Heads started to peek out of rooms. Violet ran out to check on the kids. Mary sat up, her hair full of static electricity in the outline of the fire, and Paul started to cry. Peter muttered “go back to sleep” before he plopped down. Mitch flew downstairs to comfort Paul, while Violet tried to rock Mary back to sleep in her arms. But she was wide awake, her voice scratchy, repeating Rocco’s ghost stories, which made Paul cry even harder. Mick spoke quietly, wanting to know if anyone knew the source of the BOOM.
Eunice offered coffee or hot drinks to all those willing, and the house seemed suddenly awake with uncertainty. Except for my wife, who hadn’t been disturbed, her breathing even.
“Scarlett Gorgeous? Are you awake?”
I turned to find Maggie Beautiful in our room. She had slipped in behind my back. I should’ve expected it, known it was coming, but she caught me off guard, like the sound of the storm did, and the commotion that followed. I started to tell her to go downstairs, to get something hot and spiked to drink, and then I’d play cards with her, but I wanted to see what Scarlett would say.
“Hah?”
“I’m afraid,” Maggie Beautiful said, standing on my side of the bed, looking down. “Can I sleep with you?”
Scarlett patted the empty spot, moving back the covers. Maggie Beautiful hopped in like a child finding comfort in the reassuring presence of a parent.
“You don’t have to be scared,” Scarlett assured her. “I’m here. And Brando won’t let anything happen to us. Hush now. Get some sleep.”
Maggie Beautiful began to cry. Scarlett wrapped her arms around her, holding tight, but it was more of a natural response than truly offered.
In that fucking moment, I was seven years old again, in Maggie Beautiful’s house, in my old room.
* * *
It’s late, and the moon filters in through the window, raindrops wiggling in silver bubbles on the pane, but reflecting black on the floor and across my bed like amoebas. A bath seems like a good idea, but I’m too tired and too fascinated by the color of the moon to take one. Still, I need to get up and take care of my responsibilities.
Maggie Beautiful has been keeping me from Elliott’s house lately. She’s jealous. Pnina has been hogging my time. So I cook us boxed macaroni and cheese and omelets. We hardly ever have two items that go together. No grits for the eggs, no meat to go with the pasta. It’s good enough, though, and as I do the dishes afterward, the first stroke of lightning lights up the house, followed by thunder that rattles the panes.
Maggie Beautiful runs from the TV, worrying about what the weatherman said.
I stop what I’m doing to listen. “They never get anything right,” I say to her, remembering what Elliott’s dad once said. “Besides, he says that the storm is strong, but it’s moving fast. That’s good.”
“Is it?” she asks.
“Yeah. We’re inside. We’re safe.”
“Hey! You want to play Clue?”
I know why she’s asking. She’s afraid to be alone. I can’t help but wonder how I’ve survived for this long. She has no clue what she’s doing and needs me more than I seem to need her. Luca’s words make more sense with each day that he’s gone. His shadow never left, reminding me that I’m the man of this house, and it’s my duty to take care of Maggie Beautiful.
“Yeah. Let me finish the dishes first.”
She takes popcorn from the cabinet and puts it in the microwave, then takes down more than a few different chocolate candies still in their boxes, along with gummy worms, mixing them all in the bowl.
By the time I’m done, the game is set up and there are enough sweets to make me throw up—I had learned my lesson one time too many.
Before we start, I remind her of all the bills that need to be paid. She can’t read the mail. Though she has been paying them for a while, she forgets. I even stuck different stickers to different dates on the refrigerator calendar so she’ll remember, but she forgets that the reminders are there.
“We can’t go without electricity again.” I refuse to play until she looks at me.
She holds her hands up. “Whatever you say, Brando! I’ll pay it. Now come on!” She giggles, excited, like the little girls in my class. “Let’s figure out who the murderer is!”
I don’t have a bedtime, not like when I sleep over at Elliott’s, but I wish for one. The games go on and on, and though I have no idea what time it is, I feel it. School comes early in the morning no matter what.
“Okay,” she says, patting my hand.
I blink at her—maybe I fell asleep.
“The storm is over.”
It’s not. It’s the calm before it really hits. I say nothing to her, hoping that I can sleep until it does. Once in my bed, though, the moon fascinates me again, and my brain refuses to shut down. Not long after, the storm comes back, mean with wind and rain.
