Magnolia

by Kristi Cook

  “Got it.” He takes the heavy bag as if it weighs nothing, tossing it over his back.

  I glance around helplessly. “Why don’t you take it to the truck? I’m going to find something to put the rest of the stuff in, and then we can see about Daddy’s workshop.”

  With a nod, he wades away while I search for another bag—which I find in a drawer beneath the radio. I fill it and then unplug the radio and grab that, too.

  Soon we’ve gotten pretty much everything we can from the workshop loaded into the Durango—everything except the large pieces of furniture Daddy was working on when he left. I feel bad leaving them, especially the pretty Hoosier cabinet, but where would we put it all?

  We make our way out with the last load, just some odds and ends. A sander, a jigsaw, a few CDs. The rain has let up—we must be between bands—but the sky is still a dark, heavy gray.

  “You think we should try sandbagging it?” I ask, tipping my head back toward the barn.

  Ryder shakes his head. “I don’t think it’ll do much good.”

  “Just in front, then? The gap’s pretty big under the door. It can’t hurt, right?”

  “I’ve got a few sandbags in the Durango—probably enough for the door. I’ll get ’em,” he offers. “You just make sure the door is latched tight.”

  I want to say something along the lines of, “No, I’d thought I’d just leave it flapping in the wind,” but I manage to bite my tongue. What is it with him and giving orders? I mean, I get that he’s the quarterback and all, but I’m not one of his teammates.

  But, hey, if he wants to thump his chest and carry the heavy sandbags, I’ll let him do it. My back is aching. I stomp off toward the door and bolt shut the lower and upper portions, securing them with the padlock.

  “I may have to get a few more from the house,” Ryder calls out from the direction of the truck.

  I turn and watch him walk toward me with a sandbag thrown over one shoulder. A blur of movement catches my eye, and I glance down to see something dark on the ground right in Ryder’s path.

  I jog toward it, curious. But a second later I stop dead in my tracks, my breath hitching in my chest.

  It’s a snake, about three or four feet long with a fat, black body and a stubby tail.

  “Ryder!” I shout, just as it shoots forward toward him. Shit. “Stop! Don’t move!”

  It coils itself not six inches from where Ryder is standing. The snake’s triangular head is raised, its mouth open in a threat display, showing white. It takes me only a split second to identify it: water moccasin. A cottonmouth, venomous and highly aggressive. The heavy rains must have driven it up from the creek.

  As I watch in horror it strikes, missing Ryder’s leg by mere inches. The snake recoils itself, preparing for another strike. If it bites an artery, Ryder could be dead in a matter of minutes.

  “Don’t move,” I repeat, more quietly this time. I pull Delilah from my waistband, forcing my hands to steady as I release the safety.

  Ryder’s eyes meet mine and he nods—just a small movement, barely perceptible. But it’s enough that I know he understands what I’m about to do.

  He does just as I say—remains perfectly still, like he’s been carved from stone. His gaze is trained on me, steady and reassuring. I can sense his fear, and yet he’s somehow calm. Trusting.

  I know I have one chance at this—one single shot. If I miss, we’re in deep shit. A moccasin bite requires antivenin, which means a trip to the ER. And right now, our road is washed out and a slow-moving hurricane is bearing down on us.

  I can’t miss.

  I take a deep, calming breath and force myself to pretend that the snake’s spade-shaped head is just an inanimate target as I take aim.

  One shot. One chance.

  And then I pull the trigger.

  ACT II

  Scene 3

  The shot is clean, right through the snake’s head. To Ryder’s credit, he doesn’t even flinch. I squeeze the trigger a second time, wanting to make damn sure I’ve killed it.

  Here’s something you might not know—when you kill a snake, it continues to wriggle. Luckily, Ryder’s smart enough to get out of the way at this point, because you can actually get bitten by a dead snake if you’re not careful.

  “You okay?” I call out, lowering my gun.

  “Yeah. Shit, that was close.” He flings the sandbag he was carrying to the ground.

  I’m shaking now, my hands trembling as I lock the safety and shove Delilah back into the waistband of my shorts. “I think it’s time to head back inside,” I say. “Forget the sandbags.”

