Grayton Winds

by Michael Lindley

  The sounds of the wind and the rain continued to build outside and the lightning flashed every few minutes, followed soon by the roar of the thunder up in the heavens above the little town of Grayton Beach. I thought for a moment about closing the storm shutters outside, but was distracted again by the whiskey and images of Eleanor Whitlock. After a while, the thunder seemed a continuous growl out in the night sky.

  I don’t know for sure if it was minutes or hours later, but I had fallen asleep or passed out. An even louder crack of thunder had startled me back to consciousness. I looked over and the whiskey bottle was half empty. The house now seemed to shudder and creak with each gust of wind and the roar of the thunder and the wind mixed in a frightening wail. The bushes and live oaks beside the house scraped against the clapboard siding. I thought about my new paint job and managed to smile for a moment at the futility of my labor.

  I reached for the glass again and filled it this time to the top and then held it in my lap. I started to think back over my pilgrimage to Grayton Beach all those months ago, after fleeing the betrayal of my family and a woman I thought I had shared a future with; the new people who had come into my life and those I now considered friends. And people like Willie Palumbo who I thought I had been able to come to trust, only to find everything with him was an angle, another line on expanding his base of business and power.

  I held the glass up in front of me and yelled into the roar of the storm, “You can go straight to hell, Willie Palumbo!” Then I took another long drink and the whiskey hammered my brain again as I threw my head back into the cushion of the chair. Rational thoughts and concerns faded with the effects of the liquor and I started laughing out loud, laughing maniacally at the storm and my life and the people that now haunted that life.

  Through the haze of the liquor the effects of the storm seemed now only a roaring crescendo of sound and chaos. The window behind my head was shaking against the fury of the wind and then there was an explosion that crashed through the house as the window in the kitchen blew out and glass shattered across the floor as the knifing wind found its way into the Headley cottage. There was madness all around and I struggled to stand against the force of the wind blowing through the hole in the wall above the sink. Papers and books and other debris flew through the air and the roar of the wind grew even louder now that it had penetrated the barrier of the house.

  I staggered against the gale, trying to get over to the kitchen to do something to close the howling gap in the wall, but even in my sodden state I quickly realized it was a hopeless pursuit. I turned and let the wind almost blow me into the bedroom and I struggled with whatever energy I had left to close the door behind me. There was a temporary escape from the wind, but not the howl and booming thunder of the storm outside or the shuddering effects it was causing on the house. Then there was another explosion of glass out in the living room that caused me to fall back and I tripped on some clothes on the floor and landed on my back near the bed. Looking up, the rafters and planks of the roof seemed to be moving as if they were preparing to fly off into the night. I thought for a moment about Lila Dalton, her daughter Sara and little Melanee down the street at the hotel and I prayed they were in a safe place, protected from the bedlam that was howling across the sand and dunes of Grayton Beach.

  The bedroom door was shaking violently in the wind and a near squall was blowing through under the gap at the bottom. I sensed the old house would crumble and fly apart into the storm at any moment. I looked around frantically for any safe harbor. The tiny closet against the wall seemed the only shelter available and I crawled in and burrowed against the back corner of it, holding my hands over my head. In my drunken state, I was convinced I heard water and waves crashing against the side of the house. Later I would find the storm surge had indeed brought the surf well up into the village. My last conscious thought was of Melanee Dalton and her piano and a furtive hope all would be safe by morning.

  Then, there was the sound of birds again and at first it was off somewhere in the deep recesses of my brain, only a distant echo of song. The chorus continued to build and I opened my eyes, the past night’s fury and pandemonium now beginning to return in my mind. I looked around and saw it was light, probably early morning and I was still sitting in the tiny closet. Peering out into the bedroom there was nothing but clothing and debris and wreckage all about. When I looked up, I was surprised to see the roof was still attached to the house, although there were several leaks where water was dripping in.

