Hard Rain

by Darlene Scalera

“He’s sixteen, Uncle Frank,” Jesse said. “That’s all.”

  “That’s enough.” The old man sighed. “Not that I’m so old I don’t remember pulling a few crazy stunts myself.”

  “We’ve all got our stories to tell, Pop,” Clare said as they stepped inside. The farmhouse had a well-lived-in air. Even in the dim light, Amy could see that the fabrics on the furniture were faded, but the pillows were plump and piled high. Family photos decorated one wall and a large quilt covered another.

  “The storm skipped you then?” Jesse said.

  “We were some lucky,” his uncle said. “A few tiles on the roof popped and the winds were like the hounds of Hell, but the house is still standing.”

  “We’ll be saying extra prayers tonight,” an older woman said as she came into the room. Her plump, sturdy figure and kind face with its deep laugh lines revealed she shared her husband’s ease with life. She wrapped her arms around Jesse and the child he still held. She moved on to Amy without hesitation, enveloping her in a strong embrace.

  She stepped back, her hands still clasped on Amy’s shoulders. “A couple of those prayers will be for you,” she told her with a smile. “I’m Edna Boone, Jesse’s aunt.”

  “Amy Sherwood.”

  “Well, c’mon in the kitchen,” Edna said, slipping her arm around Amy’s shoulders, “and we’ll see if we can find something to feed you. We’re limited without electricity so we’ll have to be more clever than usual.”

  “Where’s Michael?” Clare asked.

  “In the kitchen also.” Edna led Amy toward the hall. “I set him to peeling some potatoes. K.P. duty. He’s mumbling about it, but busy hands do a boy good.”

  Edna led Amy into an open, airy room with high ceilings and a chrome table. Chrome chairs with vinyl seats circled the table. The kitchen set had been copied and called retro in California, but this one was original, enjoyed for its function rather than funky charm. “Your husband must be worried sick about you, Amy.”

  “I’m not married.” Amy gave the woman the answer she was fishing for. She recognized the boy at the table from the photos in the other room. Even though he was sitting, she could see he was lanky like his grandfather, but not fully grown. His body fit him like a too-big suit, forcing him to hunch his shoulders over the pile of peelings in a stainless-steel bowl that matched the table legs. A mean red welt primed to blacken had already risen on his forehead.

  The boy glanced up, his expression the sullen, disinterested mask universal to teens and criminals about to be interrogated. He took in Amy without curiosity.

  “Michael, this is Dr, Sherwood,” his grandmother introduced. “She came all the way from California to help out during the hurricane. She and your Uncle Jesse went to Padre Point searching for you last night before the storm made landfall.”

  “Two more people who were worried about you,” Clare chastised.

  The boy gave his mother an impatient look. Clare crossed her arms across her chest as if donning protective armor in preparation to do battle. “Not only did you put yourself in danger with your foolish antics, you put them in danger as well.”

  The boy glanced at Amy and Jesse. “Sorry,” he mumbled, lowering his gaze to the potatoes.

  “I’d like to take a look at your forehead, Michael,” Amy said. “Check to make sure that bump is just a bump.”

  Setting down a potato and the peeler, the boy watched her as she rounded the table to where he sat. She pulled out a chair, met him eye level.

  “Face me, please,” she instructed. “Any blurred vision?” She felt the boy’s forehead, along his neck and glands for swelling.

  The boy shook his head.

  “Nausea, vomiting?”

  Again the boy shook his head.

  “Headache?”

  “A surfboard cracked my skull. It wasn’t pretty.”

  Amy smiled. “Was the pain sharp, shooting?”

  “Nah. Just like I got dropped on my head.”

  “Has the pain increased or subsided since you got beaned by the board?”

  “It’s dull now.”

  “Take any medication?”

  “Nah.”

  “Good. In case of a head injury, even a simple aspirin could have consequences. Abnormal sleepiness?”

  The boy looked at her. “My mom thinks so.”

  Again Amy smiled. “Outside of normal teenage sleep patterns, which do tend to be excessive.”

  The boy shook his head. “You’re from California?”

