by Carolyn Zane
The corned beef hash had finally burst out of the cans after twenty or thirty years of disuse, and most of the candles and other emergency supplies such as flashlights, had been pilfered by the kids for backyard campouts and sleepovers. Every couple of years or so, Selma would head down to the shelter beneath the basement and restock a few supplies in order to honor Clyde’s wishes, but largely . . . she’d forgotten about the place.
Nearly fifty years was a long time to outfit and maintain a tool that was so rarely needed. And yet, if the news was even half as bad as was being forecasted on the Weather Channel right now, the time for Clyde’s shelter had finally come. Two decades after the man himself, had passed.
“Jesus, have mercy on us. We’re in the valley of the shadow, here,” Selma whispered into the gnarled knuckles of her folded hands as she and Guadalupe stood on the threshold of her wrap-around porch to better view the ominous funnel in the distance.
Guadalupe’s head was bowed as she prayed over her daughter, Elsa, who was in the high school gym at prom, but even so, Selma could tell she was crying. She dug a tissue out of her pocket and tucked it in Guadalupe’s hand. “Elsa will be alright, honey,” she murmured. “I’ve been praying for that kid since the day she was born, you know.”
Guadalupe sniffed, her laughter, jerky. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes. “I know, my dear friend.”
From where the two women were standing together at Selma’s front door they could see that the twister over on the Walterville side looked to be barreling up Fisher’s Mill Road. Selma lived ten minutes north and west of there. Over the years, people had tried to get her to move closer into town. Save time and gas, they said. But because Clyde had slaved over this place for so many years, building a safe, comfortable haven for her and the kids, she just couldn’t make herself move.
The wind was really tearing up the street now. “Shall we head down to the shelter?” Selma asked and tugged on Guadalupe’s sleeve. “Looks like it’s still south of us. But it could surprise us and turn.”
“I hope not,” Guadalupe said and stepped inside after Selma. They bolted the doors and closed the windows, praying all the while. One last glance out the front window . . . and then the strangest thing happened.
A Ford Mustang, its turn signal flashing, horn blaring and doors flapping—like a winged Pegasus heading south for the winter—made a perfect four point landing on the neighbor’s roof. It didn’t take a full minute for the two women to make it down to the basement and into the storm shelter.
PART TWO
THE EYE OF THE
STORM
When we sail in Christ’s company, we may not make
sure of fair weather, for great storms may toss the
vessel which carries the Lord Himself, and we must
not expect to find the sea less boisterous around our
little boat.
—C. H. Spurgeon
9
7:03 p.m.
It was five very difficult yards to traverse between the Quick In Go and the Sakura Gardens in the buffeting wind, especially with such horrendous debris flashing by, but they all made it into the restaurant. Haruo locked the doors behind them and began to herd everyone with his arms, the way he might a flock of geese. “Go to the back! To the kitchen. This way!”
All of the food had been unloaded from the large, walk-in refrigerator and was sitting in metal roller carts around the kitchen. Isuzu and Mieko held the door open and shouted for everyone to hurry. Abigail grabbed Isuzu in a quick hug. “I forgot you were here tonight,” she cried, relieved to have Isuzu near.
“And I did not know you were at Quick In Go!” Something crashed into the roof directly above. “Start praying,” Isuzu ordered and pushed her inside the walk-in with the others. The sound of shattering glass had everyone crying out and squeezing inside.
The power was off and the darkness was complete once the big door was shut and tied and blockaded. The children shrieked and wailed. Some adults made nervous noises. The absolute lack of vision made all other senses pop with clarity. Bodies, hands, hair, the dank aroma of fish and ginger, the chilled air, feral winds, and crashing debris had them all in the throes of terror.
“Please, people,” Desh’s disembodied voice filled the void until he found his flashlight and illuminated his chin. “Carefully, find a place to sit down. If you can, lie down flat and as close together as possible. Gentlemen, shield the women and children,” he instructed. Everyone fumbled to comply. “Lock your arms around each other. Hands gripped tightly at the elbows or wrists.”
