The Year of the Storm (5 page)

DANNY

I
never really believed that my mother and sister were dead. Sometimes, I thought everyone else did except me. But then I'd remember my grandmother. She was my mother's mom, and she was a resourceful woman who had managed a farm in north Alabama and worked full-time as a real estate agent for fifteen years since her husband's death. She'd also lived through the Great Depression, two world wars, and the deaths of three of my mother's siblings. Fatalism wasn't an outlook for Gran; it was ingrained in her like a personality trait. All of this made Gran incapable of saying anything but what she thought was the truth, feelings be damned.

The last time we visited her was a few months after they disappeared.

Dad and I had driven up for a change of scenery, hoping that putting some distance between ourselves and those silent woods behind our house would help in some small way. It might have if not for Gran's stubborn fatalism. Still, I loved her for what she was—an amazing woman. Nothing could shake her, and I think it was her indomitable faith that she would survive in the face of whatever life threw her way that made me want to spend time with her even when Dad found her negativity hard to swallow and spent most of the weekend out in the garden pulling up potatoes and radishes.

We were sitting in her den watching professional wrestling, something Gran had enjoyed as far back as I could remember. I had tried, without success, to explain to her that it was fake, but she wasn't having it so I eventually gave up and enjoyed it too.

The subject of Mom and Anna hadn't come up yet, and I was fine with that. By then, I had talked to reporters, friends, neighbors, and everybody else about their disappearances. It always came back to the same thing: They were gone and nobody knew where or why. A commercial came on and Gran put down the peas she was shelling. “You got to be strong now, Danny.”

I looked up from the commercial. “What?”

She stood and came over to where I was sitting on the couch, sat down, and took my hand. Squeezing it, she said, “I know it's a hard road to walk right now, being the one she left behind, but please don't think of it like that. Your mama has got problems, and always has had them. In her mind she did what she had to do.” Gran squeezed my hand more tightly. “Hard truths are just that, Danny. Hard. But we've got to face them head-on. I'm going to tell you what your daddy won't tell. Your mama left you. She took Anna—God bless that child—and left. And don't you for a minute think she's coming back. That either one of them is coming back. They're not coming back, Danny.” When I tried to pull away, she gripped my hand more tightly. “Your daddy isn't ready for that yet. But he will be soon enough. I know this is hard on you, but life won't never be easy. Life is relentless. It just keeps coming at you. The sooner you accept the truth, the happier you'll be.”

“She didn't leave us,” I said, an edge in my voice.

She let my hand go and stood, sighing.

“I'm telling you this because I think you need to know. Your mother is a selfish woman. It's no reflection on you.”

I glared at her. “How do you know? What makes you so sure?” I was scolding her, something no one did to Gran.

She cocked her head at me and raised her eyebrows. “I know because I know my daughter, and I know about the choices she made. She wasn't always like this, but she changed, and now I don't think any of us will be able to reach her.”

I stood up, and I could feel the blood rushing to my face. “Don't say that. Never say that.” I was trembling, barely able to control my rage. I don't know what I would have said or done from there if Dad hadn't walked in.

He looked at us, about to speak. His mouth opened, and some sound came out. Then he stopped, his eyes going from Gran to me—standing over her, fists clenched—back to Gran. “What's going on?” he said.

Gran regarded me with something like pity. “Just a talk, Frank. Setting some things straight.”

Dad was in no mood to get involved with anything stressful, so he only nodded and continued to the room—Mom's old room—where he was staying in the back.

Gran stood and put her hand on my shoulder. “One day you'll see I'm right, Danny.” Then she picked up her shelled peas and headed back to the kitchen, leaving me alone with my anger. But as I stood there, I felt the anger changing to fear. Gran understood the world in ways I could barely imagine. What if she was right? What if my mother had left us?

—

D
oubt, according to the preacher whose church we stopped going to about a month after Mom and Anna vanished, was a natural part of faith. They were two vines that grew together, intertwined. That was what I remembered when I had doubts about my mother and sister.

It was hard to explain why I felt we'd be reunited. Mostly, there was a sense that I would somehow feel it when my mother passed. Her presence had been so large in my life for the first fourteen years that I felt it like a warm breeze forever at my back. The breeze was still there, and until I couldn't feel it anymore, she was alive. And if she was alive, I refused to believe she'd left us on purpose, which meant they were somewhere out there and they wanted to come home. And foolishly, I believed I could bring them back.

