Hurricane (3 page)

“José,” Mom calls to me, “grab some black garbage bags and cover up the TV and stereo.” As I grab the bags, the rain that leaks from the roof drips down onto my head and neck. It's cold and feels awful. I use duct tape to hold the corners of the bags down. And when no one is watching, I throw a bag over Berti's sleeping blanket, lying at the foot of my bed. She'll be wet and shivering when she gets back, and a dry place to sleep is the least I can do.

Mom puts plastic over the clothes that hang in our closets, and now we find some large plastic tarps and lay them over our beds to try to keep our blankets from getting too wet. Already a lot of our stuff looks like it's ruined. Ángela's favorite doll, Juanita, is on the floor in the living room, soaked. It looks like a drowned baby. I try not to look at it; it's too creepy.

Realizing that I've been more worried about stupid Berti than about my family, I think about Dad again, and Víctor and Ruby. Are they all right? When will they get home? I feel cold and scared even here in our house; what must they be feeling, caught in this weather? Tears come to my eyes a little bit as I think this. My fingers and hands feel cold too. I'm wet and uncomfortable, but worst of all I'm ashamed of being so afraid. The rain pounds and pounds, and the wind blows harder than ever. Where are my father, brother, and sister? Where's my dumb dog? What's going on?

Ángela, having run out of containers to catch the dripping rain coming through our roof, flops down on the couch, picks up her drowned doll, and begins to cry. María sits cuddling Juan, and Mom is still trying to catch the water. There's a gnawing feeling in my gut, my chest aches, and my palms are tingly and damp, not just from the rain. I've never felt this scared before.

We had known for a few days, from the news on TV, that Hurricane Mitch was coming toward Honduras. But no hurricane has ever really bothered us here in La Rupa before. We're not close enough to the shore, and in the past, by the time a storm's winds and rain came this far inland, it wasn't a big deal. This time Dad had even promised Mom that he'd beat the weather home, but when he said it, it was like a joke. Nobody's laughing now.

Another strange thing about Berti being gone is that I haven't heard any of the other dogs in town barking for a while, not for hours and hours. Normally the dogs bark a lot. Berti isn't a barker at all, but the others are always pretty noisy. This evening, though, they are silent. I wonder if they've run away too.

The TV is not working. In fact, all the lights went out a little while ago. We listen to María's little battery-operated radio and learn that this storm, Hurricane Mitch, is different from any of the others that have come before. They call it a Category 5, the worst there is, with winds and rain unlike any we've ever had before.

Except for the rain, it was calm and quiet here right up until the moment that the wind really started pounding us. For the last hour, both the rain and the wind have gotten worse and worse.

Ángela says, “I'm afraid, Mom.”

“I know, Angie,” Mom says. “Try not to worry too much. We're all here with you.”

I fake a laugh. “It's just rain and wind; it's no big deal.”

María says, “It's a
hurricane
, brainiac! Don't tease her for being afraid of it.”

“I just mean that we're safe here,” I say. “Everything will be okay.”

Ángela says, “What about Daddy and Víctor and Ruby?”

None of us says anything, but as I think about her words, I get a sick feeling in my stomach.

Mom stares at the floor. Then she looks up and answers, “I'm sure Daddy and the others will be fine, but say a few prayers just to be sure, okay?”

“Yes, Mom,” Ángela says. María nods.

Juan doesn't say anything. He just stares at the front door, like if he stares long enough, Dad and Víctor and Ruby will walk into the house. Seeing him like this makes my stomach feel even worse.

I go to my bedroom and put on my warmest jacket and hurry back out into the living room.

Mom asks, “Where do you think you're going?”

I say, “To find Berti. You said I could after dinner.”

Mom asks, shocked, “In this weather?”

I answer as I start to open the door, “It's not that bad. It's just—” A huge gust blasts me in the face. The raindrops feel like small stones. I lean into the wind and try to move forward, but another gust pushes against me hard and actually throws me back half a step.

Mom says, “Berti is probably somewhere safe, waiting out the storm. That's what you should do too. You're not going to find her in this weather.”

A third big gust pelts my face with raindrops and shoves me back into the house, convincing me that Mom is right.

“Okay,” I say, closing the door.

I didn't even go outside, but the front of my jacket is sopping wet and my face is red and stinging from the rain. “Maybe I'll try again later, when the wind calms down,” I say.

“Good idea,” Mom says.

I strip off my jacket, which is completely dry in the back, and hang it on a kitchen chair. I grab the dish towel from the front of the stove where it hangs and wipe the dripping water off my face.

For another hour we sit. We talk a little, but mostly we're quiet so we can listen to María's radio. Candles light the living room, and we move chairs and the couch around to avoid the dripping rain from our ceiling.

Two or three times I think I hear Berti at the door, and I get up to go let her in, but every time it's just the wind tossing debris against the house.

Finally Mom says, “It's getting late. We need to try to get some sleep.”

I blurt out, “How are we supposed to sleep through this noise?”

Mom looks at me, and I can see how worried she is. I take the hint and say, “Sorry, Mom. You're right. We should get to bed … sorry.”

