Into the Hurricane

by Neil Connelly

  “We made it!” he yells. In response, the wind shrieks through the broken window above them and a wave bashes the outside wall, hard enough that they can feel the building shudder.

  Eli sits up. “We need to climb. Let’s get away from this water.”

  Rather than stand on weary legs, the two of them crawl on their hands and knees, slowly ascending the nautilus stairway curving along the inner wall of the lighthouse. They pause at the windows, more for a break than a chance to take in the dark view. When they do look out, all they can make out is black and gray mixing, water and wind swirling together.

  Eventually, Eli stops. Max hears him knock on something above them, and he says, “Can’t go no farther. The water’ll never get this high. We’re safe, so long as Lucy don’t crumble.”

  “That’s a positive thought,” she says back. Like a blind man, Max pats at the backpack, feeling with her fingers to find the zipper and tug it open. She reaches inside to locate a long, thin tube. She tears open the wrapper and shakes the glow stick, bringing a welcome yellow-green shine into the chamber. It’s not much but enough that they can see the metal trapdoor above them, and they can make out each other’s faces.

  Eli, battered and bruised, still manages a grin and says, “Aren’t you mighty resourceful? We’ll make a Southern girl out of you yet.”

  Max is positioned a few steps below Eli, sitting between his bent knees on the narrow stairs. She sees something on the wall by his face, at the edge of the glow, and she turns and works her way up, bringing her head over his chest. Extending her arm, she illuminates the wall and reads the words scrawled there: “Heather Loves Blake!” After a moment, she declares, “Those two lovebirds sure are fond of graffiti.”

  Without thinking, she rests her face on Eli’s chest, just below his chin. He drapes an arm over her shoulder, sliding it inside the backpack’s strap, and she’s not sure but she thinks she feels him pull her into him a bit. “What would you write?” Eli asks. “Assuming you had the means?”

  She thinks for a minute, and she can feel his chest rising and falling softly. “I can’t think of anything good. What about you?”

  He’s quiet for a time, then says, “Eli and Max. Damn hard to kill.”

  Max laughs and says, “I like it. It does seem like we’ve had nine lives lately.”

  “We only have the one,” Eli says. “Just using it good.”

  She picks up her head to look at him, and his eyes catch on hers. They draw each other closer, and she eases her mouth up to meet Eli’s. Their lips press together softly at first, hesitant. But then they kiss without reserve, feeling the thrill of the life they have left.

  When Max lifts a hand to caress Eli’s cheek, she drops the glow stick, and they break their kiss. Together they watch it, like a falling star, plummeting down the lighthouse’s interior, streaking light behind it. Neither one sees it hit bottom. It’s just gone.

  “Your fault for distracting me,” Max says.

  Eli laughs a little. “I thought you were distracting me.”

  She begins to shuffle for the backpack and says, “Hang on. I got one more.”

  “We should save it,” Eli suggests. He settles one hand along the nape of her neck and guides her head back to his chest, which makes for her a fine enough pillow. “We may need the light later. No way of knowing what’s ahead.”

  She slides her hands under his arms, reaching up to cup his shoulders. And he crosses his wrists across her back, hugging her into him.. Inside this embrace, she feels safe in a way that’s hard to name. They are so totally alone here in this dark womb yet so totally together, reliant on each other. She’s certain that Eli feels the same way. Before long, Max hears his breath shifting and wonders if he might not pass out. Still, she’s sure that for as long as the storm rages, they will cling to each other with all the strength they possess.

  Time passes oddly for Max. With no watch and no light, she can’t tell as the minutes come and go and the hours bleed together in darkness. The hurricane winds whip around the lighthouse, and any lulls are filled with the crescendo of crashing waves. It becomes a strange sound track as she slides in and out of consciousness, flashes of memory striking up in her mind: the morning her mother was gone, and all day her dad drank whiskey from a coffee mug. The drive south to Louisiana, her navigating by map while he steered, and all those bad gas station meals. Angie telling her she looked pretty as she stood before a dressing room mirror. Her father’s face in the hospital, his cracked lips and his rattling breath. And when she was leaving Wayne Osteopathic that last time, in the hallway, her eyes had settled on Angie’s bulging belly. Angie saw this, reached for Max’s wrist, and guided her hand toward her stomach, saying, “The baby’s kicking. You want to feel?” But Max had recoiled, snapped her hand back, and marched away.

