Cult of the Black Jaguar by JG Faherty Page B

I’d be down in a minute. A manic grin on his face, he turned and ran from the room to the accompaniment of further extraterrestrial drumming.
    I pulled on fresh underwear, sweatpants, and a t-shirt, and went downstairs to join Owen, my mom, and my dad on the front porch, where they stood watching the incredible pyrotechnics.
    Our house was a large New England-style Victorian with a wide wraparound porch. The porch had always been our favorite gathering place as a family, more popular even than the kitchen. In the summer, we’d sit in oversized rocking chairs and drink the lemonade or ice tea my mother made, listening to the gently comforting sounds of growling lawn mowers, chirping insects, and calling night birds. In the fall, before the frigid New England winter made it too uncomfortable to be outside, we’d cradle mugs of hot chocolate in our chilly hands as the winds brought us the smells of burning leaves and homemade soup on its weightless waves.
    One of our favorite things to do was sit under the protection of the overhanging roof and watch the summer storms roll across the island. You could sway back and forth on the old-fashioned swinging couch my dad had rescued from a yard sale, sipping cold, tart lemonade - or in my parents’ case, beer - and ooh and ahh at the lightning over the ocean only two blocks away. In spite of the awesome violence of the storms, watching them from the safety of the porch was a peaceful, reflective pastime, almost meditative in nature. The wind would bring a welcome coolness to the hot, muggy air that always preceded a summer thunderstorm, and the hiss of falling rain would act like white noise, creating a hushed silence, as if the rest of the world no longer existed.
    I’d always enjoyed those evenings most of all.
    This storm engendered no such feelings.
    Rather than sitting, we gathered just outside the front door, as if responding to a primitive need for protection, a genetic instinct to huddle in a group for survival. No breeze jostled my hair or cooled the sweat on my brow; instead, the air grew heavier with each passing moment, a physical weight that made itself known every time I tried to draw a breath.
    Already a jangle of nerves from my dream, seeing my parents standing there without cans of beer in their hands made the whole scene even scarier. Not that either of them were alcoholics; as far back as I could remember, I’d never seen them get drunk, not even at barbeques or clambakes. But more often than not they’d grab a Narragansett or Harpoon Ale from the ‘fridge the same way a kid will reach for a soda. Especially on the hot days of midsummer. One before dinner, maybe a couple while watching the game, mowing the lawn, or jawing with the neighbors. Not every day, but frequently enough for me to consider it commonplace around the house or when visiting the neighbors.
    On the porch, it was tradition.
    The last time I’d seen them sans beer at home was when we’d been sitting in front of the television watching the events of September 11 unfold. The schools had closed early that day and my mother had to pick me up from kindergarten. Not long after we walked in the door, my father pulled into the driveway. Mom had cried while she watched television; Dad had poured himself a glass of the twenty-year-old single malt scotch he only brought out for weddings and funerals. It was years before I really understood what had happened that day, but even as a small child their reactions had made a lasting impression on me.
    This was the first time a storm had ever engendered the same type of anxiety in our household. Not even hurricanes or Nor’easters, which we’d dealt with more than once, had produced such a profound disquiet.
    â€œNorm, I’ve never seen lightning like this.” Another flash escorted Mom’s words, the crazed bolt arcing wildly across the sky before arrowing down to the not-so-distant waters of the