Another Kind of Hurricane (2 page)

Henry's legs ached to run, his breath and heart pounded in his ears. To run on the mountain, behind Wayne's house, in their small town in northern Vermont, half a continent away from the hurricane in Louisiana. Henry wanted to run on the mountain with Brae at his heels and Wayne by his side. Like the very last time.

—

“Brae's the starting line,” said Henry, pointing to the large black and white dog sitting at his feet. “I taught him how to lie completely straight. Watch.” Henry raised his arm. Then he flattened his hand as he lowered it, and Brae followed all the way down to the ground. Henry extended his hands in opposite directions, and Brae stretched out his front and back legs until his head and tail were the only parts of him rising above the dirt
.

“That was awesome,” said Wayne. “Will you show me how to make him do that?”

Henry's outstretched arms shook a little, he was so proud. He tucked them back against his sides
.

“Maybe later,” said Henry. “C'mon, let's race before the sun comes up.”

“It's too dark,” said Wayne
.

“No it's not.”

“My pack is too heavy.”

“C'mon!” Henry pulled on Wayne's t-shirt. “Brae's not gonna lie there forever.” Brae lifted his head at the mention of his name and looked Henry right in the eyes. “Brae wants you to do it—” Henry flicked his finger in Wayne's direction, and Brae turned his gaze to Wayne
.

“Okay, okay,” Wayne laughed. “How can I say no to the wonder-dog?”

The boys stood side by side behind Brae, each of them with one foot extended forward, just shy of touching the dog's muddy fur. The trail was flat for a few yards on the other side of the dog. Henry could see that far. And then there was nothing. Just the dark. Probably a steep descent. But just like Henry couldn't see the sun but could feel it, he could feel the mountain too. He and Wayne and Brae belonged there
.

“On your mark. Get set. Go!” yelled Henry. And they were off. The boys jumped over Brae and began to run
.

—

But he'd never do that again. He'd never run on the mountain again. Not with Wayne.

It wasn't going to happen. Ever. Again.

Because here he was, in front of Wayne's casket.

Henry's legs twitched. His breath and heart too. Henry imagined he would twitch and twitch and twitch and explode. A loud bang, and bits of his body would tear off and land all over the church. A hand in an organ pipe. A leg on a pew. His nose on the pulpit, right on the pages of the reverend's open Bible.

“Henry.” Mom's voice came through the downpour of body parts. It sounded so far away, but she was right by his side.

Henry didn't answer.

“You can touch him if you want to,” Mom whispered.

Henry's arm was outstretched. His hand hovered over the casket. He yanked it back. He didn't want to touch Wayne, he didn't want to look at Wayne, he didn't want to be in this church on this day staring at Wayne, dead. Wayne's mouth was closed, but the corners of his lips were turned up and the middle parts were pushed down so he looked like a stuffed animal. He looked like a stupid stuffed dog that some girl would carry under her arm. He stared at Wayne's mouth searching for thread or glue. Whoever it was that fixed Wayne up had done a real crap job. He must have used Wayne's school picture
from last year, because Wayne had made that same stupid face for the photographer. Henry had called him Rover for weeks.

The bottom of Wayne's t-shirt was wrinkled just about where the incision must have been. Henry and Wayne had looked at pictures of dead bodies being embalmed. Now Wayne was embalmed. Wayne's stomach and liver and bladder and guts had all been sucked dry right through that incision. His organs had been filled with some kind of formaldehyde crap. And then he'd been sewn back up and stuffed like a dog. And now Mom wanted Henry to touch him.

Jeezum Crow
.

Wayne didn't belong here. He didn't belong here with some sort of weird lipstick on his lips and his hair slicked back with gel, a whacked-out fake dog stuck in a box. Wayne belonged on the mountain.

The treasure box didn't belong here either, but there it was, tucked under Wayne's stiff arm. The brown leather, rubbed through at the hinges from opening and closing the box so many times. Henry remembered talking with Wayne's mother and father, Annie and Jake, about what should go into the casket with Wayne. Annie hadn't wanted to put anything in, but Jake convinced her that the treasure box, and a few treasures, should be with him. Henry just stood there, unable to speak.

Until they put the marble in the box.

Henry had found the extra-big marble on the windowsill in his room when he and Mom moved into their house six years ago. He put it in his pocket, and that was the afternoon he met Wayne. That was the beginning of the luck.

Henry and Wayne traded the marble back and forth after that. Whenever Jake went on a long truck job, Henry gave it to Wayne. Whenever Henry went to visit his own dad, Wayne gave it back to him. If Wayne had a baseball game, he got it. If Henry had a football game, he got it.

Luck for Henry.

Luck for Wayne.

Luck for Henry.

Luck for Wayne.

Now the marble was stuck in the box, stuck in the casket, about to go under the ground, about to be buried forever with Wayne's dead body.

Henry's legs throbbed.