—

C
liff and I went to his house for lunch, a place I never grew tired of. His house was so large—three stories on seven acres of land—that you could literally get lost inside it. Really. It happened to me once when I was eight. His mother found me wandering on the second floor, trying to find my way back to Cliff's room on the third floor. His father had invented some kind of chip for computers in the early seventies, and now, more than twenty years later, he did nothing except count his money and tend his azaleas and roses in the walled garden behind their house. Cliff's mother was a lawyer, but not the type that argued cases in court. According to Cliff, she spent all her time poring over dusty law books and typing up long documents on their computer.

We ate shrimp sandwiches out by the pool. Yeah, shrimp. It was fresh shrimp too. Cliff's dad was fanatical about fresh seafood, so much that he had bribed the truck that delivered to the Birmingham restaurants to make a special stop out here in the country. The sandwich was good, but then again everything was good at Cliff's house. It was an odd place for me during the months after Mom and Anna's disappearance. I simultaneously craved the normalcy of being in a place with two parents, while nursing a deep-seated jealousy of what Cliff had. His parents were far from perfect, but they were there. Most of all, when I saw them together, they displayed a genuine easiness with each other, a kind of quiet confidence that my parents lacked, even when times had been good. I knew parents could fake stuff when they thought you were watching, but Cliff's parents never felt like poseurs. Rich assholes, maybe, but never poseurs.

“So, do you think he did it?” Cliff asked, his mouth stuffed full of shrimp.

“Who did what?” I knew exactly what he meant—did I think the man from the cabin killed my mother and sister—but something about the question pissed me off, so I decided to play dumb.

“You know . . . that man. Do you think he . . . was responsible?”

“Responsible for what?” Okay, I was just being a jerk now. I should have let him back out gracefully.

“You know.”

“For their deaths?”

“I didn't say that.”

I dropped my sandwich and stood up, suddenly not hungry anymore. I went over to the edge of the pool, kicked off my shoes and socks, sat down, and put my feet in. The water was warm. Mid-July tended to do that to swimming pools in Alabama.

“It just seems like it might be a relief, that's all.”

I cocked my head but didn't turn around to look at Cliff.

“I'll drop it,” he said.

I waited, splashing water with my feet in high arching sprays. If he wanted to drop it, fine. Something told me he wouldn't, though.

“All I mean to say is that it might be a relief to find out who was responsible for what happened. I mean, that way you wouldn't have to worry about . . . You know . . . Your mom being, I don't know . . .”

I sat perfectly still, daring him to say it, feeling the old anger flexing itself inside me, my muscles tensing, my pulse starting a dull thud in my head, my fists clenching and unclenching. It was an anger I'd been nursing since the day they disappeared; I'd been caring for it, tending its needs, letting it grow inside me. Always managing to keep it down, but even when I did, it was still wreaking havoc on the inside.

“What?” I said, turning. “Just finish your sentence, Cliff.”

He must have seen the anger etched hard on my face because he looked down and shook his head. “Never mind.”

I stalked over to him, infuriated. I grabbed his shirt collar in my fist and pulled it so hard the fabric ripped.

“You get one damned thing straight,” I said. “My mother did not kidnap my sister. Do you hear me?”

Cliff looked afraid, his glasses falling down his nose, his eyes wide with something like awe.

“Do you hear me?” I said again, louder, spitting the words in his face.

“Yeah, Danny. I hear you.”

I let go, disgusted with myself. I turned and felt a sudden need to cry, to sob, to call out for my mother, but I held it in. I swallowed it back down inside like bile. Then, in a flurry of motion, I ripped off my shirt and sprinted for the pool, diving in headfirst and sinking slowly to the bottom, where I would stay for as long as I was able, until my lungs burned and I had to come back up for air.

When I finally did come back to the surface, I noticed that the sky far to the west was beginning to gather clouds into a thick, black coil of impending fury.

S
omething clicked inside me while I was underwater. Cliff was right. It would feel better to know that someone else was responsible besides my mother. There had been rumors, innuendos, lies in the months after her disappearance. Her drinking problem, her frustration with raising two children, one of them autistic. Some people said she left on her own and took Anna with her because she knew my father could never make it with us both alone. Others—and these were the ones that bothered me most—whispered that they were both dead.

This was unthinkable to me, a notion I refused to consider, even in the lowest depths of my grief.

Despite all of the things I
didn't believe
had happened to Mom and Anna, I had very little—if anything—that I
did believe
might have happened. I was out of ideas, lost at sea, and the feeling burned inside me, spurring me to do something. Anything.

