The Eye of the Storm

THE EYE OF THE STORM

         I held the drapes aside and watched the fat raindrops slap against the window. Lightning painted the inky black sky with streaks of electric silver and the glass rattled in the frame as the wind rose in a heavy gust. I took a step backward and saw my reflection imposed on the glass. My naked image caused me to smile.

         My hair was pulled back straight, gathered at the nape of my neck and secured by a thick rubber band. My lips were painted with a new shade of lipstick that complemented my tanned skin. My pear-sized breasts were small but high, my belly flat, and my legs slender and free of fat. I decided that twenty-four looked good on me.

         "Donna, baby, come on to bed," my husband of six months said, patting the space beside him. "It's just a thunderstorm. It'll pass."

         "I don't know, Clay. The weatherman said this one could turn into a hurricane if the wind picks up," I fretted, able to hear the worry in my own voice. "Do you think we should go to my mother's, further inland, until it blows over?"

         Clay, covered to the waist beneath the sheet, shook his head at my concern. His curly haired chest and muscular arms were exposed, and they never failed to excite me -- as did his gap-toothed smile. "Only hurricane we're going to have is right here in this bed," he said, pulling the sheet down next to him.

         Deciding I was being silly about the storm, I clicked off the table lamp, climbed in bed, and snuggled close to Clay's warm hip. He drew me into his arms, this man who made my life so complete, and pressed his full lips to mine. I ran my hands over his back and shoulders, massaging the muscles beneath his freckled skin.

         The rain became louder -- drumming a steady tattoo on the roof of our rented house as I lost myself in passion.

         A half hour later, sated, and basking in the warm afterglow of our lovemaking I cringed when a clap of thunder shook the house. The lightning was coming every few seconds now, illuminating the bedroom. The rain pounded the roof. The storm was growing worse.

         Clay, sensing my discomfort, moved until my head rested on his chest. He caressed my hair, smoothing, patting, in an ages-old gesture of one human being soothing another. In his arms I felt safe. Sleep spread over me like a warm blanket.

         The nerve-jangling sound of the telephone roused me from a dreamless sleep. The luminous, green numbers on the clock radio next to the bed pulsed 3:42 A. M. I grabbed the receiver. "Hello?"

         "Donna," the familiar voice of my mother said. "I was worried about you. The storm has been up-graded to a hurricane and it's following the coastline. It's already done some damage in Florida, Alabama and Mississippi, and, unless it turns, it's heading right for the Louisiana coast."

         "I was thinking about coming to stay with you, but Clay said we'd be okay here."

         "Well, you know you're welcome. And fifty miles inland can make a big difference."

         "Unh huh. I'll get up and turn on the television and keep listening to the weather. If it gets any worse we'll come stay with you."

         "Okay, honey. You and Clay be careful. Don't take any chances," mother said.

         "Sure, Mom. I'll talk to you later. 'Bye." I put the receiver back in the cradle, tossed off the sheet and got out of bed. Clay still slept soundly, a low, buzzing snore rattling from his partially open mouth.

         The house was warm and airless as I slipped into my robe and padded barefoot to the living room. Not bothering to turn on a light, I turned on the television and swept the channels until the weather station appeared. A gray-haired man stood in front of a map of the United States. The area I recognized as Louisiana was covered in red and had rotating wind symbols all around it.

         "Again," the man said, "Hurricane Claire is expected to make landfall near New Orleans, Louisiana within the next hour. Carrying winds in excess of one hundred and seventy miles per hour, and undiminished by earlier landfalls which caused heavy damage in western Florida, Mobile, Alabama and Gulfport, Mississippi, Claire shows all the signs of being more dangerous than any hurricane in recent years. Police and National Guard units are suggesting that people along the coast, near Chalmette, evacuate immediately."

         Chalmette -- just southeast of New Orleans. Our home town! A place that had been good to us. Clay had found steady, well-paying work in the off-shore drilling industry near Venice as a roughneck. We were saving everything I earned as a teller for a small, locally owned bank to buy our own home. Now this storm could change those plans.

