Chapter 4 Stormy
I've been lying in the dark for hours, hand on the knife, eyes on the door, running the same loop I ran last night. Listening for footsteps. Waiting for the knob to turn. Watching the chair I wedged under the handle and wondering if it would hold for three seconds or five.
He didn't come. Again. Two nights now. Two nights of nothing.
No footsteps stopping at my door, no handle rattling, no weight pressing against the frame.
Just the wind outside and the low rumble of his snoring through the wall, steady and even.
The sound of a man sleeping without a single bad thing on his conscience.
I don't know what to do with that. My brain keeps trying to file it somewhere and there's no folder for it.
There's a folder for men who come to your door and what to do when they get there.
There's a folder for the sounds they make in the hallway and what each sound means.
There's no folder for a man who hands you a towel, then goes to bed and stays there.
I pull the chair away from the door. My hand is cramped again from holding the knife all night, and I flex my fingers open one at a time.
The wind is different today. It's been building all night, shifting from that gusty, on-and-off pattern into a more constant pressure. Like the air itself is leaning against the building and not letting up.
I get up and go to the window. The sky is darker than it should be at this hour. The Gulf is out there somewhere, but I can't see it through the rain. I can hear it, though. Even over the wind, I can hear the water. It sounds angry and closer than yesterday.
I get dressed and go to the bathroom, then head downstairs.
He's already in the bar kitchen. He's standing at the flat top in jeans and boots and a grease-stained t-shirt.
He's got bacon going and eggs cracked. He's talking to himself, or maybe to the bacon, or maybe to Hurricane Peter. With Tex, it's hard to tell.
"Morning, Stormy," he says without turning around.
"Grab a stool. We've got a big day and I refuse to face a hurricane on an empty stomach.
A man's got to have standards. I've made a list of things I will not do during a hurricane.
Number one: skip breakfast. Number two: die.
Number three: let the bacon burn. Everything else is negotiable. "
I sit on the prep stool near the door. My stool now, I realize. I've sat here twice now and it's becoming mine, which is dangerous because nothing has ever been mine. I need to remember that.
He plates breakfast and slides it across to me. Eggs, bacon, toast. More bacon than eggs. He's doing that thing again where my plate has more food than his, even though he's at least a hundred pounds heavier and he acts like he doesn't notice.
"So," he says, settling onto his stool across from me with his own plate. "Let's talk about what's coming tonight, because I want you to understand what we're dealing with. Not to scare you. Just so you know."
My fork stops moving.
"The wind is going to be bad. Category 4 means sustained winds around 145 miles per hour, with gusts higher than that.
That's strong enough to peel roofs off houses and snap power poles like toothpicks.
But this building is poured concrete and steel.
We reinforced it after Michael. The wind is going to scream and it's going to sound like the end of the world, but the building can take it.
The wind is not what I'm worried about."
He takes a bite of bacon and chews it slowly, as if he's choosing his next words.
"What I'm worried about is storm surge. You know what that is?"
"The water," I say. "The Gulf coming in."
"Right. But it's more than that. It's not like a wave.
It's the entire Gulf of Mexico rising up and walking onto land.
The whole Gulf just lifts up and pushes inland, and it doesn't stop until the storm tells it to stop.
Once that water starts surging, it can go and go.
They're projecting twelve to sixteen feet of surge for this area.
That means the water could be sixteen feet higher than normal when Peter comes ashore.
My bar sits about eight feet above sea level. You can do that math."
I can easily do the math. The math says the first floor drowns.
"Now, before you panic, let me remind you that this building is basically a bunker with a liquor license.
She's not going anywhere. During Michael, the surge came up to about four feet inside this building on the ground level.
We lost the pool tables. Lost everything that wasn't bolted down and some things that were.
The building held, but everything inside it on the first floor was gone.
That's why we've been moving stuff upstairs.
If the surge is as bad as they're saying, the first floor is going to flood.