  All these things and other memories sit heavy on Max’s mind, haunting her in and out of a fevered sleep. She doesn’t notice the winds gradually fading, the rains abating, the sea calming itself. It’s Eli, awake once more, who stirs and says, “Hey. You hear that?”

  Startled, she lifts her face from his chest, wipes her teary cheeks, and says, “Hear what?”

  In response, Eli shifts his weight, then slides out from under Max. A few moments later, dim light spills into the chamber as he raises the rusty metal door above them. It squeaks on cranky hinges, then clangs down hard, and they climb up into the crow’s nest, where they first met just the day before.

  It’s like a movie, Max thinks. One of those apocalyptic flicks where the world meets its doom. The gulf spreads endlessly all around them, as if they’re in the middle of a vast ocean, like they’re the last souls left on earth. Strewn along the surface is unrecognizable wreckage—splintered wood, debris, shattered tree branches, flotillas of garbage. Max wonders how much is from the casino boat, how much the drifting remains of Eli’s destroyed hometown. She scans the ocean for the oil rigs and finds the horizon wiped clean.

  Right below them, the orange life raft floats peacefully, still tied to the fence, waiting like a loyal dog. The early morning sky is a light gray dome, with a few wispy white clouds threading along silently. Max is struck by a strange absence. “There’s no birds,” she says.

  Eli doesn’t respond. He just grips a railing and stares east toward town.

  She steps up behind him and sets one hand on his shoulder, just so he knows she’s there. Finally, he says, “My home,” and she can tell he’s not just talking about the house where he grew up, which no doubt is gone, but the entire community.

  Unsure of what else to offer, she says, “I’m sorry.”

  Eli shrugs and turns to answer. “You got a habit of apologizing when you didn’t do anything wrong. You know?” They tilt toward each other and hug, and it feels good having his arms around her and good to squeeze him back. He feels solid and steady. When he breaks the embrace, Max thinks they might kiss again, but instead, Eli steps away from her. She watches him descend through the trapdoor. He returns holding the backpack, and he sets it on the stumpy foundation that used to hold the beacon light. Eli reaches through the zippered opening and pulls free her father’s urn. He offers it to her and says, “We got some serious rowing ahead of us. I figure it’s about time you did what you set out to do.”

  She extends both hands and accepts the boxy weight. The urn is cold and heavier than she’d remembered. She grips the top and with effort pries up the stubborn lid. There’s a small pop of air. When she looks inside, she finds a simple plastic bag, tied with a white piece of lace. She tugs the bow to undo the knot. The contents of the bag look like fine gray sand, and Max imagines what it would feel like to pinch this dust between her fingertips.

  This is the scene she’d envisioned on the long trip south, through Baltimore, Washington, Atlanta, Mobile, New Orleans. All that way, she’d driven without music, keeping silent and picturing the handfuls of ash she’d toss into the clear air, the swirling dust that was all that remained of her father. It would drift from h
er fingertips and scatter into nothingness. How good it would feel, she’d convinced herself, to see him released and be free of how she’d wronged him. How sweet it would be, to simply let go.

  But now, as she stares down into the bag, other images crowd her mind. Angie is alone in the empty house, one hand resting on her belly, sitting at the kitchen table, praying for the phone to ring. Surely the search for her wild stepdaughter will turn up something. Surely her husband’s last remains will be recovered.

  Max shoves the lid back on, resealing the urn. “I’m good to go,” she tells Eli. Maybe after she gets back to Jersey and comes clean with Angie, on the far side of some long talks and hard apologies, they will return to this place. Or maybe they’ll go back to Mr. Clayborne and bring her dad to that cemetery by Angie’s church. But they’ll decide together how best to honor her father. This, Max feels in her heart, is what a good daughter would do.

  Eli smiles and nods, and Max thinks somehow he understands. She finds herself thinking of the funeral home, the hot office of that sweaty man, and the weird framed expression on his wall. She’s trying to recall the peculiar words when Eli pats the concrete stump. “Looks like we’ll have to put our restoration project on hold. With all the storm damage, nobody’s gonna want to put money into an old lighthouse.”

  They wander back to the railing and survey the distant damage. She says, “You think they’ll be able to salvage anything from town?”

  Eli shakes his head. “For the most part, I suspect there’ll be nothing left but the foundations. The Shacks has got more new construction in its future than repair work. Sometimes it’s better to just demolish the remains of what was and start fresh.”

  Max nods. She learned from her dad: Sometimes a property can only suffer so much damage and there’s no point in trying to restore it. The best bet is to tear it down and start from scratch. Max feels like she’s been torn down herself, and she likes this notion of a new beginning. She asks Eli, “You think I’ll make a good big sister?”

