Despite the Wind

by Holly Grover Brandon

When the weatherman announced a hurricane was headed our way, Mama said God was punishing us for sending a man to the moon. I almost said that if God hadn’t wanted the Apollo 11 mission to happen last month, He would have just stopped it himself, but Mama didn’t like it when she thought I knew more than her.

“Maybe y’all oughta wait until this storm passes— or take a trip somewhere else,” I said. “On the radio, they’re saying it’s reached category five.”

“Naw.” Donny, Mama’s latest boyfriend, kicked his legs up on the coffee table. “This is the best time to go to Biloxi. There ain’t gonna be any crowds on the beach.”

“Just please make sure you have my car back in time for the first day of college,” I told Mama.

“Community college.” She rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, we’ll be back in a couple days. How much cash you got, Patty?”

“About six dollars.”

“Should be enough to get groceries for the three of y’all.”

“Three?”

“You’ll be watching my boys while we’re gone.” Donny spoke around a cigarette clamped between his teeth. “I got ‘em waitin’ outside.”

My jaw fell. “And you’re just now letting me know this?” Mama ignored me, lighting her own cigarette while her boyfriend exhaled a stream of smoke, not bothering to turn away from me. I coughed, fanning the air. “Am I even getting paid for this?”

Donny sneered. “Your mama put a roof over your head, didn’t she? Ain’t that enough pay?”

“It’s your kids I’m watching, not—” I froze and took a step back. I hadn’t known Donny long enough to know if he was the type of boyfriend that used his fists. His eyes narrowed; he looked like he’d been considering it.

“It’ll be good practice for when you’re a mama yourself,” he said, leaning forward to stub his cigarette out on our coffee table. “You’re eighteen, ain’t ya? May as well get used to lookin’ after youngins.”

“What if the hurricane gets bad? What if the power goes out?”

Mama scoffed. “It’s August, Patty; it ain’t like you’re gonna freeze to death. If you’re as smart as you like to think you are, I reckon you can keep a couple of kids alive for a weekend.”

“This old cabin’s solid,” Donny said, reaching behind him to tap the log-stacked wall. “It ain’t going nowhere.”

My grandparents left the cabin to me and Mama when they passed, and I thanked heaven everyday for it. Mama held onto jobs about as long as she held onto boyfriends— and Donny was the fourth man she’d brought home since Christmas. My night shifts bagging groceries at the Piggly Wiggly were the only thing keeping our lights and water on.

Donny stood and walked outside, shouting, “Y’all get in here.”

Two boys skulked inside, shuffling black-bottomed bare feet, the apprehension on their faces mirroring my mood. Donny hollered for his sons to “be good” while Mama left without a word and hopped in the driver’s seat of my car, waving one hand out the window as her other fiddled with the radio dials.

The three of us watched them drive down our dirt road until the cloud of dust settled and my old car was swallowed by thick rows of towering pines. I learned the boys were named Billy— nine years old— and Pete, who was seven.

Billy and Pete built a bridge for their toy cars in the creek behind our cabin while I watched from the sandy bank, cooling my feet in the trickling water.

“Who’s that?” Pete stood knee-deep in the middle of the creek, shielding his eyes from the sun as he pointed behind me. I turned and looked up at the only other home in these woods— a log cabin, similar to mine and Mama’s, on the opposite side of the creek. I saw a face peeking from behind a door before it slammed shut.

“That’s old Mrs. Grussler,” I told the boys. “She keeps to herself. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her leave that house.”

That afternoon, I rode my bike seven miles to the closest grocery store after ordering Billy and Pete to stay inside. We got hurricane warnings every summer, but this one felt different. I stocked up on batteries and shelf-stable food; I hoped the boys liked tuna because it was on sale— four cans for a dollar.

That evening, as wind whistled through the trees and the mockingbirds took flight, I made a tuna casserole using the recipe from a Campbell’s soup can. It was nothing fancy, but Billy and Pete gobbled it up.

I made sure the boys scrubbed their feet before tucking them into Mama’s bed. Their snores were soon muffled by howling winds. The pine trees were no strangers to storms, but there was something eerie about the way they swayed and writhed that night— like they knew what was coming.

I was bone tired, but couldn’t sleep. I brought my bicycle inside, along with anything else that might blow away. I listened to the radio as the storm— they named it Camille— hit the Mississippi coast a little before midnight. We were about sixty miles inland. The announcer’s voice crackled in and out, and I heard the words “catastrophic” and “deadly” before they were replaced with empty static.

The wind screamed a warning before rain came crashing down in heavy sheets. Splintering wood snapped and the low groan of falling trees filled the air before the cabin shuddered and the lights flickered out.

I heard a cry and ran into Mama’s room. Billy and Pete were clutching each other, tears shining in the moonlight, but both were unharmed. I ushered them into our little bathroom with blankets and pillows, and we all squeezed into the bathtub together to wait out the storm.

