by Dan Alatorre
The one home he could see over the rear fence, the Garza’s, was completely dark.
It’s not just us, then.
That was mildly comforting. At the front of the house, the street lights were off and no visible illumination appeared anywhere on the entire street. The moving van blocked his view of the new neighbor’s house, but it was almost certainly black, too.
He took a sip of his beer.
Bad time to be moving in. Hot and sweaty from carrying boxes, and then no air conditioning, maybe no cold drinks . . .
Jett frowned. He’d be happy with a dozen or so Coronas for the weekend—they’d stay cold for about two days if kept the fridge shut—but if he had to share . . .
He glanced at his cell phone. No signal. That meant the cell towers were down, too. The storm was messing things up worse than he thought.
Ohhh, and no cell signal means no streaming the game.
He winced again and cursed under his breath.
What am I going to do now, read a book all weekend?
He gave another look at the big moving truck.
Poor buggers. Moving is the worst. Moving in August is extra worst. With no AC . . .
His wife’s words came back to him. “Well, if the power does go out, go take them a flashlight . . .”
He shrugged. They probably have flashlights.
“You are so unsocial.”
“Ohhhh, okay. I’ll be a good neighbor. I’ll take them a flashlight and offer to bring them over a cold Coke.” He glared at the ceiling. “Okay, dear?”
Stomping up the stairs to get a pair of shoes, he passed his daughter’s room. There, in the window, sat a small stuffed dog—a border collie—arranged on the sill to appear to be faithfully watching for the return of its nine-year-old owner.
Good dog, Sparkles. At least one of us won’t be bored this weekend.
Jett shook his head and directed his cell phone light toward the master bedroom to find his Nikes.
* * * * *
Squatting in front of the kitchen cabinet, Jett checked the date he’d written on the big yellow flashlight.
2015. Not exactly new.
The second one he grabbed said 2013, but both worked, so he took the newer one. The idea was to get new ones every hurricane season and mark them with a Sharpie so he knew which ones were still good, but after not needing any for a few years, he did what everybody does. He got out of the habit. Complacent.
After loading the small cooler with Cokes—two? Three? Are there kids?
We have a few Capri Suns . . .
He shoved his cell phone into his pocket and headed outside.
The wind met him on the front porch, blowing his hair back and tugging at his collar. Big black clouds moved like silent ghosts across the darkness of the night sky, barely visible, but somehow still ominous. It reminded him of the time he’d gone night fishing on Terry’s boat, giving him a nervous twinge in his gut.
For fun, his co-worker shut off the skiff’s running lights in the shipping channel of Tampa Bay during their return. The night was very dark—the water, the horizon, everything—but as their eyes adjusted to the darkness after dousing the boat lights, the stars delineated the sky. Then an inky horizon of trees and far off houses slowly became visible. Jett stared ahead over the bow as Terry idled the motor down. Creeping along, a small white wave rippled in the distant water ahead. Beyond it, only black.
As Jet turned to scan the horizon, more trees and shapes came into view—but not in front. Not over the bow. Just the white ripple, coming closer.
Then it dawned on him.
Terror gripped his insides. The massive, black hull of the frigate wasn’t visible in the dark. Since his eyes hadn’t fully adjusted yet, he didn’t see its tiny bow lights eighty feet in the air—not that he would have been looking so high in the air for another boat.
They heard it, but sounds play tricks in the water, and a big ship’s engine is two hundred feet behind its giant steel frame, so the sound gets pushed to the sides. It bounced back to the boaters after echoing off the shorelines, obfuscating the direction the noise came from.
All Jett saw was a little white glow from the wake, and, thinking it was a wave, he ignored it—until he realized there were no stars above it, only black. Leaning away from the railing, the giant black V of the hull came into view, like a triangular black hole that swallowed everything around it—and the picture was then complete. The ripple was at the front of a huge ship. It unknowingly lumbered toward the tiny boat, a speck in a black canvas before it.
