Howling Wind

*Author’s Note: Xenia, Ohio, is a real place. I’m kinda using a metaphor here, enjoy*

April 3rd, 1974

4:30 p.m.

I sit on the porch swing, playing with a yo-yo. I got home from school an hour or so ago, and a bad storm is brewing. I go to Xenia High School in Ohio. Suddenly, a short figure walks up to me. My face relaxes into a grin. “Hey, what’s up?” I say to Amy, my best friend. 

She sits next to me and holds out a drawing. It’s of an angel, but it’s not of any angel I’ve ever seen. “Nothing much. So, Angela, what do you wanna do? Go get ice cream or something?” 

“Nah, it looks like it’s going to rain.” 

“True, so maybe we just sit here?” Amy laughs. 

I glance at my watch. It’s 4:32. “My dad will be home at around 6, we have time. Let’s go watch TV.” 

“Okay.” Amy says, and I open the door. She follows me inside. The house is sparsely decorated, since my dad thinks interior design is “for housewives”. I don’t have a mother. She died when I was younger. I’ve been trying to convince him to let me decorate, but no luck. 

We sit at the TV and start watching I Love Lucy, but in two minutes a Breaking News weather special is cast over the episode. A frazzled young woman stands in front of a radar and says in a hushed voice that conceals panic “Officials are declaring that a tornado is very likely to form near Xenia, Ohio. Please prepare and take shelter in the basement or another room with no windows. Thank you, and stay safe.” 

The I Love Lucy episode continues as if nothing had happened. Amy shuts it off and runs a hand through her curly black hair, something she only does when she’s nervous. “Angela. What do we do?” she says quietly, her voice taut with anxiety. 

“Let’s go to my closet. Grab a pillow to put over your head and neck.” I reply calmly, but inside my heart is pounding. I have to be strong. I’ve been in tornadoes before, but Amy just moved here from LA about a year ago, when we were 14. She’s never been in one. 

Amy grabs a drab brown pillow that smells of cigarettes and clutches it tightly. I snatch an identical one and lead her down the dim hallway to my bedroom. I open the door and lead her into my small closet. I shove aside my clothes and throw them on my bed. Amy’s breathing is starting to sound like a steam engine; huff-puff-huff-puff.

“Amy, calm down. I’ve been in tornadoes before. It’s just a bit of loud noise and sometimes a few trees fall down.” I reassure her. I don’t tell her that at the bottom of the screen, when Amy was looking away, it said “Possible F5”. The worst I’ve been in is F2. But I don’t mention it. 

I let her go in first, and she tucks herself in behind a box of old papers and covers her neck with the pillow. I can see the panic in her eyes. I seat myself beside her and we’re pressed together in the small floor space. “Amy, don’t worry. It will be fine.” 

I can hear Amy’s breathing. It’s labored and scared. All the words I can say to her don’t mean anything. 

Suddenly, a loud noise fills the air. The tornado is here. A thought fills my brain. MY DAD! I push the thought away. He’s fine. He’ll be okay. 

I grab Amy’s hand and squeeze it, trying to convince her that it’s okay. 

At least, I think it will be okay. I’m starting to believe it when the roof rips off. 

****

April 3rd, 1974

4:44 p.m.

Amy screams and her hair whips up. I can see the tornado, it’s close. The sky is dark as night and the wind is howling. I can’t hear anything anymore. 

“AMY HOLD ON!” I shriek, holding out my hand. I yank her under the clothes and yell “FOLLOW ME!” 

She nods faintly and I crawl towards my dad’s bathroom. God knows what we’ll find in the closet. 

I reach the door and shove it open. I’m inside and in the bathtub when I turn around. Amy’s gone. “AMY!” I call, holing down in the bathtub.

The roof is still up in this room and I put my pillow over my neck and head and run back out of the bathroom. I go into the hallway and stare around. “Amy!” 

I find her in the kitchen, in a ball, rocking on her heels. The tornado isn’t near our house anymore. “Amy! You could’ve died!” 

She stares up at me and her eyes are clouded in fear. She has mascara lines down her face as a result of her crying. The wind is howling, but it’s quieting down. I hurry over to her and see a bad bruise forming on her leg. I point to it and say “What happened?” 

“A piece of gutter hit me.” Then she gasps and grabs my arm. I didn’t notice, but a piece of glass cut me, I think. I can see bright red blood spilling down my arm. I can’t even feel the pain. 

“It’s just a glass cut. Not too deep.” I say. The wind is dying down and a light rain is falling. The kitchen doesn’t have a ceiling anymore. “Let’s go outside. See if we can get some help.” 

But Amy can’t walk. It must have sprained or broken her leg. “I’ll be right back.” I reassure her, stepping outside. She nods. 

I almost faint at the sight of my block. It’s completely destroyed. Some houses are partly ripped apart, like mine, but some are flattened, piles of wood and drywall everywhere. I tentatively walk over to my neighbor Patricia’s and call out “Mrs. Patricia? Are you okay?” Her house is in the state of the latter. 

I pick through the rubble and come upon her dog. He’s sitting up right next to a pile of fallen wood planks. I lift up a big piece and come upon Patricia lying there. She looks peaceful, asleep. But there’s an odd stillness of her chest, and the blood on her temple doesn’t look right. 

She’s dead. 

A chocked sound comes out of my mouth and tears spill down my cheeks. 

I turn to stare at her dog. His name is Grogan. I pat his head and collapse next to the corpse that was until very recently my middle aged neighbor. 

After a few minutes, I stand back up and continue down the street. 

I finally just sit on the curb and put my head between my hands. 

I’m screaming my head off and close to blacking out when they find me. The Red Cross workers. They tell me that Amy’s okay, but they need to clean my arm. 

I don’t stop screaming and I finally squeeze out a word. “Patricia.” 

The ambulance takes Patricia’s body away, but the sirens are off because she’s dead. 

Grogan comes sit by me and I cry into his caramel colored coat. The workers clean my arm and put on a fresh bandage when I say “Where’s my dad?” 

They are talking in hushed voices, about me. Before I ask again, I listen. 

“She’s just disoriented, due to trauma from the disaster.” one says.

“Should we prescribe sleeping drugs? Sedating?” another asks.

“Not yet. We need to keep in touch with her guardian.” the one that cleaned my cut says. 

“Where’s my dad?” I say louder, keeping my hand on the dog. 

One of them turns to look at me. They all have grey, blurred faces and calming voices that seem like they’d take years to master. I thought I could stay calm. I was wrong. I couldn’t calm down Amy and I sure as hell couldn’t calm myself down. 

“He’s fine. He’s at the shelter. Do you want to go?” 

I nod. It’s over. The tornado is over. 

August 9th, 2018

I finger the picture on my mantelpiece, tracing the harsh lines of my dad’s face. He’s dead. Has been for years. I miss him sometimes. I stare out the window, looking at the ocean. I live in South Carolina now. Safe from tornadoes. Sometimes I can still remember that day. 

The acrid smell of rain and drywall filling my nostrils. 

Patricia’s dead body. 

The crack of the roof ripping away. 

The howling of the wind. 

I pull myself out of my nightmare and feel Amy’s soft hand on my shoulder. That day it was smooth and unblemished, but now it is knobby and covered in age spots. I grab it like a lifeline and hug her. 

I swear I can still hear the howling wind.