This Fell Tempest

The rocking chair creaked a slow, mournful rhythm, and it was easy to imagine that Lainey, the old woman who sat there, had sprung up from the land around her as much as the corn and cottonwoods. The deep creases of her face mirrored the furrows of seasons past. Her fingers, as crooked as the old bur oak that shaded the rutty drive stretching its way to the house, bent around the arms of her chair, rooting her to the place.

Lainey pulled on her cigarette, and a heartbeat later the smoke billowed out of her, hanging in the heavy air like it was eager to get back in.

“I am not inclined to relive that evil day,” she said, the words struggling to escape her more than the smoke.

“I sympathize ma’am, but no one’s heard your story in 40 years,” I said to her, hat in hand. “I have something of an interest in cold cases. Call it a professional hobby, if you will. When I read about your husband’s death, I knew I’d like to hear it from you, if you’d indulge me.”

The story of record was that Lainey’s husband, caught unawares and out in the open, fell victim to a sudden but violent storm. But the coroner’s report left some questions of a struggle — the kind of scratches made by fingernails, thumb-shaped bruises on the face and neck — and for whatever reasons the authorities had at the time, that line of inquiry was never explored further. The case was never closed, just let go. Sloppy detective work, or something swept under the rug? It was the kind of thing that left an itch at the back of my mind.

“Are you a religious man, Detective Peterson?” Lainey asked, ice-blue eyes finding me through the haze.

“Me and the misses find the church most Sundays, ma’am,” I told her.

“Well, you’re going to need a touch of faith to believe me,” she said.

“Walk me through it,” I answered, finding my notepad. “From the beginning, if you’d be obliged.”

She gave me a long, appraising look and must have decided in my favor, for she started talking, the gravel in her voice adding weight to each word she spoke.

* * *

In Nebraska, tornadoes come on quicker than you might think. You can see the clouds getting contemptuous from a distance and feel the air get anxious about what’s coming. You might think you have plenty of time before it hits you, but you don’t. That was my mistake.

Ollie’s out spraying the north field, and I’m sweeping mud clumps off this here porch. I see a big wall of clouds getting low down yonder. It’s far off, mind you, and I’m not worried yet.

My boy Henry’s stacking hay over at the barn and Scarlett’s keeping watch over us both, same as always. She’s a little red-and-white beagle with spots running up and down her legs. She’s sweeter than cornbread, but pack loyal through and through.

I call over to Henry and tell him to come hither when I see a line of dust popping up along the drive. Two seconds later I hear the rumble of Teddy Anderson’s diesel Chevy. I’d have known that sound anywhere as he came by every Saturday to invite us to church on Sunday. Ollie and I always said, “No, there’s too much to do around here,” God forgive us, but Teddy was Ollie’s oldest friend and the two of them would porch sit and drink a little bourbon till the sun went down. Teddy’d trade in his temperance each week for the chance to talk to Ollie about God and all the ways the devil can take over a man. He was a true believer in the eternal battle of good versus evil, having witnessed the campaign in his own soul. And despite the weekly indulgence in spirits, he was always trying to recruit Ollie to the right side of the fight.

Anyway, Teddy, he comes screeching to a stop, and he’s hollering about evil things afoot. I figure he’s talking about the storm and tell him I seen it coming too.

He shakes his head and starts pointing, “Get inside! Lainey, Henry, get inside! Don’t let anyone in!”

“Teddy, What the hell you going on about?” I call to him, but the Chevy’s already growling and he’s hauling ass back down the drive.

Looking back, I should have paid more heed, but I had my mind set on pulling new linens off the line. Plenty of time, I thought. I tell Henry to go fetch Ollie, and he speeds off on the three-wheeler. I figured I’d finish up and we’d all be in the basement lickety-split.

Sure as shooting, the wind whips up just as I get done thinking it. It’s grabbing at my blouse and my hair, and Scarlett’s looking southward with her ears up. I can hear the three-wheeler away back, but then I hear something else. The horses are kicking their stall doors like angry judges in a rowdy courtroom. They feel it coming too, and they got the good sense to know they’ll stand a better chance turned out than they will locked in. I start quick-timing to the barn when Henry’s voice stops me cold.

“Maaaa!”

Against the wind, the yell sounds like a whisper, but I know my boy and it ain’t like him to call for help, especially not from his momma.

For a moment, I’m torn between the horses and Henry, but there’s really no argument, much as I love my horses. I hop in the Ford, and Scarlett jumps in with me. I head up along the stream, same as Henry did. The cottonwoods are bending now, limbs and leaves reaching out for Jesus, and the air is filling up thick as a blizzard with their silky white seeds. I hear hail hit the windshield once, twice, then all at once like it’s been mad as hell all day and ain’t holding nothing back no more.

