-hearted crafting and also kept the workbench and tools left to me by my father when he died. I made a beeline for the massive bench in the southwest corner and the cat cage I kept there.

  SoSo saw what was coming and began a frantic scramble in my arms. He hissed and dug in his paws but I manhandled him inside the cage, slamming the door closed and locking it before he could slither past me. I jammed the cage onto the shelf under the bench and crawled in after him. I kept that shelf cleared for just such an eventuality.

  SoSo and I fit, although it was a tight squeeze. I'm almost five-and-half feet tall and pushing one-hundred-fifty pounds, but if I could lose twenty pounds, I'd be back to my high school shape again. Of course, I've been pursuing my high school shape for the thirty-some years since graduation from college, but I was determined this would be My Year.

  The western foundation of the house was at my back and the southern foundation was near my head. I peered at the window well on the opposite side of the workspace. I had glass blocks substituted for the small windows at ground level. I watched the ghostly movement of shadows when the sun briefly shone before being blotted out.

  "The shit's going to hit the fan," I said to SoSo, who glared angrily at me from the confines of his cage. I shivered as I remembered Mel's prophetic words. Three years ago on this day a twister struck at six o'clock at night. It collapsed the high school and killed four people inside, including my best friend Jill, leaving my goddaughter, Dorthea, an orphan. Mel and Hank took over the raising of 'Baby Dot,' who was named after me.

  I checked my watch. It was five-thirty. Baby Dot was probably still in softball practice at Broomfield High School. If not there, she'd be arriving at the hardware store where she worked with her Uncle Hank after school. She's fourteen, I reassured myself. She's lived in Kansas all her life. She knows what to do during a tornado.

  The wind howled outside, tearing my thoughts away from my goddaughter. Rain and hail pelted against the side of the house, a cacophony of noise drowning out everything--SoSo's hissing, my stuttering heartbeat and my chaotic thoughts. In the murky half-light I saw my Tornado Kit near me in the corner. It was an old gym bag containing my childhood scrapbook, a change of underwear, fifty dollars, a crank-operated radio and flashlight, a disk with digital pictures, and copies of my house title and other legal papers.

  Memories and legalities. That sure isn't much to represent the whole of my life. Then the storm actually hit and coherent thought fled. It's hard t
o describe a tornado because it's like every natural disaster rolled into one that pounds you all at once. A deluge of rain combined with hail bombarded the roof and the house, then branches crashed to the ground and ricocheted off my gutters and siding. Lights flashed on and off, a combination of lightning outside and the electricity in the house as it sputtered. Smells of rain-soaked earth, the sharp scent of pine, the smell of wood as tree branches were torn away and crashed against the house--all of that combined with the damp aroma of the basement, once faint but now stronger as the sump pump kicked on. That ominous, telltale freight train sound started, a deafening noise even though my house was a mile away from the nearest set of tracks. These are the sensations of a tornado, all experienced in a darkened room with a hissing, yowling cat nearby and your life passing in front of your eyes.

  "I'm too young to die!" I shouted as shrieking winds enveloped my home. "I've barely lived!" Half-forgotten promises I made to myself flitted through my consciousness: eat less, exercise more; read Tolstoy; learn to cross-country ski; wear sunscreen; moisturize every day; take a chance on love; go on that cruise before you're too old. Like a parade of Ghosts of Christmas Future, images spun through my mind, all regrets for things I never did.

  Of course, I did take a chance on love which explained why I was huddled alone in my basement with my yowling cat. Two men played a major role in my life and neither was with me now. Wade Watson Esterson, my ex-husband, divorced me fifteen years earlier and left town. And Drew Strawn, my high school sweetie, was the Broomfield Chief of Police and presumably assisting the citizenry during our storm crisis. I felt a momentary flash of resentment that he wasn't assisting me then I mentally laughed at myself. Helping me was not at the top of Drew's High Priority List. Our love had cooled to a lasting friendship and there was no reason to believe I was more than an old friend and an old memory.

  The house shuddered as something crashed into it. A tree? A car? Was the roof intact? I peered at the staircase but it was dark, telling me the door at the top was still closed. On the other side of the staircase was the laundry room and utility area. It was dark there but I saw the ghostly glow of the pilot light on the water heater. Was I supposed to shut off the utilities? I struggled to remember my Tornado Tips but another booming sound overhead drove that and all other thoughts out of my beleaguered brain.

  I scrunched back further and almost dislodged SoSo, who reacted with a startled hiss. He was squished against the rear of his cage, his blue eyes focused so tightly on me I felt like I was in a laser beam. "It's okay," I said, but my soothing voice was more of a shout as the wind picked up steam and howled around us.

  He laid back his ears and bared his fangs when I reached toward the cage. I gave up on placating the resident Grinch and huddled into a compact ball. I was still in my library clothes, my navy Dockers now smeared with dust and my blue gingham blouse snagged by the rough wood. My couture was the least of my worries. I'd be happy to emerge from this to my upstairs bedroom and find the closet still there. Hell, I'd be happy to find the second story of the house still there.

  I jerked at a shriek outside, slamming my head against the top of my protective prison. The window high on the wall imploded, chunks of glass block scattering over the concrete floor and embedding into the green and white round braided rug. A torrent of rain poured in and I debated leaving my shelter to find a barrier to block the tide.

  Common sense prevailed. I snatched my Tornado Kit off the floor and dragged it next to SoSo, who had finally given up yowling at me and now stared at the window from the depths of his cage with wide, slightly crossed blue eyes. As I rammed the Tornado Kit into place, the zipper popped open and I caught a glimpse of Wade with his goofy smile in a framed photograph. He loved to mug for the camera and this picture showed him with upraised eyebrows, his thinning golden hair mussed and curly, and his brown eyes wide and humorous. It was what I called his George Segal pose.