Jett’s stomach lurched, and he leaped backward, screaming for Terry to swing wide.
As he switched on his cabin lights, Terry’s jaw dropped. The hull of the freighter stared at them, gray and rusty—and close.
He revved the skiff’s engine and turned hard, barely missing a collision. The freighter’s wake grew to twelve feet as the ship passed the little skiff, heaving it upwards and slamming it back down. Expensive equipment flew off hooks and shelves, crashing to the deck at Jett’s feet. After three or four waves, it subsided enough for Terry to regain control and pilot his boat home safely.
They got home. Jett and Terry laughed off their brush with death over a beer.
Or, Jett tried to.
The sight of that black V, blocking the stars, suddenly going from a black nothing to a huge something—sent a shock through him. It gripped his insides like he’d suddenly been emptied. It had a taste, that fear, like he’d bitten into a big piece of wrinkly foil. His tongue and brain recorded it, and, once tasted, the sensation was never forgotten. It was as if he’d glimpsed death and somehow managed to escape, but he knew he’d never fully escape that sensation.
That’s what he felt as he stood on his porch, staring up at the night sky, gripping the little cooler in his hand. Not the full-on jolt like on the boat, but a hint, a taste, a reminder.
The dark sky was too dark. Like the freighter hull. Ominous. Allowing things to be missed that otherwise would be seen.
He clicked his tongue across the roof of his mouth to clear the sensation and took a few deep breaths. Maybe the intro to these strangers should wait.
I’m an unsocial jerk.
When the feeling had faded, he stepped off his porch and headed down the driveway to meet the new neighbors.
The light from his phone illuminated the side of the big U-Haul. The tail doors had been left open, and it was empty inside.
Good. Less possibility for a request to move a piece of furniture.
Jett stepped past the truck and proceeded up the neighbor’s driveway.
A dim light emanated from inside the house—too bright for candles, unless they had lit a thousand of them and put them in all the downstairs rooms. It was as if the house had not lost its power at all.
On the front porch, the glow of the doorbell greeted him.
Huh. No power should definitely mean no doorbell.
Jett glanced up and down the street. None of the other houses had lights. The street lights remained dark, along with the rest of the sparsely-populated street.
He stared at the little orange button as it glowed in the night. An odd feeling rippled through him, like the wall of thick, hot summer air had somehow cracked open and a chill breeze slipped through. It sent goosebumps up his arms and down his spine.
He shuddered, forcing the chill from his system, and glanced back toward his own house.
The big truck blocked his view. He could see part of his roof; that was all.
Maybe I should do this another time. They’re probably tired.
He turned to step off the porch, peering at the blackness of the tree line against the dark night sky. The hull of the massive freighter jumped into his mind again, filling him with the fear that gripped his gut on Terry’s boat when he realized there were no stars in the big black V.
He gasped, throwing himself backward, stumbling on the step and nearly losing his balance. The cooler banged into the rail post with a sloshy thu
mp. Jett grabbed the railing and stared at the tree line, his breath coming in pants.
No hull. No water. Just trees, swaying in the windy night.
Swallowing hard, Jet leaned on the porch rail and closed his eyes, drawing a few more deep breaths.
On the other side of the front door, footsteps approached. Jett stood himself up and flung his free hand like it had water on it, working to calm his nerves.
What the heck has gotten into me tonight?
He shook his head and stared at the ground.
The deadbolt clicked above the knob, and the door opened a crack. A silhouette appeared in the gap, but the door opened no further.
Jett opened his mouth to introduce himself.
“What do you want?” The woman’s voice was stern.
Jett took a half step back. “I, uh—I live across the street. The power in the neighborhood went out and, um, I thought . . .” He held up the cooler, shrugging. “I thought you folks might like a flashlight and a cool drink after spending the whole day moving, but it looks like your power is—”
“All day?” The eyes at the door glared at him. “You spied on us?”
