Hurricane Spares the Beach House, Comforts its People

Kat struggles to climb the final flight of stairs, determined to step onto the front porch before the first squalls of wind and rain slam the screen door shut. While she hauls the grocery bags indoors, the wooden rockers flip and butt up against the windows on the south side of the Huntington family beach house, a sure sign that the hurricane’s trajectory may be turning. And not in a positive direction.

Her siblings and their children are scheduled to arrive in a couple of days for a fall reunion of sorts. Planned for months, Kat’s reluctant to officially cancel. She barely pays attention to the hurricane updates that report Zeta is churning in the Gulf of Mexico, gaining speed, mustering strength. What are the chances of a hurricane hitting Mississippi’s coastline in late October?

Emergency notifications, one right after another, bleep loudly on her phone. It sounds like Grand Central Station in the middle of the living room as the tv’s soundbar seemingly repeats her cell’s alerts. Kat’s legs lock in place while she watches the local meteorologist progress to his panic mode stage. She doesn’t notice the Roma tomatoes spill from the grocery bag, roll toward the kitchen.

“Get out now,” he yells.

Kat stares at the weather map - the cone of uncertainty - displayed on the screen. She struggles to determine how her location fits into this, but it’s impossible to see past the man’s contorted face with his forehead profusely sweating. Finally, an action reporter steps forward and urges Gulf Coast residents to heed the hurricane warnings.

This, of course, after a week’s worth of downplaying the reality that Mississippi’s Gulf Coast is poised for a direct hit.

So I drive to the store on the other side of town to get burgers and weiners, and by the time I get back to the house, the damned storm has turned.  I should’ve locked up and left. Canceled everything.

Kat’s cell phone rings. 

“Hello,” she says, louder than necessary.

“Kat, what is going on with Zeta? The storm?” Ginger, Kat’s older sister, says she’s been trying to reach Kat for hours. “Please tell me you’re not still expecting us for the weekend, are you? With a hurricane headed straight for the Pass?”

Hmmm… .there’s the judgment. Right there. A voice dipped in second-guessing. Overflowing with superiority. Of course, I’m the irresponsible sibling. So, of course, I’ve thought of no one else but myself. ’Cause, that’s the way it always plays out with Ginger and me. 

“I guess you’re looking for an apology?”

“Kat, what are you talking about? Certainly not expecting one.” Ginger sighs. “I need information. I haven’t heard from you this week, and the Weather Channel’s been hammering about Zeta for days.” Ginger’s tone softens. “Are you okay?”

She’s talked to Mom today. Someone wants to know if I’m riding out the storm. Alone.

“Yeah, I mean, sure. I’m fine, Sis. I’ve been on deadline, wrapping up a huge feature series. Meeting with people, verifying sources is not what it used to be. Sorry, just couldn’t pull away from it.” Kat switches to speakerphone before leaning over to pick up the tomatoes scattered across the weathered wooden floor. 

“Kat, you work for a newspaper, for God’s sake. Surely, the topic of an approaching hurricane came up this week?” Then Ginger refocuses when she hears Kat flip on the kitchen’s faucet. “Obviously, we’re not driving down to the beach this weekend. It’s ridiculous to put ourselves in harm’s way. Probably get hit with what’s left here in Vicksburg by the weekend, anyway.”

Such sagacity.

Kat fires back: “Look, I figured I’d call you and Matt by the day’s end, and we’d figure something out. I’m not demanding that y’all come South. I don’t know how much of Mom’s to-do list we’d have been able to tackle with five adults and four kids. And have time to hang at the beach.” Kat pours several cups of water into the Keurig and presses ‘brew’.

She hears Ginger’s annoyance on the other end. “I can’t believe she left us a list. It was supposed to be a fun get-away weekend,” Ginger says.

Ignoring her sister’s comment about their mother, Kat says, “You know as well as I do, Sis, that hurricanes have a mind of their own. No reason to worry. Stay in Vicksburg and be safe.”

Kat lives the truth of this well-known fact: she proves it this morning when she leaves the house, drives to the nearest fresh food mart twenty miles away, shops for an hour, then returns. The nature of a tropical system can change in a heartbeat. 

“Exactly! And that’s what Zeta just did.” Ginger sounds anxious to end their conversation.

Ugh. “Well, I now have a stack of hamburgers to grill once the power goes out. Maybe I’ll invite the neighbors. Sis, I’m signing off.”

“You need to leave, Kittie Kat.” Ginger warns: “Leave while you can still get out. You’ve got an angry Gulf in your backyard, and it’s about to have a dance party with Zeta.” Ginger’s tone further agitates Kat’s mood. “Please don’t make me remind you about Katrina and the thirty-foot storm surge she left behind,” Ginger adds. 

Kat takes a deep breath before volleying a response. A breath that feels like a minute but only lasts a couple of seconds.

“I’m not evacuating, Ginger. I’m bloody sick of the entire process.” She waits for her words to sink in. Then, for Ginger, older by only four years, to react.