  As the bag shifted, Drew's picture in a newspaper article slid next to Wade's and covered it. I wondered briefly if it was a karmic indicator that I should put my past behind me. Drew had a long, narrow face, shaggy sun-tipped brown hair and very pale green eyes. In this picture he was almost smiling, one corner of his mouth quirked up and his eyes mischievous but wary. As always, the right side of his face was turned slightly forward, hiding the left side where the burn scars from the accident ten years earlier peeked from his hairline. Drew hid his emotions well, unlike Wade who emoted like a drama queen whenever given the chance. How could I have fallen in love with two such different people? I wondered as I wiggled the bag behind me so it was held in place by the wall and my back.

  Invasive noise overwhelmed any thoughts I could formulate. A monstrous, pulsating loudness suddenly filled every nook and cranny of the basement, leaving no room for SoSo and me to breathe, blink, or think.

  As quickly as it came, it left. Ominous silence pressed on my eardrums, punctuated by the dripping of water as it meandered over the broken remnants of my window and plopped to the basement floor. I peeked out from under my overhang. The greenish light outside was gone and I saw a glimpse of sunlight before a cloud obliterated it.

  "Think it's passed, SoSo?" I muttered. My beige companion with the black paws huddled in his cage, glaring at me. He probably blamed me for the noise and the discomfort. SoSo blamed me for everything he disliked, things like a less than immaculate litter box, the taste of his kibble, or the fact I insisted on sharing the bed with him.

  I scooted from my shelter and edged cautiously across the room, pausing to retrieve a plastic bin of scrapbooking supplies which had tumbled during the windstorm. Luckily the lid stayed put so I didn't have stickers, cutouts and paper in a sodden lump on the floor.

  I stopped in the middle of the room and listened but it was silent outside. I heard voices calling and what might have been a car engine. Reassured by these prosaic sounds, I headed for the steps. SoSo grumbled his displeasure from his cage, but I wasn't taking any chances. I decided to scope out the damage first then come back for my ill-tempered companion.

  I opened the door at the top of the stairs cautiously, expecting to see my stove lying in the middle of the floor or a wall blown out. As I peered around the oak frame, I let out a sigh of relief. My house appeared to be okay. Sunlight streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the white-painted cupboards and red-and-white tile backsplash. I went through the kitchen and dining room then checked the three-season porch in the back corner. The floors were damp where rain came in, but otherwise nothing appeared touched.

  I went into the living room. Everything was upright and unbroken. Even the perpetual Monopoly game which my friends and I had played for years still sat on the card table near the fireplace. No game pieces were disturbed and the 'bank,' an old cigar box, was still closed. I quickly surveyed the den across the entry foyer from the living room before racing upstairs to check the two tiny front bedrooms and the bedroom suite with master bath I had remodeled a year before.

  As I passed the mirror over my dresser, I was surprised to see I appeared normal--flyaway black curly hair parted on the side and pulled back with a blue barrette, dark navy blue eyes with dark brows framing them, and a round, somewhat freckled face. It has been the bane of my existence to resemble Judy Garland when she was a teenager and my name only added to the teasing. I stared at my reflection, pulling back my hair to view the red birthmark on my forehead which always darkened when I was under stress. Yep, there was a clear impression of a lipstick kiss on my left brow. I let my hair fall back to cover it. No kidding I was stressed. I felt as though I'd aged a decade during my ordeal in the basement but I apparently was still just Dorothy Gaylord, fifty-year-old divorced librarian with a fondness for dessert and an annoyed cat yowling in the basement.

  My bedroom windows overlooked the back yard and that's when I saw a pine tree was snapped in half with part of it crushing my rickety old shed. I laughed. That gave me an excuse to go to Home Depot and choose a new one. I st
epped through the narrow door onto my 'deck,' actually the top of my garage. I peered to the west and saw several branches were hanging crookedly from the oak tree that shared a border with Leo Burt, my neighbor, but otherwise the side yard seemed okay.

  As I started downstairs, I looked through the double-hung window over the stairwell. People were emerging from houses, picking their way over fallen trees. Dark clouds scudded away in the distance and the sun shone. Except for the debris, it seemed like a typical summer day. From my second story vantage point I could see most of the street. The houses appeared untouched, although I couldn't say the same for a white rectangular RV with swooping blue swirls around a dark "W" near the camper window. It lay in the middle of the street on its side, the back driver's side wheel still spinning. The Emerald Hills Mall was only two blocks away. Perhaps the RV driver tried to make a run for it when the sudden storm hit. I didn't recognize it as belonging to anyone on Garland Lane, so presumably it was a stranger, passing through.

  I peered beyond the limb-filled street and saw Professor Franke emerging from his home. The front porch on his pale blue two-story Cape Cod was partially hidden by a leafy maple tree that was in his yard, but otherwise his house appeared okay. I raced out my front door and waved as he ducked from under the branches. "Are you okay?" I called.

  "Fine!" He scrambled from the leafy barrier and started across the street toward me. "How are things over there?"

  I turned to survey my little homestead. Leo's house was unscathed but his immaculate landscaping had taken a brutal beating. I walked a few feet to our property line and inspected his back yard. As I suspected, his swimming pool was filled with lawn furniture and branches. The air was redolent with the smell of upturned vegetation and lilacs, a heady combination. "I think we're okay," I called back to Professor Franke. I stepped over an uprooted lilac bush, the source of the odor, as I headed for the street and the overturned RV lying there.