         I hurried to the bedroom. "Clay," I said urgently, shaking him awake. "The hurricane is heading right for us . . . we have to evacuate."

         "Huh? Whas'a'matter, baby?" he slurred, still more asleep than awake.

         "The hurricane's coming! Get up!" I yelled, pulling the sheet off of him.

         He shook his head to clear the cobwebs, and I saw understanding fill his eyes. "When, Donna . . . what's the weatherman saying?" He questioned, finding his underwear on the floor and slipping them on.

         "Less than an hour," I said from the closet where I was throwing on a blouse and pulling on a pair of jeans.

         "Hey, lots of people ride these things out every year. They even have hurricane parties," he said, walking toward the window. He put his hand on the drapes. "You want to just jump up and leave everything . . . our furniture and clothes and all these things we've worked so hard for . . ."


         I turned and stared at him, my mouth hanging open in amazement. "What good are things, Clay, if we're dead?"

         "I just think you're over-reacting, Donna."

         "You're from Pennsylvania, Clay. What do you know about hurricanes? I've lived fifty miles from here all my life. You can't over react to something as powerful and unpredictable as a hurricane!"

         As if to punctuate my words, a limb from a large tree smashed through the bedroom window, showering us with glass, leaves and debris. I felt a flash of fire on my forehead and reached up with trembling fingers. I fell a warm, wet stickiness. My fingers were stained red with blood. "See, Clay . . . this can be deadly!" I screamed above the sound of the wind rushing through the shattered window. Only then did I notice that Clay was huddled on the floor near the splintered branch!

         I hurdled the bed and ran to him, cutting my feet on the shards of glass littering the floor, but not feeling the pain. I knelt beside him and lifted his head into my lap. "Clay! Honey!"

         Pain disfigured his face; made him grimace and squeeze his eyes tightly shut. "What is it, Clay . . . where are you hurt?" I asked, a step away from hysteria.

         "Think my leg's broken, Donna. Under . . . the . . . limb," he gasped, his face pale.

         I stood and grabbed the heavy branch with both hands, trying to move it off of him. I couldn't. "Clay!"

         "Harder, baby . . . get it off me. Please."

         I took three deep breaths, grabbed the branch again and pulled with all the strength in my hundred and twenty-five pound body. I felt it inch toward me. I strained even harder. Slowly, the limb slid toward me, and off of Clay's lower body. When I saw his leg I nearly fainted.

         His right knee was bent at an impossible angle and, protruding from his thigh, through the pallid skin, was a stomach-turning shaft of white bone. The wound was bleeding, but not profusely. "It doesn't look good, Clay. I'll call an ambulance. Hang in there, baby," I said, rushing to the telephone, my cut feet leaving vivid streaks of scarlet on the wood floor.

         The telephone was dead. I tried to switch on the light. Also dead. Taking a cover from the foot of the bed, I went back and spread it over Clay. "I'll be right back."

         Clay nodded weakly. His skin had taken on a gray cast. Shock? Or loss of blood? Or both, I asked myself. I had to hurry. I found my sneakers and, after brushing away several fragments of glass which still stuck to the pads of my feet, I pulled them on and went to the front door. I had to get to the neighbor's house . . . get some help.

         When I unlocked the door and turned the handle, it burst open so forcefully from the whipping wind that it nearly knocked me down. I pulled myself outside, unable to see ten feet ahead because of the driving, sideways rain. I aimed myself in the direction of the Lawson's, our neighbor to the north, and fought to stay upright in the gusting, lashing gale. The mud sucked at my feet like some submerged monster, trying to steal my sneakers. After minutes that seemed like hours, I stumbled onto the Lawson's porch.

         I banged on their door with both fists. No answer. I tried the door and found it locked. During a break in the rain I saw that their driveway was empty. Both cars were gone. Praying, I went to the next three houses, only to find the same thing -- empty. Our neighbors had taken to higher ground as we slept.

         The rain became colder. I sloshed my way back home, falling repeatedly. I was covered with mud when I reached Clay's side. He shivered beneath the cover. "How ya' doing, big guy?" I asked, trying not to convey my fear to him. I wiped rain from his forehead.

