Falling to Earth by Kate Southwood Page B

when the storm hit and who was still out back in the yard among the stacks of cut lumber. He hadn’t seen them again, not even later that day, downtown or at the school.
    He’d neither seen nor thought of Irene after he’d left her inside the store, sitting behind the counter at the adding machine. He’d only gone outside to stand on the sidewalk to see why the sky had gone so dark, why the wind had picked up and there were so many dead leaves flying by the windows suddenly. He’d intended to have a look and then go right back in, to laugh and tell Irene they were in for a good soaking, and then to call the other men inside the store.
    He’d meant to go back in but he’d been frozen there, looking down Union Street in the direction of home when he’d seen the cloud. He could see nothing else, no sky at its edges, no space below or above it, just the seething black cloud rolling towards him, swallowing the street. The screams behind him had brought him back to himself, and it was then he’d thought to grab the telegraph pole because he was two steps closer to it than he was to the store, and he’d fallen with his arms around it the way he used to fall on the football in high school.
    Now he’s lying on his back with his arm across his face, gasping like he’s been running.
    â€œPaul,” Mae is saying, “Paul!” She’s up on her elbow, pulling his arm away from his face. “What is it?”
    Homer hasn’t woken, he’s lying there rolled over on his back now, still sleeping with his mouth slightly open. He’ll wake and remember the storm soon, too.
    Mae is cupping his cheek with her warm hand, kissing his temple.
    â€œI never went back,” he says. He’s sobbing now and trying to stop, but he’s making more noise having to breathe through his clamped teeth. Mae moves her hand to his shoulder. He knows she’s watching him, waiting. If she gives him time, he’ll be able to explain, he’ll be able to tell her that he’s not talking about the school. He knows he’s confused her, and if she asks again he won’t be able to control himself at all. But she isn’t asking, she’s waiting. He’s finally able to take his hands away from his mouth, but he can’t look at her yet, he can only look up at the ceiling. The air has lost its color. It’s just a dull half light now, waiting for someone to push the curtains back.
    â€œThe lumberyard,” he says in a whisper, as if he’s only trying not to wake the boys. “I never went back to the lumberyard yesterday.”
    Mae is still silent. He’s sure she knows that he’s talking about the people he left there and not the place, and that she won’t try to reassure him that if the one escaped unharmed the others would have as well. Mae has never asked him to justify any feelings of responsibility before, and she won’t make him defend remorse and shame now. Just as she let go of him when he set off running back to the school the day before, she’ll send him off again this morning without complaint to do whatever it is he has to do, and she and Lavinia will run things at home. Funny that the day can, in this one respect, be so much like any other.
    â€œI have to go.” He looks at her finally, but now she’s not looking at him. She’s breathing slowly and looking down at Homer, mostly to look at something other than Paul. She hasn’t taken her hand from his shoulder, but he can see she’s unhappy, that she’s trying hard to keep anything she’s thinking from showing on her face. Her eyes flicker up briefly and then down again and she nods. Paul sits up and pulls Mae up to him and holds her with Homer lying between them.
    â€œI’ll get up with you,” she says.
    â€œNo, don’t. You can wait a little.”
    â€œWait for what? They’ll hear you downstairs, and I’ll have to get