I can’t see more than a foot in front of me, but I drive on and almost smash into the abandoned three-wheeler, set there all lonesome in the middle of the road. I roll down the window and yell “HENRY!” loud as I can, but the hail keeps pounding away on that old Ford, and I can barely hear myself. Hail or no, I throw my hands over my head and run out to have a look, that tough little beagle jumping into the fray ahead of me.

I can’t see nothing through the cottonwood seeds, the hail, and the bits and pieces the wind is hurling at me, but Scarlett starts barking her high-pitched alert. I follow the sound, arms still up for the fat lot of good it does me, until I find her standing guard over Henry, who’s lying on the ground some 50 feet off. He’s too far in the wrong direction for this to have been an accident. I see dark red dripping from his forehead, and I think the worst, but when I get to him, he’s breathing.

I shake him. “Henry, what happened?” But he only groans back.

I don’t know how I’m going to get that man-sized boy into the truck, but he’s with it enough to help me help him. I shove him into the pickup and yell to Scarlett. I hear her barking, but I don’t see her anywhere. I yell again, but there’s blood everywhere now, and it’s mixing with the rain and that thick cottonwood snow to make a muddy red mess that’s sticking to everything.  I’ve got to get him cleaned up and cared for, and for the second time I gotta make a choice between those I love. But Scarlett’s been out in these fields plenty, and she knows the way home.

I race back, praying she and Ollie will find each other. We get there and I’m pulling Henry out of the truck trying to shield him when the hail and the wind stop altogether. I look up, glad for the reprieve, but it’s short-lived because I see the whole of the ever-loving sky spinning big slow circles around me like I’m the center of the world. The sky’s the deepest, darkest green I’ve ever seen before or since, and the air is charged with an unholy hatred for me and my boy. Why that should be, I don’t know, but I know with absolute certainty that there has never been anything truer.

I think about Teddy’s warning about evil afoot and wonder what special relationship he enjoys with the Lord that gave him the sight of it. I should have went to church more Sundays, with or without Ollie, then maybe I would have His favor too. As it is, there’s little I can do in the face of such overwhelming evil.

Then I hear the deep, hollow thuds of the horses kicking, all the louder in the sudden quiet, and it spurs me.  If they ain’t giving up, then neither am I.

I wrestle the Bilco doors open and Henry and I stumble into the basement. I grab a towel from the laundry and I’m holding him up with one hand and cleaning around the wound to get a good look at it with the other when Henry starts coming to.

“Ma? What happened?” he moans.

“Did you crash the ATV?” I ask stupidly, already knowing that ain’t it.

“No,” he says, running one of them big hands over his blond flattop while he thinks things through. In the dim light of the basement he looks just like his Daddy did the day he shipped off to Vietnam. Tall and handsome, long-limbed and lean, farm-strong shoulders adding confidence to his bearing.

He starts talking and the boy of 15 comes back. “I saw Dad splashing about in the crick. ‘Dad! Dad!’ I’m screaming at him, but the wind’s picking up and I don’t think he can hear me, so I go down after him. ‘Dad,’ I yell, ‘we gotta get home, a twister’s coming! Teddy and Ma sent me to fetch you!’ All the sudden, it’s like it weren’t even him no more, like he don’t know me for his son. He starts snarling like a rabid dog and takes a swing at me. Next thing I know, Scarlett’s barking and you’re shaking me.”

Henry looked at me with a fearfulness I hadn’t seen since he was small enough to wear on my hip.  “Ma, something’s really wrong with Dad,” he said.

That’s when I heard Scarlett’s alarm bark again, right outside.

* * *

Lainey paused, both the story and her rocking. The sudden absence of the singsong groan of wood against wood left an empty space big enough to miss. She was staring absently at the barn, and I could tell she was seeing it as it once was and not as it stood now, drained of color, big doors opening up to nothing but cobwebs and memories, and the whole thing looking like it was trying to find a friend to lean on. She fumbled another cigarette from the pack on her lap, lit it, and took a long slow drag before finally letting the smoke go again.

“Maybe that’s enough for today,” I suggested, closing my notepad. I’d yet to write a single thing, anyway. “I could come back tomorrow?”

She pushed herself up and walked into the house without saying a word, and for the first time I saw that her fingers might be crooked, but her back was straight and strong. Unsure what she intended, I waited.

Just when I had decided she meant to be done for the day, the old screen door screeched open and Lainey pushed through with a tray of lemonade, two glasses, and a bottle of bourbon. She put the tray on a table between us, sat, and poured herself a bourbon and lemonade.

“I’m going to need a drink for the rest,” she said, her voice like stones in a tumbler. “You can join me if you like, with or without the bourbon.”

I opted for the lemonade, but wanting fortification for the rest of the story, added a bit of bourbon too. I didn’t bother with the notepad.

* * *

I hear someone outside, and it’s gotta be Ollie, but my relief sours when I hear Scarlett’s barks turn to a whelp. I throw those metal doors open with a clang and there he is. But Henry was right. Something’s dreadful wrong, and my stomach drops as Ollie raises a foot to kick my Scarlett.