I left Cliff's house at two in the afternoon, knowing I would have at least three hours, probably more, before Dad came home. My plan—well, to be honest I didn't have a plan. I was heading for the cabin in the woods to confront the man who had stood in the rain on my front doorstep for two nights, possibly more. I was still acting on the same anger that had caused me to almost hit Cliff, the same anger that made me identify with the gathering storm above me.

I crossed the highway, noting the storm was closer than I had thought. The clouds formed a great stack of darkness, infused with what appeared to be an unnatural light, causing the edges of the cloud mass to glow a dull green. It was heading west, and from the looks of it, I'd have no more than a half hour before it hit. I broke into a run, not only to avoid the storm, but also because I feared my nerve might fail me.

Ten minutes later, I was slogging through the woods, waiting for the sky to break open. Thunder came in deep bellows and lightning had already struck one of the pines, almost bringing it down on my head. I'd made a mistake, coming here. The storm had come much faster than I'd expected, and the sky was almost completely dark now. The air felt like it was alive, so warm and wet and it hadn't even started raining yet. Another blast of lightning struck a nearby tree, and I shrieked and sprinted ahead into the darkness, now losing my way, unsure of my bearings, wishing I'd just gone home and sulked in my bed.

Then the rain came, soaking everything in giant gusts blown slantwise by the wind. I slipped and landed in the mud. Struggling to stand up, I reached for a low-hanging tree limb and heard a sharp whip crack of thunder. I felt a jolt run through my entire body, and I smacked the ground hard. My head came down on something solid, something too hard to be the ground or even a root. I rolled over into the mud, gasping. My body tingled and I smelled smoke, something burning nearby. I looked up just in time to see a flaming tree looming over me, an inferno so spectacular that even in my panic, I admired the beauty of it, falling. I rolled, my shoulder throbbing, as the tree crashed to the ground. A burning branch brushed my face and scorched my cheek. I screamed out in pain, but the heat was soon extinguished by the downpour.

That's when I saw her again. Anna. She stood as if on the air, hovering well above the ground and debris, untouched by the storm. She said nothing. She didn't move, but I felt like she wanted me to get up to go somewhere, so I did, scrambling to my feet only to trip again over a concrete slab. I knelt and rummaged through the wet undergrowth, tearing away kudzu and weeds until I could make out a lip of concrete raised just off the muddy ground. I dug away more kudzu and mud until it was clear what I had stumbled upon: an underground shelter. I heaved open the lid, and just before going inside, I looked for Anna again.

She was gone.

—

I
nside, the darkness was complete. I lay still, resisting the urge to vomit as I felt the shelter begin to spin around me. I couldn't see it, but I felt it, and then I did see things—flashes of water, trees, and shadows. I was turning, falling, and just before I hit the ground, I saw something else. It was only a flash, but it stayed with me. A cabin. Not the cabin I was looking for, though. This one was even more ancient, but perhaps a little bigger. It was nestled between giant oaks strung with Spanish moss, and a single light burned within. This one was bigger, older than the one Cliff and I had looked at in the binoculars, and it had a porch. Just a tumbledown, narrow walk in front of the cabin, but I was positive the other place, the one I was looking for, had no such addition.

When I woke some time later, the shelter was still. I climbed the ladder out and slogged back through the flooded lowlands trying to get my bearings and head for home.

—

I
t wasn't until later—much later when I was home and dry and thinking about the day—that I realized two things: I'd been struck by lightning and survived. That was one. The other was more disconcerting. I'd seen Anna again, and this time it was clear why. She had directed me to the storm shelter. Without her, I might have died out there. I wouldn't have been the only one, as two other locals were killed in the high winds on the same day.

—

T
hat night I slept the sleep of the dead. I spent the next day completing a to-do list Dad had left for me, which had me working inside and out. I didn't get a chance to call Cliff until nearly three o'clock. But by then, I had already formulated a plan.

“Invite me to spend the night,” I said.

Cliff, never one to be caught off guard, said, “Wanna spend the night?”

When Dad got home, I asked him if I could. This was just a formality in the summer. In fact, sometimes Dad seemed more than willing for me to go, and this time was no exception. He quickly agreed, even offering to drive me over.

Though the July heat was miserable, there were no signs of afternoon thunderheads, so I told him I would be fine walking.

I left him sitting on the couch watching the five o'clock news, something he and Mom always liked to do together while Anna and I were outside playing. I felt a twinge of sadness as I realized the chances of these things happening again were growing smaller every day.

—

W
e waited until eleven thirty, when Cliff was confident that both his parents were asleep. Slipping silently through the dark house, we paused just long enough at the back door to disable the alarm. Outside, it was clear and almost cool, the heat from the day lifting and sliding into memory. Above us the heavens seemed alive: a half-moon and stars beyond counting.

