Power Surge Page 20

  Jake huffed, shot the driver behind him an angry glare, then ducked back into the Mustang.

  “They ran out of gas?” Tami asked.

  Putting the car in gear, Jake said, “Might as well go to the picnic. I don’t have enough gas to get out of town.”

  “Me neither,” Tami said. “I intended to fill up tomorrow, on my way to work.”

  “We’re going to be here when the storm hits.”

  “Maybe it won’t be so bad.”

  “Maybe,” said Jake. Without any conviction whatsoever.

  Hurricane Carlos

  All through the picnic Jake sensed an unease among the people from Tami’s office. The sun was still shining brightly out of a blue sky flecked with chubby white clouds, yet there was a tension in the air. Hamburgers, hot dogs, beer, and anxiety. Well before three o’clock people started drifting away, heading home—or maybe out of the area altogether.

  Jake drove Tami back to his place. Knowing it was probably an exercise in futility, he opened his laptop and looked for a couple of open seats on any airline heading out of Washington. Nothing. All flights were full.

  “Looks like we’re staying here,” he said to Tami.

  She made a smile for him. “Might be fun, living through a major hurricane. In Florida they have hurricane parties, don’t they?”

  “Until the electricity cuts off,” Jake said. The moroseness in his tone made Tami’s smile wink out.

  Getting up from the sofa, she said, “I’d better get back to my place. At least it’s on the third floor.”

  Looking around at his basement apartment, Jake said, “Better than here.”

  “Why don’t you come with me?” Tami blurted. “Pack a bag and stay at my place until the storm’s over.”

  “What about the women you share the apartment with?”

  “To hell with them. I don’t care what they think.”

  Jake shook his head. “Tami, I don’t want to upset your relationship with your apartment-mates.” He remembered her telling him, months ago, that the four women lived cheek-by-jowl in the cramped apartment and shared a single bathroom.

  “You’ll be all right here?” she asked.

  “I’ll be all right. After the storm blows by we’ll go out to dinner at the Maison Blanc.”

  Looking relieved and anxious at the same time, Tami said, “All right. I’d better go, then.”

  He walked her out to her car, parked at curbside. It was a lovely summer night. Jake could see the summer triangle of Deneb, Vega, and Altair twinkling high above.

  The calm before the storm, he thought.

  * * *

  It was his last day at WETA. As he cleaned out his desk, Jake kept glancing out the window. The sky was clouding up, turning gray and menacing. He thought he saw a flash of lightning, but that might have been merely his coiled-up nerves.

  He went to say good-bye to Viera, only to find she had already left. The offices were deserted as a ghost town; just about everybody had gone home, or out of the city. Jake went into the newsroom, where almost every TV monitor showed Hurricane Carlos: satellite imagery, views of the Carolina coast being battered by huge angry waves, shots of the highways leading out of DC, clogged with cars.

  Jake pictured himself in that mammoth traffic snarl, running out of gas on the highway while the storm tore the roof off his convertible. I’m better off hunkering down in the apartment, he told himself.

  By the time he got home the sky was gray and ominous and it had begun to rain. It was easy to find a parking space; half of the tree-lined street was empty.

  As he hurried through the pelting rain from his car to his apartment, he saw his landlord, draped in a flapping raincoat, pushing a wheelbarrow from the shed at the far end of the garden toward his door.

  Before Jake could ask when the man was doing, he said, “Sandbags. Heavy rain comes down your steps, could wet your living room.”

  Sandbags! Jake thought, picturing levees along a flooding river. He helped the landlord place them around the edge of the well leading down to his door as the rain intensified and thunder boomed.

  “Better take a couple for inside the door,” the landlord said.

  Getting soaked, Jake took a sandbag in his arms. It was heavy and gritty. He nearly tripped and fell as he started down the four steps, but he managed to right himself and unlock the door, after putting the sandbag down at his feet. The bottom of the stairs was already puddled.