Abigail heard Chaz taking Jen under his wing. “I’ve gotcha, Jenny girl. You just don’t tell Kaylee about the way I’m hugging you, now, you hear?”
Jen’s game reply was muffled by his shoulder.
The beam from Desh’s flashlight found Jen, and Abigail could see that Chaz was wrapped around her like a tortilla. “Danny’s not gonna kill me, now, is he?” Chaz joked, trying to lighten the mood. “Nobody take pictures, okay?”
Handing Justin the flashlight, Desh climbed in on Jen’s other side and tried to shield as much of her body as he could. “I will not tell a soul,” he promised Chaz, “because I know this woman’s husband. He is a fine man who would do the same to shield my own pregnant wife.”
Using the flashlight’s beam, Justin located the young mother who’d arrived with her three children. His voice was compassionate, but firm. “You can’t hold them all.”
Sobbing, she nodded as Justin lifted one of the howling preschoolers and passed him to Haruo and Mieko. He took the other in his arms. “I promise to do everything I can to keep her safe.”
Again, she nodded and burrowed, with her baby, into the arms of the homeless man.
“I had a little boy like you, once upon a time,” the vagrant crooned to her baby. To the mother he vowed, “Ma’am, don’t you worry one bit now. That storm is gonna hafta come through me to get your little guy.” She wept into his filthy shirt.
Justin handed the wailing girl to Abigail. She was probably only about three, all rounded belly and sticky cheeks topped by a mop of bright red curls.
“Shhh, honey,” Abigail soothed, though her voice was tight and strained with fear. “Your mama is right over there, okay, sweetheart? We’re just going to keep you safe. Hush now. It’s okay . . .” The kid kicked and flailed, but Abigail held her tight.
Justin settled down next to them and to Abigail, he said, “Lay down, on your side, facing me.” When she’d done that, he mirrored her and, pushing the child between them, wrapped them both tightly in his arms. “Don’t let go,” he cautioned as she looped her arms around his neck and drew his face against hers. His arms were locked at her waist and he settled a leg over her hip. “Tell me if I am hurting you by holding you too tight.”
“You can’t hold me tight enough,” she whispered, her voice clogged with emotion. She tried not to cry, but it was hard and she could feel a tear roll into her ear.
“Shhh,” he murmured and then began to pray. Her eyes slid closed as she listened to his low voice begin to comfort her. “Jesus, Lord, have mercy on us now, please. And wherever Danny and the rest of our families are, be with them. Lord, of heaven and earth, Your will be done. Give us peace, Father God.”
Abigail was nodding and murmuring in agreement, and the child in their arms grew quiet and still as she listened to the soothing cadence of his voice. All around them, people murmured reassurances to each other that they were all present and accounted for and that everything would be okay. Stay calm. Don’t panic. Hold on tight. I love you.
I love you, too.
Outside, the polar express that everyone always claimed delivered a twister came barreling at them with an incredible roar rarely heard on this earth. And then, in the restaurant’s dining room, Abigail could hear glass shattering as the violent winds blew the windows out. All at once, she felt her ears pop, the way they did when she crested a mountain pass in her car, only far, far more painfully. The babe in
her arms shrieked.
Justin’s grip tightened at her waist and he used his leg to pull her and the child ever closer. If possible, the noise increased as out in the dining room, all hell broke loose. In the freezer, everyone was yelling and screaming now.
“God in heaven, save us!” someone, probably Isuzu, shouted. “God! Please, God! Can You hear me? Jesus, please be with us. Father, God! Have mercy on us!”
The babies were screaming and wailing. Beyond the walk-in’s walls, debris crashed and thudded, and the air grew thin and hard to catch.
“It’s okay! Don’t panic! Stay where you are!” Desh cried. “It will leave us in a minute! It is almost over!”
“Hold on tight!” Justin curled Abigail into a ball over the shrieking child and covered her head with his shoulder. The glass that shattered now was just beyond the fridge’s heavy door in the kitchen, and consisted of dishes and glassware most likely. The clanking of flying pots and pans, the crashing of spinning furniture, and screams, the kind usually heard on a roller coaster, rang out all around. Again, Abigail felt sudden, sharp pain in her eardrums—as though she was descending way too fast in a plane.
