The Killin’ Shed.
Chapter 4
Ray
A few days later…
Our kids are chasing each other yet again. The little one is crying because she can’t keep up with the big kids. The one in my stomach is doing somersaults. Preppy is here again, but this time without the kids because his wife Dre took them to New York for a visit with their grandfather. They’re supposed to come back the day after tomorrow, but Preppy told them to be prepared to stay longer in case the storm shifts direction, which tells me he’s more worried about it than he led me to believe.
I’m pretty sure King has placed Preppy on babysitting duty (me, not the kids) while he’s trying to figure out the situation with the shipment. I wish I could do more to help, and I hate seeing King so angry although I know he’s been toning down the severity of that anger when he’s around me and the kids. I don’t mind Preppy being around. He’s been a much-needed help and distraction.
Art, tattooing used to be that distraction. I’ve come into my own over the years when it comes to design and ink. I itch to get back to it, but even if I wasn’t hugely pregnant and unable to sit in one position for an extended period of time, I haven’t exactly felt inspired. It’s been months since I picked up a tattoo gun or a pencil.
I’m cleaning up a broken remote for the tv, popping the batteries back in when King walks in the door and takes it from my hand.
“Who did this?” he asks, raising an eyebrow toward the kids.
“One of them that isn’t currently occupying space inside of my body.” I point to where all three kids are suddenly still on the couch. The picture-perfect trio of innocence smiles up at their daddy.
“Devils. All of them,” Preppy mutters from the kitchen. He points his pancake spatula at his own chest. “And for the record, it wasn’t me.”
“Sorry I took so long. It took me half an hour just to get from Bear’s club to the Causeway. Then, I had to turn around.”
“Why?” I ask.
“A boat crashed into one of the pilings. Did so much damage that they had to close it down.”
“Until when?” I ask. The Causeway is the only way on or off Logan’s Beach by car. I’m due in a few weeks, and the hospital is on the other side.
“I guess until they fix it. The worker who told me to turn around said might take up to a week.”
I feel a rush of relief wash over me.
King leans in and kisses my forehead. “Already thought about the hospital. That’s why I asked.”
He reconnects the remote pieces, tucking the batteries back inside and points it at the TV. He changes the channel to make sure it works and sets it down just as the weatherman from our local station clears his throat. “Good evening. I’m meteorologist Dexter Greyson here with a Hurricane Polly update. I know we were expecting category two winds at most with the category three winds staying more off the coast and up in the Port Charlotte area. Unfortunately, as of the 5am hurricane center update, not only has Hurricane Polly made a drastic turn south far from the forecasted cone, but it’s also picked up speed and strength. We are now expecting a landfall in the Logan’s Beach to Coral Pines area, today in the early evening hours. I’m sorry to report to the residents of Logan’s Beach that with the bridge unpassable and the waters already unsafe for travel by boat, that taking shelter in the highest, most sound structure is the most advisable course of action.” The harried-looking weatherman pauses to take a sip from his Channel Two mug. “Stay safe, and may God be with you all.”
I have no idea where to start. I sit down because my head is dizzy with jumbled thoughts. Will the kids be safe? Will we be safe? What about the house? Flooding? Our insurance? Power? Where is the generator?
“Breathe,” King orders, placing a hand on my shoulder. I cover it with my own. “It’ll be fine.”
Preppy shrugs. “It’s nothing we haven’t been through before. Besides, the dude from the weather channel isn’t even in town, and everyone knows that the only time to worry is when he shows up.”
The news anchor once again throws to the weatherman. “Just an update, and I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I have a report in that Jim Cantore from the Weather Channel has been spotted broadcasting from the bottom of the Causeway.”
“Fuck,” Preppy swears.
“Really, of all the things he said, that’s what bothers you most?” I ask, pointing to the TV.
To my surprise, King comes to Preppy’s defense. “Cantore goes wherever is considered ground zero during a storm.”