with her, she should have insisted that they hide here in the special shelter he’d built for this very day. Her next-door neighbors had all been so cavalier only a short time ago, turning down Selma’s urgent invitations to join her and Guadalupe in the basement shelter with amused thanks, but not really believing the storm would amount to much. Selma sent up prayers over them all now.
Because they’d lost everything in the Topeka, Kansas, tornado of ’66, her husband had become obsessed with beating the weather at its sometimes murderous game. He’d moved his family to another state. He’d studied European bomb shelters. He’d designed and redesigned the perfect family shelter for the perfect storm. And he’d labored, long and hard, a modern-day Noah, building the edifice that would one day see his family through whatever nature might get in its head to hurl at them.
The corned beef hash had finally burst out of the cans after twenty or thirty years of disuse, and most of the candles and other emergency supplies such as flashlights, had been pilfered by the kids for backyard campouts and sleepovers. Every couple of years or so, Selma would head down to the shelter beneath the basement and restock a few supplies in order to honor Clyde’s wishes, but largely . . . she’d forgotten about the place.
Nearly fifty years was a long time to outfit and maintain a tool that was so rarely needed. And yet, if the news was even half as bad as was being forecasted on the Weather Channel right now, the time for Clyde’s shelter had finally come. Two decades after the man himself, had passed.
“Jesus, have mercy on us. We’re in the valley of the shadow, here,” Selma whispered into the gnarled knuckles of her folded hands as she and Guadalupe stood on the threshold of her wrap-around porch to better view the ominous funnel in the distance.
Guadalupe’s head was bowed as she prayed over her daughter, Elsa, who was in the high school gym at prom, but even so, Selma could tell she was crying. She dug a tissue out of her pocket and tucked it in Guadalupe’s hand. “Elsa will be alright, honey,” she murmured. “I’ve been praying for that kid since the day she was born, you know.”
Guadalupe sniffed, her laughter, jerky. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes. “I know, my dear friend.”
From where the two women were standing together at Selma’s front door they could see that the twister over on the Walterville side looked to be barreling up Fisher’s Mill Road. Selma lived ten minutes north and west of there. Over the years, people had tried to get her to move closer into town. Save time and gas, they said. But because Clyde had slaved over this place for so many years, building a safe, comfortable haven for her and the kids, she just couldn’t make herself move.
The wind was really tearing up the street now. “Shall we head down to the shelter?” Selma asked and tugged on Guadalupe’s sleeve. “Looks like it’s still south of us. But it could surprise us and turn.”
“I hope not,” Guadalupe said and stepped inside after Selma. They bolted the doors and closed the windows, praying all the while. One last glance out the front window . . . and then the strangest thing happened.
A Ford Mustang, its turn signal flashing, horn blaring and doors flapping—like a winged Pegasus heading south for the winter—made a perfect four point landing on the neighbor’s roof. It didn’t take a full minute for the two women to make it down to the basement and into the storm shelter.
PART TWO
T HE E YE OF T HE
S TORM
When we sail in Christ’s company, we may not make
sure of fair weather, for great storms may toss the
vessel which carries the Lord Himself, and we must
not expect to find the sea less boisterous around our
little boat.
—
C. H. Spurgeon
9
7:03 p.m.
I t was five very difficult yards to traverse between the Quick In Go and the Sakura Gardens in
Because they’d lost everything in the Topeka, Kansas, tornado of ’66, her husband had become obsessed with beating the weather at its sometimes murderous game. He’d moved his family to another state. He’d studied European bomb shelters. He’d designed and redesigned the perfect family shelter for the perfect storm. And he’d labored, long and hard, a modern-day Noah, building the edifice that would one day see his family through whatever nature might get in its head to hurl at them.
The corned beef hash had finally burst out of the cans after twenty or thirty years of disuse, and most of the candles and other emergency supplies such as flashlights, had been pilfered by the kids for backyard campouts and sleepovers. Every couple of years or so, Selma would head down to the shelter beneath the basement and restock a few supplies in order to honor Clyde’s wishes, but largely . . . she’d forgotten about the place.
Nearly fifty years was a long time to outfit and maintain a tool that was so rarely needed. And yet, if the news was even half as bad as was being forecasted on the Weather Channel right now, the time for Clyde’s shelter had finally come. Two decades after the man himself, had passed.
“Jesus, have mercy on us. We’re in the valley of the shadow, here,” Selma whispered into the gnarled knuckles of her folded hands as she and Guadalupe stood on the threshold of her wrap-around porch to better view the ominous funnel in the distance.
Guadalupe’s head was bowed as she prayed over her daughter, Elsa, who was in the high school gym at prom, but even so, Selma could tell she was crying. She dug a tissue out of her pocket and tucked it in Guadalupe’s hand. “Elsa will be alright, honey,” she murmured. “I’ve been praying for that kid since the day she was born, you know.”
Guadalupe sniffed, her laughter, jerky. She blew her nose and blotted her eyes. “I know, my dear friend.”
From where the two women were standing together at Selma’s front door they could see that the twister over on the Walterville side looked to be barreling up Fisher’s Mill Road. Selma lived ten minutes north and west of there. Over the years, people had tried to get her to move closer into town. Save time and gas, they said. But because Clyde had slaved over this place for so many years, building a safe, comfortable haven for her and the kids, she just couldn’t make herself move.
The wind was really tearing up the street now. “Shall we head down to the shelter?” Selma asked and tugged on Guadalupe’s sleeve. “Looks like it’s still south of us. But it could surprise us and turn.”
“I hope not,” Guadalupe said and stepped inside after Selma. They bolted the doors and closed the windows, praying all the while. One last glance out the front window . . . and then the strangest thing happened.
A Ford Mustang, its turn signal flashing, horn blaring and doors flapping—like a winged Pegasus heading south for the winter—made a perfect four point landing on the neighbor’s roof. It didn’t take a full minute for the two women to make it down to the basement and into the storm shelter.
PART TWO
T HE E YE OF T HE
S TORM
When we sail in Christ’s company, we may not make
sure of fair weather, for great storms may toss the
vessel which carries the Lord Himself, and we must
not expect to find the sea less boisterous around our
little boat.
—
C. H. Spurgeon
9
7:03 p.m.
I t was five very difficult yards to traverse between the Quick In Go and the Sakura Gardens in
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