Hurricane (Part I)

Hope was a stranger ‘round here.

Comin’ up from the south, it passed through without us knowin’ it, because it was wearing the most unusual of disguises. The folks of my town turned their backs on it, hated it, and cursed it. I heard it roamin’ the streets like a mutt huntin’ for a home. It didn’t act like no dog, though. It reminded me more of a lion than anything else.

Yep, hope was a stranger ‘round here, and it took evrythin’ from me. I sure didn’t think hope would be takin’ evrythin’ from me.

Off in the distance, the Lafayette siren begins to wail .

I can hear it clearly despite living on the outskirts of town. I hear it over the wind and over the dread that now rises in me in anticipation of what follows in its wake.

I fear these Louisiana summers will someday be the death of me. The heat and humidity turn our swamps into a brooding steam room. Mosquitoes have become accustomed to drinking our blood just as the whip of cruel masters drank that of my forefathers. But the Lafayette siren does not cry when the sun beats down on us, and it does not warn us when swarms of pesky insects search for prey.

This far-off wailing means only one thing: A hurricane is coming.

The hurricane has no equal. It is Louisiana’s apex predator – even the heat and bugs flee its wrath. It is like the European conquerors. It hoists its sails somewhere far off in the Atlantic, then points its bow toward America’s shores. The mighty Caribbean gale fuels its anger and directs its fury northward to the Gulf Coast.

And then it ravages our homes.

The hurricane is a conquistador.

It signs no peace treaty; only in our death does it find peace.

It accepts no surrender; instead, it longs for war.

It raids our land and sacks our houses, but there is no loot here. We have nothing to give. Not even of hope can we be robbed, for we have long forsaken it.

And the townspeople will do as they did last time: hide in their storm shelters and basements while we are denied entry because of the color of our skin.

But alas, the sun shall rise on the evil and the good, and so, too, it will rain on the righteous and the unrighteous.

The porch swing groans a sigh of relief as I rise from it. Rust eats away at its chains; rot weakens the wooden boards. I’m surprised it is still hanging here at all. The sorry state of its existence makes it fit right in with the baby cradle beside me and the rest of the cabin. He built this cabin, our home, with his own hands, Michael did. Each piece bears axe marks from the lumber he had hewn. Each window, boarded for the storm, every nail and every screw holding this place together bears his love for me.

“Look, Momma! Momma, look!”

I turn to see my four-year-old son, Winston, climbing out of the chicken coop holding a rooster. His face is beaming with pride.

“I catched him, Momma!”

Dirty feet and torn overalls prove it is quite an achievement for a little boy to catch a chicken with his bare hands. I chuckle and shake my fist victoriously.

These two children, Michael gave me as well. They are perhaps the greatest testament of his love. Winston is growing up faster than I can let out the hem of his pants, and baby Adelaide rests here in my arms.

Through the thick summer air, I hear the rooster free itself from my boy's clutches. It struts back to the flock with its chest puffed and head high. Various clucks and squawks are exchanged between the chickens as if the rooster were trying to explain this embarrassing mishap to the hens. It seems even the animals here have a Cajun accent.

Winston lets the rooster be. Then he squats down, plucks three black-eyed Susans from the earth, and comes running toward me.

“What is that loud screaming noise, Momma?” he asks me about the siren. I explain that we will soon have to go inside and get under my bed because of the wind and rain.

He thinks for a minute, then stretches his hand out.

“I finded the prettiest flowers in the world, Momma!”

“Those shore are some of the prettiest of them flowers I’ve ever seen,” I reply, “… you wanna give ‘em to Daddy?”

The boy goes quiet. His gaze drops to the floor, and he puts the flowers behind his back. His shoulders twist from side to side. When he looks back up at me, his eyes are watery. A smile spreads across his face. His lower lip quivers.

“Momma?” he whispers.

I wait.

“I do wanna give ‘em to Daddy.”

I take his hand and walk him around the cabin to a small path. There, back in the trees and bushes, rests a headstone. I clutch Adelaide tightly. The wind begins to pick up a bit, reflecting my soul's anguish. I feel a stark change in pressure. The gray skies promise rain.

Winston plops down in the swaying grass. I sit down beside him.

“Can you read it to me again?” he asks.

“Yea, I’ll read it again,” I take a breath and summon what courage I have, before I start searching my memory for the words my pastor told me are engraved on the stone. “Here lies Michael Winston Warren. A loving husband, father, and son,…”

My voice begins to shake. I feel like an autumn leaf holding on to a branch as a storm nears. Winston looks up at me and scoots closer, holding on to my arm. I relax at the comforting embrace of my son before continuing, “…a faithful servant of Christ, and a kind-hearted man. Born 1895, died 1925.”

“Why’s Daddy got my name?” Winston inquires, but goes on before I can reply, “… ‘cause I’ll be just like him when I get big?”

I nod through the tears.

“And Momma? How old was I when Daddy died? I was…,” he holds out his fingers and starts counting, “…three, right?”

“Yea, baby,” I whisper to hide the grief in my heart. Winston’s head is cocked sideways. The black-eyed Susans are choking in his little fist. “Yea, you were three. It was last year. It was last year this happened.”

My boy looks down at his flowers and places them at the base of his father's headstone.

“I luv’ you, Daddy. I can’t wait to see you in heaven.”

The tenderness in his voice, the innocence and love he displays, pull at my heartstrings.

I hold Winston’s hand as we stand up to make our way back to the cabin. The first few drops of rain hit my face. Beyond the roof of our home, the sky is black. Trees start to bend. Thunder rolls through the clouds.

The hurricane is here. Its ship has breached our shores, and the conquistador now draws his sword to rob from those who do not have.

Adelaide awakens in my right arm as we rush home. She starts crying. I will calm her later. Winston grows uneasy. He begins to shriek at every crash of thunder. Like a dog on a leash, he tugs at my hand, once to the side, once forward, once back. I hold his wrist tight. My hair and dress whip wildly in the wind. We scurry up the path and reach the front porch. I press down the door handle and tear it open.

Inside, it is dark. My baby’s cries echo off the walls, which in turn groan beneath the abuse of the storm. This is no fortress. We don’t have a cellar or anywhere else to escape the hurricane aside from under my bed.

I pull the door shut and light a lantern. Still holding Adelaide, I raise the light. I halt.

Winston.

Winston!

I peer into the black corners of the single room.

I call his name.

Then, I look at the lantern in my left hand, the hand I held Winston with – the hand I used to open the… my heart drops and panic rises. I turn to the old wooden door. Amidst an outcry of anger at my foolishness and fear for my child’s life, I once again throw open the door. Hurricane winds nearly toss me to the floor. Rain pelts my face like a thousand needles.

There is no little boy on the front porch.

And there is no little boy in the house.

He is somewhere out there in the woods – somewhere out in the storm.

To be continued in part II…