by Rachel Hauck
“Howard!” Mercy Bea spits as she cleans up the last of the pots Andy used to make soups. “Why can’t our hurricane be named Esmeralda or Lillian, or heck, Mercy Bea. No, we get Howard. Before this one, Hugo.”
“What’s wrong with Howard?” I pause to wipe sweat from my eyes. Andy, Russell, and I are bringing in five-gallon water bottles from Andy’s truck. The prehurricane air is still, sticky, and hot.
Mercy Bea juts out her hip, plopping her bent wrist on her waist. “Have you ever in your life met a Howard remotely as exciting or wild as a hurricane?”
“Howard Hughes.” I undo my ponytail, comb my fingers through my damp hair, then wrap it up again.
She snorts with an exaggerated face. “How do you know Howard Hughes, Caroline? He’s dead.” She stops and gazes toward the ceiling with a wrinkled brow. “Right? Howard Hughes is dead? No, wait, he’s the guy who runs the Playboy mansion.”
Andy drops two jugs of water to the Café floor, catching the sweat on his brow with a swipe of his shoulder sleeve. “Hugh Hefner runs the Playboy place. Howard Hughes was an entrepreneur. Made movies, was into planes. And he’s dead.”
“That’s right. The DiCaprio boy played him in a movie. Too many Hs around here. Howard Hughes, Hugh Hefner, Hurricane Howard.” She shudders and reaches for a dish towel to wipe down the pots.
Andy came to me a few days ago with an idea. “Why don’t we make up a bunch of soup, stock up on nonperishables and water. You know this storm is going to knock out power someplace. I’ll have Luke bring out the big grills, clean them up, make sure the propane tanks are full and working. We wait too long, and we won’t be able to get any supplies.”
I loved the idea. “We can feed anyone who stops by. Even cook their food for them, stuff that might go bad if they are without a fridge.”
Andy nodded. “That’s what I was thinking. And, Caroline, let’s not charge folks. Let them come on out, fellowship, and eat a good meal for free.”
Great minds . . . “Yep. Help me get a list together and I’ll send Russell and Luke shopping.”
So, here we are, unloading supplies.
“Where do you want this stuff, Caroline?” Russell holds up several Wal-Mart bags. My credit card protrudes from his fingers. “I bought every battery packet I could find and cleaned out the flashlights. Got a bunch of matches too.”
I slip the credit card into my shorts’ pocket. “Thank you, Russell. Just put the bags in my office.”
“Caroline, if you don’t need me, I’d like to go,” he says as he comes back out of the office. “I should get my place ready.”
I check the clock. Four o’clock. Already. “Go.” I hug him. “Be safe. See you when it’s over.”
I suppose he’s not the only Café employee who has a hatch to bat-ten down. “Do you need to go?” I ask Andy and Mercy Bea.
Mercy Bea waves her hand in the air. “The boys bugged out with friends last night. I plan to find a corner in a shelter and hope Howard blows away my roach motel.”
The hollow ring of loneliness pings my heart. The echo hurts. “Find a corner in a shelter . . .” “Shoo, Mercy Bea, I’m so glad to hear you’re footloose and fancy-free. I could use some company at the carriage house. How about it?”
She drops the damp dish towel in the laundry bin. “Well, if you’re scared.”
“What about you, Andy? Do you need to go?” With a working wife and children, there’s bound to be work to do at his place.
“My boys are boarding up. I need to finish up here, but then reckon I should make sure we have water and food.”
I motion to the gallons of water we brought in. “Take a couple of these.”
He whips off his cap, scratches his head, then plops his hat back down. “What about boarding up the Café and carriage house?”
Oh. Crud.
Ten minutes later, Mercy Bea and I stack plywood boards from the shed in Andy’s truck bed. Boarding up? I hate it. The Café and carriage house will be dark and claustrophobic. Then stifling when the power goes out. I’d almost choose to sit in the hammering rain and raging wind.
During Hugo, Mama went stir-crazy in our boarded-up house. She paced, then sat quietly before organizing a play of Broadway proportions, including set design, singing, and dancing— all to be Fred Astaire perfect. When we showed less-than-stellar enthusiasm, she crawled into bed and stayed there for two days. Daddy plied Henry and me with enormous amounts of junk food.
