Red Rain

Lea shut her eyes. Again she pictured those men bent over, their streams of vomit splashing onto the grass. Their gasping, terrified faces. Their bodies coiled lifelessly on the ground in front of her.

And as rain began to patter down, she thought of the 1935 hurricane and the story of the dead returning to life to repair the devastating damage. The living sharing their space with the unliving.

Huge raindrops rattled on the palm leaves, like assault rifles. Loud as thunder. The wind swirled around Lea, pushed her right, then left. She planted her feet, determined not to be blown over. A suffocating wind rushed over her face, made her gasp for breath.

It came on so suddenly. I thought we had time.

Hugging herself again, she ducked her head and searched for Jean-Carl. Nowhere in sight. Perhaps he had run to the jeep.

A strong blast of wind bent the palm trees till they were nearly horizontal. Lea’s shoes sank into the mud as she stepped onto the path.

She felt a hand on her shoulder. Gasping in surprise, she spun around. “Martha?”

Martha had a canvas tennis hat pulled down tight over her hair. Her sweater was already soaked through, matted to her body. “Better come home with me.” She had to scream over the roar of the wind.

Lea blinked through the sheets of rain that swept over her. “No. My stuff-”

“Better come with me, Lea. This is going to be bad. It’s going to be real bad.”

6

As Hurricane Ernesto slowly made its way north, Mark Sutter was ending his book tour close to home at HamptonBooks in Easthampton, Long Island.

The store occupied a gray shingle building near one end of the long row of shops on Main Street, a few doors down from the Ralph Lauren store, a country antiques store, an old-fashioned toy store, and the Hamptons’ branch of Tiffany’s, all closed and deserted on this rain-tossed April night, before the summer people had arrived.

Mark arrived early, shaking out his umbrella and squirming out of the Burberry trench coat that no longer seemed to be waterproof. He liked to watch his audience come in, liked to size up the crowd before he spoke to them.

Crowd. Would there be a crowd on a night like this? He saw a few rain-bedraggled people in one of the long, narrow store aisles. A good sign.

A smiling, middle-aged woman hurried out from behind the front counter to greet him. “Hi, Mr. Sutter. I’m Jo-Ann, the manager. Welcome. You’re early.”

She was a mouse of a woman, small and gray, with lips the same color as her skin. She was probably forty, but she looked ten years older. She wore a loose-fitting gray turtleneck over black corduroy slacks.

“I like to come early and hang out a bit,” Mark said. “You know. Chat with people. Kind of size up the crowd.”

“Well, make yourself at home. We’ve already sold several books, and we got a lot of phone calls. I think there’ll be a crowd.” She squinted at him. “How does it feel to be controversial?”

Mark laughed. “I’m enjoying it, actually.”

She nodded solemnly. “Of course you are.”

Mark wondered exactly what she meant.

“Sometimes it’s good to stir people up,” she said. And then quickly changed gears: “Can I get you a bottle of water?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“Sure? I have plenty of water.”

“No. Really. I saw enough water driving here.”

His joke fell flat. He knew it wasn’t much of a joke. He shouldn’t try to be funny. No one expected it of him. But what was this obsession with water? In every city at every bookstore, they tried to shove bottle after bottle of water at him.

“The rain is from the hurricane,” she said, “but we’re lucky. I have the radio on. They said it’s veering out into the ocean. We’ll just get the rain.”

“Hurricane?”

She squinted at him. “You didn’t hear? It’s a big one. Down South.”

Mark felt his throat tighten. “My wife is down South. On an island. I didn’t know. I had my iPod in the car. I-”

“Maybe you should try to call her.” She turned and saw the line of customers at the front counter. “I’d better get back.” She gave his wrist a quick squeeze. Like saying Good luck. Then she turned and made her way back to the other two clerks at the counter.

She stepped behind one of the cash registers and pulled on a pair of tight white rubber gloves. To protect herself from money germs?

Mark slid his BlackBerry from the pocket of his jeans, raised it to push Lea’s number. Then stopped. No bars.

I’m sure she’s okay. I’ll phone her after the book signing.

He stepped toward the back and leaned against a bookshelf where he could watch customers enter. He could see a gauzy reflection of himself in the front window, floating over the pyramid of display copies of his book. A gust of wind rattled the window and sent rivulets of rainwater streaking down the glass.

“Where do I put this?” A man in a brown rain slicker and canvas tennis hat shook his umbrella in a red-haired store clerk’s face, sending a spray of rainwater over the front counter. The young man pointed to the tall can by the door, already jammed with wet umbrellas.

The store was small, narrow and deep with two aisles leading back through tall wooden bookshelves. Rows of low-hanging fluorescent lights sent down a pale glare, making everyone look a little green. At the back, a steep stairway led upstairs to the author event area.

Mark felt his skin prickle. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks. The air in the store felt hot and damp despite the cold blasts every time the door opened. He could smell the ocean.

In a few hours I’ll be home.

He could hear a low mumble of voices from upstairs. A respectable crowd on a stormy Wednesday night in Easthampton. Please-let there be fifty people. That’s all an author cares about. A crowd big enough not to be embarrassing. Please-not four people who all choose to sit in the back row.

To his relief, he saw several couples lined up at the cash register. They all had his book in their hands. Did they look happy? No.

They’ve all come for a fight.

He turned back toward the front door and felt his stomach rumble. Not from stage fright. He looked forward to another confrontation. If only he could keep them from shouting this time.

He suddenly pictured the young woman in Boston who turned purple and started to tremble. That was awkward. And the angry couple who followed him to the parking lot and refused to let him get into the car until they had their say.

His stomach churned again from the bacon cheeseburger he had eaten too fast at Rowdy Hall, the noisy, crowded hamburger joint across the street. He always ate too fast when he was alone.

I’ll be home tonight.

His house in Sag Harbor was twenty minutes away, maybe a little longer if the storm continued. He had driven to the bookstore directly from MacArthur Airport in Ronkonkoma. He hadn’t had even two seconds to stop at home and say hi.

Ira and Elena. When did he see them last? Two weeks ago? He talked to them on the phone every night, and he Skyped them when he could. But the conversations were always forced and hurried.

Elena was okay. Even at the gawky age of fourteen, she bobbed merrily through life like a kite in a strong wind. Ira was the sensitive one, always overthinking everything, so shy and serious. Poor guy. Sixth grade. His first year in middle school.