Max Booth III - We Need to Do Something

“Bobby, we can’t all fit in the tub. And even if we could, there’s no point.”

“Dad! If a tornado—”

“There’s no fucking tornado, Bobby.”

“Don’t talk to him that way,” Mom says, squeezing the cards in her hand hard enough to bend them.

“Oh fuck off. Try telling me how to raise my son again and see what happens.”

A long silence follows, everybody too afraid to speak. Dad has never struck me or Bobby, and I don’t think he’d ever hit Mom either, but the rate things are spiraling tonight, who knows what’s gonna happen? The moment I got home this evening, it felt like he was begging for a fight, it didn’t matter with who—anybody would do, as long as they could bleed, as long as they could break.

Eventually Mom says, in the calmest tone possible given the circumstances, “If you don’t want to wait in here with us, you know where the door is.”

Dad chuckles. Everything is a joke tonight, until it isn’t. “Oh, now I got a choice?”

“I’m done talking to you.”

“Finally.”

Dad turns toward the door and Bobby freaks out. Like, total panic attack. He springs up and grabs Dad’s leg, hysterical. “ Dad no don’t go please don’t go the tornado there’s a tornado— ”

“Bobby, c’mon… you’re being ridiculous,” he says, trying to shake him off.

“ —the tornado’s gonna get you please Dad stay here please don’t go— ”

Dad sighs, then glances over his shoulder at Mom, smug smile across his face. “You still think I should leave?”

Asking it like a double-sided sword. Meaning something that’s a secret, something only the two of them know about. “What’s going on?” I ask, receiving an answer in the form of the loudest thunder boom yet.

The bathroom lights blink away from existence and we are consumed by darkness.

Bobby and I both start screaming, which encourages the clouds to do the same. I fumble around for my phone and trigger its flashlight app. All four of us have gone ghost-pale. Bobby hyperventilates in our mother’s arms. Dad grips his thermos with both hands, no longer attempting to leave.

“Shh… shh,” Mom whispers, stroking Bobby’s head, “it’s going to be okay, it’s going to be okay…”

I don’t know what the hell she’s talking about. Things obviously are not okay. Panic eats me up and spits me back out. “Why did the lights go out? What happened? ”

“C’mon, you guys,” Dad says, “it’s a thunderstorm. Lightning probably hit a transformer or something. Stop freaking out for no reason.”

Bobby is still shaking in our mom’s arms, feeding into my level of anxiety. “—IT’S A TORNADO IT’S A TORNADO IT’S A TORNADO—”

“Bobby, goddammit—”

A deafening series of thunder cracks ensue.

Followed by a crash loud enough to shatter our bones.

Then our entire house shakes, like we’re aboard some sort of amusement park ride.

Outside the bathroom door, something explodes.

Wind howls like wolves hungry for fresh meat.

At this point, all four of us are screaming our lungs off and holding each other—even Dad, whose previous transgressions have momentarily been forgiven, or at the very least forgotten. A stray limb from one of my family members knocks my phone from my grasp and it flies across the room. Its flashlight lands upon our flailing bodies, granting us a target to direct our aimless focus. I stare into it and pray as if it’s the light of God, but the only response I receive is more rain.

Outside the bathroom door, the storm’s volume intensifies. Rain and wind screech loud enough to drown out the thoughts from our throbbing brains. It is the sound of banshees escaping from hell. When we speak, we are forced to shout and, even then, one cannot be certain of the other’s dialogue.

“What happened?” I scream.

“What the hell was that?” Mom says.

“Jesus Christ,” Dad says, lips trembling. “I don’t know, I don’t know…”

More thunder.

Dad points at my phone on the floor. “Mel, shine that light over here so I can see.”

I hesitate, waiting to see if he’ll forget his request. He steps away from us and moves toward the door.

“No!” Bobby cries. “Don’t go, Daddy!”

He ignores him and nods at me. “Just get the fucking light, okay?”

Whimpering, I part from my mother and brother and retrieve the phone, then direct its light at my father. He presses his ear against the door, listening for an extended period, then attempts to open it. The door swings forward maybe three inches before coming to a dead stop, banging against something solid on the other side.

The sound of wood hitting wood.

“What the fuck?” he says, trying again, and again.

“What’s wrong?” Mom asks.

“It won’t fucking open.”

“What do you mean, it won’t open?”

“I. Mean. It. Won’t. Fucking. Open, ” he says, punctuating each word by bashing the door against whatever’s blocking it. This progresses into full-on shoulder rams against the frame as he gradually gets more pissed off.

Cold wind and rain blow in through the small opening. Flashes of lightning illuminate the bathroom’s depressing interior. The reality of the situation is already sinking in, even if nobody has the courage to voice it yet.

Dad reaches through the crack, feeling around blindly. “What the fuck?”

Mom steps forward, but only barely. “What is it?”

“What the fuck? ”

“ What? ”

He extends his free arm out toward us and snaps his fingers. “Mel, let me see your phone.”

“What? Why?” My body stiffens. Absolutely not. No way.

“Because I told you to.”

“I… I can hold it.”

“Give me the fucking phone, Mel.”

Mom sidesteps in front of me, acting as a shield against his wrath. “Don’t talk to her that way, you son of a bitch.”

“Shut the fuck up,” he says, and she deflates. Then, to me: “Mel, let me have the goddamn phone.”

At this point I am sobbing and I hate myself for every tear spilled. My father does not deserve a single one of them. Every instinct inside me refuses to relinquish my phone. Things exist on it that nobody else should ever see. Plus, there is the fear that Amy will finally respond while his vision falls upon the screen. The text message conversation we found ourselves in the midst of will not go over well with my father. The context doesn’t matter. He will go mad. Mad like insane. Mad like nuts. However, if I continue disobeying his demands, the threat of escalated rage seems inevitable.

I extend my arm out, but my grip refuses to loosen, forcing him to pry it from my grasp. A bizarre satisfaction is gained from witnessing him briefly struggle against my unexpected strength. He takes the phone without another word and points the flashlight at the small opening in the door, face grimacing in confusion.

“What… the… fuck…?” He sticks the phone through the crack, angling his arm, squinting against the rain. “Oh, goddammit. Oh, motherfucker.”

“What is it?” Mom asks, at last triggering the flashlight app on her own phone and directing its illumination upon the door.

“A tree…”

“A what? ”

“I think… goddammit…”

“Oh my god,” I say, no longer able to withstand the suspense. I need my phone back in my possession immediately. “What happened? What happened? ”

“A tree… some fucking tree is blocking the door.”

“What tree?” Mom says, incredulous.

“How should I know? It’s blocking the whole goddamn door.”

“You can’t move it?”

“Does it look like I can fucking move it?”