A QUICK LITTLE STORY — something I came up with this past Saturday morning (September 9th) while enjoying my coffee and watching Hurricane Irma news (I live in Florida, by the way). The image to the right (or below on mobile) is one I saw that gave me the title (based on my premise that you can push a person too far… and then the 6th commandment or other laws may not keep them from doing what they must do to survive):
Daniel looked out the window. “Doesn’t the storm scare you?”
Irma shook her head knowing he didn’t really care how or what she felt, “What’s that line from ‘Islands in the Stream’? What Hemingway wrote about hurricanes.”
“That’s not one of my favorites,” he replied. “What line?”
She quoted, “He knew too what it was to live through a hurricane with the other people of the island and the bond that the hurricane made between all people who had been through it.”
“You wanted to move here. To be near Hemingway’s home and drink Scotch at his favorite bar.” Daniel aspired to be a writer of Hemingway’s stature and sustained career and had insisted on moving to Key West. Hoping the vibe would revitalize his stalled career, he frequented Sloppy Joe’s and lost count of the number of Scotch and sodas he drank and what he did afterward. When he sobered up, he defended his actions by quoting from an article by John O’Connor that he knew by heart. That Hemingway’s acquaintance with booze was quixotic and nearly spiritual. That even though drinking insane, heroic quantities that left a trail of smashed glasses and friendships in his wake, booze was a crucial existential salve for Hemingway, a much-needed release that fueled his writing. Daniel had believed that and chosen the same path. Seven years from his bestseller, he still had not been able to repeat its success, and his creativity had been replaced with cruelty.
She stepped closer to stand by him looking out on the wind whipped palm trees through rainwater coursing down the glass. “Maybe going through this will make things better for us,” Irma lied as the hurricane’s shriek grew and the walls of their small house trembled. Daniel didn’t move from the window as she turned and shifted to stand behind him.
* * *
First responders were working their way through the carnage. Street’s full of debris, the flotsam and jetsam of a community that would take a long time to recover from the hurricane’s aftermath. There were just a few bodies of those that had not acted prudently and evacuated. In the devastation, a sole survivor was found.
“He just wouldn’t evacuate… he thought that visceral emotion of riding out a hurricane would spark his writing in some way,” Irma looked at the police officer mournfully as the EMTs zipped the body bag around Daniel. “And I couldn’t leave him.”
Two Years Later
The reporter from the Santa Fe New Mexican closed her notebook and reached for her phone which was still recording the interview. “Shortly after the storm and your husband’s death, Ridley Scott optioned your husband’s novel for a major motion picture with Liam Neeson and Samuel L. Jackson. That movie became a huge hit here in the United States and internationally. Does it make you sad that your husband is not alive to share the joy and success of that with you?”
“It’s terrible that he’s not here. He had always hoped he could see some of his work in film and he was a great Samuel L. Jackson fan.”
Slipping into the memory, Irma did not follow what the reporter meant. “Am I what?”
“Are you a Samuel L. Jackson fan?”
Irma smiled, “No. I’m more a Liam Neeson type. Those ‘Taken’ movies.’” She thought of what had happened—what had to happen—the night and height of the storm. Her husband, who had been drinking heavily, barely roused by the wall and window’s buffeting by the gale force winds, did not even turn when she called his name hoping to look him in the eye. She had done what she needed to do and then had slipped outside, hanging onto a line secured to one of the stout pillars either side of the front door. Breaking the window’s glass, she had gone back inside. She had looked down, shards of glass now covering Daniel, noting where his skull was caved in, his blond hair darkened with bits of bone and a lot of blood. He was moving, trying to stand. She had pushed him down as she knelt to whisper in his ear. “Here’s the line I like best from that story, ‘He also knew that hurricanes could be so bad that nothing could live through them.’” She had dripped stormwater on his face as she lifted the section of 4×4 post brought in from where he had been building a deck extension. She had driven it down full-force with all her weight, leaning into it until the twitching stopped.
Coming back to the present, Irma blinked and took a deep breath.
The reporter turned off the recording. “That’s a good wrap up,” she smiled at Irma. She had met with her three times now for the interview and to welcome a new—affluent—resident to Santa Fe and each time Irma wore similarly styled clothing, a bit odd for summer wear. “Sensitive skin?” she gestured at the long sleeve, high-neck shirt.
“A history of skin cancer in my family,” Irma tugged her sleeves down. They and the high collars hid the scars she had accumulated through ten years of marriage. That Daniel’s one successful work was going to pay for plastic surgery—she had found a discrete surgeon in Los Angeles—and so much more for her, did not please her as much as how it had felt with that piece of wood in her hands that night when she made him pay for what he had done to her.