I awoke to the sound of water dripping onto the living room floor and left the boys snoozing in the tub while I inspected our little cabin for damage. A few of the windows were shattered, and a fallen tree had smashed through the living room ceiling. I pulled the shower curtain down and climbed onto a chair, doing my best to patch the hole with the help of duct tape and desperation, knowing it was up to me alone to keep those boys safe.

When they awoke, Billy and Pete were anxious to look around outside, but we barely managed to open the front door. Mangled tree trunks, limbs, and pine needles were scattered and piled criss-cross all over, like a giant game of pick-up-sticks.

“How’s our daddy and your mama gonna get back here?” Pete asked. “You can’t even see the road no more.”

I sucked in a breath. Travel delays were the least of my worries when it came to their little beach trip. “Somebody will come clear the road,” I said, hoping I sounded more sure than I was. No one was getting in or out of here for a long while.

The boys and I got to work clearing a path to the creek; the water was out in the cabin, along with the power, so we carried containers to fill. We toted two sloshing buckets to Mrs. Grussler’s cabin and knocked, sending a brood of clucking hens scattering. The door creaked open by a few inches as she poked her head out.

“Ma’am,” I said. “We just wanted to check on you. The water’s not running and—”

“I’m fine. Just leave me be.”

We did as we were told, setting the water buckets at her door. Back home, I boiled creek water on our wood stove; I never thought I’d be happy Mama couldn’t save enough for an electric one. We ate leftover casserole for both lunch and dinner since everything in the fridge would spoil soon enough.

The next morning, me and the boys returned to the creek with more containers to fill, plus a bar of soap. I made them turn around as I scrubbed away sweat and grime, then instructed them to do the same. We stayed in that creek for hours, the cold water a balm against the stifling summer heat.

I noticed the buckets by Mrs. Grussler’s door were filled with something red. On closer inspection, we realized she’d replaced the water with tomatoes. When her door opened, Billy, Pete, and I sprang back as if we’d been caught doing something wrong.

“Got too many tomatoes; thought y’all could use some.” Mrs. Grussler glanced at the filled buckets and bowls we carried. “Sure would appreciate more water if it ain’t too much trouble.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, taking the tomatoes gratefully. “Of course.”

Billy lifted one of the water buckets. “Can I bring this inside for you?”

Mrs. Grussler hesitated, then nodded, gesturing for all three of us to follow.

The tiny cabin was overflowing with potted plants, piles of fruits and vegetables, stacks of full egg crates, and jars of canned goods.

“I brought in everything I could carry when the storm started up— even the chickens,” Mrs. Grussler said, gesturing to the hoards of food. “Y’all got enough to eat?”

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “We’ll be fine for at least another week.”

She nodded. “Well y’all keep bringing me water, and I’ll be happy to share what I’ve got.” I wondered why she didn’t just get the water herself—the creek wasn’t far, and she seemed plenty strong enough to carry it— but I wasn’t about to argue with someone offering us fresh food.

And we surely would have starved without her. Everyday we brought her a bucket or two of water, and everyday she’d return them filled with something to eat.

We spent our days in the creek and our nights in the cabin, listening to folks on the radio talk about the soldiers sent to Vietnam and the aftermath of a music festival called Woodstock. They read lists of local people whose loved ones were searching for them after the hurricane. We never heard our names, and we never spoke of what that might have meant.

One afternoon, Mrs. Grussler handed us a bucket filled with purple hull peas and a rusty box of little green army men.

“I thought the boys might enjoy them.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Billy said as Pete nodded his agreement. “We will.”

The older woman’s eyes turned shiny as she beckoned us inside. I sat on the faded sofa with Mrs. Grussler while the boys took seats on the floor, setting their new toys up for battle. She and I watched them play, a tiny smile softening her face.

“My son used to play with those for hours.” She sniffed, pointing to a framed black and white photograph of a young boy sporting thick glasses and a crooked grin. The same pair of glasses sat propped beside the picture, frames twisted and lenses shattered. “He used to line ‘em up on the creek bed and knock ‘em down with pebbles from his slingshot.”

Judging by the boys’ expressions, they thought that was a marvelous idea. “Where’s your son now?” Billy asked.

Mrs. Grussler took a breath, deep and shaky. “He died a long time ago, I’m afraid.”

The soldiers paused their battle as the two boys dropped their toys and turned to face her. “How’d he die?”

“Drowned in the creek out back.” She dabbed her eyes with the back of her sleeve. “Big storm came through one day, flooded the creek. He fell in, got trapped in the debris. Pulled his body out myself.” She reached over and lifted the broken glasses from the table. “Found these in the sand the day we buried him, and I ain’t stepped foot near that creek since.”

After a heavy stretch of silence, Billy cleared his throat. “Our mama died in a car wreck.”

“And our daddy is probably dead too.” Pete fingered a knot in the wood floor, his chin trembling.