Maybe the second floor too, if we're unlucky. "
He says this the way he says everything. Steady, matter-of-fact, no panic. Like he's reading a weather report and not describing the possible destruction of everything he owns.
"Here's the part I need you to hear," he says, and his voice gets a little quieter.
Not scared. Serious. "There's always a chance, in a storm this strong, that the surge could be bad enough to knock a building completely off its foundation.
It happens. You see it in the news after every big hurricane.
Buildings that were standing one day, floating the next.
The whole structure just lifts and goes.
I don't think that's going to happen here because this building survived Michael and the foundation is solid.
But I'd be lying if I said the chance was zero. "
I stop eating. The bacon doesn't taste good anymore.
"If that happens, if this building starts to move, we go up.
Third floor, then the roof if we have to.
We stay with the structure as long as it's floating because it's better than being in the water.
All kinds of shit will be in that water and none of it good.
Trust me, we don't want to be in the water.
" He looks at me across the counter. "Can you swim? "
"Yes."
"How strong of a swimmer are you? And I need an honest answer, not a brave one."
I think about it. I can swim, though not well. Only a few times in a pool. I've never swum in anything that was trying to kill me.
"I can swim," I say. "I'm not a strong swimmer."
He nods. No judgment. Just taking in information.
"Okay. That's good to know. Hopefully it won't matter because we'll be sitting up there on the third floor playing cards and listening to Peter throw his tantrum and then it'll be over.
But if it does matter, you stay with me.
You understand? Whatever happens, you stay with me.
You stick close and don't go off by yourself.
Trust whatever I tell you to do. I grew up on this beach.
I've been swimming in the Gulf since before I could walk.
I'm not going to let anything happen to you as long as you're beside me. "
He says it simply. Like it's obvious. Like of course he's going to keep me safe, like that's just what he does, like the idea of not doing it hasn't occurred to him.
I don't know what to say so I pick up my fork and eat my eggs.
We spend the morning on final preparations.
The wind is getting worse by the hour. The storm bands that were rolling through yesterday in bursts have merged into one continuous assault, rain driving sideways and never letting up.
Every time we open a door to check the exterior, the wind nearly rips it off the hinges.
Tex fills every container in the bar with water.
Pots, pitchers, the big stock pots from the kitchen, even the mop bucket.
"When the power goes, the pumps go," he says, lining them up on the second-floor landing.
"No pumps, no running water. We'll want water for drinking and for flushing toilets. It's not glamorous but it's practical."
I help without being asked. I carry containers up the stairs, two at a time, sloshing water on my shoes.
I tape the seams around the boarded windows with duct tape the way he shows me.
I help him drag the big cooler from the walk-in up to the second floor, packed with everything from the fridge that we might need over the next two days.
My arms burn and my back aches and I don't care.
I have a job. I have a purpose. Every trip up the stairs is one more thing I've done to earn my place here, and I need that the way I need air.
Around noon, Tex's phone buzzes with another alert. He reads it and his jaw tightens, just for a second, before he smooths it out.
"What?" I ask.
"Peter's been upgraded. Category 5. Sustained winds of 160 miles per hour." He puts the phone in his pocket. "Surge projection just went up to eighteen feet."
Eighteen feet.
The first floor is eight feet above sea level. Eighteen minus eight means ten feet of water inside the ground level. The second floor is maybe twelve feet above the first.
"We'll be fine," Tex says. "This building held through Michael and Michael was a Category 5. Same building, same foundation, same stubborn owner refusing to leave." He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. "Besides, I've already signed Mickey's form. Can't evacuate now. It's too late."
"That's not how that works."
"Don't ruin this for me, Stormy. I'm trying to be heroic. I'm not leaving, but you can. It's not too late. Do you want me to take you somewhere else? A shelter? Or maybe even Mickey's? I'm sure he'd let you stay with him. You'd be safer there."
"No!" The word comes out before I even think about it. "I don't want to leave."
Please don't make me leave.
I hold my breath until he smiles back at me. "I appreciate it. I don't know what I would have done without your help getting ready."