  “Courage Bay,” Amy answered. She moved the small oil lamp on the table closer. “Follow my finger with your eyes, please. Look up. Look down. Stand, please.”

  Amy rose with the boy to find he was several inches taller than she was.

  “Is that on the coast?”

  Amy nodded. “Right on the ocean. Not far from Los Angeles.”

  “You surf?”

  “No, sir. Not enough hours in my day, but I have some friends who do. Put your arms out at your sides, please. What was the biggest wave you caught yesterday?”

  The boy smiled, the wave gaining size in his memory. “Had to be fifteen feet easy. But it was an even bigger one that took me out.”

  “How’d your friends fare?”

  “They got bounced around, probably sore as sh—”

  He caught himself. He glanced over at Clare, who glared at him. From the corner of her eye, Amy saw Jesse swallow a smile.

  “But you got the worst of it.”

  “Lost my board, but my dad will buy me a new one.” He chanced another look at his mother, who remained silent, arms crossed.

  “Raise your arms to your sides,” Amy instructed. “Close your eyes. Touch your right finger to your nose. Now your left. Great. You can open your eyes. Your mom said you got a good cut on your leg?”

  “When I lost control of the board, the water was rough. I tucked my head, pulled in my legs like my dad taught me—”

  Amy heard Clare sigh.

  “But the water was like mad-crazy and the rudder gashed my calf. I wrapped a towel around to stop the bleeding.”

  “Did that work?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’d like to take a look at it.”

  The boy pulled up the leg of the flannel lounge pants popular among both sexes his age. The cut was open but the blood had coagulated, leaving a fresh, bright red strip. “Good. The bleeding has stopped. Stitches won’t be necessary.” She turned to the others. “There doesn’t seem to be any damage.”

  “Except it was a foolhardy stunt to pull in the first place,” his mother pointed out once more.

  The teenager grinned sheepishly. “C’mon, Mom, I’ll bet Grandma and Grandpa could tell me some stories about things you did when you were my age.”

  “I didn’t surf during a hurricane warning and get knocked on my backside.” Clare rubbed her forehead and turned even paler as the events of last night hit home. “You could have drowned.”

  “Well, I didn’t,” the boy mumbled in true adolescent fashion.

  “Maybe next time you’ll use some of that sense the good Lord gave you,” Clare said, infusing her words with anger. “In the meantime, apologize to your Uncle Jesse and the doctor here. They were stuck on the coast last night, trapped by the storm, looking for you. Do you realize what could have happened? Christmas, we were lucky.”

  “I’m sorry,” the boy mumbled, the defiance dissolving a degree as he looked at his uncle and Amy.

  “Now, finish up those potatoes,” Clare ordered. “After that, I’m sure your grandparents have some other chores for you to do.”

  His disdainful expression returning, the boy picked up the peeler and the potato he’d been working on. Scowling at the vegetable, he began to peel it.

  “Jesse, let me make you and the doctor something to eat. Like I said, we’re limited without electricity, but I can whip you up something.”

  Jesse shook his head. “I appreciate it, Aunt Edna, but I can’t stay. It’s late now and I’ve got to g
et into town, see what has to be done.”

  Amy nodded in agreement.

  “Frank himself was talking about heading into town to lend a hand, but surely not much can be done until daylight without electricity.”

  “They’ll have the generators running,” Jesse said. “Plus, I want to be on hand for any calls that come in.”

  “Well, you’ve both got to eat or you’ll be no good to no one.” Jesse’s aunt moved to the cupboards. “I’ll start the coffee, put it into a thermos. I’ll wrap up some sandwiches for you to take with you. Clare, while I do that, you take Amy upstairs and see if you can find some clothes that might suit her. She looks about your size.”

  “Thank you, but I have some clothes I can change into at the fire hall. I wouldn’t mind freshening up a bit, though. If you have a spare toothbrush, I’d kill to brush my teeth.”

  Clare smiled at Amy. “Sure. C’mon.”

  Clare picked up a lantern and a flashlight, and the two women left the room.

  “Nice-looking woman,” Jesse’s uncle observed. He looked at Jesse.

  “Smart, too. A doctor,” Jesse’s aunt added. “And single.”