Here comes another one of Ginger’s long sighs. While Kat awaits more storm wisdom or life advice, she dries the tomatoes and places them on the windowsill. Then, the flurried actions of her next-door neighbors catch her attention. As sheets of rain drench the older couple, they struggle to descend the stairs of their raised home. Unfortunately, the couple of bags they’re attempting to take with them are now soaked. Is there a shadow on the stair’s midway landing?

“It’s a category 3. I can handle a cat 3, Ginger. So, you know better than to worry. I got this.” 

“Yeah, whatever. I still think you need to leave. Even if Zeta passes quickly, you won’t have power for days. Water could surge under the house at least five feet. No one can get to you, Kat, and there you’ll be: stranded.” Ginger’s syrupy voice runs thick with honest-to-God concern.

“Still got the kayak in the storage bin,” Kat says, taking odd comfort in remembering this.

Then Kat hears static. A clear sign cell service will be sketchy soon. Kat thinks to max her phone’s charge before the power goes out. Where did I put the charging block, she wonders? From this point forward, she’ll be lucky if a single text message goes through. 

“Call Matt for me, please? I’m not sure how much longer I’ve got cell service,” Kat adds.

Then the line goes dead. 

Cell service is already on the fritz with only tropical-storm-force winds. Not good. Instead of Kat welcoming her siblings and their children to share an autumn weekend retreat at the beach, she’ll ride out a hurricane in a raised home 330 yards from the white, crystal sand, now overrun by an angry surge. 

Alone. 

It’s quiet and dark, not at all festive as Kat imagined: creating a firepit on the beach, inches from the surf, in time to admire the sun dipping into the horizon; walking the dogs along the seawall; riding bikes up to Billup’s on Scenic Drive, their favorite breakfast spot near Pass Harbor, the funky restaurant known for homemade cathead biscuits, and crawfish etouffee whipped into grits.

Kat hunts for her phone’s charging bricks and extra flashlights. Though she has often teased her mom about the number of battery-operated candles carefully arranged throughout the house, she’s now grateful for the light source. But, while she’s upstairs rummaging through her grandmother’s antique desk in a guest bedroom, searching for AA batteries, she jumps at the sight of intense lightning, hears its accompanying crack of thunder. It sounds like a lightning bolt blasted the 150-year-old live oak behind the house, near the rear property line.

Once the thunder stops, Kat peers from a second-story window and watches a tree branch split from its trunk and burst into flames. By instinct, Kat reaches for her back pocket to grab her phone. She presses 911. And receives no response. Wait, doesn’t 911 still work during hurricanes? 

As her Midwestern maternal grandmother - the desk’s initial owner would say - “You’re in a pickle now, Sister.”

It’s now three hours since she left to buy groceries and supplies at a fresh market on the other side of Pass Christian, the small beach town east of New Orleans, where Kat had landed after her divorce. Thanks to the graciousness of her mother, who built the place several years back after her divorce. All roads lead to the Pass while recovering from heartbreak and near financial ruin: a valiant family legacy.

Kat can only hope that the powerful rain shields blasting the coastal community will contain the tree fire. What would she say to the 911 operator, anyway? There’s a fire, in a 150-year-old oak tree, back of my house. I think I’m okay, but maybe not. Send someone immediately! The EOC is battening down the hatches by now, prepared to rescue folks only when it’s safe for them to exit the operation center. They’re not at all concerned with putting out tree fires, not if a structure isn’t threatened. Part and parcel of the storm experience. Deal with it. 

Instead of batteries, Kat finds two small flashlights jammed at the back of the antique desk, along with a stack of old letters tied up in a maroon satin ribbon that has lost its luster. When a transformer explodes a couple of blocks away, the house slips into shades of grey and black. Great. Looks like the old oak tree’s lightning strike includes a stretch of one-hit wonders. Entertainment choices for the evening are slim for Kat as she sits on the bed in the pitch-black upstairs bedroom. In a house that’s shuttered in silence. As Zeta approaches, the sea surges along the shoreline. Within a few hours, the Gulf’s waters will topple the sea wall at the end of Huntington’s street and send more than a foot of water racing past the already-filled drainage holes.

Kat opens the top letter gingerly. Thanks to the little LED flashlight, she sees the letter’s date is December 1, 1946. “Mother, dearest,” it begins. Is my Nana about to confess something? To Mimi? Though it’s eerily quiet inside, there’s a world of chaos attacking the surrounding areas of the family’s beach home. Kat pauses before reading further. Do I really want to know the secret inside? 

She hops off the bed and flips the switch on each of the room’s flameless candles, then pulls back the aqua blue quilt and wiggles under it for safety and comfort. Although the air-conditioning hasn’t run in at least an hour, it’s creepily chilly upstairs. Zeta’s bravado drops the temperature at least thirty degrees as the first bands of the storm beat against the house.

Kat decides there’s no alternative than to take advantage of a peaceful house to accept whatever lies she’s about to uncover in this unread letter. Right now, it’s a house unencumbered with folks yelling about who’s pulling the big wagon with the beer cooler down to the beach. Currently, no kids are fussing about the lack of clean beach towels, though their grandmother leaves at least twenty pristinely folded in the linen closet for the next guests.

