wonder if her skin smelled as sweet. I folded it, set it on my night table, and turned my thoughts to the storm.
Mr. Covington hadn’t been worried at all, but in the dark, the house seemed to creak and sigh more than usual. And when I was very still, I could feel the deep thudding of gulf swells falling upon the beach just blocks away. The shock waves vibrated up the walls, through the floor, and right into my bones.
Chapter
9
I took Broadway to work Saturday morning. The north wind remained brisk, and the dawn sky took on a mother-of-pearl iridescence unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I stumbled more than a few times, foolishly staring at the sky instead of watching where I was going.
I turned south toward the construction site and soon found tidewater over the tops of my shoes. Startled, I searched the faces around me but didn’t see a flicker of concern. A light rain swept in, and still people walked to work, trolleys ran, and horses pulled loaded delivery wagons same as always, splashing through the shallow overflow. I glanced down the street to the gulf where great waves broke on the beach, sending showers of white spray into the air. Storms and overflows might be a normal occurrence around here, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. It made me feel like the whole island was sinking into the sea.
When I got to work, Mr. Farrell was already there on the fourth-house gallery, ignoring the rain, looking out over the beach. I climbed up beside him, and he pointed toward the streetcar trestle strung across the surf. Swells crashed against pilings and across rails, hurling plumes of white spray as high as telephone poles. Farther down, spent waves had already reached the Midway. Fingers of foam raced around the ramshackle restaurants and shops as if searching for something to drag back into the sea.
We watched till everyone arrived, then Mr. Farrell put us to trimming doors and windows inside the first two houses. Concentrating on work wasn’t easy, though. Even Zach had a hard time with such a spectacle going on outside.
Streets and yards around us filled with rain and tidewater, yet people trickled in from trolleys, buggies, and on foot. Men in suits, dressed for work, and women gripping the hands of children gathered to see a sight as grand as fireworks on the Fourth of July.
As the morning wore on, the storm increased, and so did the crowds. Streetcars stopped three blocks short of the beach, no longer venturing out over the wild surf, and still people braved the rising water to see the show. Some of them even wore their bathing suits.
Skies darkened. Wind stripped umbrellas inside out and blew hats tumbling toward the surf. A driving rainsoaked sightseers’ backs and peppered the north side of the house where I’d been working, striking like pebbles against windows and siding.
I heard cries as waves picked up the two-wheeled portable bathhouses and flung them into the row of flimsy buildings that made up the Midway, showering brightly painted pieces of wood over the roofs. Farther down, swells rolled in, one upon the other, exploding against creosoted pilings under the Pagoda and slamming against floor joists with such force, I could feel the gallery railing shudder beneath my hands.
Mr. Farrell shouted from the house next to us. “Looks like it might get worse before it gets better. You boys best get on home.”
Zach nodded and waved. We dropped our tools inside the unfinished parlor and headed out into the rain.
“You live pretty far out, don’t you, Seth?” Zach asked. “You’re welcome to come wait out the storm with us if you want.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll feel better knowing that things are okay at home.”
“I guess I would, too.” He held up a hand. “Monday morning, then.”
I nodded. “I’ll be here.”
We all struck out in almost knee-deep water, headed toward higher ground—Zach with Frank and Charlie,and Henry with Mr. Farrell. Josiah and I
Mr. Covington hadn’t been worried at all, but in the dark, the house seemed to creak and sigh more than usual. And when I was very still, I could feel the deep thudding of gulf swells falling upon the beach just blocks away. The shock waves vibrated up the walls, through the floor, and right into my bones.
Chapter
9
I took Broadway to work Saturday morning. The north wind remained brisk, and the dawn sky took on a mother-of-pearl iridescence unlike anything I’d ever seen before. I stumbled more than a few times, foolishly staring at the sky instead of watching where I was going.
I turned south toward the construction site and soon found tidewater over the tops of my shoes. Startled, I searched the faces around me but didn’t see a flicker of concern. A light rain swept in, and still people walked to work, trolleys ran, and horses pulled loaded delivery wagons same as always, splashing through the shallow overflow. I glanced down the street to the gulf where great waves broke on the beach, sending showers of white spray into the air. Storms and overflows might be a normal occurrence around here, but I wasn’t sure I’d ever get used to it. It made me feel like the whole island was sinking into the sea.
When I got to work, Mr. Farrell was already there on the fourth-house gallery, ignoring the rain, looking out over the beach. I climbed up beside him, and he pointed toward the streetcar trestle strung across the surf. Swells crashed against pilings and across rails, hurling plumes of white spray as high as telephone poles. Farther down, spent waves had already reached the Midway. Fingers of foam raced around the ramshackle restaurants and shops as if searching for something to drag back into the sea.
We watched till everyone arrived, then Mr. Farrell put us to trimming doors and windows inside the first two houses. Concentrating on work wasn’t easy, though. Even Zach had a hard time with such a spectacle going on outside.
Streets and yards around us filled with rain and tidewater, yet people trickled in from trolleys, buggies, and on foot. Men in suits, dressed for work, and women gripping the hands of children gathered to see a sight as grand as fireworks on the Fourth of July.
As the morning wore on, the storm increased, and so did the crowds. Streetcars stopped three blocks short of the beach, no longer venturing out over the wild surf, and still people braved the rising water to see the show. Some of them even wore their bathing suits.
Skies darkened. Wind stripped umbrellas inside out and blew hats tumbling toward the surf. A driving rainsoaked sightseers’ backs and peppered the north side of the house where I’d been working, striking like pebbles against windows and siding.
I heard cries as waves picked up the two-wheeled portable bathhouses and flung them into the row of flimsy buildings that made up the Midway, showering brightly painted pieces of wood over the roofs. Farther down, swells rolled in, one upon the other, exploding against creosoted pilings under the Pagoda and slamming against floor joists with such force, I could feel the gallery railing shudder beneath my hands.
Mr. Farrell shouted from the house next to us. “Looks like it might get worse before it gets better. You boys best get on home.”
Zach nodded and waved. We dropped our tools inside the unfinished parlor and headed out into the rain.
“You live pretty far out, don’t you, Seth?” Zach asked. “You’re welcome to come wait out the storm with us if you want.”
I shook my head. “Thanks, but I’ll feel better knowing that things are okay at home.”
“I guess I would, too.” He held up a hand. “Monday morning, then.”
I nodded. “I’ll be here.”
We all struck out in almost knee-deep water, headed toward higher ground—Zach with Frank and Charlie,and Henry with Mr. Farrell. Josiah and I
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