Wind

This is the letter I write but can’t send.

I fold the letter up and stick it in my diary with all the other letters I can’t send and start one I can.

I tell him that things are fine in Florida, that I’m making a lot of friends at my new school. I say that Momma is enjoying her job, that our new house is looking good, and we are very happy here. I end by telling him that I miss him and that I’m proud of him.

Only the last sentence is true. I’ve made no friends at school. Momma is working double shifts and is exhausted most of the time. Our new house needs some repairs done that we don’t know how to do, and we can’t afford to hire someone. Daddy used to do all that. Momma says he has clever hands.

We moved to Stuart, Florida, at the end of the summer, when Daddy retired from the Army. Five days after we moved into our new house, the Army called Daddy back. He’s been gone for six weeks and four days. He won’t be back for a year. He didn’t even get a chance to meet the neighbors before he went away, which means Momma and I haven’t met the neighbors yet.

Momma and I are shy. We seem to just freeze up around new people. Lucky for us, Daddy’s just the opposite. He’ll ask complete strangers for the time, even though he knows exactly what time it is, just so he can strike up conversations with them. If he were here, we would know every neighbor for two blocks in both directions. Momma calls him her Captain Friendly. He calls us his Shy-Annes because Momma and I have the same first name.

I thought things couldn’t get much worse, but they did. A hurricane was swirling our way.

The phone rings. I think it’s Momma calling from work to check in on me.

“Annie?”

“Daddy!” He’s only been able to call once the whole time he’s been gone.

“Good to hear your voice,” he says.

“Where are you?” I ask.

“Can’t say. And I don’t have much time to talk. Is your momma there?”

“She’s at work.”

“Why’s she working so late?”

I guess she hadn’t told him she’s working extra shifts. “She’ll be home soon.”

He hesitates, then says, “The reason I called is because of Nate.”

“Nate?” That’s Daddy’s name.

“Hurricane Nate,” he says. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know about it.”

“I knew,” I say. “But I didn’t know they gave it your name.”

He laughs. “Yep, finally named a hurricane after me. They say it’s going to be a big one. That’s why I called. I’m worried.”

“We’re fine. It may not even hit here.”

“Maybe you and Momma should get out of Florida for a few days.”

“Maybe,” I say. Momma and I had already talked about it. We agreed it was best to ride out the storm. If we tried to leave, we might get stranded in traffic. Also, if a hurricane hits, sometimes they won’t let you back into your house for days or weeks.

“Look, honey, I have to get going. But in the garage is a stack of precut panels for the windows. Before you leave, you need to get someone to put them up . . .” I hear someone talking to him in the background. “I have to go. I was in a sandstorm a few days back. Maybe some of that wind coming your way has a little bit of me in it. I love you, Annie. I’ll be home before you know it.”

“I love you too,” I stammer. “I miss . . .” But Daddy’s gone.

I look out the front window with the phone still in my hand. The clouds are dark and dangerous looking. The palm trees begin to sway.

By the time Momma gets home, the wind is howling. She has a trunkful of groceries and supplies. Because of the wind, it takes us 10 minutes to get everything into the house. I tell her Daddy called and what he said.

“Too windy to get those panels up now,” she says.

I look out the window. A garbage can is rolling down the street.

“So, this is a hurricane,” I say.

“Not yet,” Momma says. “Stay away from the window.”

Momma starts making dinner. Before she’s finished, the power goes out. We stumble around and bump into each other twice before we find the flashlight. Momma tries the phone. It’s out too.

“I guess we’re on our own,” she says.

“I wish Daddy was here.”

“So do I, honey. So do I.”

Somehow, with the wind shaking the house, I fall asleep next to Momma on the sofa. A few hours later, I open my eyes—wide awake. The light from the candles dances on the wall. I wonder what woke me up, then I realize that it’s absolutely quiet. Momma is standing at the window looking outside.

“Is it over?”

“Looks like it,” she answers. “I see stars.” We step out of the house and find we’re not alone. Up and down the street people are out with their flashlights.

“Are you OK?” a man asks from the darkness. Momma and I jump.

“Who’s there?” I ask.

“Bob Jenson, your neighbor. I’ve been worried about you two.”

“We’re fine,” Momma says. “Now that it’s over.”

“Over? Not by a long shot. This is the eye of the hurricane. The winds will be back, but they’ll come from the opposite direction.” He turns his flashlight on. “Are you sure everything’s OK? You’re welcome to ride it out over at our house if you want.”

“No, we’re fine,” Momma says. “Thank you for your concern.”

Mr. Jenson was right. The back side of the storm is much worse than the front side. Momma and I huddle together on the sofa as the wind and rain batter the house. Something huge and terribly loud slams into the roof, but we are too afraid to go upstairs and look. A window shatters in the kitchen.

I’m afraid our house will be ripped from its foundation and go hurtling into the sky, but it holds. A few hours after sunrise, the winds die down.

Momma and I slip on coats and step out. Our street looks like a giant lawn mower has run it over. All the trees are broken off or tipped over. The flowers and bushes are all gone. Every window on the second floor of our house is broken. Half the roof is gone. An upside-down palm tree sticks out from Momma and Daddy’s bedroom.

Momma starts to cry.

I put my arms around her waist, and I start crying too.

We are so busy grieving for our house that we don’t notice the neighbors right away. I see them first. Six or seven standing behind us, allowing us our moment. I’ve seen a few of them working in their yards on my way to the school bus. I’ve never talked to any of them, although some have said hello as I passed.

Two of the men are carrying chain saws. Others have brooms and rakes and garbage cans.

One of the men, Mr. Jenson, takes a small camera from his pocket and starts taking pictures of our house.

Momma turns around, wiping the tears from her eyes. Like me, she doesn’t know what to say. I don’t think the neighbors know what to say either. We spend a few moments looking everywhere but at each other.

“I’m glad you’re both OK,” Mr. Jenson finally says.

Momma nods but still can’t seem to find her voice. It’s that Shy-Anne thing again. I’m afraid that if I don’t say something, the neighbors will go away. For some reason, I want them to stay.

This is when I smell Daddy. I’m wearing his coat. A breeze blows through my hair, and I remember what he said about the wind. I take a deep breath of his scent and smile.

“Why are you taking pictures of our house?” I ask.

Mr. Jenson smiles back at me. “I used to be an insurance man before I retired. We need to document what your house looks like before we clean it up. Eventually, your insurance will need to know the extent of the damage.”

“We?” I ask, looking at Momma. She’s as surprised as I am.

“That’s how we do it here,” Mr. Jenson says. “Your house has the worst damage, so that’s where we’ll start. When we finish your place, we’ll go down to the Rodriguez house . . . their place is pretty banged up too. We have to get these houses patched up to stop rain damage.”

“And we do it together?” Momma asks. A small smile flickers across her face.

“Easier that way,” Mr. Jenson says. “More fun too. Those not working cleanup are cooking food. Another group is out getting water for us to drink. Now, we won’t be able to do permanent repairs. But we’ll get a tarp over your roof. Clean up the mess inside. Get the palm tree out. Make it safe for you and your daughter to stay in your home.”

“Please come inside,” Momma says, then looks at everyone in turn. “And thank you.”