“I have to get out of here,” someone said behind him.

Henry turned. It was Jake. His voice sounded too loud for his body.

Mom was now in the back of the church, hugging Annie. The door opened, clapped shut. Jake left. A group of Henry's schoolmates sat on the back of a pew. The reverend picked up hymnbooks.

No one looked at Henry. Or at Wayne. No one.

Henry put his hand in the casket. He opened the treasure box and grabbed the marble between his thumb and fingers. He closed the old leather lid. He touched Wayne's arm—a cold, rubbery arm—and he exploded into a million fiery pieces as he held the marble in his hand. All over—in the organ pipes, the pews, the pages of the open Bible.

Henry clutched the marble. He pulled himself together and ran out of the church.

The street was gone. Just an endless river, rising higher and higher and higher. Crouched in the attic, Zavion wished he could reach up into the sky. Turn off the faucet before the whole world overflowed. But wishing did no good. The world was falling apart.

Zavion couldn't think. He couldn't think of what to do. How could he not think of what to do? That was his job.

The real night had come and gone. Their cereal was gone. Juice, gone. The shingles on the roof of their house cracked and snapped. Zavion watched the dark, rising water suck them down.

“We have to get out of here by ourselves,” yelled Papa. His voice was sucked into the wind and rain too. “The house is falling apart.” He stared out the window. “Look—”

Water. All Zavion saw was water.

“That—” said Papa, pointing. “I think it's a door.”

Zavion strained his eyes and saw something flat racing toward them.

“I'm going to jump onto that door,” said Papa, “and then you're going to jump after me. Understand?”

A piece of the window frame tore off the house and plummeted into the water.

Zavion reached to grab Papa's arm. “My room—” he gasped. “My mural. Mama's mural. The mountain—”

Papa didn't seem to hear. He balanced on the ledge of the attic window and jumped. The water was so high that it wasn't far, but Zavion still held his breath until Papa's feet hit the door. It tilted back and forth like a seesaw. Papa grabbed onto a corner of the house to keep the door from rushing down the river.

“Jump!” Papa yelled. Another piece of the window frame tore loose.

Zavion climbed onto the windowsill. He had a strange, strong urge to jump up and grab onto a sheet of rain and pull himself up. Up and up and up.

The wind squealed through the walls of the attic. Long and loud. An entire length of clapboard peeled off the side of the house.

“Zavion!” Papa yelled again. “I can't keep this door still for much longer!” Papa's voice matched the wind. A high-pitched scream. “Jump!”

Zavion closed his eyes. He jumped. He slammed onto the door just as a two-by-four from the attic hit the water next to him. The water splashed hard. The door tipped sharply. Zavion couldn't keep his balance. He slid into the water. The water sucked him down quickly. It coated his skin, cold and slick. Papa's fingers passed over Zavion's arm, his neck, his hair, but Papa couldn't get a hold of him. Papa's hand finally grabbed Zavion's shirt collar. Dragged him alongside the door. Zavion opened his eyes. Black. Dark. Sting. He couldn't touch the bottom, and the rain was coming down so thick and fast it was hard to tell what was river and what was sky. Something firm and long moved across his legs. A snake. Zavion's empty lungs forced his mouth open. He gulped water. Not air. Water. Oily and thick. Papa yanked him back onto the door.

Zavion lay on his back, coughing and spitting thick liquid from his lungs.

“Zavion!” Papa yelled right near his face. “Zavion!”

Zavion turned his head and saw his house—now a small, ragged box in the distance. The two-by-fours holding up the house looked like legs. They buckled at the knees and snapped.
More tiles flew off the collapsing roof, like birds or bats, spinning and crashing into the water.

Zavion grabbed two of the broken slate shingles as they rushed by.

“Papa—”

But Zavion had nothing to say.

“Hands out of the water, Zav,” said Papa. “There are snakes in there.”

Zavion peered into the water. Water moccasins. He remembered the thick, cold water in his own mouth and shuddered. He looked up instead. The rows of rooftops that were still intact stood like islands. A man and a woman were on top of one, clutching a sign between them.
HELP US
, it said.

There was nowhere safe to look.

Zavion looked nowhere for what seemed like a long time.

Then Papa said, “We gotta walk now.”

The water level was lower here. Zavion didn't remember seeing it go down, but he could tell. The top steps leading up to a few houses were visible.

“Where are we going?” Zavion asked.

“Forward” was all Papa said.

Zavion wanted to walk up, not forward, but he shoved the shingles into his pocket, climbed off the door, and stepped into the waist-high water. Papa grabbed Zavion's hand. The wind
tore through their fingers, pulling them apart. As they slogged through the rain and wind, Zavion tried to get his bearings, but nothing looked familiar. Not the sky, not the trees, not the…street.

He could barely even remember the word
street
.

It didn't matter. There was no word for what they were walking through now.