“Are you going to tell me where we're going?” Cliff said.

“My house.”

“Why?”

“I've got a feeling. Keep your eyes peeled for smoke.”

I'd already decided that if he wasn't outside my house tonight, we'd go on through the woods to his cabin, but I didn't think it would come to that. Somehow, I knew he'd be back.

We made the highway in good time and veered wide so we wouldn't approach the front of my house. Sticking to the trees, we slinked along the outskirts of the property. As the house came into view, I was surprised to see that a light was on in my parents' old room, the one Dad forbade me to go in, the one he kept under lock and key. I allowed myself a brief image of Dad inside, sitting on the bed, a photo album open and wet with his tears. This was the image I wanted. Instead, I got the increasingly cold Dad, the one who had lost his faith. The image of Dad with the photo album was fleeting because just then the light in the room went out, and Cliff and I were left in almost complete darkness save for the glow of the moon.

Cliff tapped me. I turned and saw that he was pointing to the great live oak that dominated our front yard. A thin tendril of smoke snaked around the trunk. He was there, just on the other side of the tree. I took a deep breath, feeling a surge of panic hitting me. I forced it back down and nodded at Cliff. The plan was for Cliff to stay close while I approached the man. If something bad happened—God forbid—then Cliff would run for the house to get Dad.

I stepped out of the trees and made my way across our gravel drive.

The smell of tobacco smoke was strong as I neared the tree. Though I couldn't see him yet because the oak was so thick, I heard him sucking oxygen into his nose followed by an almost inaudible cough.

When he came into view, he was lighting another cigarette. He saw me and dropped it on the ground.

“What are you doing at my house?” I said, trying to sound tougher than I was.

He held up a hand as if to ward me off.

“I asked you a question.”

“I don't mean any harm.”

“So why are you here? Why do you keep coming back?”

He dropped his head as if ashamed. This emboldened me, and I stepped closer to him.

“Tell me why you're here. Now.”

He looked up at me then and I was close enough to see his eyes, or rather his eye. The right one shone with a clear intensity that made me weigh my next step. His left eye was dead, unresponsive, just a marble in a socket. He leaned over and picked up the cigarette he'd been lighting when I approached. Taking his time, he produced a book of matches and tore one out. He lit the match and then the cigarette, taking two long pulls before looking back at me. “You want to know why I'm here?” He nodded thoughtfully. “I'll tell you,” he said.

Some part of me suddenly wanted to say
never mind
, wanted to turn tail and run. But another part, a bigger, better-developed part, wanted—no,
needed
—to know.

The next words that came out of his mouth still resound in my subconscious some sixteen years later. Some mornings, I wake up with them on my lips and ask my sleep-addled self if they could possibly be true. Some mornings the answer to that question is no. What he said that night changed everything. The words changed me and Dad and the people around us, and ultimately, I think his words saved my life.

“I know,” he said, “where your mother and sister are.”

I have no idea how long I stood there, openmouthed, trying to process his words. What I do know is that I never got a chance to respond because Cliff screamed bloody hell and came charging out of the woods in our direction. If the man was surprised by this development, he didn't show it.

Too stunned to speak, I simply waited for Cliff to join us. Part of me must have known his scream would alert my father, but I didn't react. Instead it was the man, dropping his cigarette to the grass and extinguishing it under one heavy-toed boot. “Snake, most likely. Bastards are everywhere these days. Better steer clear too. They're poisonous as hell. Time to get moving.”

As if in confirmation of his statement, Dad's silhouette appeared in the window.

I watched as the man reached for his oxygen tank and dragged it swiftly toward the gravel drive and the woods on the other side. I followed him.

He went around Dad's truck and was almost to the trees when he stopped and turned back. “You know where I live.” It wasn't a question. Then he was gone.

Cliff reached me at that same moment. He was heaving breaths in and out, laboring to get the words through. “Snake,” he said. “Big freaking snake. Crawled . . .” Gasp. “Across . . . my foot.”

I heard the front door open, and I grabbed Cliff's arm and pulled him down behind Dad's truck. I clamped my hand over Cliff's mouth to silence his panting. We waited. Dad muttered something and went back inside. When a few minutes passed, I let go of Cliff and slumped against the truck.

“Are we going to follow him?” Cliff said.

“No. Not tonight.”

“Good.”

We crept back toward the tree line. As we disappeared into the woods, Cliff said, “Watch out for snakes.”