         "Co -- cold." he said between chattering teeth.

         "I'm going to go start the car. Then we'll get you out of here . . . I promise."

         I went to the kitchen and found the flashlight under the sink. It cast a meager, yellow beam, but it was enough for me to find the car keys on the kitchen table. I ran back outside. We had no garage, only an aluminum carport that creaked overhead as I unlocked the car and jumped inside. The car rocked as a gust of wind struck it from the side.

         I stabbed the key in the ignition and turned it. Rrrrrrr. Rrrrrrr. "No! Not now!" I begged aloud, and turned the key again. Rrrrrrr. Click-click-click. "Damn!" I cried slapping the steering wheel with both hands. Clay had noticed the battery getting weaker. He had planned to get a new one Monday. Now Monday might never come. I pushed the thought from my mind as soon as it appeared. We would be all right. We had to be.

         Once more I waded to the house. The water was getting deeper. Inside, I put my back to the door and shoved to close it against the never-ceasing wind. A screaming, tearing sound was evident even over the sound of the storm. I got to the kitchen window just in time to see the carport rip from its concrete moorings and sail away into the darkness!

         I moved away from the window quickly and returned to my husband. Water pooled around him to a depth of two or three inches. "Help me, Clay . . . I've got to get you off the floor so I can keep you dry and warm," I said, putting my hands under his arms and tugging him off the floor. He stood on his uninjured leg and, holding on to me for a crutch, I managed to get him to the spare bedroom. He grimaced with pain at every movement. At last, I got him in the bed. I ripped strips from a sheet and bound his knee -- though the bleeding seemed to have almost stopped -- then covered him with two heavy quilts my mother had given us for a wedding present. I stretched out beside him, offering him my body heat, and waited. I had to think. Had to have a plan.

         Outside, the hurricane drew closer. Clay tossed and turned beside me. "Man, it hurts so bad," he moaned.

         His color was better, I thought. "I'll get you some aspirin," I volunteered, and went to the kitchen. The house shook on its foundation. Debris crashed against the front of the house, breaking every window. The wind gushed through, solid, unbelievably strong. I found aspirin for Clay, then I asked myself what I needed to keep the two of us alive. Food? Plenty of canned goods in the pantry. I filled a plastic grocery bag with cans and tossed in a can opener. Fresh water? I turned on the faucet over the sink and felt relief when water streamed out. I emptied the remains of a half-gallon of milk from the refrigerator, then rinsed and refilled the plastic container with water from the faucet.

         What else?

         I searched beneath the sink and in the pantry. A length of narrow nylon rope I bought to use as a clothesline caught my eye. I'd take it to the bedroom, too. I was still looking for anything useful when the front of the house disintegrated into the living room. The ceiling partially collapsed in a thunderous crash of splintered two-by-fours, Sheetrock dust and shingles. The ceiling above me bulged downward.

         Snatching up the food, water and rope, I ran for the hallway leading to the back bedroom. No sooner had I passed into the hallway than the roof caved in over the kitchen. The wind howled and whistled so loudly I thought my eardrums might burst -- and the air pressure was increasing by the second. The house groaned as though it were a living creature, mortally injured by the storm.

         Clay was sitting up at the edge of the bed when I got back to him. His dark eyes were alive with a mixture of agonizing pain and relief when I walked into the room. "Oh, thank God . . . you're all right," he choked. "I heard the roof come down. I was afraid you were . . ."

         I took him in my arms, knowing how great was his pain, and how great his love for me that he would attempt to come to my aid. "It's going to be okay, Clay. It is . . . it is," I sobbed.

         He dry-swallowed the aspirin I handed him, then noticed the food and water I had dropped beside the bed. "Good thinking, honey. Can we get out of the house . . . make it to the car?"

         "The car won't start. And the water is rising too rapidly to chance driving out of here, anyway. I was hoping we could stay back here, if the wind doesn't . . ."

         Clay put his finger to his lips and cocked his head sideways. "What?" I asked nervously.

         "The wind. It's stopped."

         I listened. He was right. It was as quiet and still as a mortuary. "The eye of the storm must be over us."

