Pick Your Poison

28

I called home once I was back on the road, and Kate answered, sounding breathless and anxious.

“It’s me,” I said. “Did Steven call?” I swerved to avoid a patch of high water on the right.

“No. I’m relieved to hear your voice. Where are you, Abby?”

“Galveston. What about Jeff?”

“He phoned. I gave him your cell phone number. After I told him you were looking for that CD, he sounded pretty irritated, and I’m feeling the same way. You took a bad fall yesterday, and the roads aren’t fit to travel. You should have been home long ago.”

“With this weather, it’ll take me an hour to get back to Houston. Expect me about nine.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t you have your radio on? An eighteen-wheeler overturned on the causeway and it’s taking an hour to get from Broadway off the island.”

“Damn. I’ll wait on P Street, if it’s not flooded over there already.”

“That street sometimes fills with water, Abby. Why not wait it out in a restaurant or—”

“I need a quiet place, somewhere to think things through.”

“Are you okay?” Kate said.

“I’m fine. Call me when the causeway is clear. The digital networks jam up in emergencies, so phone me at the Victorian.”

She didn’t know the number, so I gave it to her; then she said, “If Steven calls, I’ll tell him where he can reach you and—”

“No!” I practically shouted. “Tell him nothing.”

“There is something wrong,” said Kate.

I steered around more gigantic puddles. “You’ve had enough revelations for one day. Besdies, you’re starting to break up. ’Bye.” I clicked off the phone and, seeing that the battery was low, plugged it into the cigarette lighter.

I turned onto Seawall Boulevard and found the street practically deserted. Usually the tourists hung in like a hair in a biscuit no matter what the weather, but not tonight. A jagged flash lit the murky gulf to my left, and a tremendous clap of thunder followed.

My neck ached and my rear throbbed where that nail had punctured me. I wanted to be home sleeping, free from the truth now invading my life like Attila stomping across Europe.

When I turned onto P Street, the water was almost to the curb. I’d have to pay attention, be ready to leave if real flooding was imminent.

The house next to the Victorian was vacant and sat on higher ground than ours, so I took the precaution of parking the 4Runner in that driveway. I used the back entrance leading to the kitchen, anxious to swallow more pain medicine. I ached all over.

Steven had cleared a path through the mudroom and patched the damage done by the fallen bathroom, but he hadn’t tidied up. I found empty Gatorade containers, bug spray, crumpled brown bags from McDonald’s... but not a glass amid the clutter. I gave up and cupped my hand under the faucet, gulping the pills down.

I wandered back into the front parlor, knowing I should go upstairs and make sure the whole second floor wasn’t soaked because of that gigantic hole in the wall. But the pain in my legs reminded me of the challenge stairs presented.

I limped to the window and opened the wood shades, checking on the street flooding. Just then I noticed a truck turn the corner and deaden its lights.

I quickly narrowed the shades, recognizing that pickup. I turned out the light and slipped into the closet, not wanting to confront Steven alone. Not stranded here. I huddled in the far corner, praying he’d come and go quickly.

The back door opened and I heard Steven grunting and groaning, then dragging noises.

He must have turned on the hall light, because a sliver of brightness appeared. Almost simultaneously the closet door flew open.

I tried making myself invisible in the corner, some mean feat in an empty cubicle.

But he was so concerned with shoving his tarpaulin-wrapped load into the closet, he didn’t see me.