  “She’s a little old for Michael, don’t you think?” Jesse said. The boy glanced up. Jesse winked at him in silent partnership. “You got an extra peeler or a paring knife, Aunt Edna?” He pulled out a chair opposite the boy and picked up a potato. Michael smiled.

  “Of course she’s too old for Michael.” Edna handed a peeler to Jesse. “But not for you.” She patted Jesse’s shoulder maternally. “Time you settled down.”

  Jesse picked up a potato. “I’m settled, Aunt Edna.”

  “Settled with a woman. Start a family.”

  Jesse peeled the thin skin off a potato. He didn’t argue.

  CLARE HAD LED Amy to the bathroom in the upstairs hall. Placing the lantern on the counter, she set out towels, toothbrush and toothpaste. She opened the mirrored medicine cabinet and told Amy to help herself to anything else she might need. She was sitting on the bed, waiting for her, when Amy returned.

  “I feel like a new woman.”

  Clare smiled. “Looks like you got thrown around some by the storm.”

  Amy looked down at the bruises and scratches on her body, the cut on her knee. “Nothing serious.”

  Clare stood. “He’s a good man.” She sent a sidelong look at Amy. “Jesse.”

  Amy didn’t answer. She didn’t need to be sold on Jesse.

  “My boys adore him.”

  “So I gather. He was lucky to have family to take him in after the accident.”

  Crossing her arms, Clare leaned against the door-frame. “So he told you about that?”

  “It was a long night. We had lots of time to talk.”

  “He doesn’t talk about it much. The other men that were there told my dad about it, how Jesse ran into the explosion to save his father. His dad was already dead, of course.”

  Amy frowned. “I thought Jesse was with his dad when the explosion occurred?”

  Clare shook her head. “He was on his way down for supplies when the tank blew. He ran right into the blaze. No one could stop him. He dragged his father’s body out. Was trying to bring him down when the scaffolding went.” Clare shook her head. “My dad never had much use for his brother. Heck, I didn’t even know I had a cousin until Jesse came after the accident. But Jesse loved his father. That’s part of the reason he’s so good with my boys. He hates the thought of them growing up without a dad.”

  Amy and Clare returned to the kitchen a few minutes later. Amy had brushed her hair and braided it at the back of her head. She’d washed her face, her cheeks pink from the scrubbing. Even in the dim light, Jesse saw where the night had taken its toll. More than one purplish bruise marred her thighs. Long scratches cut across her arms. He hated the fact she’d been battered by the storm, but he sensed she wore those bruises and scrapes as triumphantly as he wore his own. She was talking to his aunt, when she suddenly turned and looked directly at him. For not the first time in the past two days, Jesse felt his heart stop, then start again.

  They stayed long enough for Edna to pack them sandwiches, a thermos of coffee and a container full of homemade chocolate chip cookies. She packed a second basket of food for Frank and Michael, who decided they’d also head into town to see if they could help others who hadn’t been as fortunate as them. The women hugged Amy good-bye, and even Michael said thankyou without being prompted. The women and Shane stood on the porch to watch them off. Frank and Michael were putting supplies in a pickup truck as the SUV pulled away.

  “It might be safer for them to stay put until more clean-up has occurred,” Amy ventured.

  “I agree,” Jesse said, downshifting, “but try and tell Uncle Frank that. Better off not to argue. He’d go anyway.”

  They fell silent as Jesse steered the vehicle around deep puddles. They had gone only a mile when he turned left, then left again and crested a hill. The view would be spectacular in the daytime, Amy thought. That image was marred as the car’s headlights illuminated a pile of rubble from what once must have been a house. Walls had been ripped and shredded, exposing what was left of the contents. A refrigerator lay flat, thrown at least a hundred feet from the house. Heavy beams crisscrossed Sheetrock and piles of wet pink insulation. A lone tree trunk stood left of the rubble, its leaves and branches torn away. The tree had probably shaded the house.

  Leaving the headlights on, Jesse parked and got out without a word, his gaze fixed on the wreckage. Amy followed him. She knew this had been his home even before she saw the mailbox ripped from its post and thrown carelessly amid the rubble, a number and road name stenciled on its side. Beneath the address, Boone.