         "It's over?" Clay asked hopefully.

         I shook my head. "When the eye passes, the back side of the hurricane will come through . . . and the water."

         "What water?"

         I stood up and began gathering our supplies. "The last hurricane to hit the coast here created a twenty-six foot tidal wave in its wake. More people were killed by the flood than by the wind."

         Clay nodded, knowingly. "I don't know much about hurricanes, baby, but I've seen some nasty flooding up in Pennsylvania in my time. We need to get on . . ."

         " . . . the roof," I interrupted, reading his thoughts.

         He winced as a bolt of pain sizzled through his leg. "But how? I can't climb."

         I held up the rope. "I'll pull you up," I said seriously.

         "You can't. I'm too heavy," Clay said, shaking his head.

         "So I'm supposed to let you die? You were on your way to help me with a broken bone poking out of your leg. We can do it . . . or I'm staying right here with you." I said in my most stubborn voice.

         "I don't know how . . ."

         "You can use your arms, can't you?"

         "Yeah."

         "Then just do what I tell you. Come on . . . let me help you to the chair by the window." Bearing most of his weight, I managed to get him to the chair without stumbling. Pain caused beads of perspiration to pop out along his forehead. I slipped the lock and raised the window. Not a sneeze worth of wind could be felt. "When I'm on the roof, I'll toss the rope down. Slide yourself out the window and start pulling," I directed, stooping to kiss my man lovingly on the lips. Then I climbed out the window.

         At the back of the house was a storage bin, with a swing-top lid. I tied one end of the rope around my waist and the other end through the handle of the water jug and at the top of the plastic bag full of canned goods. I set them down in the water and pulled myself up to the top of the bin. I reached for the roof overhang. Inches short!

         Knowing I would probably hurt myself badly if I failed, but also knowing that Clay's life and mine depended on my success, I flexed my knees and jumped as high as I could. I caught the edge of the roof and dangled for a moment, fearing my arms weren't strong enough to hold me.

         Then anger filled me. I was not going to give up! I loved my life, my husband too much to let myself be beaten. Drawing strength from somewhere deep inside I pulled myself up until my stomach was touching the edge of the roof. I scrambled forward until I could get a knee up, then pulled myself onto the roof, painfully ripping off a fingernail to the quick in the process. I stood and brushed my hands together in accomplishment before pulling the supplies up with the rope.

         The roof was steep and I almost fell once when my foot slipped, but managed to regain my balance. I got to the very peak of the roof, tied the rope securely around the base of the solid brick chimney, then dangled the other end in front of the bedroom window where Clay was waiting.

         The wind picked up again, tossing the tail of my blouse like a flag. Leaning over the edge of the roof I saw Clay reach out and grab the end of the rope. His feet and legs appeared over the windowsill. He made a noose in the rope and slipped it over his feet and up around his thighs, like a sling. He eased himself out of the window and twisted to face the wall. He braced the foot of his uninjured leg against the side of the house and pulled himself, hand-over-hand, up the rope, hopping when possible to gain a few inches. Working on the oil rigs had made him hard and strong. At last he was close enough to the top so that I could lean over and help pull him over the edge. He stretched out over the peak of the roof, exhausted.

         I heard him mumble something. "What?"

         His breathing was short and labored, but he swallowed and repeated himself. "I said, 'What's a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?'"

         A tight ball of emotion formed in my chest. I loved him more than I had ever loved anyone or anything in my life. I touched his cheek, now in need of a shave. He moved his head in order to kiss my fingertips. "Tie us to the chimney, baby . . . the wind is getting stronger."

         He pulled himself up so that he was sitting with his back to the chimney. I did the same. Together we tossed the end of the rope around and around the brick, and around ourselves, until we were lashed securely.

         Then the eye of the storm moved over us and Mother Nature did her dead level best to keep us from ever seeing another sunrise. The wind tore at our clothing and slung debris into our faces hard enough to cause deep lacerations. We watched, numbly, as our neighbor's roof lifted as though by magic and flew away like some mythical bird.

         Clay's hand found mine and clutched it hard.