I stretch my stiff back with a deep arch and think of how that storm was the first time I realized darkness haunted my mama.
“Hey, Caroline, pay attention. No time for a break, girlie,” Andy says with a chuckle, lugging yet another board out of the shed.
I love the many-windowed Café, but I have to confess, I’m a bit bit-ter at the moment. Boarding up is going to take forever. Howard will have come and gone.
Daddy calls as Andy helps me hang the first board using the Tapcons Jones drilled into the walls years ago. Mercy Bea goes behind us, screw-ing on the wing nuts.
“You doing okay, Caroline?” Daddy asks.
“Andy and I are hanging boards.”
“And me.”
“And Mercy Bea.”
Dad hesitates. I’m sure he’s trying to picture the daughter he couldn’t get to hang up her clothes for more than a decade, lugging around ply-wood. “I’m still on a job. Posey’s waiting for me at home to board up. Come to the house when you can.”
“Thanks, Daddy, but Mercy Bea and I are going to hang out here. I want to open the Café as soon as I can for folks who need food or water.”
“All right. Call if you need anything.”
“See you when it’s over.”
Henry calls a few minutes later. “Cherry and I are helping the boys’ families. Are you okay?”
Huh? I hold out my cell phone to check the number. Yes, it’s Henry.
“I-I’m fine, thanks. You told Cherry about the boys?”
“That night. I realized how stupid I was behaving. Time to grow up.”
That sinks my last doubt. Indeed, there is a God. “Good for you.”
“This time next year, you might be an aunt.”
“Really?”
“Cherry said thanks; she felt your prayers.”
My feeble, fumbling offerings worked? “Tell her hi.”
“She loves the boys too. I’m not just a Big Brother now; we’re more like a big family. So, how’re you sitting there? All good? Need anything?”
I smile. “All good. See you when it’s over.”
A half hour later, Andy and I are halfway through boarding up the Café when his cell goes off. “Caroline, I got to go. The boys are arguing more than working. And Gloria wants me to stop by her mother’s to bring in the outdoor furniture.”
“Go, go, take care of your family.” My arms are stretched to the sides of a large square board. “I can finish up.”
Mercy Bea looks at me. “You don’t figure on me helping with these boards, do you?” She spreads out her fingers. “I already broke a nail and am about to lose another.”
The board slips from my grip and crashes against the Café. “Mercy Bea, why don’t you go home and get your things. Secure the trailer, then come on back.” I flick my wrist at the pile of boards. “Don’t worry here.” If I have to leave this side exposed, the risk will be minimal.
“I like your thinking, Caroline.” She’s off the porch and on her cell phone before I can say, “See you later.” “Allison, thank goodness . . . I need a nail repair pronto.”
A wind gust knocks against me. I lift my eyes to the darkening sky. Mountains of gray clouds loom over Beaufort.
I decide to hang a few more boards, or at least try, then see what I can do at the carriage house. Maybe I should buzz Dad back and beg, “Help.”
Hoisting the board, I aim the drilled board holes at the top Tapcons. The right side hooks onto its industrial-strength screw at an odd angle, and I can’t get it the rest of the way on, or off.
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“Stupid board.”
Anchoring it in place with my knee, I spy the hammer on the stool. I reach. The plywood splinters scrape my skin. My fingertips barely cap-ture the hammer’s handle. Finally.
Gripping tight, I whack the board into submission.
“Now what did that board ever do to you?”
I whirl around. “Mitch, hey.”
“Need some help?” He slips his hand over mine, taking the hammer.
I hold his blue gaze. “I thought you were in Nashville.” I haven’t seen him since our so-called date. Seeing him now makes me realize I missed him.
“Seems I arrived home in time for the hurricane fun.” He steps in front of me; I sniff his shirt, yumm. “You should get hurricane shutters. Push of a button, and my place is set.”
“That’ll be a chore for the new owners.”
“You’re selling?” He easily pulls the board free, then hangs it evenly.
“Yep. Buzz Boys, Inc., sent me a letter of intent.” I spin on the wing nuts. “Want to join Mercy Bea and me for a hurricane party?”
He looks over at me. “I thought you’d never ask.”