“Jesus! Jesus! Jesus! Please be with us! Stay with us! Father God, have mercy! Don’t let even one of us die! Save us, save us, save us!” The shouts from Isuzu and Jen to God swirled all around and Abigail began to echo them.
“Jesus, Jesus, please listen! Please . . . please . . . hear us . . . please forgive me . . .”
The wind was roaring in the room with them now, and the walls were huffing, like breathing bellows. Out in the parking lot, it sounded as if the Boeing factory had fired up several hundred test models and was gunning jet engines to see if they could break the sound barrier. And then, just when the sound was at its apex, the roof took off.
The walls taxied across the parking lot in hot pursuit.
The spinning wind ripped the refrigerator door out of Bob Ray’s hands and flung it up and over the top of the bar as if it were the useless wrapping paper on a birthday gift. His legs were sucked out of the confined space first, and then he felt himself being pulled onto his back and then up and out.
This is it. I’m dead. The thought was surprisingly clear as he clawed at the sides of the refrigerator and slowly lost his grip. “God, oh, God! Help me!” he shouted. He was levitating. Flying with all the other debris, clawing, gasping, grabbing for all he was worth at anything that wasn’t airborne. Dirt and mud sprayed his face and filled his eyes and mouth. He was choking. Something hard, could have been a pool ball, or five, hit him in the side and back, knocking the little wind that was left, clean out of him. Arms flailing he found the padded armrest of the bar and grabbed it and held on.
Once, a long time ago, when he was eleven, or maybe twelve, Bob Ray’s uncle had flown him out to California for the summer to give his mother a break. One of the things Bob Ray had loved most about his trip was body surfing at the beach. He spent every day that he could, riding the waves, until . . . one day.
One day, Bob Ray was caught by the undertow. That current picked him up like he was a ragdoll and smacked him face first into the beach. He’d seen stars. Couldn’t breathe. His nose bled, and he’d learned a healthy respect for the forces of nature more powerful than his body. Luckily, that day, the ocean had grown tired of slamming Bob Ray around like a dog with a chew toy and spit him out on the beach to contemplate the idea that there were some times in this life when he was simply out of control.
This was one of those times.
Time suspended for Abigail, as she lay coiled in a ball and wrapped in Justin’s arms. Her heart was thrashing so hard her temples throbbed. She tried to think rationally, but she’d never been so terrified or so sure that her life was over. And even if she wasn’t killed, life as she knew it—the life she’d so carefully constructed—was certainly over forever. Lacing her fingers together with Justin’s, she pressed their hands over her mouth to shelter it from the sucking current enough to catch a breath. She was desperate to cry, but the wind was a cruel thief, stealing her tears, her sobs, and robbing her of self-pity and even the ability to breathe.
Shoulder forward, she hunched over the child’s head, hoping to provide a pocket of air, and a little refuge from the battering they were taking. At one point she’d managed to pry her eyes open long enough to see a blizzard of mud and missiles, no doubt made of everything from kitchen utensils to car parts, which meant there was a hole in the walk-in. Which also meant that the funnel could reach in and grab them and turn them into so much shrapnel. Justin was still there. Clutching her. Protecting her. Taking the brunt of the assault. Abigail had heard it said somewhere that in times of unbelievable stress, a person’s true personality came to the forefront. If that was true, Justin was a wonderful man. When all this was over, if she ever had the chance, she was going to tell him. Thank him. Guys like Justin were rare. Especially in her life.
When Abigail considered her own father in that microcosm of time, her biggest regret was that she had not accepted his apology. Humbly, he’d come to her, hat in hand, to mend fences. And when he’d told her of his sorrow over choices made and told her how dearly he loved her and carried the weight of terrible guilt over not being there for her as she grew up, she’d rebuffed him and closed her door in his face. The moment of satisfaction she’d enjoyed, watching him shuffle, shoulders stooped, out to his car where he sat for several agonizing minutes before driving back out of her life, had been fleeting.
