Storm

The windows and house are hysterical. Shaking so much in their frames, I’m afraid they will break. Wind. So strong. The first loud crash, the sound of shattering, the tear and gnaw of splintering tell me that my fears are justified. The second floor, where my bedroom was, is ripping away. My wickets and balls are there. Out there. In here. Somewhere. I am seventeen years old. We are gathered in the living room. In the center of our house. On an island where a hurricane has come and stayed. Raining. In the dark, the ceiling has become our sky. Lightning flashes across the plaster. Thunder booms in our missing rooms. And our rug has become our life-raft. My sick brother thinks this room will be his tomb. Apart from the sickness in his body, he is going crazy.

“No. No. Mummy!” he screams, clutching mummy. Trying to put her arms around his shoulders as if she could preserve his life. “Don’t let the ferryman take me!” he pleads. “Can’t he see the boat is too small, mummy? For so many.”

Mummy holds on. Whispering consolation. Her eyes closed tightly. I know that if she cries, her tears will wash him away because he is as weightless as his mind. My brother is a rake. It is as if he has never eaten.

“I’m afraid, mummy!” he thrashes, beating mummy about the face. She will not let go, though. Not again. Not this time. Part of him came home from America two weeks ago. Too sick to stay away. Any longer. He has been losing parts of himself ever since. We are not sure how much is left. Mummy never shifts her attention. From him. Even in the storm.

The wind beats like fists. I am angry. Not just because I am wet or because there is nowhere that I can stand where water does not drip onto my head. I am mad. Not simply because they told mummy in the calm that all this would be was a tropical storm. Nothing more. No need to go to a shelter. Like always. I am vexed. Not only because mummy believed the radio. And not me or the sky. I am haunted. Not solely because the last thing I saw from my bedroom—when I had one—was my girlfriend Neva’s house falling down the hill like a shanty on a pushcart. Not stopping for my screaming. My reaching. I am furious mostly because I am supposed to be the child. Mummy told me. The youngest and deserving of comfort. I should not be the one trying to keep the candles and lamps lighted while my older brother turns, flails and whimpers. Like a baby. He even speaks to God, though I know he never knew Him. My father is no comfort. I was his favorite. He has been dead for months now. I am afraid too. Mummy does not hear me.

“Ralph,” mummy calls. Lightning paints her face. Orange in her eyes. “Do you know where’s the Bible?” She knows I do not know. There is only one. As far as I am concerned, mummy keeps it hidden. She has been my Bible. A verse was always rising from her tongue. Before now.

“Ralph,” my brother calls—an echo, “don’t you know where’s the Bible?” He does not know where he is. Has not known for days who I am. I doubt he knows what is a Bible.

“Shhh.” my mother calms him, though the thunder shouts her words silent. “It’s upstairs, Ralph,” she says. “Go. Get it for mummy.” She expects the Bible will bring peace in the storm.

“I can’t, mummy,” I say. “Your Bible must be in heaven because there is no upstairs anymore.” Our splintering ceiling keeps us only minutes from God.

All mummy can say is “oh.” She wipes the rain from my brother’s face. Runs her hand down his narrow chest. His ribs are like handles. Mummy sighs. “He should have long since been in a hospital, you know?”

“Yes,” I say. Striking a...