the thunder and the percussion of the heavy rain drowning out the word.
From inside the closet she took out her raincoat and then tied a scarf around her hair. On the dining room table there was a bell that she used to call Nadine sometimes, and she took it to the back door and swung it frantically, the rain blowing into her face. The small silvery sound was nothing to the din. There were no lights on in the garage apartment, and no sign of life. In the kitchen drawer there was a large flashlight. She swung the beam around the room, then stamped one foot in rage and frustration. The sound of the alarm was intolerable, like having a tooth drilled.
By the time she got to the stairs leading up to the garage apartment her slippers were soaked through. The rain was sluicingdown the drive in great sheets, and during one long lightning strike she could see the pond roiled by the wind and a big limb from the willow tree lying on the lawn. “Charles!” she cried up the narrow stairway. “Charles!” There was a faint echo. She was appalled by the notion of finding him sleeping. It was not that she felt she was intruding on his privacy, more that he was intruding on hers by forcing her to come up to his living quarters and ask for help when he should already be providing it as a matter of course. Even here the screeching of the alarm was loud.
She shone the flashlight around the apartment kitchen and frowned as she saw how untidy it was, with cans and saucepans ranged around the counter. She edged her way down the hall. “Charles?” she called again. The door to the biggest bedroom was closed, and she knocked, then knocked again. When she opened it she could see that the bed was made. There were two fans in the window, and both of them had blown water onto the wood floor before the power outage shut them down. Beneath one of the windows was a bureau drawer, and as she shone the flashlight into it she moved closer to peer inside. There was a baby sleeping on its side, a rolled towel behind its back to keep it propped in position. There was a faint luminescent freckling on one cheek, the mark of raindrops that had blown in but not waked it.
Mrs. Blessing stood there until her legs threatened to give out. The hem of her nightgown dripped onto the floor. For just a moment she wondered whether she was having a particularly strange dream. Finally she found her way to the living room and sat down in a shabby chair by the window. She shone the flashlight on the old-fashioned striped material, and remembered that the chair had once been in her father’s study, to one side of the fireplace there. It seemed the only bit of sanity in the wild cacophonous night, and she clutched its arms. After a few minutes she went back to check, but the child was still there, sleeping peacefully while the alarm screamed on. She had read about the eye of a storm, about how it was the only still place in wild weather. This appeared to be it.
I f anyone had asked Skip where he’d least like to be on July fourth in a thunderstorm, the answer would have been easy: McGuire’s. But there he was, nursing a beer in a greasy mug, watching one of Ed’s younger brothers play a pinball machine with so much body English that it looked like he was going to slam Batman-a-rama through the back wall of the bar.
“Yo, dude,” yelled the bartender over the noise of some country song, “ease up on the machine.”
Skip looked at his watch. He figured he had roughly an hour before the baby would wake up. She’d seemed to settle in the last two days, eating, sleeping, eating, sleeping, with one pissed-off hour right around the end of the workday, as the sun was dropping down from the sky. He had to walk her then, back and forth, but when she finally dropped off there was a sweet quality of submission to her small body. She burped, spit up on his shirt, then went slack and silent. He realized that there was a point to that ungainly empty area between the human
From inside the closet she took out her raincoat and then tied a scarf around her hair. On the dining room table there was a bell that she used to call Nadine sometimes, and she took it to the back door and swung it frantically, the rain blowing into her face. The small silvery sound was nothing to the din. There were no lights on in the garage apartment, and no sign of life. In the kitchen drawer there was a large flashlight. She swung the beam around the room, then stamped one foot in rage and frustration. The sound of the alarm was intolerable, like having a tooth drilled.
By the time she got to the stairs leading up to the garage apartment her slippers were soaked through. The rain was sluicingdown the drive in great sheets, and during one long lightning strike she could see the pond roiled by the wind and a big limb from the willow tree lying on the lawn. “Charles!” she cried up the narrow stairway. “Charles!” There was a faint echo. She was appalled by the notion of finding him sleeping. It was not that she felt she was intruding on his privacy, more that he was intruding on hers by forcing her to come up to his living quarters and ask for help when he should already be providing it as a matter of course. Even here the screeching of the alarm was loud.
She shone the flashlight around the apartment kitchen and frowned as she saw how untidy it was, with cans and saucepans ranged around the counter. She edged her way down the hall. “Charles?” she called again. The door to the biggest bedroom was closed, and she knocked, then knocked again. When she opened it she could see that the bed was made. There were two fans in the window, and both of them had blown water onto the wood floor before the power outage shut them down. Beneath one of the windows was a bureau drawer, and as she shone the flashlight into it she moved closer to peer inside. There was a baby sleeping on its side, a rolled towel behind its back to keep it propped in position. There was a faint luminescent freckling on one cheek, the mark of raindrops that had blown in but not waked it.
Mrs. Blessing stood there until her legs threatened to give out. The hem of her nightgown dripped onto the floor. For just a moment she wondered whether she was having a particularly strange dream. Finally she found her way to the living room and sat down in a shabby chair by the window. She shone the flashlight on the old-fashioned striped material, and remembered that the chair had once been in her father’s study, to one side of the fireplace there. It seemed the only bit of sanity in the wild cacophonous night, and she clutched its arms. After a few minutes she went back to check, but the child was still there, sleeping peacefully while the alarm screamed on. She had read about the eye of a storm, about how it was the only still place in wild weather. This appeared to be it.
I f anyone had asked Skip where he’d least like to be on July fourth in a thunderstorm, the answer would have been easy: McGuire’s. But there he was, nursing a beer in a greasy mug, watching one of Ed’s younger brothers play a pinball machine with so much body English that it looked like he was going to slam Batman-a-rama through the back wall of the bar.
“Yo, dude,” yelled the bartender over the noise of some country song, “ease up on the machine.”
Skip looked at his watch. He figured he had roughly an hour before the baby would wake up. She’d seemed to settle in the last two days, eating, sleeping, eating, sleeping, with one pissed-off hour right around the end of the workday, as the sun was dropping down from the sky. He had to walk her then, back and forth, but when she finally dropped off there was a sweet quality of submission to her small body. She burped, spit up on his shirt, then went slack and silent. He realized that there was a point to that ungainly empty area between the human
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