  “You sure?” His face is pale, slightly ashen.

  “I’m sure.” I glance up at the sky just as it opens up again, the light rain turning torrential in a matter of seconds.

  “Let’s go!” Ryder calls out, and we both dash toward the Durango.

  We drive slowly back to the house, avoiding the deepest of the mud puddles.

  “What do you want to do with this stuff?” Ryder asks as he pulls up beside the house and cuts the engine.

  I turn and survey the load in the back. “We should take the guns in, but everything else can stay here for now.”

  Just then, a gust of wind buffets the truck, causing me to suck in a sharp breath.

  “That was at least a fifty-mile-an-hour gust,” Ryder says, his voice a little shaky.

  “I didn’t think it was supposed to get really bad till tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I think this is just the beginning.”

  Whoa. If this is just the beginning, then I’m terrified to see the worst of it.

  “On the count of three, we make a run for it,” Ryder says. “I’ll get the guns—you just head straight for the house. Ready?”

  I reach for the door handle. “Ready.”

  “One. Two. Three. Go!”

  We both burst from the truck at lightning speed. I make a mad dash for the front porch, slipping and sliding the whole way. I wait for Ryder in the mudroom. He runs in a few seconds later, the canvas bag thrown over his shoulder.

  Again, we’re dripping wet and covered in mud. Both dogs are whining, looking at us pleadingly through the mudroom door. They’ve got to go out, storm or no storm.

  “You go on and get in the tub,” Ryder offers. “I’ll take ’em out real quick. It’s only going to get worse.”

  I nod, soaked to the bone and shivering now. I’ve had enough for one day. I just want to get out of these clothes and sink into a hot, bubbly bath. I don’t even wait for Ryder to leave with the dogs—I start stripping down to my underwear right then and there and race down the hall to my parents’ room.

  I’m still in the big Jacuzzi tub when the power flickers—once, twice—and then goes out, leaving me in total darkness, chin deep in lukewarm water. I don’t know why, but it all hits me then—Nan’s surgery tomorrow, shooting that moccasin, this stupid, never-ending storm. I start to cry, deep, gulping sobs. I know it seems childish, but I want my daddy. What if things get worse? What if the house starts to flood? Or the roof blows off? As much as I hate to admit it, I’m scared. Really scared.

  A knock on the bathroom door startles me.

  “Jemma? You okay in there?”

  “I’m fine,” I call out, my voice thick. My cheeks burn with shame at being caught crying in the dark like a two-year-old.

  “Do you want a candle or something? Maybe a hurricane lamp?”

  “No, I’m . . .” I start to say “fine” again, but a ragged sob tears from my throat instead.

  “It’s going to be okay, Jem. We’ll get through this.”

  I sink lower into the water, wanting to disappear completely. Why can’t he just go away and let me have my little meltdown in private? Why, after all these years of being a jerk, does he have to suddenly be so nice?

  “I got both dogs dried off,” he continues conversationally, as if I’m not in here crying my eyes out. “They’re in the kitchen eating their supper. I think Beau’s pretty wo
rked up.”

  I continue to bawl like a baby. I know he can hear me, that he’s right outside the door, listening. Still, it takes me a good five minutes to get it all out of my system. Once the tears have slowed, I reach for my washcloth and lay it across my eyes, hoping it’ll reduce the puffiness. A minute or two later, I drag it away and wring it out before laying it over the edge of the tub.

  It’s still dark inside the bathroom, though I can see a flicker of light coming from beneath the door. Ryder must have a flashlight, or maybe one of the battery-operated lanterns I scattered around the house, just in case. I wonder how long he’s going to stand there, waiting for me.

  The light flicks off, and I think maybe he’s finally left me in peace. But then I hear a muffled thump, and I know he’s still out there, probably sitting with his back against the door.

  “Hey, Jem?” he says. “You saved my life, you know—out there by the barn. Most people couldn’t have made that shot.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut, but tears leak through anyway. I hadn’t wanted to kill that stupid snake, but if it had bitten Ryder and we hadn’t been able to make it to the hospital in time . . .

