Firefly Summer (16 page)

When they reached home the rain had started to fall. Don Rodrigo stood still, clutching the conch.
He was at the center of the family group, listening to the peasant who had brought the news from town about the approaching hurricane. According to his report, the hurricane was not due to strike for two more hours, provided it did not alter its course or blow out to sea.

“Hurry to your rooms,” said Grandmother to Mercedes and Teresa, who stood like stone figures by her side. “Put some of your clothes in your trunks, then hurry back to the front room.”

Once in their rooms, both girls worked like robots, scarcely conscious of what they were throwing into their trunks. Teresa finished first and then went to get her friend. When she opened her door, Teresa found Mercedes sitting on top of her trunk crying. Many of the clothes she had intended to put away were scattered all over the floor.

“Don't cry,” said Teresa, beginning to pick up the things. “This is a strong house, and nothing will happen.” She wanted to believe that, too, and she was not sure Mercedes did.

“A hurricane, Teresa, and I don't even know where
Papá
is. At least we are all here together, but
Papá
…who knows where he really is?” She began to cry again, and Teresa found it difficult to comfort her. She would be doing the same if she were away from her parents at a time like this.

“Let's go back to the front room, Mercedes,” she finally said. “Grandmother must be waiting for us.”

They made their way through piles of furniture and heavy barrels filled with dishes. Lucía, Grandmother and Doña Anita were busy storing staples into a basket, which they covered with oilcloth. The noise within the house rose so that they could not hear each other's voices. Boards were nailed inside as well as outside on doors and windows, and bureau drawers were barricaded against the wall. Three large trunks were set together and placed in the dining room for the family to sit on. When the nailing and hammering subsided, the sound of the rain on the roof and the whistling of the wind through the trees seemed to have acquired immense proportions.

“Lock the kitchen door, Ramón,” shouted Don Rodrigo as he rolled two barrels against the frontroom door.

Teresa and her parents sat on one trunk, Ramón, Mercedes and Grandmother on the other, and Lucia with Antonio buried in her lap sat on the one at the end.

It was a strange thing to sit and wait when you knew that a hurricane was coming along. They huddled together, listening to the outside world, which already was being torn apart.

Suddenly a roaring sound, like a million human voices hissing and howling at once, filled the house.

“The wind! Mother of God, save us,” said Doña Anita.

“
Papá, Papá
,” cried Mercedes, starting to sob again.

With a loud crash, a sheet of corrugated zinc struck the kitchen door, rending it in two. Water seeped through, slowly at first, then freely until it covered the entire floor.

“Stand on the trunks,” cried Don Rodrigo as Ramón dashed towards the door, trying to reinforce the hinges, which were already loose. With difficulty, he tried to nail an extra board across it. The damaged door creaked and shook, as if it were being pushed from outside by a superhuman force.

“Look out,” shouted Don Rodrigo, holding the board that Ramón was nailing. But it was too late. The force of the wind had severed the rest of the door, and the whirlwind that filled the empty space caught Ramón and dragged him outside.

“Ramón, Ramón,” he called, letting the board go and dashing after him.

A scream came from the place where the family stood. Outside, plants and uprooted trees lay everywhere. The shed where the Feast of the Cross had been held was no longer there.

Don Rodrigo swayed back and forth trying with difficulty to stay on his feet. “Ramón!” he called again and again. Only the sound of the wind came back in answer. He leaned against the end of the house and looked around. It was then that he saw
Ramón, caught among the branches of a large tree which had fallen against the stable door.

Groping his way, half-crouched to avoid the wind, he made his way to Ramón.

Ramón lay on his side holding to the trunk of the tree. There was a cut on his forehead. Don Rodrigo helped him to his feet and, with his arms around his shoulders, managed to get back to the house where the family nervously waited.

“Make room for him on the trunks,” said Don Rodrigo, but Ramón refused to lay down.

