As the dust from Mike's truck settles, I unwrap my sandwich and log on to my messaging app. The circle next to Shannon's name is already green.
Hey, baby, I type out as a droplet of sweat drips off my nose and splats onto my screen. How are you? How's the storm?
Her replies comes not one second later. If I know her, she's been waiting for some time. Not much to do with a storm raging all around.
We chat back and forth for a while, my lunch disappearing quickly, though I'm hungrier than ever when I finish. On days like this, with the air so hot and humid, I can never get enough to eat.
Despite knowing it’s useless, I can't help trying to convince Shannon to leave. As expected, she refuses politely. Maybe it’s for the best now, I tell myself as I take a sip of coffee from my thermos. The weather service had say any remaining inhabitants should shelter in place. In other words, their beds were now made.
We talk for a grand total of fifteen minutes. Though the boys won't be back for another three-quarters of an hour, I've got a load of other things I need to get done during this lunch break. Paperwork namely. And the more I did now, the less I'd have to do later when I'd actually have the chance to see Shannon's beautiful face.
After making her promise me one last time that she won’t do anything stupid, reluctantly I say goodbye and sign off. I want more than anything believe she'll be just fine, but in truth I'm no less worried than before talking to her. And you won't be either, not until this damn storm passes. Hurry up and go, Harvey. No one wants you.
Pushing all sorts of terrible images from my mind—of falling trees and of rushing rivers, of houses getting swept away and of people crying for help—I hop off my tailgate and retrieve the stack of papers—invoices and order forms and schedules—located in a folder lying on the back seat. Climbing into the front seat on the passenger's side, I lean over and slip the key into the ignition. I click the radio on and, after a bit of searching, settle on light jazz. Not my normal listen, but with how I'm feeling I figure I could use something, anything, to calm my nerves.
Don't worry, kid. Snapping open the folder, I extract a handful of random papers. It’s going to take the rest of the hour just to sort through these, much less fill them out. She’s going to be just fine. I promise.
I know you want to believe that, my mind answers as I scan the top sheet, an invoice for steel, but how do you know?
5.
Shannon
The lights go out just as darkness is falling, their outage precipitated by a clap of thunder so big and close by that it makes the ground itself shake. I'm in the bathroom when it happens, looking myself over in the mirror, making faces because I don’t have anything better to do. I've been in here for the last hour after an afternoon spent not doing anything at all.
Actually, that isn’t entirely true. I had done something. For some time, I had lain sprawled out in the middle of the living room floor, my arms stretched out to either side of me, my mind meandering over the years of memories that had taken place in this house. I had done this until the clock had struck five, and then I had risen. After peeking out the window (still just rain), I had wandered down the hall and into here on a whim. If there was nothing to do and nowhere to go, I had reasoned, at the very least I could paint my nails. But then my image had distracted me, and somehow forty-five minutes had passed.
"Shit!" I exclaim as night envelops me, my curse drowned out by a second clap of thunder louder than the first. With the lone window boarded, the bathroom is so dark I can't even make out my hand in front of my face.
Oh no…, I think. Kyle. With no electricity, we can’t video chat, though I can still call him on the phone, assuming the those lines weren’t down too.
Well, great, I sigh. Just great. This was just what I needed. I was already feeling low thanks to being cooped up and stir crazy, and I'd so been looking forward to our chat tonight as the one shining beacon that would get me through.
Stumbling out of the bathroom, navigating through the darkness by experience alone, I make my way down the hall towards the front of the trailer, to the kitchen where I keep a store of candles and flashlights in a drawer.
But not halfway down the hall, the lights flicker back on. I freeze in place, my breath held in my chest, and wait.
A minute passes, and then another, the clock in the living room ticking off the seconds. When the lights are still on after three full minutes, I let out a sigh of relief. Please, I beg whoever it is that may be listening. Please don't let them go out again. All I want to do is talk to my baby.
After retrieving a flashlight from the kitchen just in case, I return to the living room and turn on the TV. The cable box takes several minutes to cycle through its reboot. When it finally ready, I tune to the local news station. Thanks to the storm, the signal is a bit fuzzy, the kempt news anchor fading in and out of static several times before she materializes for good.
"…rainfall totals across all three counties are well above expectations..." the woman is saying. As she talks, image after image of half-flooded neighborhoods flash across the right side of the screen.
“Already the coast guard has its hands full with rescue missions. The storm, after making landfall early this morning, has stalled on the coast, punishing southeast Texas with unprecedented rainfall..."
Turning the volume as high as it will go, I get up from the couch and go to the back door. As soon as I turn the knob, the door is blown open, the wind so strong that it takes every ounce of my strength just to hold onto it. The rain is coming down in sheets now, so thick it's as if the entire world is inside a waterfall. Donning a pair of rain boots I keep just inside the back door, I step out onto the porch and wrench the door shut. As I turn to face the storm, I laugh. Had I really just thought about grabbing an umbrella?
With a deep breath, I begin the harrowing climb down the porch steps, bent in half in my struggle against the wind. Though the ground is squishy when I step down onto it, water has yet to pool anywhere in the backyard. The earth had yet to reach capacity.
I cross the yard as quickly as I can, aimed blindly towards the rain gauge at the back of the property that’s been a fixture for as long as I can remember. Unsurprisingly, when I finally find it, it's overflowing.
I dump the water out. Though sunset is still a good hour away, I have to use the brightest setting on my flashlight to cut through the curtains of rain to see the topmost reading on the gauge.
Wow. Over eight inches had already fallen. And if the weather woman proved correct, things were just getting started. This was going to be a record-breaking storm indeed.
I return to the trailer. The wind has picked up even further and now have to wait for a lull before I can close the door. The woman on the TV is droning away still, running through various rainfall totals from around the county. I’m not the only one with a high reading. Most places the anchor mentions come with attached recordings of well over a foot.
After double-checking that I have an adequate supply of candles, flashlights and batteries in easy to reach places in every room of the house—thank god mom was such a worrier!—I settle back onto the couch on the side closest to the computer. I’ve heard about all I need to hear from the weather woman for now. Rain, rain, rain. What else was there to say?