Midnight. Peeking out the bottom of the front window where the board didn’t quite reach the end, I watch horizontal rain in the light of the street lamp—still glowing, thank God. The live oak limbs battle and twist in the surging wind, and the palmetto branches bend at a right angle.
Behind me, my little Hurricane Howard party is quiet and peaceful. Elle decided to join the festivities and is painting a hurricane scene in the corner by the boarded-up French doors. Mercy Bea flicks through Cosmo, reading embarrassing female anomalies out loud. Mitch pre-tends to watch the news, but the perpetual grin on his face tells me he’s hearing every word.
He’s so cool. When we finally hunkered down for the storm, he pulled out his guitar and sang a few hymns, then led us in prayer. The peace it generated reminded me of the night Jesus stopped by. Mercy Bea went through half a box of Kleenex.
A gust of wind crashes against the house. The lights flicker off. But before we can moan and complain, they flick back on.
“Howard best not leave us in the dark.” Mercy Bea rises from the breakfast nook with a Wal-Mart bag dangling from her fingertips. “Caroline, I brought a surprise.” She holds up the bag. “Hair coloring.
Let’s get you fixed up.”
“Color my hair?” On impulse, my hand reaches to the edges of my rough, dry, once-a-rich-brown hair. “Now?”
Mercy Bea shakes the bag. “Miss Clairol with extra conditioning. Now, come on. Aren’t you tired of that dried-out, mousy brown?”
“Who brings hair color to a hurricane party?” I sink my backside farther into the cool, leather couch.
“Mitch, convince her a little conditioning and color wouldn’t kill her?”
Mitch munches on an Oreo cookie from the coffee table junk-food pile—MoonPies, potato chips, M&Ms, Oreos, boiled peanuts. “It is a little mousy.”
“What?” I lean forward to see his face. “You would hand me over to this wanna-be stylist? Besides, what’s wrong with mousy brown?”
“Caroline, let’s goooo.” Mercy Bea motions for me to march to the bathroom, like a kid doomed for a Saturday-night bath. “Come on; it’ll be fun.” She produces a pair of shears. “I’ll trim the ends for you too.”
“Don’t you need a license for those?”
Elle calls from the kitchen, where she’s washing out her brushes. “I’ll do your nails.”
“Now, wait a minute, y’all.” I slide forward and slap Mitch’s knee a few times. “We can’t turn this into a girls’ night. What about poor Mitch?”
He waves off my comment. “After hearing Mercy Bea read out loud from Cosmo the past hour, I’m pretty much immune to girlie stuff in all its forms. Besides . . .” He points to the built-in shelves, “I’m going to peruse Jones’s old LPs.”
“That’s your last excuse, Caroline. Get cracking.” Mercy Bea shuffles me off to the master bathroom.
Mumbling as I change into an old, I-don’t-care-if-it-gets-stained T-shirt, I submit to Mercy Bea and let her dump a bottle of hair color on my head while Hurricane Howard howls over us like a hungry panther on a cold winter night.
“In twenty minutes, you’ll have lovely auburn hair, Caroline.” Mercy Bea scoops my hair on top of my head, secures it with a big clip, and tucks a towel around my neck.
“If you say so.” My skin tingles as the color slips down my scalp.
Mama was a naturalist. She gave up shaving her legs and underarms about the time I hit puberty. “Bondage,” she claimed. “Makeup, hair color, false nails, tweezing, shaving—tools to keep women in bondage to man’s idea of beauty.”
So, any discovery for me about bondage came from Cosmo, Hazel, Jess, and Elle.
I emerge from the bedroom. “Ta-da.”
Mitch looks around from the bookshelves, grinning, then laughing. “What? No mud mask?”
I pistol my fingers at him. “Shutty uppy.”
“Caroline, Iamoverwhelmedbyyourbeauty.”
“That’s more like it.”
Back to the albums lining the shelves, Mitch slips one from the row. “Have you looked at Jones’s collection? It’s amazing. Hundreds of albums in mint condition.”
“Y’all want popcorn?” Mercy Bea hollers from the kitchen.
“Popcorn is good,” I reply, standing next to Mitch, wiping my brow with the edge of my T-shirt. The strong scent of hair dye mingles with his fading cologne.
“The Carter Family, Bob Wills, Bill Monroe, original 78s and LPs.” Mitch flips through the stack. “Buck Owens, Homer and Jethro, Dixieland jazz, Glenn Miller—this is incredible.”