Mom smiles at me. Maybe she hopes that if we just go to bed, when we wake up all this will be over. She's just scared like we are. I see fear in her eyes and in the way her forehead is wrinkled with worry. But I agree with her—we may as well go to bed. Why just sit here in our dripping house, staring at each other? I'm worried about Dad and Víctor and Ruby, though, and I can't stop my hands from shaking every time I think about them. I'll bet Mom is even more worried than I am.

I consider trying to find Berti one more time, but the wind is howling just like it was earlier. Mom's probably right: Berti is hiding somewhere, maybe in one of our neighbors' houses. She'll probably come home in the morning. Yeah, I'm sure—once everything quiets down, she'll find her way home.

In the bedroom I share with my two brothers, Víctor's empty bed is covered with plastic. In the soft glow of the candle we brought in, I can see Juan. He lies silent in his bed with a scared look that never leaves his face. Once we are in our beds, with plastic tarps covering us over the tops of our blankets, I blow out the candle.

Juan's been quiet ever since the storm started. He's usually a chatterbox, carrying on and on about everything and everyone. Although my little brother is only four years old, he watches every music video that comes on and knows all the words. He can read the backs of cereal boxes and understand what's written there. He even speaks pretty good English, because my sisters and I talk to him in that language and because he goes to a bilingual preschool three days a week. Juan's got a collection of plastic action figures that I'm sure rivals any collection in the whole country of Honduras. He has Víctor's old ones and all of mine too. He has at least a couple of hundred.

They make up a weird group of characters and scenes. It's funny to see Juan playing war games with an old Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle and an equally old Luke Skywalker. Sometimes Juan has a baseball player doing mortal combat with Simba from a
Lion King
Happy Meal. He loves to play with these toys in bed at night too, but tonight, in the wet cold of our room, Juan's very quiet.

I ask him, “Are you afraid, Juan?”

“No,” he answers, very softly.

“I'm scared,” I say.

“Really?” Juan asks, his voice a little shaky. “Why?”

“Oh, I don't know. I just am. This rain and wind is so loud, you know?”

“Yeah,” Juan answers. I can almost hear the wheels turning in his head. “I won't tell Víctor that you're scared,” he says.

I smile and say, “Thanks, Juan. You're a good brother.”

Juan and I are quiet for a few moments until he says, still very softly, “I'm a little bit …” He won't let himself actually say the words.

“That's okay,” I say. Then I add, “I won't tell Víctor either.”

Víctor is a good big brother, but I know why Juan thinks we should keep our fears to ourselves. Víctor is very macho. He thinks crying is for sissies, and he's not the kind of guy who would ever admit he's afraid of anything. And while Víctor is almost always kind to Juan and me, he does have a temper.

One day last year I walked out of the Baskin-Robbins ice cream store in San Pedro Sula. I had ridden into town with Víctor and Dad just to hang out in the big city. Two Anglo kids a couple of years older than me were standing nearby. They weren't students at my school, and I didn't know them. The taller kid wore a baseball cap.

I stood there with my double-scoop chocolate waffle cone, minding my own business. It was the spot where I was supposed to meet Víctor.

Out of the blue, the kid in the cap turned toward me and said, “Hey, Sánchez, I didn't think you guys ate anything but beans and rice.”

His friend laughed and said to his pal, “You'd better talk slower. He maybe doesn't speaka da Engleesh too
bueno
, ya know?”

They both laughed.

The first kid asked in a very thick, exaggerated Spanish accent, “Hey, 'scuse me,
señor
, you likey American icey-creamo?”

They both laughed again, but the one who'd just spoken stopped laughing pretty fast when suddenly his head jerked to the side and his Arizona Diamondbacks baseball cap flew off his head.

I hadn't noticed Víctor come up behind them. After slapping that first kid, he grabbed the other kid by his shirtfront and said in a low and mean voice, speaking mostly in English, which Víctor almost never does, “You like Frito Bandito jokes too,
pendejo
?”

The kid stared at Víctor and answered in a scared, shaky voice, “No.”

I said to Víctor in Spanish, “Take it easy, they were just—” But he interrupted, his expression very angry.

“Shut up!” he snapped.

He grabbed the kid whose hat he'd knocked off by his shirtfront too and, holding both of them, asked him in Spanish,
“¿Tienes preguntas?”

They looked really scared.

I said, “I hope you can understand my English okay.” They both looked surprised. “My brother is asking if you have any questions.”

Neither of them said a word, but they both shook their heads.

Although they were as tall as Víctor, they were probably fourteen years old. Víctor was sixteen then. Víctor isn't that big, but he is pretty muscular. He has black hair and very dark eyes and skin. I don't know what it is, but something seems to always make people stand back and respect him.

Víctor stared back and forth between them for a few moments more, as if he were daring either of them to say anything at all. Finally he gave them both a hard shove, and they flew backward. He turned to me and said, “Are we ready? Let's go.”

As Víctor and I left, I looked back. One kid walked over, watching us nervously the whole time, and picked up his baseball cap. Then they both hurried away.

Víctor turned to me and said in Spanish, “Listen, José, I think sometimes you feel that guys like them and the rich gringos like the kids at your school are better than us, but some of them have no respect. They aren't better.” He paused a second and smiled. “Did you see their faces?”

I smiled too; I couldn't help it. “Yeah … they looked pretty nervous.”

We both laughed.