“Actually,” Cash says, “it’s kind of romantic.”
Well, Irene thinks, looks like Tilda is back in the picture. “We have a surprise for you when you get home,” Irene says.
“A what?” Cash says.
“A surprise!” Irene says. There’s no answer. “A surprise!” She turns to Huck. “I think I lost him.”
Suddenly she hears Cash say, “Thanks, Mom. Hug Winnie for me.”
When Huck and Irene leave town, Irene says, “Shall we go to your house?”
“Our house?” he says. He sighs. “Can’t put it off forever, I guess.”
They’ve avoided it until now because the most important thing was making sure everyone was safe, including Cash and Tilda. The fate of Huck’s house and the boat is secondary.
Sort of.
If the house is destroyed, where will they live? If the boat is destroyed, how will they live?
Slowly, they begin the climb up Jacob’s Ladder. Irene is surprised when her phone pings with a text.
It’s from Lydia. We saw you on Channel 2 with Margaret Quinn! it says. Congrats on your new granddaughter! Brandon was so happy his cookies made it on TV!
There are branches down on the road up to Huck’s house that Huck has to clear. One of their neighbors lost his entire roof; it’s like someone pried the lid off a jar. Where is it? Somewhere down the hill? The destruction is everywhere and it is epic. There’s a truck on its side with the doors ripped off. Entire homes have been reduced to rubble—insulation and beams and crumbling bricks. The Ladder looks far, far worse than Fish Bay.
When they’re still fifty yards away, they can see the Mississippi. Huck exhales. It’s a little crooked on the trailer but otherwise fine. It must have been shielded by the house. Huck jumps out to look at the boat more closely while Irene heads up the front stairs.
They still have a roof, and the deck is intact, although the railings are all broken. She has to wait for Huck to retrieve his drill from the truck so he can take the shutter off the front door. Together, they step inside.
Something is wrong—the windows in the kitchen have blown out. There’s glass everywhere and the living room looks like it’s been ransacked; lamps have been knocked over, cushions from the sofa are all over the room, everything is wet. There’s at least three inches of water in the kitchen, the chairs are all smashed; the sugar bowl, the toaster, Irene’s food processor are all sitting broken in the shallow pond of their kitchen. There’s a palm rat feasting on what looks to be an overturned plate of chicken and rice.
Irene gags. Huck comes up behind her. “I’ll get him out in a second,” he says. “Let’s check the rest.”
Huck and Irene head down the hall to the bedrooms, the bathrooms. They’re hot, stuffy, unbearable—but fine. Except…
“Uh-oh,” Huck says. He emerges from Maia’s room with the portrait of Milly. The glass has one long crack down the front. “I think the actual photograph is okay, though.”
Irene takes the frame from him. Yes, it looks like the picture is okay. What this picture has survived in the past year. “Why…the kitchen?” Irene says.
“I didn’t shutter the windows,” Huck says. “I was about to when you called and then I got on the phone with Rupert and I had to track down Sadie and then I thought I’d come back and do it later.” He turns to Irene with tears in his eyes. “I got so caught up in the baby coming that I completely forgot about those three windows. I forgot until just this moment.”
“It’s nothing we can’t clean up,” Irene says. The rat has disappeared, though no doubt he’s lurking around here somewhere. “I kind of wanted to remodel the kitchen anyway.”
They remove the shutters from the slider and Huck checks to make sure the deck boards are secure before they step outside. All the railings are broken; one whole side has disappeared. Irene is sure Huck is craving a cigarette but he busies himself with stacking the broken pieces of the railing in a pile. The whole thing will have to be torn down and rebuilt.
Irene remembers when she used to wake up believing that Russ was still alive. One nightmare in particular returns to her now: Russ staggering down the beach, his shirt soaking wet, his pants ragged. He wanted to tell her something. The storm is coming. It will be a bad storm. Destructive.
When Huck turns around, his breathing is shallow. Irene takes his left hand, the one with only half a pinkie, and presses it between both of hers.
“Look at this place,” he says, pointing down the hill at the wreckage, which extends all the way to the water. “St. John is destroyed.”
“Damaged,” Irene says. “Not destroyed.” Like me, she thinks.
This island—and this man—have taught Irene some things about resilience, about patience, and, most of all, about hope. Bad things can happen, terrible things. You can lose the people you love the most; you can lose homes, cars, antiques, hand-knotted silk rugs that cost five figures; you can discover that the very life you’re living is a terrific lie. And despite this, despite all this, the sun will continue to rise. Tomorrow morning, over the bruised and broken body of St. John USVI, the sun will rise again.
Irene Steele knows this better than anyone.
Epilogue
Millicent Maia Steele
September 6, 2019
6 pounds, 14 ounces, 21 inches
I can’t believe you named her after me,” Maia says.
“We did,” Ayers says. “Because,