“What? No.” Jett blinked, his jaw dropping. “No, no, no. I—my wife, she thought you . . . I—I—you’re new and the truck was there. So . . . it’s a moving truck.” He shrugged again. “I just assumed you were moving in all day. I wasn’t spying. I was actually trying to watch a football game when—”
“You sit at the desk by the window, in the front room.” The neighbor’s door stayed where it was. Her voice remained firm, with a slight hint of an accent.
“Uh, yeah.” He waved toward his house, eyeing the big moving truck that hid it from their view. “I work from home. I, uh, do spreadsheets for Trans Market Airlines. I create business plans and budgets.”
She stared at him.
“Anyway, the power went out and my wife thought you guys might like a cold drink.”
The door inched open. The woman leaned out. “I don’t see anyone else.”
“Oh, no.” He cleared his throat. “She and my daughter went to Atlanta to see the whale sharks.”
The dim light from inside cast a faint yellow hue to the woman’s brown hair. Her gaze drifted up and down over him. “I’m being rude. Forgive me.” She stepped back, opening the door and holding her hand out. “Please come in.”
She was maybe thirty years old, and slender, dressed in a loose gray sweatshirt and blue jeans. Her hair fell around her shoulders. The accent was slight, but it was definitely there. Maybe Russian or German. Forgive came out as forgiff.
He’d never been in Alma’s house before. It sat empty for a few years after she moved into a retirement home, occasionally having a For Sale sign or For Rent sign in the yard. But she paid to keep the lawn mowed, so Jett didn’t care if anyone lived there or not.
The house was bigger inside than it looked from the street, and had a detached two-car garage behind it. A shallow lake stretched outward from the rear of the property, a mile or so around some trees until it ended in the subdivision of Broadmoor. His daughter liked to ride her scooter up and down the sidewalks of Broadmoor when one of her school friends would visit.
Tonight, Alma’s old house was illuminated by a few lamps that rested between cardboard boxes.
“You have power!” He smiled at his new neighbor. “How’d you manage that?”
“We have a generator. We are using that.”
The eastern European accent sharpened her words. Ve haff. She shut the door, leaning her petite frame against it as it closed.
“We.” He nodded, lifting the cooler. “So, there’s a man of the house?”
Her eyes widened.
Jett shut up, standing there in an awkward silence. Her reaction made him think he might have offended her or put her on guard. Maybe she was living alone in the big house and didn’t want to admit it to a stranger, or . . . she could have left an abusive situation and was hiding.
He glanced at the boxes. It seemed like there was enough stuff for two people.
“I live here with my sister, Erindira.” She stepped away from the door and gestured to the living room couch. “We are . . . very private people.”
“Oh, well then I’m sorry for barging in. I thought that with the power out, you might need enjoy a drink, but—”
“I’m sorry. I’m being rude again.” She smiled. “Please come in and sit down.”
She walked to the living room and stood by the chair. Jett went to the couch and sat, placing the cooler and the flashlight on the floor. The unsettling feeling from before—the sky looking like the freighter hull—hadn’t quite left his gut, but he tried to ignore it and pay attention to his new neighbors.
“I am Tatiana.” She picked up the cooler and set it on the kitchen counter before returning to the chair and sitting. “Thank you for the gift. May I offer you a drink, mister . . .”
Meester. The accent had a lulling effect. A little mesmerizing. He wanted to see if he could figure out where it was from, without asking.
“I’m Jett Barker.”
“Hello, meester Jett. How long have you lived here in the neighborhood?”
Jett rested his elbows on his knees. “Oh, about six years, I guess.”
“Is it always this quiet?”
Her accent was not from Germany. Maybe Poland? “Pretty much,” he said. “Of course, when the power’s out, it’s a little quieter than the rest of the time. Speaking of which, you said you had a generator. I didn’t hear one. It must be very quiet.”
“Yes.” Her eyes never left his. “Very quiet.”
Jett didn’t know what to make of such focused attention. He shifted on his seat.