  Jake got inside, out of the rain, and dragged the soggy sandbag in after him. Stripping off his wet jacket, he headed straight for the TV and turned on a local channel.

  “The Emergency Management Agency has declared a hurricane emergency,” said a pert young blond woman, smiling as if she were announcing a wedding. “Make certain you have plenty of batteries for flashlights and emergency lamps, and fill your bathtub with water for drinking, in case water service is temporarily suspended.”

  “I don’t have a goddamned bathtub,” Jake snarled at the screen. “Just a shower.” His one flashlight was solar-powered, a gift from Wilmer Nevins. He wondered how long it would last without sunlight to run it.

  But he went to his kitchenette and started pulling jars and bottles out of the shelves, to fill with drinking water.

  The TV switched to the station’s weather forecaster, wearing a navy blue blazer and a grim expression. He swept an arm across a map of the area, swathed in red.

  “As you can see,” the forecaster was saying, “the storm will pass to the east of the metropolitan District area. Looks like Annapolis is going to get a direct hit. We’ll have plenty of rain here in DC, and extremely high winds, with gusts up to ninety miles per hour or more.”

  A sudden hard thump against his front door made Jake drop the bottle he was holding; it clattered into the sink but didn’t break.

  What the hell was that? he asked himself.

  Hurrying to the door, Jake yanked it open and found another sandbag at his feet. The landlord must’ve tossed it down here, Jake realized. It was raining harder and the wind had picked up considerably.

  Just then his phone rang. Jake dragged the wet and gritty sandbag inside, slammed the door and went to the phone by his desk.

  “Hello.”

  “I gave you another sandbag,” came his landlord’s laconic voice. “You’ll probably need it.”

  The man hung up, leaving Jake nodding to himself and thinking, It’s going to be a helluva night.

  Blackout

  So far so good, Jake told himself, shakily.

  The wind was screeching outside and he could hear the rain drumming against the windows that looked out onto the street. It was dark as midnight out there, even though the clock said only seven thirty.

  Jake had pushed the two sandbags against his door, like a soldier trying to protect himself from an attacking enemy. He had filled every bottle and jar he could find with water and tried the solar flashlight, which lit up brightly. He quickly turned it off, not wanting to drain its battery needlessly, and put it down on the coffee table.

  Standing in the middle of his living room, Jake turned slowly, nervously, surveying his battlefield. So far so good, he repeated to himself.

  Then he saw that water was trickling down the wall from the bottom of his windows.

  Jesus! He ran to the bathroom, yanked an armful of towels from the linen closet and dumped them on the sofa. Puffing with exertion, he pulled the sofa away from the wall, banging it against the coffee table, and spread the towels on the floor. Hope they’ll soak up the water, he thought. It’s only a trickle. Not that bad. But he knew it would get worse.

  He had to urinate. Fear fills the bladder, he thought as he dashed to the bathroom.

  When he came back to the living room the TV showed that Carlos was approaching Annapolis. The announcer’s voice explained, “It’s a fast-moving storm, and the metropolitan DC area should be out from under it in a few hours.”

  A few hours. Jake got a mental image of an old movie about a submar
ine crew drowning as water poured in and filled their cramped compartments.

  His cell phone buzzed. He yanked it out of his pocket. Tami, he saw.

  “Hi, Tami.”

  Her voice asked, “How’re you making out, Jake?”

  “Okay, so far. How about you?”

  “It’s awfully noisy, but we’re in good shape. We thawed out a pizza and we’re drinking beer with it.”

  He almost smiled. “Good for you. Any leaks?”

  “On the third floor? We’re not getting flooded, Jake.”

  “I meant your windows. I’m getting some leakage.”

  “Is it serious?”

  “No, but my landlord’s going to have to repaint my living room once this is—”

  The lights flickered.

  “Uh oh. Our lights just flickered,” Tami said.

  “Mine, too.”

  He heard a crash outside, and the apartment went totally dark. The TV screen winked out and the surge protector on his computer started beeping.

  “You still there?” he yelled into the phone.