“I never met my daddy.” Three blurry faces turned in my direction as tears burned my eyes. “And I don’t think Mama’s coming back.” I forced a sad smile. “I reckon every one of us is alone.”

The boys stood, Billy squeezing himself between me and Mrs. Grussler as Pete climbed into my lap. He laid his head on my chest and whispered, “At least we’re alone together.”

After that, we began to spend more time at Mrs. Grussler’s cabin, sharing food and books and stories and each other’s company. I told them about the time Mama fell asleep with a lit cigarette and almost set our cabin on fire, and she told us how her daddy went to jail for boot-legging moonshine during the prohibition.

“Do you think the hurricane was punishment for those astronauts going to the moon?” I asked her one day. “That’s what my mama said.”

Mrs. Grussler considered before answering. “I reckon some things just happen to us— like that storm— and other things happen because of us.” She stroked Billy’s hair as he leaned against her. “If folks just sat around waiting for God to tell ‘em what to do, we’d still be living in caves, wondering what them shiny things in the sky really are.”

I nodded, fanning myself with the back of my hand. “Mama also said I wasn’t cut out for college. Suppose she was wrong about that too?”

“I know it ain’t nice to talk about the dead— or the likely dead—” Pete piped in, “but it sounds like your mama ain’t got the sense God gave a goose.”

Mrs. Grussler tried, and failed, to hide her smile. “I think that about sums it up.”

We walked with her to the creek when she said she was ready, our hands gripped tightly in hers. She cried when her feet touched the water; by the time it reached her knees, she was laughing under her tears. She closed her eyes and sank backwards into the creek, a baptism long overdue.

While enjoying watermelon one afternoon, the familiar song of cicadas was interrupted by the jarring buzz of a chainsaw. It was strange seeing another human outside the three I’d grown so close to the last few weeks. The orange of his vest shone through the browns and greens of the woods like headlights on a county road at midnight.

He came over once he saw us, clipboard in hand, asking whether we needed any help. More workers joined him, all from the National Guard, bringing tools and blue tarps and questions.

When they asked if we had food, I told them we did, thanks to Mrs. Grussler. When they asked if we were looking for anyone, we gave them Mama and Donny’s names. When they asked if the boys needed to be taken to social services, I didn’t know what to say.

Billy put his arm around Pete, both boys wide-eyed and shivering. I couldn’t bear to watch them leave with strangers, or even worse— what if social services separated them? Those two were the only blood either had left in the world.

“They can stay with me,” I blurted out. “I’m eighteen.” The man with the clipboard raised an eyebrow, but didn’t argue.

“You’ve got classes to attend, young lady.” Mrs. Grussler went to stand behind Billy and Pete, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “They’ll be staying with me. I’m their grandmother.”

The boys’ mouths dropped open as they turned their faces to hers, relief and love and surprise all mashed together as one. I swallowed hard and looked away, blinking back tears.

“Alright, ma’am, that all sounds fine. Just make sure you get the legalities squared away, and get these boys registered at the elementary school. It’s opening back up next month.”

“Yes sir, we’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

The National Guard members assured us the electricity and water would be restored by the end of the day and that the roads had been cleared for driving. When they asked if we needed anything else before they left, we told them no and thanked them for their help.

We celebrated that night by turning on all the lights in the cabin and taking long turns in the shower. I rode my bicycle to the grocery store and searched the half-stocked shelves for things on the shopping list Mrs. Grussler had handed me, the slip of paper folded with a ten dollar bill.

We dined on anything a chicken couldn’t lay or a garden couldn’t grow— Frosted Flakes, Mallo Cups, SpaghettiOs, and Pop-tarts. We collapsed on the floor, stretching and sighing with fully-bellied contentment in front of Mrs. Grussler’s window unit.

“I wish we could do this every night,” I said, closing my eyes and shivering pleasantly in the cool air, “but then I suppose it wouldn’t be as special.”

Pete yawned, resting his head on Mrs. Grussler’s legs. “And we’d all be fat as hogs.”

The four of us fell into a sugar-fueled fit of giggles, and I tried to remember when I’d ever felt so happy. When thoughts of Mama brought feelings of guilt, I pushed them back into the shadowy corner of my mind, wondering if the boys felt the same about their daddy. We’d unpack those boxes later, a little at a time.

I went back to bagging groceries at night, and taking classes during the day. My hard work earned me a used pick-up truck and good grades in all my classes; before I knew it, I was applying to universities outside of town. I couldn’t imagine leaving Mrs. Grussler and the boys, but I knew they’d be just fine without me.

I came home every weekend during university, then every month after graduating, and every holiday after that. Mrs. Grussler— Granny Grussler, me and the boys took to calling her— joined her arm with mine as I walked down the aisle, two teenage boys watching proudly from the front row.

Through decades of babies and jobs and sorrows and joy, we kept in touch— even after Granny left us, reunited with her first little boy. We buried her body alongside his, returning every August with our own children and theirs, to sit near the creek and share stories of a storm named Camille and the family she brought together.