“Do you want to play one?” Jones’s record player from the seventies is on the bottom shelf. I lift the lid and click on the fuzz-covered turn-table. “Elle, can you mute the TV?”
Mitch eases a Buck Owens LP down the spindle, then sets the needle down on the spinning disc. The old speakers crackle and pop.
“Oh, that sound takes me back. The crackle of a needle on vinyl.” Mercy Bea leans across the kitchen counter, waiting for the microwave to produce a bag of popcorn.
Buck sings: “They’re gonna put me in the movies.”
Mercy howls along, almost drowning out Howard’s eerie wind song. Elle and I wince. However, Mitch takes the high harmony.
“All I gotta do is . . . act naturally.”
When the song ends, Mercy Bea jumps up for the popcorn. “Are there any Johnny Cash albums, Mitch? Now there’s a man for you.”
Howard shrieks with a surge of intensity. The muted TV screen shows us the hurricane’s eye looking down on Savannah.
“Mercy Bea, what’s the time on my hair?” I ask.
“Five more minutes.”
Mitch pulls out an obscure-looking disc. “Here’s a record marked ‘State Fair, ’49.’”
Elle gets up to see over his shoulder. Her bracelets clink softly as she reaches, turning Mitch’s hand for a better look. “What do you think it is?”
Mitch slides the disc from the white paper sleeve. “Fairs used to have recording booths. For a few bucks, a person could record a song or message.”
“Let’s hear it.” Mercy Bea tosses in a second bag of popcorn.
The old disc protests the needle with a pop when Mitch sets it down. In the next second, a very familiar voice emanates from the speakers. “This here is Jones Q. McDermott at the South Carolina State Fair, nineteen and forty-nine, singing a song to my true love.”
Clunk, twang, thunk.
Elle and I exchange a quizzical glance.
Mitch chuckles. “He must be having a hard time with his guitar in the booth.”
Mercy Bea comes over munching from her first bowl of popcorn. “He sounds so young.” Her words fade away. “I miss him.”
I grab a handful of white popped kernels. “Me too.”
“This is for my gal—” Jones says.
(“Hurry up, kid. Ya ain�
��t got but two minutes!”)
“Ah, hush up, old man. Here’s for you, darlin’.”
The guitar strings squeak and Jones begins his serenade.
You captured my heart
With your lovely smile
We was young
But for a while
I’ve been in love with you—
(“Ha-ha-ha! What’d you do with the money your mama gave you for singing lessons, kid?”)
Always loved you
Darling, will you marry—
(“Not if she’s smart. Time, kid. Time.”)
The recording is over. Abrupt and rude. My emotions cry foul. Jones McDermott captured me with his heartfelt, fifty-eight-year-old song.
Mitch lets the needle scratch against the paper label for several long seconds.
“What happened? Where’s the rest of the song?” Elle yips. “Mitch, check the other side. Who was that man yelling?”
“The booth operator.” Mitch somberly flips the record over, but there’s nothing on side B. So he plays A again.
“This here is Jones Q. McDermott . . .”
The four of us listen and fuss to each other about the rude booth operator, then wonder who in the world stole Jones’s heart.
“Mercy Bea, did you ever hear him talk of anyone?” I ask.
She tosses popcorn into her mouth. “I may be the oldest among y’all, but I’m not that old. By the time I met him, he was a cranky, committed bachelor.”
Mitch carefully slides the 45 into the white sleeve. “Sounds like he really loved this woman. But the man yelling . . . Not cool. Poor Jones trying to sing his heart to a woman he loved.” He laughs lightly. “I remember my first recording session. I was petrified.”
I jab his ribs with my elbow. “You were not.”
“Yes, I was. Terrified. If someone yelled at me like that, I would’ve bolted. Never sung a note.”
Mercy Bea rams her wrist in front of my eyes. “Time, Caroline. Time.” She runs toward the bedroom. “Hurry, we best get you rinsed out.”
“Mercy Bea—” Eight extra minutes have passed. “If I look like Lucille Ball . . .”
“You won’t look like Lucille Ball.”
Howard chooses that exact moment to shake Beaufort as if we are a tiny town encapsulated in a snow globe. The lights flicker.
