the eye of the storm
they used to get ready for hurricanes together. carl would make giant tape X's on the windows, margie would fill up the bathtub with water so the toilet would flush. they would go, at the very onset of the warnings, to the Wal-Mart super center and buy an economy box of Winston's and 2 jugs of buttermilk. these are the things they needed to live.
they would sit on the back porch, the screened in one that she added when she moved in, amongst the chicken flower pots and coke bottle windchimes. they would smoke and rock, smoke and rock, and wait for the storm to come around the corner. they only went inside when the stinging bites of rain could reach them at the back of the porch. they would lock the doors and smoke and rock, inside amongst the ancient bottle of tequila with the fat worm at the bottom and the painting of the shore that margie's daughter did 30 years ago. they listened to old big band records and pretened not to remember the times when he would come over and margie would be drunk, almost cross eyed and drippily happy. instead they talked about doing the jitterbug and when catherine, margie's daughter's daughter, would dance all around the house wearing Margies's old hand-sewn apron and Margie's mothers giant, lopsided bonnet.
they wouldnt talk in the worst of it. sometimes windows would break and they would smoke through it. the wind would whine so loud the sounds of the record player wouldnt bother to compete. nothing made them flinch. there was no basement to hide in, like they both knew Margie's daughter and Catherine were doing their house upstate. to be worried made no difference. it was a waste of energy and if there was one thing they felt they had nothing left to give it was that.
they used to get ready for hurricanes together. carl wouldnt bother calling before leaving his trailer to head to Margies. he knew that she knew- like the feeling in your bones when the air is fertile for storms. she knew when to expect him.
he died from cancer before they ever got swept away by a storm. they tried to smoke and rock through it, they tried to listen to big band and avoid painful memories. they tried to, but on the days before he coughed up blood and she had no one to call to come help, all they talked about was the trip they took to Dauphin Island with Margie's daughter and Catherine, when Catherine was a toddler and it started to rain so hard on the drive home that they couldnt help but laugh at the weight of it, when they pulled over to the shoulder and waited beneath wavering trees and a bottomless sky that made the earth think it would never be thirsty again. it was the memory that kept coming up in conversation, the thing that made them want to laugh through tears, an emotion neither one of them had felt in years.
those last days before the blood margie prayed for a hurricane, even though it was the middle of summer and she knew it was futile; she prayed for one to come and eat them both alive, to wipe out the fact that they ever existed, to suck them into that enormous menacing sky. sickness was worse than those storms because sickness singles you out, it leaves people behind who are still well, who dont know what its like to look into the eye of the thing and just give up.
she gets ready for hurricanes alone now. she does it all, like he was there with her. the smoking, the rocking, the big band, the bathtub full of water.
except now, her's are the only memories shes avoiding.
they would sit on the back porch, the screened in one that she added when she moved in, amongst the chicken flower pots and coke bottle windchimes. they would smoke and rock, smoke and rock, and wait for the storm to come around the corner. they only went inside when the stinging bites of rain could reach them at the back of the porch. they would lock the doors and smoke and rock, inside amongst the ancient bottle of tequila with the fat worm at the bottom and the painting of the shore that margie's daughter did 30 years ago. they listened to old big band records and pretened not to remember the times when he would come over and margie would be drunk, almost cross eyed and drippily happy. instead they talked about doing the jitterbug and when catherine, margie's daughter's daughter, would dance all around the house wearing Margies's old hand-sewn apron and Margie's mothers giant, lopsided bonnet.
they wouldnt talk in the worst of it. sometimes windows would break and they would smoke through it. the wind would whine so loud the sounds of the record player wouldnt bother to compete. nothing made them flinch. there was no basement to hide in, like they both knew Margie's daughter and Catherine were doing their house upstate. to be worried made no difference. it was a waste of energy and if there was one thing they felt they had nothing left to give it was that.
they used to get ready for hurricanes together. carl wouldnt bother calling before leaving his trailer to head to Margies. he knew that she knew- like the feeling in your bones when the air is fertile for storms. she knew when to expect him.
he died from cancer before they ever got swept away by a storm. they tried to smoke and rock through it, they tried to listen to big band and avoid painful memories. they tried to, but on the days before he coughed up blood and she had no one to call to come help, all they talked about was the trip they took to Dauphin Island with Margie's daughter and Catherine, when Catherine was a toddler and it started to rain so hard on the drive home that they couldnt help but laugh at the weight of it, when they pulled over to the shoulder and waited beneath wavering trees and a bottomless sky that made the earth think it would never be thirsty again. it was the memory that kept coming up in conversation, the thing that made them want to laugh through tears, an emotion neither one of them had felt in years.
those last days before the blood margie prayed for a hurricane, even though it was the middle of summer and she knew it was futile; she prayed for one to come and eat them both alive, to wipe out the fact that they ever existed, to suck them into that enormous menacing sky. sickness was worse than those storms because sickness singles you out, it leaves people behind who are still well, who dont know what its like to look into the eye of the thing and just give up.
she gets ready for hurricanes alone now. she does it all, like he was there with her. the smoking, the rocking, the big band, the bathtub full of water.
except now, her's are the only memories shes avoiding.
posted by Jessica Baxter | 8:56 PM
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