Grandmother examined his cut and was relieved to see that it was only skin-deep. She tore up a towel and began to wash the gash, while Lucía kept pouring water from an earthen jug. With the rest of the towel, she improvised a bandage and tied his head. Then she opened one of the trunks and took out an old wool blanket and wrapped it around his shoulders.

Teresa, Mercedes and Antonio stood watching, seemingly not yet able to realize that he was safe. When they had heard Don Rodrigo calling Ramón, they had come back to the kitchen only to find it empty. Their personal fears were gone, only anxiety for Ramón filled their hearts. Nothing else seemed to matter.

So engrossed was the rest of the family in ministering help to Ramón that they did not notice that suddenly the rain had stopped and the wind had
ceased. Could it actually be true? They were not sure. They knew that lulls sometimes meant that the hurricane would return, tearing and destroying worse than before. So they waited. For minutes they sat close to each other. It seemed like hours, but it was no lull. The hurricane was really gone.

The next morning, the children awoke to find the sun shining and the sky so blue and clear that the experiences of the day before seemed to have been a nightmare. Only when they looked outside their windows, the devastation that met their eyes brought the reality of those few hours back to them.

They were surprised to see Ramón up and ready to follow Don Rodrigo on his inspection trip about the
finca
. A small wad of cotton held by a piece of adhesive tape had replaced the makeshift bandage on his head. Like Don Rodrigo, he had heavy boots on and he carried a machete to clear out paths obstructed by fallen trees and branches.

Felipe came up the hill with a group of peasants and began to give a grim picture of what he had seen on his way.

“All the tobacco sheds are down, Don Rodrigo,” he said. “Whatever escaped the velocity of the wind has been washed off by the rain. Even the patches of coffee under the trees beyond Gregorio's house are
gone, swept away as if they had never been there. Two peasants from Vázquez's
finca
were struck down by trees and killed.

The girls looked quickly at Ramón and thanked God he had been spared. Don Rodrigo listened solemnly as Felipe went on and on with his tale of woe.

“What is there to do?” asked the workers who had stood almost humbly looking at Don Rodrigo with their brown eyes full of despair.

“Yes,” said Felipe, “what is there to do?”

“Work,” Don Rodrigo answered. “Work until every house is repaired and the land is cleared, then plant again. There is no other alternative.”

He turned to his wife. “Open the stockroom, Anita,” he said. “No worker on my
finca
shall go wanting while there is food at home. Now let us go; there is much to be done before the sun goes down.”

If for a minute Don Rodrigo had underestimated Felipe's words, the sight that met his eyes as he tramped over debris and mud left no doubt of the plight the entire island must have been in. He earnestly hoped the hurricane had struck with less force on some other parts. He would have to get to town at the first chance he had and see what the news was there before he could make any other plans.

They passed Sixta's house and saw her brother resetting the windows the wind had severed. His vegetable garden was down.

“I would go with you,” he called after them, “if I had not this work to do before night descends upon us.”

Sixta and her mother came out of the house to inquire about the family, and Don Rodrigo told them about the stockroom being open. They too could call if they needed food.

Further down, the road was tangled by fallen trees and they had to cut their way through to reach the shortcut to the
finca
.

As they approached the big tamarind tree, they could hear the sound of nailing and hammering coming from the peasants' quarters. The old tree stood erect, its branches bare of leaves, while all about its trunk laid a mass of twisted young trees, as if in their final struggle with the wind they had reached to it for help.

When the peasants saw Don Rodrigo, they began to wail, pointing to the destruction outside and inside their houses.

Their children surrounded Don Rodrigo wideeyed and still frightened.

“The hurricane is past,” said Don Rodrigo, trying to sound casual. “What is lost won't come back to us. We must be thankful there were no deaths on our
finca
.”

Before he left, he told them that Doña Anita had opened the stockroom. Those who needed food could call. He looked at the children. “Antonio, Teresa and Mercedes are all working at home,” he said to them. “You, too, can help here also. By using the shortcut you can bring the groceries home to your mothers.”