“Would you like a drink? My sister will join us shortly.”
“No, no,” Jett said. “I don’t want to be a bother. I know what it’s like to move a lot of boxes all day and—”
Her eyes flashed at him.
“Well, not all day.” Jett swallowed hard. “However long it took you to move them. Or whoever moved them. I wasn’t . . . I was busy on my computer. And the truck—it blocks the view of your house.” He wiped his hands on his pants and glancing around the room.
Why are you stammering like an idiot?
“Tatiana, are you speaking to me?” A woman’s voice came from upstairs, as a shadow moved at the top of the steps.
“Erri, we have a guest.” Tatiana sat up straight and smiled. “The neighbor from across the street has come to visit us. Come say hello.”
A second petite woman came down the stairs. Brown haired, like her sister, and dressed in sweatpants and a cropped tank top that showed a small section of well-toned abdomen. The way they spoke, Erindira was older than Tatiana, but she didn’t look more than twenty-five. Her complexion was fresh and her skin tight, accented with high cheek bones and thick wisps of hair that fell playfully over her big eyes.
She walked like a gymnast, graceful but athletic, almost striding. Her bare toes silently glided across the floor as she crossed the room and held out her hand to Jett. “I am Erindira. Thank you for coming to our home to check on us.”
“Oh, I didn’t—” But he had. And how did she know?
Jett glanced to the steps. Sound travels. At his own house, his wife could hear him sneaking some late-night chips from all the way up in the bedroom. She must’ve heard from the conversation with her sister.
“Meester Jett brought us some Coca-Colas, Erri. Would you like one?”
Jett cocked his head. “How did you—how did you knew they were Cokes?”
Tatiana’s eyes darted to the cooler. “Oh, I’m sure you said. When you came in, I think.”
“Yes.” He shifted on his seat again. “I’m sure that’s it.”
Erindira put her hands on her hips. Her dark eyes narrowed slightly. “Would you like a better drink, meester Jett? One for a wet, rainy night?”
“I’m not much of a drinker,” he lied. Ten more Corona Lights waited for him back at his hou
se—where there was no power, no ESPN, and where the beer would be getting warmer with each passing hour. All ten beers were had been marked for consumption during his wife-and-child-free weekend.
Erindira strolled to the kitchen. “Where we come from, when a guest arrives at your new home, it is customary to have a drink with them.” She opened a cabinet and took out some tall, thick glasses. “A toast, to bring good things for the future.”
“Our father taught us this,” Tatiana said.
“Ah.” Jett nodded. “And where was he from?”
“Father?” Tatiana lips pulled to a pout. “He died long ago.”
“No, I asked where was he from?”
“Let us have a drink.” Erindira gathered the glasses together with a sharp clink and headed toward the refrigerator. “Do you know of limoncello?
He did. He hated it.
“It’s Italian, I think,” Jett said. “Is your father from Italy? Your accent doesn’t sound Italian.”
“Ha, I always tell to Tatiana that we have strong accent still.” Erindira took a bottle from the freezer. “Father moved to Italy during the war, from Hungary, but then he had to move again.”
Jett nodded. “Which war?”
Erindira appeared at his side, handing Jett what looked like a shot glass, but taller. “When we toast,” she said, “we drink deep to good fortune.” Erindira raised her tiny glass. “Sânge cald.”
“Soonjay what?” Jett said. “Called?”
Tatiana laughed, taking a glass from her sister’s hand. “Almost.”
“That’s probably as close as I can get.” He smiled. “What does it mean?”
Erindira eyed him, her gaze unwavering. “Sânge cald means, ‘warm blood.’”
“That’s an . . .” He stared at the drink in his hand, the feeling in his gut growing. “That’s an odd toast.”
“It is cold in the Carpathians.” Tatiana lifted her glass, gazing at him over the little brim. “So, to wish for warmth is a good wish.” Her voice was warm and mellow. Soothing, with its mysterious, exotic dialect.