That had been five years ago. Yet, even now, Abigail would still wake in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, wrestling with the issues of her relationship with her father. How she still tended to be ultra-defensive with men. How she was inclined to view her Father in heaven through the imperfect lens of her father on earth. How she rejected God because of her father’s human frailty. How she distrusted men in general. How she distrusted God, specifically.
If she made it out of here alive, she had some serious stuff to figure out.
Justin figured it had to be that wartime syndrome that caused men and women who barely knew each other to get married right before they shipped out to active duty happening to him right now. Because at this moment, nothing on this earth, not even his own life, was as important to him as keeping the woman he held in his arms alive and safe. He couldn’t explain it, but as they lay, praying together, he knew there was more to this woman than he’d first thought. Enough, in fact, that if they lived through this storm, he might finally be able to consider the Midwest as more than just a temporary stopgap on his way back to the East Coast and to home. Not that dinner and Wheel of Fortune with his grandparents wasn’t a hoot, and he was glad he could help them out when they needed their gutters cleaned or their furniture rearranged.
But he’d longed for the simple, familiar things he’d left behind. Fireflies at twilight. Sand between his toes when he played football with his buddies at the beach. A seagull’s cry and the smell of the ocean. Rolling, tree-covered hills, a white church steeple in sharp contrast to autumn’s brilliant leaves, friends and family. All this, he’d taken for granted. Here in Rawston, Danny was the only thing that had kept him from losing his marbles. But even Danny’s stellar friendship could never make up for the companionship of a good woman. As he cradled Abigail’s head beneath his shoulder, he prayed that God would spare them both so he could ask her out on a date and hopefully discover who she really was.
10
7:13 p.m.
After what felt to Abigail like infinity and beyond, the storm finally retreated in search of a new battlefield to conquer. The quiet was almost as loud as the wind it seemed, for the ringing in her ears was deafening. Everyone must have been suffering because it was at least a minute before they all trusted that the twister was really gone and attempted to sit up. Carefully, they disengaged from each other’s grip, shook off the rubble, and began to assess the damage.
“Are you okay?” Justin asked as he slowly released her from the tight hold he’d had
on her and the child.
Abigail pulled back a fraction, reluctant to move. “Yes. You?”
She could feel him nod. “So far so good. A few bumps and bruises but nothing that a little time won’t cure.”
The child between them squirmed. Her cries of protest were muffled by their bodies. Slowly and gently, Justin rolled off them and helped the sobbing child to sit up. “Shh, sh, sh. It’s okay now. Mama is right over there,” he comforted the child as she squalled in fear and indignation. “She’s fine,” Justin called out, thinking of the mother’s worry.
“I’m here, Elizabeth! I’m here, Eric!” The young mother was weeping with joy over the healthy cries of her children.
“Is everyone all right?” Haruo asked and dragged himself to a quasi-standing position in the battered and squashed refrigerator. It was still too dark to see much, but it was obvious the damage was severe. It suddenly dawned on Abigail that she was shivering. Could have been trauma. Could have been the fact that they were, after all, hiding in a refrigerator. The chilled air was mostly gone but the floor still felt icy and now, slick with something that smelled fishy.
“How are you, Jen?” Abigail was worried about her friend and the unborn baby.
“Thanks to Chaz and Desh, so far, so good,” Jen called. “Although I think I might be off sushi for a while.”
In spite of everything, Abigail managed a smile as she asked, “Zuzu?”
“I got wings,” Isuzu grunted.
Abigail sat close enough to feel Justin’s chuckle. “It’s a Wonderful Life?” he asked.
“Yes,” Abigail said, referring to Zuzu’s line from the movie.
“Who are you people?” Chaz asked. But there was a smile in his voice, too. Some laughter twittered in the darkness and suddenly, there was a lot of excited discussion as everybody took stock of the situation. Thanks to Haruo’s quick thinking, they were all alive. Miraculously, but for some minor injuries, the entire group had come through the nightmare relatively unscathed.