  Trying to stand, I pulled myself up along the opening edge of the closet. My legs and back ached from sleeping on the wooden floor of the small space and my head was pounding from the effects of the whiskey. The door to the bedroom had blown open during the night. There was sand and water everywhere among the debris. As I walked out into the main room it looked like a bomb had gone off and tossed everything in random disorder about the house. All of the windows appeared to have been blown out or partially shattered. I walked carefully on broken glass and splintered wood.

  Almost afraid to look outside at the destruction the storm must have wreaked upon tiny Grayton Beach, I unlocked and opened the front door slowly. As I walked out onto the porch, my mouth fell open and I blinked several times to make sure I was focusing. Giant pools of water lay all about across the roads and nearby yards. Many of the structures I could see seemed to be stripped and battered by the winds and water, several knocked entirely over and lying in shattered wreckage in the wet sand. My car was still parked by the leeward side of the house and though covered with palm fronds and debris, it seemed relatively serviceable.

  As I looked down the road toward the hotel, I was stunned to see it was virtually gone. With a less protected path up from the beach from dunes and other structures, only a portion of the lower floor remained in broken remnants. I started running down the street as best as I could, my mind exploding with images of the most horrifying of outcomes. Surely no one could have survived the night if they had stayed in what was left of the hotel. I started yelling Lila’s name as I got closer, but there was no response, only the sound of the pounding surf down at the beach. Down past the hotel I saw two people walking out of their cottage and almost in a daze, staggering around and taking in the destruction. The windmill and water tower were nowhere to be seen. The wind had died to almost a calm breeze and the dark gray clouds were now distant to the north, the sun shining across the beach and the town from down toward Panama City.

  I ran up into the yard in front of the hotel and struggled to climb over debris that blocked my way. I kept yelling for Lila and then Sara Dalton, but there was no response. When I was able to climb up onto what was once the front porch, I saw a woman’s legs sticking out, lifeless and bloody from under a collapsed wall. I was frantic and started pulling at splintered boards and furniture, throwing as much as I could to the side, while at the same time looking around for signs of any of the others. With all my strength, I pulled hard on a piece of wooden wreckage that lay across the woman’s head. When I was able to move it enough to see, two lifeless eyes stared back at me. The woman’s face had been badly injured, but it wasn’t anyone I recognized, perhaps one of the summer guests. I reached down and shaking badly, placed my fingers on the woman’s neck. Her skin was cold and wet and there was no sign of a pulse.

  I moved on across the battered ruins looking for others, tears running down my face as I feared what I was soon to find. Then I heard a sobbing noise from somewhere out behind the main structure and started in that direction, my hands and arms now bleeding from splintered wood and broken glass. There was a wall still standing at the back of the hotel where the kitchen had been and the door was still in place. When I opened it and walked down into the back alley, a large tree had fallen and blocked the way to where I was now hearing the crying sounds. I ran around to the side and saw the tiny storage shed Lila used to keep supplies. To my surprise, it was mostly intact. The door was open and my heart nearly stopped beating when I
saw Sara Dalton walking out of the darkened doorway with her daughter Melanee in her arms. Sara’s face was cut badly and bleeding on her left cheek. Melanee was crying, her face buried in her mother’s hair.

  I ran up to them and held them both in my arms, my tears joining theirs. Then several others started coming out of the shed, some were guests I recognized, others were unfamiliar to me. Louise Palumbo stumbled out and held her hand in front of her eyes to shield the bright morning light. I turned back to Sara and her face was an awful mix of tears and dried blood, her eyes clouded in a terrified gaze. Melanee looked up at me and her expression of fear and sadness nearly broke my heart.

  Then she spoke in a hoarse whisper. “Grandma’s gone, Mathew.”

  “She’s gone?” I asked, nearly numb with my own fear.

  Sara spoke for the first time, strained and distant, “She’s dead, Mathew.” My worst fears were realized and I pulled them both closer to me. Sara went on to tell me Lila had herded everyone out behind the hotel into the old storage house when the storm had peaked and windows and walls began to break in, thinking there may be more protection from the wind. Most of the guests had managed to get out; although she knew several were still missing. Everyone was huddled in the shed with blankets over their heads for some protection from flying debris when Lila went back one more time to look for her remaining guests. They all heard the giant live oak tree moan and then crack loudly before it fell, taking out part of the back of the hotel porch.

