Josh sat at the dining room table and glared at the calculus problem on the worksheet. He ran his fingers through his hair. Why couldn’t he get it? He pushed away from the table, the chair squeaking over the wood floor, and moved to the dining room window. A sign swung on its post at the end of the driveway, 'Woolf Farm,' organic milk and vegetables, until Grandpa passed away. A For Sale sign hung beside it. How could his dad sell Grandpa’s farm? He stuffed his fists into his back pockets.
“Grandpa was the farmer, and with him gone, it doesn’t make sense to stay anymore,” Dad had said.
Why sell the farm, though? Where would they go? Grandpa had been married here, and so had great grandpa. Did Woolf Family est. 1908, as carved in the sidewalk, mean nothing? It meant something to Josh.
Sold. That meant—forever.
He plunked in the chair, laid his head on his arm, and hummed a bar from Pachelbel’s Canon in D. He shuffled through his precalculus papers scattered over the table, dropped his hands to his lap. What was the use? He couldn’t concentrate. He walked to the window and plopped on the window seat, glanced around the yard for Fergus. He put his hand to the glass.
Both Grandpa and Fergus gone in one week, and soon the farm?
A golden maple leaf floated by the window, one of the last on the tree. November winds would clear off the rest, nature’s scrub brush. He rubbed his fingers over the polished oak of the window seat, smooth as glass, perfect, made so by Grandpa’s hand. Couldn’t his dad see what he’d be selling? They would never find a house like this in town, not one where stories hid in every corner, on every step, behind every door.
Tears pricked his eyes. He wiped them on the back of his sleeve. Mom said, “grief takes time,” but how much time? Why couldn’t Fergus have hung around for another year at least? Fergus would have made it kind of bearable. Grandpa doted on his Irish wolfhound for twelve strong years, two years beyond the expected lifespan. It was a double whammy, for sure.
Scrubbing his hands over his face, he shook his head. It was time on his own that did this, gave him time to think of all he’d lost. If he could only get past the grief.
Dr. MacMurray said it was normal to be distracted and unable to focus, but that didn’t stop his grades from suffering, or his violin practice, or his soccer game. He wiped his nose and scanned the tabletop. Where’d he put the stress ball?
A package with his grandpa’s test strips sat on the buffet. Diabetes. That word ate at him. He had fussed and fumed at the hospital as Grandpa disappeared before his eyes. He’d been helpless to do anything.
“Diabetes runs in the family,” Grandpa had said. “Fine one day, in the hospital the next, just like my old man.”
Hospice. Josh winced. Why couldn’t he turn off this loop that wound through his brain over and over? He’d be a doctor one day, and then he’d find a cure. But who would do his homework in the meantime? He scooped up the precalculus papers and forced himself to pick up a pencil.
He stared at the problem on the sheet, but his mind wouldn’t focus. If they moved, where would Dad keep all his equipment? This farm was perfect. Everything had its place.
He crossed his arms, his thoughts drifting to summer evenings on the front porch, watching for bats flitting in the dusk. Grandpa would ask about soccer as the chickens clucked on their way to roost. Maybe that was why his dad wanted to sell. Grandpa was everywhere.
He set the pencil on the stack of precalculus homework and picked up his violin. He drew the bow over the strings. Somber notes drifted through the living room, like some fluent and soothing language, calming him. As he played, the birds would sing along, but where were the birds today? He drew the sheers back to reveal a row of steel gray clouds to the southwest. Was that why? The sky was still blue over the farm. Was that the storm Dad had predicted? It looked like a billowing black wall rushing toward them, and all the NOAA reports said it was supposed to be a big one.
Mom raced down the driveway, dust billowing behind her car. The branches on the giant maple by the barn swayed in the light breeze, and golden leaves floated to the ground. The fir trees swayed in the distance, and the dark clouds raced toward the farm across the November sky. The apple tree creaked in the wind. Another reason to stay, the applesauce.
Mom skidded to a stop and hopped out of her car, dragging her book bag with her. She clomped up the front steps and burst through the front door.
“Pretty spectacular, right?” She nodded toward the clouds, setting her bag on the dining room table.
“How’s Dad? Is he ready for his big speech?”
Dad loved a good storm. He studied irregular weather patterns, and monster storms were his specialty.
“Almost ready. He’s the keynote, first thing in the morning this time. I have to make a couple of quick revisions, and he’ll be all set.” She ran her fingers through her curls. “This storm couldn’t come at a better time. Maybe this will convince the doubters of changing weather patterns, right?” She gave him a shrug.
He nodded stuffing his hands in his pockets. Dad’s team at Vandby U had predicted a storm phenomenon originating in the Pacific Ocean. El Primo was all he talked about. “This storm pattern will come in a series of storms. They’ll hit the West Coast with such intensity they’ll wash out roads, topple trees, and destroy power grids and infrastructure.” He’d grinned. “You know, the usual monster storm stuff.”
“Good thing we’re solar powered.” Josh leaned against the table.
“Another thing to thank your grandpa for. He believed in his son, but he also believed in self-sufficiency and a well-stocked root cellar.” She shot him a quick glance.
Since the funeral, she’d avoided mentioning anything to do with Grandpa. Josh gave her a shrug.
“Did Dad say anything about this storm?”
“He agreed with the NOAA forecast. This one will be a whopper. A little help?” She jogged back to her car, and he followed. She must have broken every speed limit on her way home. Dad always did this to her, last minute changes, but mom let him do it. She’d work through the night if she had to.
His belly grumbled. He’d heat a can of soup for dinner. She stopped, and he bumped into her.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, staring at the sky.
Was she having trouble focusing too? “No. It was me.” He turned his attention to the clouds stacked into a thick mass that seemed to press down on the barn and house.
She sucked a whistle of air between her teeth. “This storm is moving fast.” She bent into the car and snatched her briefcase from the front seat.
He glanced at the skyline, and his neck tensed. The black mass seemed to boil as it moved across the sky. He lifted a box of books from the backseat and followed her to the house.
The sky started to rumble. He struggled against a sudden gust of wind, the heavy box making him top-heavy. The for-sale sign banged in a frenzied rhythm, and lightning flashed across the sky. Thunder boomed, vibrating the air.
“Less than a second.” He took the porch steps two at a time. “It’s right over us.”
A gust of wind pushed him through the front door, and his homework blew off the table. The scent of fir trees filled the air. He dropped the box on the dining table and grabbed at his homework as it flew in all directions. The last thing he needed was another zero in pre-calc.
Thumps on the roof startled him. Branches and pinecones hit the house as though blasted from a bazooka. This storm was moving fast.
Mom handed him a roll of tape. “Windows, quick.”
Her phone rang from inside her purse. “Ed? Ed?” She held her phone away from her ear. “Stupid phone.” She slipped it back into her purse, her brows furrowed. “He’ll call back, right?” She stared at the fireplace, her blank eyes sending a chill down his spine.
“Is this El Primo? Is that why he called?” He waited for her to answer, but she didn’t, and he couldn’t read her face.
Another gust hit the house, shaking the windows and doors. He lifted a curtain in the dining room. She rushed to his side, scanning the sky. He had the urge to put an arm around her bent shoulders but didn’t. A cold shiver tingled from the back of his head down his spine.