by Gwen Masters
(11/09/05)
We are standing in six inches of water, the rain coming down so hard it is impossible to see the road, the driveway, the fence, the clothesline. The trees above our heads are whipping in the wind, while every now and then a cracking sound announces another branch falling. The water is pouring from the roof in sheets, overflowing the gutters and making the drainpipes useless.
We are standing under it, up against the wall, my nightgown so wet it might as well not be there, water running from my hair, my legs wrapped around you as you slide into me and the water pours down over your body. We both gasp for breath. The wind is howling and the rain is pummeling and my nails are leaving marks on your back. My eyes are closed and I can smell the wildness of the storm, the wind that pulls it up from the Gulf, the tension in the trees that flail above our heads in something much like rage.
The wind becomes too much for even you, and when you fall down you take me with you, both of us landing in water that is deep as that in our old clawfoot bathtub. It is swirling and running and foaming with the vigor of the storm. Our backyard is now a beach and we are struggling to find our footing in the lapping of the ocean's waves.
Somehow we stumble to the swing that is dancing wildly in the wind. We tame it and hold it and sit on it and keep it somewhat steady, fighting leaves that blow down from the trees above, knowing the dangers but not caring much. A shingle flies right over us, spinning like a child's kite on an unruly spring day. Something else cracks like a gunshot and though I feel a moment of fear, I hear your heartbeat and feel your arousal at a fever pitch. At that moment some things are much more important than an old tree falling or a window breaking or a whole house coming down, for that matter.
I am holding hard to the chains on either side of me as you drop to your knees in the floodwaters to slide into me one more time, whispering things into my ear that I cannot hear, but none of it matters anyway because I know what you would say, I feel what you did say. I taste what you can't articulate when your tongue plays with mine and we breathe from each other because the wind has taken all the rest.
The last time you push deep enough to rock the swing to its limit on the chain. We come together and surprise each other when we both laugh out loud. The sound is nothing compared to the wind, the wailing and the crashing and somehow we know we have pushed it almost too far, and the fear becomes a knot in my belly, mixing with the desire to make me feel unbalanced, dizzy. The wind holds us down and the water rushes up and it is an eternity before we find the porch again, before you pull open the old door that struggles for a moment and then gives up the ghost, rips from the hinges and sails away into the storm.
Then we are inside, huddled together while water ruins our hardwood floors, pouring in to move our possessions around like they were nothing but toys of a child. The hum is constant in our ears, insanity beckoning, as we sit at the top of the stairs. We watch and hear the splintering explosion as the bay window blows in. We watch your Momma's kitchen table jam itself against the front door. For some reason the sight of that makes you laugh so hard, your tears mingle with the raindrops on your face. You are holding onto me and laughing and kissing my forehead and ignoring the sounds of shingles departing this house one by one.
Later the storm will move on to other parts but we will still be here. The house will look as though it has been through a war and you will remind me that it is not far from the truth. Our porch is gone and so is that swing and most of the oak trees are lying across the driveway and somewhere under them is your old truck. Years later we will still find the scar on the front door from that old table. The decision to leave it there will never be discussed.
Years will pass and every time I turn on a television or a radio and I see that familiar swirl in the Gulf, though I am a practical woman I will not think of practical things. I will not consider bottled water or stored food or evacuation orders. I will instead think of you looking up at me through the torrents of rain and the way the muscles in your arms stood out as you held that swing steady in the wind and the way you laughed at that damn old kitchen table.
As summer again fades toward fall we will turn on the television or the radio and hear the warnings of the hurricane season approaching. Memory and anticipation will blend into one, and I will blush and bite my lip and feel that soft spill within every time.
Then I will laugh out loud for no reason at all and so will you, as you give me that sidelong glance and turn on The Weather Channel.
