At the head of the basement stairs
Father always kept one of those emergency flashlights plugged in. Just as he was saying, “Vickie, get the
flashlight,” I groped for it and switched it on. I handed it to him.
“Careful now,” he said. “Stay right where you are. Let me get to the bottom—then I’ll shine the
light on the stairs for you.”
Our basement stairs are very
steep—but I knew them well. I’d been up
and down them countless times. The shaky
beam of light on the stairs told us that Father was ready—and he called to
us. “Okay, girls, take it very
slowly.” Harriet gripped my upper arm
tightly.
We could still hear the wind
howling outside. At first it had sounded
like a high-pitched moan. Then it was
more like a scream. Now we heard what
could have been heavy machinery—a truck, a bulldozer, maybe even a train.
As we reached the floor, Father
pointed the light toward the far end.
“We’ll go down there,” he said, “and kneel against the wall.”
“Just like at school,” said
Harriet, “during those stupid tornado drills.”
Her voice sounded tiny and hollow.
No one took those drills
seriously—no one really believed that Franconia was important enough to be
visited by a tornado. But one was
visiting now. And it was apparently knocking
on doors all up and down the street.
“Why don’t we go in there, Father?” I asked, pointing toward
the locked room—the one I’d never been in.
“No!” he said sharply. “There’s a window,” he explained. “Flying glass.” I looked at Father. He’d just lied to me. I’d played around the outside of our house for
years; I knew there was no basement
window on that side. Why is he lying? I wondered.
When we reached the wall and knelt
down in front of it, Father said, “I’m going to turn the flashlight off. It’ll save the battery—in case we need it
later. But if you want me to turn it on
at any time, just say so.”
And then we were in absolute
darkness while the wind roared above us.
I touched the cool basement wall.
It was shaking. I could hear a cracking
sound. The stones of the foundation were
moving.
No one spoke, down there in the
blackness. Not for what seemed like a
long while. And then I heard Harriet
whisper, “Vickie? Are you scared?”
“Yes. Are you?”
“Yes.”
“So am I,” said Father. “But we’re in the safest place we could be.”
I thought about that while the wind
roared on.
And then—Is it my imagination?—it seemed quieter. I waited.
Then I was sure. It was quieter. There was no question.
“Father?”
“Yes, I think it’s passed over,” he
said. “But let’s wait just a while
longer before we go up.”
Beside me I could hear Harriet
whimpering softly. And gradually the
wind died. Soon, all we could hear was
the pounding sound of the rain.
“I think we can go up now,” Father
said. “But let’s be careful.” He switched on the flashlight.
He let Harriet and me go ahead
while he lit our path, all the way to the top of the basement stairs. “Watch out,” I warned. “There’s jagged glass sticking right through
the door.” I remembered.
Gently, I released the latch and
pushed open the door. In the gray light
of the stormy afternoon Harriet and I were the first to see what the tornado
had done to our house. In the parlor,
where the basement stairs were, I felt rain on my head. I looked up and saw the sky—right where the
ceiling used to be.
“Oh, Father,” I groaned.
“We’re alive,” he said softly. “We’re alive.”
And that—considering the damage I
was seeing—was incredible. Parts of
walls were standing, some furniture remained.
But much was gone. The second
floor, the attic—gone. Tables, chairs,
couches—gone. Our books—gone. The tornado, like a vacuum cleaner, had
sucked everything into the sky and dropped it… who knows where?
We stumbled outside … But even the word outside did not have the same meaning. Open to the sky and the weather, our
house—what was left of it—was just about all
outside.
So I should say that we stumbled
into the front yard, which was littered with debris from our house. I saw the glint of something metallic. A picture frame. I bent over and picked it up. It was the wedding picture of my parents.
“Harriet!” a voice screamed. And we saw her mother running toward us. “You’re okay!
You’re not hurt!” And Mrs.
Eastbrook swept Harriet up in her arms, hugging her so tightly she could not
have answered—it was probably difficult enough for her to breathe. Everyone was crying and shouting all at once.
Mrs. Eastbrook put her down, and
with tears in her eyes, spoke to my father.
“Oh, thank you,” she cried, “thank you for saving my child.” Over and over and over again she thanked
him. And hugged him.
I looked up and down the street in
shock.
“Father,” I said.
He glanced over at me.
“The neighborhood … look at it.”
And for the first time he did.
No other house had been
damaged. They all stood there,
untouched, while ours was a near total wreck.
I turned to look the other direction and saw our parlor couch perched on
Harriet’s roof. One of the pillows was
still on it.
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