Benito said the spring was swollen, and the peasants were using three large trees which had fallen across it as bridges to get across.

“That means the river is impassable, too,” Don Rodrigo said. “Let's go back to the road. I want to see how clean it really is.”

Meanwhile up at the house, Doña Anita sat in front of the small window in the stockroom, greeting the
peons
who came along to get their share of groceries. Men, women and children came, and none left without giving their version of their experiences. By the time the last one had come and gone, Doña Anita and the girls had a clear picture of conditions about the
finca
. It was with relief that they finally closed the window, pulled out empty boxes and sat to rest.

Teresa and Mercedes felt as if their arms weren't part of their bodies. Neither of the girls had ever worked so fast or hard before in the stockroom. Even Antonio, who had been running back and forth delivering the packages, was too tired to even talk.
He crouched on the floor next to them and also tried to rest.

The experiences of the day before came back to them. It was their first hurricane, one they would find hard to forget.

“Teresa!” Grandmother's voice rang through the hall, calling.

Mercedes and Antonio followed Teresa out of the room.

A heavy scent filled the hall. Teresa sniffed.

“Guavas, overripe guavas,” she said.

Grandmother was standing in the center of the neck, holding a sack.

“My guavas,” shouted Antonio. “Where were they, Grandmother?”

“Behind Rodrigo's desk,” she answered. “How did they ever get there?”

“I don't know,” he said. “All I know is that those are the guavas I picked.”

No one had noticed as Ramón and Don Rodrigo came into the neck until they were standing close by.

“So here is where I dropped them?” said Ramón. “I was so busy pushing furniture, nailing windows and doors, and running back and forth from the barn that I really didn't remember where I had left the sack of guavas.”

“Those are priceless guavas,” said Don Rodrigo. “They are the only ones left at the
finca
, and the last we will see for a long time.”

“You can make jelly, Grandmother,” said Teresa.

“We shall make it,” Grandmother said. “Each of you shall have a glass, but none will be larger than Antonio's who saved the last guavas of the
finca
.”

Antonio was so pleased that he carried the sack to the kitchen to tell his mother the news.

After dinner, the family gathered to hear Don Rodrigo tell about his scouting trip in and about the
finca
. Then, still worried by the affairs of the day, they retired to their rooms, where their tired bodies tried to rest.

Long after they had left, Don Rodrigo sat in front of his desk, apparently reading from a book which lay open before him. But his eyes were not following the printed page. They were closed, his mind brimming with ideas and plans which came clearly now and set the pattern for the course he was to follow. There was no alternative. He took out the map of the
finca
and studied it, concentrating on the area which represented his tobacco plots. He had seen them today sodded with water, almost ruined. When would they flourish again with the rich tobacco leaves they were so famous for? He had ordered Felipe to get more workers and begin building new sheds.

He would prepare again. When the time was ripe for planting, nothing would keep him from a new start. The more he consulted the map, the surer he was of his new plans. He would tell the family just as soon as he had time to visit Cidra and Cayey. Summer was almost gone, and school would soon be open. Where in the world could Lucio be, wondered Don Rodrigo? They had not heard from him even after the hurricane.

Don Rodrigo folded the map and put it away, then blew the lamp out and stood in the darkness looking out the open window. The sky was brilliant with stars. It seemed to him that all their twinkle somehow could not compare with the glow that came from his fireflies. It was dark outside, and for once there were no magic lights at the
finca
.

He closed the window and, feeling along the wall, found his way to his room.

There was laughter and talk in the kitchen once more, for Grandmother was making her guava jelly.

The girls hovered about her, watching the preparations and offering their help whenever they could. But it was really Grandmother and Lucía, masters at such an art, who had things in hand. The girls' help had been relegated to filling the glass jars after the jelly was made.