  I let the thought trail off, not wanting to examine it further.

  “Thank you,” he says softly. “I owe you one.”

  I’m trying to think of what to say in reply when jagged lightning illuminates the bathroom. The boom of thunder that follows shakes the house and rattles the windows.

  “Okay, time to get out now, Jemma,” Ryder calls out, his voice raised in alarm. He pounds on the door for emphasis.

  I’ve already leapt from the tub, my heart pounding. “I’m out,” I call back as I reach blindly for my towel and wrap it around myself.

  “That was close. Less than a mile away, I’d say.” Before he finishes the sentence, there’s another crack of lightning followed by the crash of thunder. Beau starts to howl, his nails clicking against the floorboards as he comes running, looking for a place to cower.

  “I’ll leave this lantern here for you, okay? I’m going to go get my cell and check the Weather Channel, see what they’re saying.”

  I hear his footsteps fade away, and then the door to my parents’ room clicks shut. Hurrying out, I find the robe I’d left on my parents’ bed and shimmy into it, letting my towel drop to the floor.

  I can hear Beau whining from under the bed, poor guy. Funny how it’s the bigger dog that gets so scared during storms, while little Sadie remains completely unfazed. Nan likes to say it’s because Sadie isn’t smart enough to know she should be scared, but I don’t think it’s that. I think it’s just the terrier in her. Terriers are feisty.

  Once I’ve tied the robe, I retrieve the towel and dry my hair as best I can. I wish I’d thought of bringing my pajamas downstairs before I’d gotten in the tub. Now I’m going to have to go up to my room and rummage around by lantern light.

  It takes me a good fifteen minutes to find a clean tank top and a pair of plaid pajama shorts. I start gathering up other things—my laptop, my video camera, and my favorite picture of me and Nan, taken just this summer at the beach and displayed in a kitschy driftwood frame with seashells glued onto the corners. Better to have all the important stuff downstairs with me, where it’s safe. You know, in case the roof blows off.

  Which it very well might do, I decide, listening to the howling wind. It’s gotten much worse since I came upstairs, rattling the glass in my windows now. I make sure the doors to my balcony are securely latched before I grab my stuff and head back downstairs.

  Technically, it’s not even dark out yet, but it might as well be. The sky is nearly black, with thick, rolling clouds hanging disturbingly low in the sky. The eye of the storm isn’t due to hit us till sometime tomorrow, but that won’t be the end of it. It’ll take several hours after that for it to move completely out of the area. It’s going to be a long couple of days.

  I find Ryder in the kitchen. “Hey, it looks like we’re under another tornado watch,” he says, glancing up from his phone. “Where do you think we should we go if the—”

  His words are cut off by the shriek of the tornado siren in the distance.

  “Storage room under the stairs,” I say, looking around frantically for the dogs and cats. “Now!”

  ACT II

  Scene 4

  It takes us a dangerously long time to round up both dogs and all three cats and toss them into the storage room. When I finally climb inside after Ryder, who’s carrying Sulu—the last of the cats—I’m breathing hard.

  “That took way too long,” Ryder says as he latches the door behind us. “We should keep them all locked in the kitchen from here on out. We have to be able to get them on a moment’s notice.”

  “Yeah, I see that now,” I grumble. Still, I’m glad he didn’t argue when I told him they were all coming with us.

  The tornado sirens are still wailing, the wind howling. But it’s warm and cozy inside the makeshift storm shelter—and well stocked, thanks to my careful preparations.

  The room is probably fifteen feet long and six feet wide, a narrow rectangle with a ceiling that slopes down to a V by the door. Even at its entrance, the ceiling is too low for Ryder to stand—I have to bend my knees and duck my head slightly, and I’m a foot shorter—but it’s clean and well protected, right in the center of the house and far away from exterior walls.

  Two battery-operated lanterns provide ample light as I shoo the dogs down to the end of the room where I’ve stowed dog beds and a water dish. Sadie and Beau head straight for the beds and curl up, both of them whining pitifully now.

