Summer Storms

The scent of honeysuckle and petrichor wafts heavily through the summer air. A man leans with his arms crossed at the door of a small weather-worn garden shed, its chipped paint barely clinging to the wood beneath.

“Rains comin', dear. Why don’t you head in?”, he calls gently.

“I know the rains comin, that’s why I’m out here! Our roses, Marvin! Our roses! Where'd you leave the good tarps?” Frantic, a woman roots through a pile of ragged plastic sheets.

“They’ll bloom again next year, we got a good few days with em.”

“Oh what good is that!”, she snaps.

The low, rumbling threat of thunder answers. Silence drags on.

“You know rather than just standin there, it’d do us both well if you’d just come here and give me a hand!”

Marvin doesn’t answer.

“Marvin?”, the woman huffs out, glancing over at the door. He’s gone.

“Marvin!”, she demands. Stomping her way out of the shed.

Orange light streams from the windows of an old farmhouse a stone’s throw away. It looks especially inviting underneath the grayscale sky.

“He really just up and left me out here! He’s the one who should be doin all this in the first place!”

Just then the back door slams open and a smartly dressed young woman rushes out, heels abandoned haphazardly on the old porch.

“Mama! What. Are. You. Doin'? Where have you been? Jaxton called me, said you’d been gone all mornin! You had me sick to my stomach worryin!” Grasping her mother’s shoulders, a gasp leaves her lips and her eyes fill with knowing dread. The wind leaves her sails just as quickly as it started.

“Mama, you look a right mess— let’s get you inside alright?”, she says tentatively.

“I ain’t going nowhere until I get your Papa’s roses covered. This storm’ll tear those flowers right on up!”

“Mama, them flowers is dead. Papa hasn’t been out and about in years.”

“Now that’s a lie and a half! He was just out here actin like we got time to be hootin, hollerin, and fussin over nothin.”

“You know what? Actually, Papa covered them roses already. He told me to tell ya, so let’s just head on inside now before the storm rolls in.”

“Ya’ll shoulda just said that then. Running me all round like that! Let’s go, I’m gonna knock him in his head when I get my hands on em.”

“You’re right, Mama. I don’t know what I was thinkin. I ain’t got my head on straight.”

At the door, two little boys stare with wide eyes as their mother ushers their disheveled grandma into the house and straight up the stairs.

They remain frozen for a moment, unsure whether to follow or wait, or speak. The floorboards groan and the air hangs heavier. The sound of rushing water soon follows, echoing down the old pipes.

The younger boy speaks up first, “Can we make the cobbler now?”, the rumble in his tummy winning out over the unease winding up his spine.

“Probably not”, says the older, shaking his head.

“Why?”

“Cause.”

“Cause what?”

“We’re just not, okay!”, he snaps.

“You don’t have to be so mean!”, the boy yells as he stomps over to the living room and flings himself face down into the worn couch.

“I hate this, I don’t want to stay at grandma’s anymore!”, he yells uselessly into the cushion.

The older boy huffs and turns into the kitchen, crossing his arms as he leans back on the counter, chin tucked firmly to his chest. His eyes catch on the sink full of big, rosy peaches they’d worked so hard washing.

His fingers dig into his arms as he bites his lip, he can’t help but hone in on the muffled voices coming from upstairs, trying to make sense of what's being said.

Grandma’s upset, he knows that at least.

Suddenly a small, sniffly voice calls from behind him, “Jaxton?”

“Yeah?”, voice a little too tight.

“M’ hungry.”

Jaxton nods, “Me too. Go get the bread n stuff out of the pantry, I’ll make us some PB&J .”

“Ugh, again? Why can’t we make peach cobbler? We always have peach cobbler at grandma’s!”

“Who’s gonna work the stove, Cooper? Who’s gonna cut up all them peaches? You? We’re not allowed.”

“But, Mama’s home!”

“She’s gonna haveta get back to work.”

“Then who’s gonna take care of us?”

“Grandma— when she’s better. Or maybe Mama will put me in charge.”

“Nuh uh”, Cooper says incredulously.

“PB&J or nothing, Coop. Take it or leave it”, Jaxton says sternly.

“Fine, I’ll take it then.”, Cooper says dejectedly, lip poking out as he shuffles into the pantry, glancing only slightly at the peaches left lonesome in the sink.

Cooper scrapes an old chair across the floor, guided by timeworn grooves.

A fresh jar of homemade fig jam, a half-finished jar of peanut butter, and a partially squashed bag of white bread are snatched up in an instant.

Jaxton lays out the bread, movements careful.

“Don’t smush it”, Cooper warns.

“I’m not”, Jaxton huffs, “It’s already smushed anyway.”

Cooper remains silent, watching intently as his brother plops down dollops of peanut butter and jam onto the bread. Without a word Jaxton hands over the butter knife.

Having seemingly forgotten his previous disdain for the sandwich, Cooper eagerly gets to work messily slathering each piece, tongue sticking out in concentration.

His giddy machinations stop abruptly. An ill-suited pensive look grows on his face.

“You think grandma’ll make us cobbler tomorrow?”

Jaxton shrugs stiffly, “I dunno.”

A pause.

“What about after tomorrow?”, Cooper whispers.

“Dunno”, Jaxton says softly.

Cooper stares down at the slices of bread with watery eyes, lips pressed into a thin line. Jaxton gently stacks the halves together, careful not to smush the bread.

“M' sorry, Jaxton.”

“I’m sorry too, Coop.”

They sit with their sandwiches at the kitchen table, feet swinging listlessly.

The sink sits quiet, peaches untouched. Outside thunder grumbles in the distance as rain gives way, filling in the silence like a lost lover.