"No coward soul is mine,
No trembler in the world's storm-troubled sphere:
I see Heaven's glories shine,
And faith shines equal, arming me from fear."
-Emily Bronte
Arnold held the nail to up to wooden board and was about to swing his hammer when he noticed the tiny grid imprinted on the nail head. It looks like a miniature tic-tac-toe board. He imagined it would be the right size for a small insect to play and pictured a microscopic version of himself playing against a tiny black ant. "Hey Shortman, when you're done lollygagging, I need you to go help Kakoshka board his windows up. If we leave it to him it'll never get done."
"Okay Grandpa, I'm almost finished here."
With a few whacks he had the nail driven in, a fresh two-by-four was flush against the window blocking all the light from the room. His grandma had walked up behind him and placed her hands on his shoulders. "It's getting dark in here Kimba, I'll go light some candles."
It was August; Hurricane Jerome, a Category 2, was heading directly for Hillwood and getting stronger along the way. The excitement had turned their little city upside down. Every radio station and newspaper fixated on hurricane preparedness and the anticipated damage and cost. Hillwood hadn't seen a hurricane in fifty years according to Grandpa. Many people were leaving the city entirely. The Lloyds were moving their annual vacation to Bali up a week to avoid the weather. Others with more limited incomes opted to stay with family out of town. Gerald, Stinky, Phoebe and Eugene were all leaving to avoid the storm.
Arnold and his grandparents could never leave the Sunset Arms and the boarders behind so they were preparing to ride it out together as the awkward family they had grown to be. They had boarded up almost every window, stocked up on water, batteries and canned food, filled every sink and bathtub and even fixed some of the leaks in the roof. Arnold was sure they would come through it fine.
There was something exciting about the storm. The storm was inevitable and would inconvenience everyone. Schedules would be interrupted and with this force of nature, people would be reminded of how small they were and who they wanted to be with while they felt that way. He thought it was almost romantic and cozy for them to all be holed up together. Maybe they could play some board games or music and pass the time learning about each other. It reminded him of old pioneers who had to weather these storms without half the luxuries they enjoyed. He was definitely looking forward to it and had been hammering nails and lugging supplies cheerfully.
"Oh Kimba," his grandmother called, "We're out of matches. Run and get some and come back quick! The hurricane should be here in an hour or two and we don't want to be caught unprepared!"
"Alright Grandma, I'll be right back."
Arnold put down the hammer and grabbed his coat. He stepped outside and was momentarily blinded by the bright, gray sky. It was drizzling and he could feel the pressure beginning to lower, as though the storm were reaching ahead with its long fingers just to remind everyone exactly where it was going. He walked quickly to the corner store with his hands in his pockets. A strong gust of wind tugged his shirt tails and blew his cap from his head. He ran after it, scooped it up and shoved it on again. The store came into view and with it a line of people that twisted through the aisles and out the door. His good mood failed only for a moment but he shrugged it off, found small pile of remaining matchboxes and headed for the back of the line.
The line moved forward slowly, people were stocking up last minute, grabbing things they needed and some they didn't. One shopper was determined to buy all of the store's magazines in some effort to occupy herself during the storm and probable power outages. A neighbor of his was buying at least ten can openers. Arnold smiled at the absurdity. From the back of the line an impatient customer called out, "Crimeny, with this many people in line you'd expect them to open another register."
Only one person in Hillwood would speak her mind so boldly. That voice, which dripped disdain, could only belong to one person. Helga G. Pataki.