“It’s a matter of odds,” Vietnam Tim said. “If all the other storm chasers are heading for thunderclouds, I’ll pick the drought.”
My mother shook her head, smiling. “That’s not a plan, that’s a superstition.”
“You’ll see, when the tornado hits.”
“There isn’t going to be a tornado, Tim,” my mom replied. “There isn’t as much as a passing shower.” But as she said it, her eyes lit up, like she was energized by the challenge.
In my puzzle, I found letters spelling out BEAR, even though it wasn’t on the list of words to find. I circled it anyway.
“Well,” said Vietnam Tim. “I reckon one of us is gonna be right.”
The next morning Mrs. Evans showed me how to feed Nitpick. His loose lips rubbered against my palm when he took the grain from it. She taught me how to peel a slice of hay from a bale and toss it into his rack. “I wish I had a donkey.”
“There’s already plenty of asses in New York,” she said. “You wouldn’t want him, anyway. He’s fat and stupid and lazy.”
“Why don’t you get rid of him, then?”
“He reminds me of my late husband.” She patted between Nitpick’s ears. “Why don’t you get him an apple?”
While she mucked out the stall and refilled Nitpick’s water, I ran inside to get the treat. I hadn’t made it into the kitchen yet, though, when I heard the voices of my parents in the adjacent dining room, where Mrs. Evans had served pancakes and bacon for breakfast.
You can’t keep doing this, my father said. You need to come home.
You have no idea what I need.
Okay, then, I’ll tell you what I need. What she needs. You, Hannah.
I flattened myself against the wall, holding my breath.
So do a thousand other kids, whose stories need to be told if they’re going to make it to adulthood, my mother finally said. How could you ask me to choose?
My father’s words fell like rain. How couldn’t I?
Suddenly, I couldn’t stand to be there anymore, eavesdropping, barely breathing. I scrambled back the way I came, without the apple, bursting onto the porch and running across the burned lawn past the barn, till I reached the wide expanse of what must have been green fields once, but now was bleached as bone.
Leaning against the white horse fence was Vietnam Tim. He was squinting into the distance and he didn’t seem to notice that I was out of breath or near tears. Or maybe he did, and didn’t care. He just waited, staring out at the vast run of nothing, while I pulled myself together. “Any rain yet?” I asked.
He shook his head. “Nope.”
“So what do I do”—I panted—“when it comes?”
Vietnam Tim turned, raising a brow. “When,” he repeated. “So you’re a convert now?”
“Can’t you just answer the question?”
He shrugged. “You get about seventeen minutes’ notice that a tornado’s heading your way, if you’re lucky. Take cover in the cellar. If you don’t got one of those, hunker down in your bathtub. Stay away from windows. If you’re outside, lie down flat and don’t go near trees.”
“What if you’re in a car?”
“Get out of it. They can get tossed up in the air like salad.”
“Couldn’t you just drive away from it?” I asked.
Vietnam Tim looked at me. “You probably can’t outrun a tornado,” he said, and a slow grin split his face. “But that don’t mean you can’t try.”
When my mother was home with us, everything was a little brighter, molten and golden, like the filter in movies that lets you know the flashback is a good one. Maybe because I knew these times were limited, I savored every minute. I’d sit on the closed lid of the toilet watching her put on her winged eyeliner. I’d pretend to have nightmares even when I didn’t so I could climb into bed and feel the heat of her wrapped around me. I’d trail her when she took the laundry down to the coin-operated machines and help her sort the darks from the whites. I’d beg her to be the one to come pick me up from kindergarten. I wanted her to be the one to read me a story at night.
When I was six, that story was The Giving Tree. It was my favorite, and my father’s favorite, and I wanted it to be her favorite, too. She sat against the headboard of my narrow bed, the book propped on her lap, and read about the tree that gave up its apples, its branches, and its trunk to the boy it loved more than anything.