  “Yes.” But for the first time Tami’s voice sounded frightened.

  “Sounds like a tree got knocked over out on the street,” Jake said. “Or maybe it was just a limb. Must have clipped the power line.”

  “Jake! Our lights went out!”

  Blackout, Jake thought. “Stay calm,” he said, feeling his own innards quaking.

  Tami said, “If the cell tower goes down—”

  Her voice cut off. The cell phone’s screen read NO SIGNAL.

  Tower’s gone, Jake realized. The wind outside was howling like a furious monster. The apartment was totally dark. Jake slowly edged to where he thought the coffee table was, trying to see through the darkness. There was no light at all; even the streetlamps outside had gone out.

  His shin bumped the coffee table’s edge. Bending down, groping, Jake’s fingers found the flashlight. He turned it on, never so grateful in his whole life for a bit of light.

  Jake made his way to his desk, picked up the telephone there, and tapped out Tami’s apartment’s number, hoping that the land line was still working. It was, but all he got was a busy signal.

  Four women, he groused. Her phone’s going to be busy as long as the line still works.

  He hung up the phone and it immediately rang. Snatching it, he heard his landlord’s somber voice. “You okay down there?”

  “Got some water leaking from the windows,” Jake said. “Otherwise things look okay.”

  “Good.” The landlord hung up.

  Jake went to the sofa and sat down, tense and strained. He turned the flashlight off and leaned back. Close your eyes, he commanded himself, and get some sleep. But he couldn’t sleep. He heard the wind yowling and the rain hammering and now and then bumps and crashes that made his insides jump. It seemed endless. Rain and wind, wind and rain. Stop it! he screamed silently. Just go away and leave me alone!

  He looked at the luminous numbers on his wristwatch. In ten minutes I’ll turn on the flashlight, he told himself, see how everything’s doing.

  He went to the bathroom again, wishing he were someplace else, anyplace else. Back in Montana, even a blizzard wasn’t as bad as this. He pictured himself on a tropical beach or, better yet, trudging across the barren dunes of a sandy desert baking under a blazing hot sun. Or maybe on the Moon, in a spacesuit like Knowles must have worn. No hurricanes on the Moon. It’s quiet and peaceful up there.

  He returned to the living room, guided by the flashlight’s beam. Water was streaming down from the windows, but the towels seemed to be absorbing it. So far. Swinging the beam toward his door, he saw water seeping under the sandbags, creeping across the floor toward him.

  What a mess, he moaned to himself. What a goddamned stupid mess. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Not a mother-loving goddamned thing.

  Try to sleep, he thought. Yeah, sure. Sleep through a hurricane. Joe Cool.

  Still, he got up from the sofa, flicked on his flashlight again, and went to his bedroom. He shut its door, and the manic roar of the storm was tamped down a little. No windows in here, Jake told himself. No way for the water to get in. He sat on the bed and turned off the flashlight. Total darkness. Nothing but me and the storm. Carlos and me.

  Without taking off his clothes or even his shoes he stretched out on the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. Try to sleep. It’ll be over soon. Tomorrow the sun will come out and Carlos will be far away.

  Yeah, but it’s not tomorrow yet. Still got a long way to go.

  Even with his bedroom door tightly shut, he could hear the wind howling out there and knew the water was leaking into his living room. He tried to think if there was anything in the apartment resting on the floor. Any books or magazines on a bottom shelf?

  He sat up and reached for the blanket folded at the foot of the bed. Pulling it over himself, shoes and all, Jake curled into a fetal position and tried to force himself to sleep.

  Aftermath

  Somebody was talking to him. Jake opened his eyes. They felt gummy. And somebody in the living room was talking.

  He slowly pulled himself to a sitting position, feeling weary, grungy in his wrinkled, sweaty clothes. He realized he had fallen asleep after all.

  The bedside lamp was on! And the voice he heard from the living room was the TV.