  “When I heard the tree coming down,” Sara said, as she tried to control her voice from crying again, “I looked out the window of the shed and a bolt of lightning illuminated everything as one of the big limbs of the tree fell right on her.”

  Melanee was sobbing again and wouldn’t lift her head from her mother’s shoulder, but then she cried out, “I told Grandma not to go.”

  Sara tried to comfort her and then I looked over under the tree and a blanket had been laid down among the broken branches. I walked over slowly and knelt down and pulled back the edges of it. Lila Dalton lay with her face to one side in the sand, her hair pushed back away to reveal a peaceful expression, even with her eyes closed. She could be taking a nap on the beach and not look any more serene. The huge limb from the tree that had knocked her down and taken her life lay across her back, nearly two feet around and impossible to move. I placed the blanket back over her face and turned to Sara and Melanee who had been watching me. There were no words to express my grief, no offer of sympathy that could have possibly been given. There was only a deep, gnawing and dark hole in the pit of my stomach that made it difficult to even breathe. That morning we all stumbled around in the wreckage, numb to our loss and heartache. Later, even as the winds continued to calm and the sky cleared, I truly felt there might never be a respite from the memories of that terrible night to help ease our loss.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The service for Lila Dalton was held two days later at the small church in Point Washington. The cemetery was adjacent to the old wooden chapel and a sizeable crowd had gathered now on this morning to pay their respects. The Bidwells had come over and Rebecca stood with her parents with a bible in her hands, listening with the rest of us to the words of the pastor. Jimmy Headley had made it as far as Point Washington and then was forced to ride out the storm there with the Bidwell’s. He was also there with Rebecca. I stood holding hands with Sara and Melanee Dalton to my sides. They were both looking down at the casket that was about to be lowered into the ground. The sky had been clear since the storm had passed and the shade from the tall trees all around us was welcome relief against the rising heat of the morning.

  The pastor finished a final prayer and then came over to Sara and shook her hand, expressing last words of sympathy. I thought about how fragile our brief time in this world can be. Only a short while ago I had been back in Atlanta for the service for my brother, Jess. The flame of his life had been so suddenly extinguished without warning and with no sense of the terrible pain that would be left behind in those who had loved him. Now this beautiful and kind woman had fallen and left us. Family and friends stood in quiet anguish and if like me, they were considering their own mortality, it was certainly a sober awakening to what may lie ahead.

  The Bidwell’s had offered to host a small reception back at their house, just a block down toward the bay from the church. They had all weathered the storm fairly well. Being several miles back from the beach they had been somewhat sheltered, although several large trees had come down near the house and the tidal surge had raised the Choctawhatchee Bay waters up near their house and the store. We all started off in that direction when I saw a solitary figure standing back among the trees. It was Sheriff Lucas Crowe and fortunately he had sense enough not to come closer. We exchanged looks and he turned and walked back over to his car. I watched back over my shoulder as he drove away.

  At the Bidwell’s house, everyone milled about in solemn respect for the passing of Lila Dalton. Louise Palumbo stood alone by the table set with food and cold tea. I walked over and she smiled when she saw me and then gave me a long hug. Her pretty face had seemed to age noticeably over the summer; the death of Seth Howard and the constant tumult of being married to Willie Palumbo, taking its toll.

  “Mathew, I feel so badly for Sara and little Melanee,” she said. “They were doing so well with Sara back and getting healthy again.”

  I looked at Sara Dalton, standing with her daughter and talking to the pastor, all with plates of food in their hands, but not eating. Her face had taken on some of the old troubled and withdrawn look from when she had first returned. I was worried her mother’s passing and the responsibilities of life on her own with a young daughter would be too much for her to cope with.