         The roof quaked beneath us, but remained in place. Our car suddenly took flight, tumbling end-over-end until it smashed into the top limbs of a huge tree. It hung there, in the fork of two main branches. Shingles whipped passed my head, and several bricks at the top of the chimney clattered down beside me, then slid to the ground. If the chimney went, so would we.

         Again, I felt the roof actually lift, hover beneath me -- and I screamed, the sound lost in the howl of the wind.

         Then it passed over us. The wind died to a gentle breeze and the sun broke through a red sky. For the first time I noticed that Clay was no longer squeezing my hand. His hand was limp. "Clay!" I yelled, fear biting deep inside my soul. "Baby . . . baby . . ." I sobbed.

         That's when I heard the gushing, whirling "whoosh" as a wall of salt water reared up and slapped our home. The chimney broke up and rumbled down around my head, and the wave lifted me. I only had time to think all of our efforts to stay alive had failed miserably.

         Then darkness.

***************

         I awoke to the feel of cool, crisp sheets and the acrid smell of antiseptic. My head throbbed with sharp pain. "Mrs. Franklin? Can you hear me?" a voice asked from nearby.

         "Yes," I answered, keeping my eyes closed as if the effort of opening them was beyond my capability.

         "I'm Doctor Young. Do you remember what happened to you?"

         I licked my parched lips. Remembered The roof. "We were on the roof when the wave hit. The chimney fell on me," I answered

         "That's right. That was three days ago. You have a mild concussion and several cuts and bruises, but you're recuperating nicely. Two officers in a police search boat saw you tied to the chimney and rescued you. Be thankful . . . a hundred and thirty-six people lost their lives during the storm."

         His soothing voice finally penetrated my brain. My eyes snapped open. Bright, florescent light stung my eyes. Dr. Young was a middle-aged man with smoky gray eyes, a receding hairline and thin lips set in a serious line. "Where's Clay? Where's my husband?" I demanded, remembering now his limp hand in mine just before the wave struck.

         "Now, now, Mrs. Franklin . . ."

         I knew. Without being told -- I knew. Clay had depended upon me and I had failed him. "He-he's dead, isn't he?" I blurted out, my chest heaving.

         Dr. Young took my hand in his. "No . . . Mr. Franklin is fine. Would you like to see him now?"

         I looked up at the doctor slowly, bewildered. Had I heard him right? Was Clay alive?

         Just then the door to my room opened and a white-clad nurse pushed a wheelchair toward my bedside. The gap-toothed smile was the first thing I saw -- the huge white cast on his leg, from thigh to ankle, was the second. Sweet Jesus, I thought, You brought him back to me!

         I could not speak, I could only extend my hand toward him. Clay took my hand and pressed it to his lips. "We made it, Donna. Thanks to you, we made it."

         Doctor Young arranged for Clay to be moved into my room and for our beds to be close enough for us to hold hands. And, though we had lost everything, we really lost nothing -- nothing important, anyway. We were alive and, in eight weeks the doctor said, when Clay's cast came off, he would be able to return to work -- as would I. We would begin again to build for our future. Future. What a wonderful word!

         But first, we had to heal. I looked across at my husband and found him studying my face. Without sound he mouthed the words "I love you." I wanted him more than ever before, and I told him so. "Your head . . ." he began, concerned for my safety.

         "Don't worry about it," I said, getting to my feet. A soft wave of dizziness washed over me. I took the two steps to his bed then pulled my open-backed gown over my bandaged head and tossed it aside. Next I lifted Clay's gown and rolled it to his waist. I crawled in beside him and we were naked together. Movement was awkward for Clay because of the cast -- but not impossible. Nothing is impossible when the need is great enough. His hands touched my breasts and belly, sending electric tingles over me. He kissed the hollow of my throat and a flash of pleasure radiated through me. Over and over we murmured our love for each other as we touched and explored as if for the first time.

         Our lovemaking increased in intensity, much as the hurricane had, but the wave that washed over me then was warm and wonderful.

         Almost nine months later, to the day, our daughter was born.

         We named her Stormy.

The End

DMM