“I’m not sure that house out there will hold,” Denton said. “We ought to think about letting them head up to Arkansas. They can stay at the apple farmer’s place till this thing blows over. We might lose a couple days on the back end, but I think it’s worth it. At least they’d be safe.”
“Yeah, but who’s going to pay to get them up there?” Alison said. “Even if we could afford their tickets, every Greyhound headed north is sold out.”
“We could rent a van,” Charley suggested.
“Can’t afford the liability,” Denton said.
“Look, Romero’s offering to stay,” Alison said. “He swears they all know the risk. I say, let ’em stay. They want plywood, food, lanterns, and they’ll ride it out; we can do that. Hurricane passes, they’ll be here, ready to work.”
Eventually, they reached a compromise: If the hurricane rating stayed at three, Charley would loan them her car and they would drive to Arkansas; if it was downgraded to a two, they would stay.
For the rest of the afternoon, they went about strapping down equipment and securing the shop’s doors and windows. Denton went out for plywood while Charley boxed up bills and receipts, mourning all the work she’d put into organizing her file cabinets. Alison brought over his portable generator. “It ain’t fancy,” he said, “but it’ll run a fridge, a couple of lights, and a TV.”
• • •
It was almost five when Charley got back to Miss Honey’s, and the wind had just begun to disturb the trees behind the house. Micah’s garden was in full flower, and before she went inside, Charley walked through it, inspecting the cucumbers and green beans almost ready for the taking, okra and tomatoes baking in the unwaving heat; the sunflowers with faces broad as a baby’s nodding along the fence. Micah had even planted pumpkins, not bulbous yet, just long, groping vines beneath hooding leaves, and as Charley walked the last row then climbed the porch steps, her arms loaded with groceries they’d need whether they evacuated or not, her heart broke for her daughter. It would be a shame if Micah lost everything she’d worked so hard to plant.
The sky was still gloriously blue half an hour later. Charley was struggling to tie the porch swing to the railing when, to her great surprise, cousin John eased the Bronco along the gulley.
“What are you doing here?” Charley asked. John had called to check in on her a couple times since the reunion, but she hadn’t actually set eyes on him, which meant she’d never seen him in his prison guard uniform. Now Charley hugged him, and smelled something institutional — Lysol, maybe — rising off his starched gray shirt.
“I brought y’all some plywood,” John said. “Thought you could use some help putting it up.” He held out a cordless screwdriver and a box of screws.
“Oh, John. With this traffic?” But Charley was grateful. With so much of her attention devoted to getting Romero and his men settled and securing the farm, she’d imagined how she, Miss Honey, and the kids would spend the long hours waiting for the storm to pass but hadn’t considered the physical damage the hurricane might do to Miss Honey’s house. Now here was John, thoughtful as always, coming to her rescue. And for the first time in a very long time, Charley was aware of what it meant not to have a man around the house. For all the time she spent with Denton and Alison, there was a limit to what she could expect from them. They were her partners, and yes, even her friends, but they weren’t her family, they weren’t her husband.
“As long as I’m back before they start the contra flow I’m okay,” John said.
Just then, the screen door creaked, and when Charley looked up she saw Ralph Angel standing on the porch. He paused for a moment with his hands in his sweat suit pockets, then planted himself in the middle of the top step, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. “Well, if it isn’t Little John.”
“Hello, Ralph Angel,” John said.
Ralph Angel frowned. “Since when did you start calling me by my given name, boy? Show some respect.”
Hot as it was, Charley shivered. She hadn’t seen much of Ralph Angel since they’d argued over the farm, and to be honest, since then she had avoided him. It hadn’t been difficult. Most mornings, she left before dawn, returning home in just enough time to talk to Micah while she worked in the garden before eating whatever dinner Miss Honey left out for her and retiring to her room, where she promptly fell into a deep and much-needed sleep. As best she could tell, Ralph Angel spent his time barricaded in the back room, doing what, exactly, she could only guess; that, or watching old war movies with Miss Honey.
“All right,” John said and sighed. “Hello, cousin. How are you?”
Ralph Angel took a toothpick from his pocket and slid it into his mouth. “You’ve got the nerve to look like a real officer. What kind of uniform is that?”
“Texas Department of Criminal Justice.”
“No shit. A real-life prison guard. Bet you can kick some ass when you feel like it, can’t you, boy?”
“Only when I have to.”
Ralph Angel motioned to Charley. “What do you think, sis? Think John here can kick my ass?”
“I’m not having this conversation,” Charley said.
“Want to try?” Ralph Angel said. His body seemed to inflate inside his sweat suit.
“No, sir,” John said. “I don’t.”
“Is that a real gun? Let me see it.”
“No, sir. I can’t do that.”
Charley looked at Ralph Angel and thought she could track the anger coursing through him.
“Ah, shit, boy. I’ve held a gun before. Let me see it. I’m not going to fire it.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’m not giving you my gun.”
“Well, fight me, then.” Ralph Angel stood up.
“I didn’t come here to fight.” John pulled himself up to his full height, and Charley thought, this was the man the prisoners at Huntsville saw. This was the correctional officer. His voice remained steady and calm. “I just came to help Cousin Charley cover the windows. Make sure y’all are boarded up and ready for the storm.”
“Yeah, right,” Ralph Angel said. “You came around to make sure I’m not causing trouble. Did I pass the test? ’Cause I know you’ve been spreading rumors about me, talking about me behind my back.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh, cut the shit, John. I know y’all told Charley about my last visit. Told her I broke ’Da’s arm. You and Violet and Brother, all running your mouths. I should kick your ass right now.”
John took a step forward. “That’s up to you, cousin. I’ll play this thing any way you want.”
“John, please.” Charley pulled on John’s arm. “Let’s get this wood up before it gets dark.”
• • •
The first sheet of plywood was screwed against the window and they were moving to the second when John said, “Lucky for him Daddy made me promise to stay calm, otherwise I would kick his ass. I don’t care if he is my cousin.”
The wind had picked up and every few seconds, Charley felt a smattering of rain against her face. She told John about the day Ralph Angel recited the Bible verses and negotiated Micah and Blue’s bickering over the Polaroids, how he’d admired The Cane Cutter, how he treated Blue so tenderly. “It’s like he’s two different people,” she said, and looked at the big sheet of plywood nailed against the window. She’d wanted so much to like Ralph Angel. She’d actually sort of resented Violet for not giving him a chance, thought, privately, that Violet was being judgmental, maybe even a little self-righteous. But she’d been the fool, not Violet. And after she and Ralph Angel argued, she called Uncle Brother to say he’d been right when he warned her. She called Violet, too, and apologized for ever doubting her.