  “She and Melanee will need help from all of their friends,” I said. “I hope you’ll be able to stay a bit longer.” Louise had been staying at one of the neighbor’s houses up in the woods that had received less damage. I had cleaned up the Headley place enough that it was habitable and Sara and Melanee had been staying in the spare bunk room, although with most of windows blown out and the screens ripped to tatters, the bugs and flies were a constant bother.

  “I haven’t heard from Willie,” she replied. “The phone lines must still be down. I expect he’ll be trying to get down here as soon as he can.”

  I tried to think how I would react the next time I saw the man. Murder was more than a little extreme, but certainly a wistful option I had laid awake at night contemplating. His man, Anthony, would protect him from any physical harm I might try to inflict and my sensible side kept reminding me that attacking gangsters is usually to be avoided.

  Headley came over with Rebecca on his arm and I could tell they were smitten with each other. They both expressed their sadness again with Lila’s passing. Jimmy said he’d be staying another couple of days with the Bidwell’s until the roads were better before starting back to Atlanta. I wondered if Rebecca would ever let him leave.

  Sara walked up with Melanee and said she would like to get back home and that Melanee was tired and needed to take a nap. I looked down at the little girl and placed my hand on her shoulder.

  “Mathew, I tried to be very brave today and not cry so Grandma could go to Heaven and be happy we were okay,” Melanee said.

  “You were very brave,” I reassured her. I looked up at her mother and saw far less strength and composure in her face and I noticed her hand was shaking as she held her daughter’s.

  “We really must go,” Sara said again.

  We all gave our thanks to the Bidwell family and Rebecca and Jimmy Headley walked with us out to the car. Rebecca was holding Melanee’s hand. “We’ll try to bring old Barley out to the beach tomorrow to give you a ride, honey,” she said. “Would you like that?”

  “I would like that very much,” the little girl said, trying not to show too much excitement on the day of her grandmother’s funeral. Sara thanked her again and then we drove bac
k to Grayton Beach, bumping around fallen trees and huge puddles of rain water.

  They both sat in the front with me. We had been traveling for a few minutes when Sara said, “Did I tell you Melanee warned us about the storm?”

  I look over at her in surprise. “When was this?” I asked.

  Sara explained that two days earlier Melanee was sitting at the kitchen counter when she told both her mother and grandmother a big storm would be coming soon and they should really leave the beach for a while. I looked down at Melanee beside me and she was crying now, her defenses finally down from the burial service.

  “I told Grandma it was going to be a very bad storm,” Melanee said sadly. I looked over at Sara and we exchanged knowing glances of how much this would haunt her little daughter in the days ahead.

  The process of clean-up and repair continued over the coming days, although there was no hope of salvaging what was left of the hotel. It would need to be torn down and rebuilt. I had taken Sara and Melanee into Panama City to meet with Lila’s bankers. Sara was devastated to find out her mother had invested almost all of her money in buying and fixing up the place and there was very little left, certainly not enough to rebuild. She had carried no insurance either. I had offered to give Sara the money and she was grateful, but said she wanted to think more on where she should really be to raise her daughter properly. Her comments gave me comfort that perhaps she was going to take some responsibility for her life and remain stable enough to carry on and take care of Melanee.

  While the Headley place had remained standing, it had sustained severe damage. The front porch roof had been entirely ripped off and we found pieces of it scattered up in the woods behind the house. Many of the metal roofing panels had been ripped away and others were bent back and away at twisted angles. Several holes in the roof had been caused by a fallen tree. The wind and sand had scoured the outside of all the homes in Grayton Beach, leaving the paint worn and pitted. I just shook my head when I first walked around to assess the damage, a full summer’s work wasted. Although Jimmy had told me not to bother, I had given Bidwell a list of lumber and other supplies I would need to start the repairs. They had been delivered the day before by one of his big horse-drawn trailers. His son Jonas had agreed to hire on to help. While I could handle a paint brush, after a while I knew I was way over my head when it came to construction and carpentry.