  The power’s back on! And the wind had died away. His bedside clock was blinking 12:00, but his wristwatch showed it was 6:23 a.m.

  Jake threw off his tangled blanket and got to his feet. He went to the bathroom and saw through its narrow slit of a window that the sun was shining brightly outside.

  It’s over, he realized, feeling a huge wave of relief wash over him. It’s over.

  He urinated into the toilet, then washed his hands and splashed cold water over his face.

  He went into the living room and saw that an inch-deep puddle of water covered half the room, from the door almost to the coffee table. The wall below the windows was water stained. But the sun was shining out there, and the electricity was on. Every lamp in the room was alight, and the TV screen showed the same weather forecaster, looking just as tired as Jake felt, explaining that Hurricane Carlos was now weakening as it moved northward, into New Jersey.

  His cell phone still read NO SIGNAL, but Jake went to the phone on his desk and called Tami.

  A stranger’s voice answered.

  “Is Tami there?” he asked.

  “Yes. Who’s this, Jake?”

  “Right,” he answered, realizing that Tami must have told them a lot about him.

  Tami came on. “Jake! How are you? How’s—”

  “I’m fine. My living room’s wet, but otherwise everything’s okay. You?”

  “No worries,” she said. “Dry and safe, but our electricity’s still out.”

  “We’re okay here. You’ll probably get your power back in a little while.”

  He could sense her smiling. But she said, “Jake, I’ve got to get off the line. Nora’s expecting a call from her mother in Tennessee.”

  “Okay. Remember, we have a dinner date.”

  “Maison Blanc.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven, okay?”

  “Wonderful. See you then.”

  She hung up. Jake put the phone down, then went back to the bedroom to shower, shave, and dress. When he returned to the living room he stepped through the puddle and slid the soaked sandbags away from his front door. When he opened it, more water sloshed in. But he ignored it and climbed up the steps, into the garden.

  It looked like a battle zone out there. The line of bottlebrush trees along the side of the property was bent and sagging; one of the trees had fallen against the shed in the rear of the garden. The oaks back there looked okay, although Jake saw plenty of tree limbs and leaves scattered across the grass. The ground was wet, puddles here and there. Jake’s shoes were getting soaked even more as he walked across the garden.

  The house on the other side of the pr
operty was dark and still. They must have left town, he thought. But then he realized that the streetlights were still dark. Well, it’s daytime now, he told himself. Walking to the front of the house, he saw that several trees had come down along the street—one of them squarely on a house’s roof—but none of the houses showed a single light.

  The whole neighborhood’s still dark, but we’ve got electric power. Jake wondered how that could be.

  His landlord stepped out onto the porch.

  “Good morning!” Jake called to him.

  “Morning.”

  The man’s wife came out beside him, plump and smiling. “How are you?” she asked.

  “I’m okay,” Jake replied, “but I’m afraid the floor of the apartment is soaked. And the windows leaked pretty bad.”

  “I’ve already called a cleanup service,” said the landlord. “They’re pretty busy. It’ll take a few days before they get here.”

  Jake nodded. “I’ll mop up the water in the living room.”

  “Could get some mold,” the landlord said, as dispassionate as a robot. “You ought to find someplace to stay until the cleanup people take care of it.”

  Before Jake could respond to that, the landlord’s wife said, “Come inside and have some coffee with us.”

  Jake thanked her, but as he started up the porch steps he asked, “How come you’ve got electricity? Nobody else seems to—”

  The landlord stabbed a lean finger upward. “Solar panels on the roof. Didn’t you ever notice them?”

  “Solar…?” Jake broke into laughter. “Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “Oh, don’t say that,” the wife cautioned. “God might hear you and take you at your word.”

  Jake clicked his teeth shut and followed the introverted landlord and his warmly gracious wife into the kitchen.

  * * *

  Solar panels on the roof, Jake said to himself as he sat at the kitchen table and munched on whole wheat toast with butter and jam. He never mentioned them to me, and I never noticed them. But as soon as the sun came out, he got electrical power.