“No!” I yell, grabbing his leg, still half in, half out of the stairwell.

Ollie lets Scarlett alone, but he turns to me then, and when he does, I see a rageful hate in him. I swear to God, I look into those green eyes and see the very same tempest there that’s swirling above us. And, Teddy’s warning running through my head, I know this ain’t Ollie no more, but some devil that’s taken over.

Now, I’m not one given to believe in fanciful things, but there’s believing, and then there’s experiencing.

Ollie yanks me clean out of the stairwell and tosses me through the air like a bale of hay. I hit the ground with the gut-wrenching snap of a broken leg.

Henry’s voice comes booming up from the basement, all anger and fear for his momma. “Stop it! Don’t hurt her!”

I yell for him to run, but the wind’s knocked clear out of me and I find neither breath nor words. The eye is past us now, the calm is over, and there’s leaves and debris and dirt flying everywhere. I hear the horses screaming their panic whinnies and banging! banging! banging! against the boards. The wind’s got ahold of my hair again, pulling it before my eyes, but I see enough to see Ollie lurching after me, hands out like he’d tear me to pieces if he had the claws for it.

He’s just about on me when Henry jumps on his back, strong young arms around his neck pleading, begging, demanding, “Dad! Stop! Leave her alone!”

Ollie bites Henry’s arm like a goddamn animal and Henry yowls with the pain and shock of it. Ollie throws him off and Henry crashes past me and we both lay there on the ground whimpering in fear and grief. Ollie starts toward us again. But that stout-hearted little Scarlett scurries between us and this demon-thing, not an alarm bark this time, but an angry warning bark, hackles up, ready to fight and die for her pack.

“Scarlett, go!” I manage to wheeze, but it’s pointless because she don’t know she’s small, and anyway, that freight train roar is upon us, relentless and deafening, hurling dirt and stone and sticks like scattershot from opposing shotguns. A horse thunders past, gashed legs spraying red rivulets into the gray-green mayhem. They got themselves loose or the barn fell apart around them, and I think, thank God at least some of us are going to survive this.

Ollie’s standing over us now, red spittle dribbling down his chin, ready to kill or eat or tear or something I haven’t the imagination for, and I just know we’re done for.

And that’s when the finger of God reaches down from the heavens.

This twister ain’t ripping a path through the earth like a tornado should, it’s coming straight down over Ollie. The whirlwind and this godforsaken demon that took my husband are struggling with each other, Ollie grunting and yelping, frothing, twitching about wild and angry, the tornado swirling and prodding around him looking for a weakness to pull that demon out.

That twister proves stronger than the evil that overtook poor Ollie, and as the funnel recedes, it pulls the demon back into the tempest from which it came, and the rage in the air seeps back into whatever hell it came from. The struggle is over now, and Ollie falls to his knees, palms up in devotion, no doubt giving thanks for deliverance from that eternal war that found its battleground in him.

“Henry? Lainey?” he says, and for a moment I can see it’s my Ollie again, from way back, the one I loved and admired enough to marry, before the hard times and the drink and the bitterness of life opened a crack in him wide enough for the devil to enter.

I want to hug him, to hold him and tell him it’s all going to be all right now. But Ollie had been caught up in the struggle of good versus evil and that battle took the last bit of strength that was left in him. He drops to the ground and says no more.

I hold Henry instead, but I don’t tell him nothing, because I know we’ll never be the same again. We just huddle together there on the ground, me, Henry and that brave little beagle, disbelievin’ we survived the storm and mournful of the awful cost.

* * *

I was quiet for a while, taking it all in. “That’s not the same story you told to the officers that day,” I said finally.

“There was a tempest,” she rasped, her voice finally losing strength. “A great evil overtook my husband and imperiled everything I loved. But God intervened.”

There was a record of a tornado touching down that day, but no property damage was recorded other than some lost crops, and Lainey’s husband was the only soul unfortunate enough to be caught by it. Minor, if you could ever fairly call a tornado such a thing.

That itch in the back of my mind told me the real storm was in Ollie, just as she said, likely brewing over the years through drink and stress and anger until he was so far from the man she married she didn’t recognize him anymore. When a man gets like that, devils can enter, sure enough. I’ve seen it plenty.

If I had to wager, I’d bet this particular devil was jealousy, real or imagined. And I’d reckon that the trigger for Ollie’s rage on this last occasion was some muddled thinking over Teddy sharing whatever concerns he may have had with Lainey about Ollie’s state of mind. And Lainey, forced to make impossible choices to survive in the face of a rageful husband, killed him in self-defense. Or maybe it was Henry that did it, protecting his mother from his own father.

Sometimes the truth is so hard to reconcile, you simply have to remember it different. But I also think she told it true enough, because there’s believing, and then there’s experiencing. An evil tempest hit that day, and their lives were never the same.

Lainey closed her eyes and started rocking again.

I took another sip of bourbon lemonade, content to leave her in her own purgatory, grappling with unruly memories.