“Mother, dearest.” It’s been a Huntington joke for generations, saying or writing these words. This veil of propriety prompts Kat to brace herself. Would she read “Mother dearest, I’ve shot the gardener….?” No matter the consequences, deliver the goods in a respectful, ladylike manner.

First paragraph. “I’ve been to the doctor. The one you specifically told me not to visit. I apologize for my impudence.” Was Nana pregnant? Unwed and pregnant at twenty? The war was ending. Her beau was returning. Nana must have been so frightened.

Just as Kat races through the letter’s content, notifications from the National Hurricane Center bleep again on her phone. Cell service is rebooting. And it looks like the coastal towns of Pass Christian, Gulfport, and Biloxi won’t take a direct hit from Zeta because of its predicted Southeast Louisiana landfall. Kat listens to NHC’s video warning: “It’s coming fast. It’s coming strong.”

But, there's no doubt it’ll be a rough night. Tropical conditions usually worsen inside the right quadrant of the storm. And the Pass is east of New Orleans. Back to the letter.

“You and Father will undoubtedly be disappointed to learn that Bennett and I were married right after he returned from Germany. Please do not be quarrelsome with me, Mother dearest. You know I love him so. His parents were thrilled to make the arrangements. Don’t pay too close attention to the photo, Mother. I regret to inform you that….” There’s evidence that an entire line of the letter is erased. “…. that I’ve gained a gangly amount of weight since I last saw you. I’ll lose it quickly as soon as I start my diet.”

Wait one hot minute. Where’s the photograph? Is it too much to assume Nana is pregnant? Kat grabs the stack of letters. She opens each envelope flap, looks inside. There’s no sign of a photograph anywhere. 

Nana’s letter to Mimi invites her parents to plan a trip to Florida very soon, so they may meet Bennett’s family. Yeah, and probably a new member of the family too. Who is it? Either Mom or one of her sisters. If it had been a typical October evening, without a category 3 hurricane bearing down on her, Kat would have first logged in to ancestry.com and searched for public records. Then, called her favorite auntie, Wanda Louise. Entice her to give up the goods. If either of these failed to provide answers, Nana would be the next call.

What if I’m the only one who knows Nana’s secret?

Kat falls asleep, chasing a handful of what if’s. The silence of the well-built beach home envelops her in one of the best respites of her life. Then, in what she believes is a dream, Kat hears the cracking of tree limbs throughout the night, the wail of a wistful wind that never seems to dissipate. She awakes early on Thursday morning to a disturbing racket downstairs, someone beating on the front door. Startled, she gathers the letters, shoves them back into the middle drawer of the antique desk, then races downstairs. The knocking is so urgent, Kat doesn’t think twice about opening the door.

“What are you doing here?” she yells at her brother, Matt, whose hand is raised mid-air for another round of pounding.

“You’re kidding, right? You invited me, Sis.” He opens his arms wide, and embraces his baby sis, then raps his knuckles on her forehead, just like he has done for the past thirty years of his life. 

“Oh, my God, did Ginger forget to call you? I figured I was about to lose service after I talked to her. Then, a transformer blew, and the power went out… really, I don’t understand how you’re even here.” Kat sees that Matt’s hair is damp, and his clothing looks like it’s in the same condition. “You’re soaked. Come on inside.”

“Yeah, I might have to strip down to my skivvies and air drive everything else. My entire bag is soaked, too.”

Kat tries to rationalize how her brother is here, a day earlier than previously planned, yet moments after one of the strongest hurricanes in recent years passes through. 

“I talked my Uber driver into crossing the Bay Bridge last night, but he freaked out with all the emergency notifications on his phone, so he dropped me off at the end of the street, by the railroad tracks.”

He accepts the stack of towels Kat hands him before sitting down in front of the gas fireplace she turns on to help him dry out. “I could see our beach house - in between sheets of rain - and I’m like, yay, I’m here. But when I passed the next-door neighbors, I couldn’t believe these two old people were out in the weather, struggling with suitcases, so I offered my help.”

“Oh my God, Matt. I saw them nearly topple down the steps. But, I swear I didn’t notice you in the mix.”

“Who could see anything? Nightmare situation trying to help them. I finally convinced them to go inside but had to promise to stay the night with them.” Kat shakes her head in disbelief.

While Zeta pounds the coast, Matt’s hunkered down next door, right here in the Pass. “You’re too good, big bro’.” He would’ve texted, right? If we’d had service? Nothing about the past twenty-four hours seems natural.

“Nah, just doing the right thing. How’s the water pressure? I could use a shower.”

“I’ve no idea. That’s one thing I haven’t thought to check. But please, help yourself. Then, when you’ve cleaned up, I’ve got a Bud Light waiting for you and an unbelievable letter to show you.”

“Can’t wait, Sis.” Matt’s smile could illuminate an entire nation. 

So in the quiet beach house that safely envelops Kat, while a category 3 passes, normalcy returns as a brother and sister determine what to do with a family secret that may need to remain silent.