Hurricane Party

by Helena Pantsis

Uncle Dick took a swig of the whiskey, then passed it along to Dad. We felt the house tremble above us. Jeremy stood tall at a corner by the far side of the stairs, reaching his hand up to the crack in the door we’d attempted to stuff with loose packing foam and tape.

“I can feel a breeze,” he said.

I watched the door.

“No you can’t,” I said.

The door led to the laundry, an enclosed space at the back of the house. There wasn’t any way he could feel anything, unless the house had already been ripped from its foundation.

“Can so,” he spat back, his voice squeaky.

“That’s the best we can do, unfortunately,” Dad said, defeated, or trying to diffuse our bickering before we were trapped in a rage filled basement with nothing but Dad’s old tools to fling at each other.

We returned to a stifling silence.

“What time does Mum finish again?” I asked.

“Won’t let her off until six, I’m afraid.” Dad nodded, taking a drink from the bottle himself.

The wind above stirred. Most of the time had evacuated, but Mum’s job wouldn’t let her off. We didn’t have anywhere to go anyway; the hotels cost too much, and all our relatives lived a suburb away.

One of those old radios was playing—the Wi-fi had cut off hours ago. It crackled, speaking in ghostly howls. Dad passed the bottle back to Uncle Dick, then he offered it to me.

“I’m seventeen,” I said.

“I’d been drinking a long time at your age.” He laughed, crooked teeth poking out from the top of his mouth. “Besides, what if we all die tonight? Could be the only chance you’ve got.”

He was too close, so I almost breathed in the tail-end of his breath and made it my own.

“That’s enough of that,” Dad chimed in, referring to the underage drinking or the talk of death, I wasn’t sure.

“I’ll have some,” Jeremy said, his voice a prepubescent whine.

“No, you won’t,” Dad insisted.

I watched the analogue clock on the wall as the time slowly trickled away. The basement was getting colder. I yearned for a crack of light, just to know the sun, or our home, was still there. All we could hear from the outside was the wind and the rain.

Uncle Dick spoke at length about his youth, guffawing and swinging his bottle around. Jeremy piped up every so often, wondering where foxes hid in a hurricane, or how far underground one had to be to never have to worry about the weather at all.

“What time does Mum finish again?” I asked again after some time.

A heavy, pregnant pause grew like a bubble, pressing us each into opposing walls like something out of a cartoon. I thought we would burst.

“A half hour ago,” Dad said.

I wondered how much longer we’d watch the door before we decided she wasn’t coming home.

 

Helena Pantsis (she/they) is a writer, student, and artist from Naarm, Australia. A full-time student of creative writing, they have a fond appreciation for the gritty, the dark, and the experimental. Her works have been published in Overland, Island, Going Down Swinging, and Meanjin. More can be found at hlnpnts.com.