  He says, “Better than most.”

  It looks like he’s about to add something more when his eyes catch on something above them. His head turns, and Max tracks his gaze. High above them, a single bird soars over the disaster. Max can’t tell if it’s one of those herons or just a seagull, but it’s winging its way east, back toward the main part of the island. As Max watches it fly, something steals her attention in the waters below.

  Cutting through the junk and crap, a lone Jet Ski releases a high whine into the silence. It navigates the floating debris with sharp, sweeping curves, leaving a V in its wake. Max says, “Does the Coast Guard have boats like that?”

  Eli grins and says, “This here’s gonna be way better than the Coast Guard. Come on.”

  By the time they reach the windowless iron frame near the water, Sweeney has pulled up and is idling below the opening. He doesn’t look at all surprised to come across them like this, and Max notices a bloom of blood on the field bandage encircling his left bicep. A huge set of binoculars hangs from his neck. He raises his right arm in greeting. “Made my way to the Chains looking for you two. Then saw the lighthouse and figured what the hell. Stranger things have happened.” His gaze falls on the bright raft. “Where’d you pull that from?”

  “Long story,” Eli says. “How’s our town?”

  Sweeney glances over his shoulder, as if checking. “Not much more than a memory. Least for now.”

  And Max hears it again, the promise of rebuilding. She asks, “What about Charity and the kids?”

  Sweeney beams. “High and dry. Kind of rattled by the ’cane, but they were coming around when I left on patrol. That little one, Sabine? Safe to say something’s a bit off about that child, yeah?”

  Eli and Max exchange looks. She says, “Something’s a bit off about everybody down here.”

  Careful to avoid the hunks of floating rubble, Eli and Max jump into the water and swim to the swamped raft. Because of all the rain and sea wash, they need to dump it sideways. Next they find the knot at the fence, so waterlogged and tight they just cut the rope with Sweeney’s knife. He attaches the free end to his Jet Ski and, though the engine complains at the weight, he begins to tow them slowly in the direction he came.

  Eli and Max lean back into the stern of the raft, side by side. Above them the sky gradually regains a healthy glow. Color is returning to the world. As they motor toward town, the debris scattered on the surface becomes thicker: roofing tiles, huge chunks of soggy drywall, the top half of a trailer home, a single red sneaker, a bare mattress, the bloated belly of some poor animal’s carcass. Max cranes her head for a final glance at the lighthouse, diminishing in size as they move farther away. As it shrinks, she asks Eli, “Aren’t you going to give it one last look?”

  But Eli keeps his face fixed forward. “I’m not especially concerned with what’s behind me just now. I’ve got my mind set somewhere up ahead.”

  Max turns to the water tower rising in the distance. She imagines the iron bridge beneath it and the road that will lead back to the life she fled. With one hand, Max holds the urn close, but with the other, she reaches for Eli, folding her fingers around his. Like this, they watch a white heron float above them. Somehow it too survived the storm, and it pulses now on unsteady wings, leading the way.

  I am grateful to my agent, Sara Crowe, for her faith in my writing. As for Cheryl Klein, if editors were graded like hurricanes for their power, she’d be a Category 6.

  Neil Connelly is the author of five novels, including St. Michael’s Scales, which Kirkus described as a “richly layered, thought-provoking novel of how one boy learns to make weight,” and The Miracle Stealer, which Booklist called “realistic, gutsy—and yet movingly spiritual” in a starred review. Neil weathered five hurricanes in Lake Charles, Louisiana, in the course of seventeen years. He now lives with his wife and two sons in the calmer climes of central Pennsylvania, where he teaches creative writing at Shippensburg University. You can find him on the web at www.neilconnelly.com.

  Copyright © 2017 by Neil Connelly

  All rights reserved. Published by Arthur A. Levine Books, an imprint of Scholastic Inc., Publishers since 1920. SCHOLASTIC and the LANTERN LOGO are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2017009604

  ISBN 978-0-545-85381-1

  First edition, July 2017

  Jacket Art & Design by Mary Claire Cruz

  Stock Images ©: (Dark Clouds) Vyacheslav Shramko/Getty Images; (Man) Klaus Vedfelt/Getty Images; (Lightning) Akshath Abel/Eyeem/Getty Images, Johan Swanepoeli/Stockphoto, @Halla.Arabi/Twenty20

  e-ISBN 978-0-545-85387-3

  All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.

 

 

 
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