  Hopelessness fell on her hard, threatening to take her down. She might have been mired in the storm’s waters again, struggling not to be sucked under. She braced her shoulders and called up a righteous anger, blinking away the tears that welled in her eyes.

  Jesse squatted down, his broad shoulders stooped as he sifted among the wreckage. He pulled out a brass doorknocker, staring at it as if it were a rare jewel. Amy stepped toward him over the bits and pieces of his life scattered among the ruins.

  She crouched beside him. “Jesse, I’m so sorry. This was your house, wasn’t it?”

  She placed a hand on his upper arm. He tensed beneath her touch, then straightened, moving away from her. He wouldn’t look at her. “It’s only a house. Wood. Glass.”

  “It was your home.”

  Still he did not look at her. “It was a house.” He moved farther away from her, kicking at the rubble. She stared at his back and thought of what she’d learned from Clare only moments ago. How Jesse had tried to save his father, almost securing his own death in the process. Afterward, he’d sacrificed his own desire so that she could achieve her dream of being a doctor. Playing the hero came naturally to him. What was hard for him was accepting help from others.

  She stared at his back. Let me in, Jess. She moved toward him, stepping gingerly among the timbers. He stepped away. He did not want her help. Not today. Not fourteen years ago. Thoughts of a possible future together seemed as vulnerable as the building that lay around them.

  “We’d better head into town.” He gave a final soft kick to a beam. “I’m sure there’s plenty ways they’ll need our help.” He waited for her to start toward the vehicle.

  She looked around. She had so many questions. Had he lived here long? Did he build this house or buy it? What color had he painted the kitchen walls? Had he brought lady friends here? Cooked them dinner? Led them to his bed? Fourteen years. A lifetime. She said nothing, just looked at him. Let me in, Jess.

  “Ready?” He started toward the vehicle without waiting for her. Perhaps, as he’d believed fourteen years ago, he was protecting her. And he had. But then, as now, he was also protecting himself.

  She was almost at the edge of the wreckage when she saw a flash of bright green. She bent down and brushed away the damp splinters of wood
until she pulled out a small stuffed frog in a faded tuxedo. She smiled as she shook it out, dusting off dirt and tufts of insulation. She’d given it to Jess their first Valentine’s Day together attached to a big red heart balloon lettered My Prince. She remembered he’d blushed. Mr. Tough Guy.

  He was waiting for her at the driver’s door. His gaze took in the stuffed frog in her hands. Fourteen years fell away.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT WAS AROUND MIDNIGHT when they reached the center of town. They were silent as they passed blown-out storefronts, a pickup truck tipped on its side, yards littered with an absurd array of objects. Amy saw a rocking chair, an ironing board. A few roofs had been carried off; others had lost only their tiles, leaving them with a bald look. Silhouetted in the darkness, a man and a teenaged boy, both in hip boots, were sloshing their way through puddles. Their flashlight beams were pointed toward a barbershop at the end of the street. An uprooted elm had missed the roof but sheared off the metal awning. It lay thirty feet away, flung against the front of the post office. Amy remembered the gaily-striped barbershop pole that had caught her attention as they’d come into town yesterday. It was nowhere to be seen.

  Jesse released a long breath. His features revealed defeat before they altered into an expression of somber determination. He slowed the vehicle as they reached the man and boy, then parked, and got out. Amy did the same. Jesse turned at the sound of her door opening. “There’s no need.”

  “Maybe not.” But she hadn’t come here to sit and watch from the sidelines. He should have learned that by now. She rounded the vehicle, meeting Jesse at the other side. He flicked a glance at her and shrugged his shoulders as if to say “Suit yourself,” but she saw the grudging respect in his gaze.

  The boy and man came toward them, the same firm set to their shoulders as Jesse wore.

  “Tom. Alex.” Jesse laid a large hand for the briefest moment on the teenager’s knobby shoulder.

  “Sheriff.” The man nodded toward Jesse. “Ma’am.” For a moment, no one spoke, as if there were no words adequate.

  The man put his hands on his hips and looked around. “It could be worse. Heard it practically leveled territories along the coast.”