Outside the branches of trees sway, scratching against the side and the back of our house. I turn on a light in the backyard, flicker it a few times. The wind has picked up in the last few hours. You can never be too careful about these things. I’m not some doomsday prophet, but still, I went to church and told the priest my confession just in case. There’s talk of the apocalypse, a quiet hysteria arising that maybe these rains are indicative of the end of times. There was footage on the news of canoes in towns not far from ours, paddling down the middle of the street. Roads are impassable, and some of the schools have been closed. The grocery store parking lot is a swimming pool. Rivers have overflowed their banks, wreaking havoc. Severe flooding is expected, and every day of the next week calls for more rain. Even Bea, the more even-keeled of us, has contemplated building an ark. I’m not the only one who’s contemplated building an ark.
I have trouble seeing out the window because of the rain. The rain pours down from the sky, a sudden blitz. From the kitchen window, I look out into the backyard, where it’s dark and raining. Her phone lies on the counter beside my glass of wine. People don’t show up out of the blue at nine o’clock on a stormy night.īea is out back in the detached garage that she uses as a music studio. I look up from my glass at the sound of it, my blood running suddenly cold. I’ve just opened a bottle of wine and am waiting for leftovers-Bea’s stuffed shells that she made hours ago, when I was still under the impression I’d be home on time-to warm in the microwave when the knock comes. I’m in the kitchen, home late from a long day of work. The only time I can see outside is when lightning strikes, flooding the world with a sudden burst of light. It’s dark outside, the moon and stars hidden behind storm clouds.
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