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Fiction Short Story

by Wayne Scheer

Waiting Out the Storm

The streetlights flickered twice and shut off. Lightning streaked across the evening sky offering an eerie tableau. At half past five, enough light still filtered into the house for Peter to read. He took a seat, but the next round of thunder and lightning made him restless.

Was Lois caught in the storm? She must be petrified, he thought. She hated rain, especially thunderstorms. He tried calling her office, but he couldn't get a dial tone. Lois had pleaded with him to get a cell phone. Now he wished he had listened to her.

"I can get a second phone with my plan," he recalled Lois saying. "You should have it for emergencies."

"I live too dull a life for emergencies," he said, proud of his wit.

He sat back down and tried remembering when she said she'd be home. Why didn't he listen to her in the morning? He hoped she wasn't on the road, but he recalled her saying something about trying to leave early to avoid Friday traffic.

Another bolt of lightning, followed closely by a crash of thunder, jolted him to his feet. "Damn it."

The sound of his own voice startled him.

The rain began. Just a sprinkle at first, but a blinding downpour soon followed. The rain battered the living room window. Feeling as if he were going through a car wash, he checked all the windows in the house to make sure they were shut tight.
 
He tried again to read, but he couldn't concentrate. He could never understand people who claimed to find rain relaxing. Pacing from window to window, Peter returned to his living room vigil. He sat down, but jumped up immediately to try the phone again. It still didn't work.
 
Peter had retired two years earlier and enjoyed his solitary, orderly life. He ate his meals at the same time each day, went to the gym most mornings, worked in his office, which once was their son's room, cleaned the house or gardened in the afternoon. He even learned to enjoy cooking. "I missed my calling," he recalled telling Lois. "I should have been a housewife. I wasted all that time as an economist."

He wished now he had prepared a candlelight dinner, but he and Lois planned on going out tonight. They had standing Friday night reservations at Anita's, a small neighborhood restaurant that did a magnificent roasted breast of duck in raspberry sauce. Peter watched his cholesterol during the week so he could eat duck on Friday.
 
Lois could have retired when he did, but she decided to work two more years for full benefits. It wasn't just the money that kept her working, Peter understood. She worried about invading his quiet life. Lois thrived on commotion the way Peter loved silence.
 
Of course, Peter assured her, they would work out their differences. After forty years of marriage, they knew how to compromise. Peter would retreat to his office, where he would work on his book on urban economic theory, and she'd set up her portable sound system in whatever room she happened to be. And, of course, they would travel a lot more.

Still, she had her doubts, and he didn't push her to retire.
 
Peter often felt guilty sending his wife off to work while he stayed home sipping a second cup of coffee. But she seemed more comfortable in the world of deadlines and office politics than in her own home. She felt useful. And, he had to admit, the extra money she earned made their life comfortable. Although he had a publisher for his book, he understood that a treatise on economics wasn't a likely best seller. His retirement pension, though adequate, wasn't quite enough to allow them luxuries.

Now she was caught in the middle of a dangerous storm, probably driving home to him, and he had no way to contact her.

He tried the phone again; still no dial tone. Pacing between the living room and the kitchen, he grabbed a handful of chocolate chip cookies and poured himself a cup of lukewarm coffee.
 
He tried remembering if he had told Lois he loved her before she left for work. He vaguely recalled her uttering the words as she walked out the door and he, more than likely, answered with a mechanical, "Me too," barely looking up from the morning newspaper. It bothered him that he appeared so distant, so aloof from the people he loved most. Just like his father, he thought.
 
He'd be lost without Lois, recalling how disoriented his father seemed when Mom died. He had always appeared so self-contained, almost as if his family got in his way. But overnight he seemed to forget how to make a simple pot of coffee. Even their conversation became strained. His father died less than a year after his mother's death.
 
Peter knew he depended upon Lois not just for love and companionship, but for feeling connected to the world. He had his work and his colleagues, but without Lois he'd probably withdraw into the seclusion and safety of his theories. As independent as he appeared, he feared life without Lois more than anything.

No need getting maudlin, Peter told himself. If she got caught in the storm, she would simply pull over. He wondered if it was more or less dangerous to stop under an overpass during a lightning storm.

The problem is she gets so nervous driving in rain, especially since the accident she almost had a few months earlier. Her car hydroplaned and she spun into oncoming traffic, made a complete circle, and miraculously skidded right back into her lane as if nothing had happened. Peter wasn't with her, but she repeated the story so often he felt like he was the one driving.

"I saw my grandmother," she told him when she got home. "Grandma smiled and said not to worry. I swear, a calmness came over me. I knew I would be all right."

Peter thought it nonsense, and he told her so. "Did you see a white light? Did your grandmother sprout wings and a halo?"
 
"Do you have to be sarcastic about everything?" He remembered how her nose turned red, a sure sign she was going to cry, or worse, say nothing. She didn't speak to him for most of the day.

What a stupid thing to have done, he thought. She was obviously traumatized by the near accident. If it made her feel better thinking her grandmother protected her, why couldn't he have left well enough alone? He could be such a fool sometimes.

Jumping up from the couch, he tried the telephone again. It remained out of service.

The rain seemed to be letting up a bit. At least he could see out the window. Water had pooled up at the foot of their driveway. He checked his watch and saw that it was almost six. Rising to watch the news on TV, he remembered the electricity was out. A battery-powered radio was somewhere, he thought, but he lacked the patience to search for it.

This was the time he envied people who believed in God. It would feel good to pray to a benevolent spirit for Lois's safety. At least he'd feel he was doing something instead of just worrying and talking to himself. He had always considered religious people passive in the face of tragedy—putting it all in God's hands. But he realized that prayer was actually an active way of making yourself feel useful, creating a connection to a universe out of your control.

Was he going to undergo some kind of foxhole conversion? Peter laughed. It'll take more than a little rain to convert this old skeptic. After all, he reminded himself, Lois was just caught in a rainstorm. She probably stayed in her office or, if she was driving, she likely pulled into a mall and was buying shoes while he fretted like a child who lost his Mommy in a crowded department store.

With that, another bolt of lightning shot across the sky followed by a blast of thunder. Are we going to have more rain, he wondered.

"Where the hell are you, Lo?" he said aloud.

But the rain let up to a light sprinkle. He even began hearing the chirping and chattering of the evening insects. Peter sat back down on the couch and listened to himself exhale. For the first time since the storm began, he felt calm.

There was no logical explanation, but he knew Lois would be home shortly. She was safe and their good life would remain unchanged. He experienced no message from his grandmother, no sudden urge to attend church. But when car lights flashed from the driveway and he heard the familiar two short honks, he grabbed an umbrella and met Lois at her car.

More than anything, he wanted to hug his wife. And eat duck at Anita's.

It was, after all, Friday night.


About the Author
After twenty-five years of teaching writing and literature in college, Wayne Scheer retired to follow his own advice and write. His work has appeared in The Pedestal Magazine, Slow Trains, Story House, Moonwort Review and Cerebral Catalyst. His writing awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination. He lives in Atlanta with his wife, and he can be contacted at wvscheer@aol.com.