  Kirk, Spock, and Sulu are in a small, towel-lined crate that used to be Sadie’s. All three are staring at us balefully but otherwise don’t seem too put out. When I set up the space, I put a large piece of plywood on top of the crate and covered it with a plastic tablecloth so it could serve double-duty as a tabletop. Pretty ingenious, if you ask me.

  In the middle are two sleeping bags, along with pillows and extra blankets, and that’s where Ryder and I settle.

  “Don’t worry. I scrubbed this place down with bleach a couple of days ago, and I made sure there were no spiders.” A shiver races down my spine in spite of my assuring words, because we have some pretty nasty spiders here in Mississippi. It’s not the giant, scary-looking ones you have to worry about. They’re mostly harmless, except for the heart-attack factor. No, it’s the little ones—the black widow and brown recluse—that are truly dangerous.

  I reach for my cell phone, which I’d somehow managed to carry inside, along with my video camera. I don’t even remember grabbing them, but both are sitting on the little makeshift table beside one of the lanterns. I check the time. Quarter to seven.

  “That’s weird. It’s fully charged, but I don’t have any bars.”

  Ryder checks his own phone. “Yeah, me either. Maybe a tower went down or something.”

  “I hope not.” Nan’s surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. I need to be able to contact my family.

  “I wonder how long this one’s going to last,” Ryder says. His mouth looks pinched, his jaw tight. I hadn’t noticed it before, but he looks kind of green.

  “You’re not going to be sick, are you?”

  “No. ’Course not,” he says, but I’m not convinced. “Do we have any water in here? Besides what’s in the dogs’ bowl, I mean.”

  “A whole case.” I hook my thumb toward the supplies behind us. “Plus packages of peanut butter crackers, some cookies, and a box of granola bars.”

  “I guess being a Girl Scout all those years ago really paid off, huh?”

  “Guess so. You hungry? We missed dinner.”

  “Nah, I’m good.” He rips through the plastic packaging and retrieves a bottle of water, twisting off the cap before taking a long, deep drink. “Want one?” he asks once he’s nearly drained his.

  “Nah, I’m not thirsty.” I’m not really hungry, either. I just wish the stupid siren would stop because it’s starting to ge
t on my nerves.

  A crash of thunder shakes the storage room, startling us both. Another one follows on its heels, causing Beau to lift his head and howl. I scoot over to his side, scratching him behind one ear. “It’s okay, buddy. We’re safe in here.” I hope, I add silently. “Look at Sadie. She’s not being a scaredy-cat. Oops, sorry, guys,” I toss over my shoulder toward the cats. “Just a figure of speech. How’s it going over there in the USS Enterprise?”

  “You always talk to them like that?” Ryder asks me, his voice a little shaky.

  “Pretty much.” I look at him sharply, noticing how pale he’s gotten. A muscle in his jaw is working furiously, and there’s a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead. “Are you okay?”

  He doesn’t get a chance to answer. Another clap of thunder reverberates throughout the small space, followed by a horrible cracking sound and then a terrifyingly loud crashing noise.

  I rise to my knees, looking toward the door that leads out. “What the hell was that?”

  Ryder reaches for me, his fingers circling my wrist in a manacling grip. “You can’t go out there, Jemma!”

  I struggle to release myself. “I’ve got to see—”

  “No! There’s a goddamned tornado out there. Shit!” He pulls me toward him, and I practically fall into his lap.

  He’s shaking, I realize. Trembling all over. “What is wrong with you?” I ask him.

  “What’s wrong with me?” His voice rises shrilly. “You’re the one trying to go out in a tornado. You’ve got to wait till the sirens quit.”

  “I know. But crap, that sounded like something came through the roof.”

  I scoot away from him, putting space between our bodies. I can smell him—soap and shampoo and the clean, crisp-smelling cologne he always wears. I can smell something else, too—fear. He’s terrified.

  Of the storm?

  “Okay, what’s going on?”

  He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing in his throat. “What do you mean?”

  “You seemed okay before, but . . .” But once it’d started thundering and lightning, he’d come and sat outside the bathroom door. He’d acted like he was there to comfort me, but maybe he was the one who’d needed comforting. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to be alone. “You seem pretty freaked out right about now.”