Mrs. Stevens. Grabbing a sledgehammer, Timothy beats against his front door till his shoulders ache and the blisters on his palms burst. The dented metal door refuses to budge. Moving along to a window nearby, he yanks down the remains of a moist curtain and hikes his foot high to kick out the shards of glass and board beyond. It crashes to the bushes below.
Poking his head out, Timothy groans as his heart sinks into his stomach. “I guess I know why I can’t get the darn door opened now.” He shakes his head, taking in the sight of a faded red sedan propped against his porch, the rear end pressed again his door. He recognizes it as his neighbor’s vehicle from four houses down. How it ended up all the way down here is anyone’s guess.
Rubbing his arm, sore from all that useless pounding on his door, Timothy surveys the ground beneath him. It’s not a long drop, but judging by the copious amounts of debris in his front yard, he needs to be careful.
Propping himself up in the window, Timothy leaps and almost manages a decent landing, but his back foot connects with the tangle of a juniper bush and he lands face first on the moist ground. Mud smears his black t-shirt, clinging to his bare arms. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Grumbling to himself, Timothy rises to his knees and wipes his chest. The sight before him is one he has only ever glimpsed on TV. Many of the houses on his street are battered and broken. Large chunks of fencing and patches of roofs clutter the street. Pools of water remain where over flooded gutters struggle to keep up with the deluge. Water gushes through the streets, eroding yards and loose stones that once filled poorly mended potholes.
The large tree in his front yard leans dangerously toward the back side of his house. Another couple of feet and he’ll be forced to do some damage control. His front porch looks fairly decent, considering he lost several spindles to rolling debris. The hand painted terra cotta planters his wife made last summer have all been smashed beyond recognition. Timothy winces at the ache that rises in his chest at the sight of another piece of Abby that has been lost to him and turns away.
Glancing toward Mrs. Stevens’ house, he sees that her home has taken a beating. Mangled lawn chairs lay strewn about her front lawn. A red metal mailbox protrudes from her side door. The old oak tree in her front yard has lost a large number of its limbs, which now teeter on the edge of her porch roof, threatening to cave it in. Power lines dangle low over her yard, long since dead from the winds.
Dodging a lady’s bike and child’s plastic slide, Timothy picks his way toward his neighbor’s front door. “Mrs. Stevens? Can you hear me?”
He pauses to listen, pressing his ear against the door after he hammers his fist against the screen door. “Please call out if you can hear my voice.”
When he receives no answer, he hurries down off the porch and heads toward the side door that leads into her kitchen. The windows along this side of the house seemed to have fared well. Most of the boards remain intact. Gripping the mailbox imbedded in the side door, Timothy grunts and yanks it free. He chucks it to the side and reaches through the shattered window to unlock the door, careful not to slice his arm on the jagged glass still poking out of the frame.
“Mrs. Stevens? I’m coming in through the kitchen. You can put your frying pan away now!”
Although his spunky neighbor has never actually come at him with a frying pan before, she has threatened him with it a time or two if he continues to refuse to call her Iris, which of course he does.
The door swings open to reveal a darkened interior. All of the shades and curtains have been pulled across the windows, just as he had told Mrs. Stevens to do. Good woman , he smiles as he closes the door behind him as an afterthought.
The kitchen is hot and stuffy.
Poking his head out, Timothy groans as his heart sinks into his stomach. “I guess I know why I can’t get the darn door opened now.” He shakes his head, taking in the sight of a faded red sedan propped against his porch, the rear end pressed again his door. He recognizes it as his neighbor’s vehicle from four houses down. How it ended up all the way down here is anyone’s guess.
Rubbing his arm, sore from all that useless pounding on his door, Timothy surveys the ground beneath him. It’s not a long drop, but judging by the copious amounts of debris in his front yard, he needs to be careful.
Propping himself up in the window, Timothy leaps and almost manages a decent landing, but his back foot connects with the tangle of a juniper bush and he lands face first on the moist ground. Mud smears his black t-shirt, clinging to his bare arms. “Perfect. Just perfect.”
Grumbling to himself, Timothy rises to his knees and wipes his chest. The sight before him is one he has only ever glimpsed on TV. Many of the houses on his street are battered and broken. Large chunks of fencing and patches of roofs clutter the street. Pools of water remain where over flooded gutters struggle to keep up with the deluge. Water gushes through the streets, eroding yards and loose stones that once filled poorly mended potholes.
The large tree in his front yard leans dangerously toward the back side of his house. Another couple of feet and he’ll be forced to do some damage control. His front porch looks fairly decent, considering he lost several spindles to rolling debris. The hand painted terra cotta planters his wife made last summer have all been smashed beyond recognition. Timothy winces at the ache that rises in his chest at the sight of another piece of Abby that has been lost to him and turns away.
Glancing toward Mrs. Stevens’ house, he sees that her home has taken a beating. Mangled lawn chairs lay strewn about her front lawn. A red metal mailbox protrudes from her side door. The old oak tree in her front yard has lost a large number of its limbs, which now teeter on the edge of her porch roof, threatening to cave it in. Power lines dangle low over her yard, long since dead from the winds.
Dodging a lady’s bike and child’s plastic slide, Timothy picks his way toward his neighbor’s front door. “Mrs. Stevens? Can you hear me?”
He pauses to listen, pressing his ear against the door after he hammers his fist against the screen door. “Please call out if you can hear my voice.”
When he receives no answer, he hurries down off the porch and heads toward the side door that leads into her kitchen. The windows along this side of the house seemed to have fared well. Most of the boards remain intact. Gripping the mailbox imbedded in the side door, Timothy grunts and yanks it free. He chucks it to the side and reaches through the shattered window to unlock the door, careful not to slice his arm on the jagged glass still poking out of the frame.
“Mrs. Stevens? I’m coming in through the kitchen. You can put your frying pan away now!”
Although his spunky neighbor has never actually come at him with a frying pan before, she has threatened him with it a time or two if he continues to refuse to call her Iris, which of course he does.
The door swings open to reveal a darkened interior. All of the shades and curtains have been pulled across the windows, just as he had told Mrs. Stevens to do. Good woman , he smiles as he closes the door behind him as an afterthought.
The kitchen is hot and stuffy.
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