Melvin and Marie

 Welcome to The Spot Writers.

Catherine A. MacKenzie’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel/stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon.

This month’s prompt must feature someone dancing in the rain.

Cathy continues with Melvin and the day Hurricane Fiona hit...

 

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Melvin and Marie

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

“Melvin! What was that?” Marie turned down the volume on the bedroom television and nudged her husband.

Melvin rolled over. “What was what?”

“That noise.”

“What noise?

“Melvin, it’s bad enough you don’t hear me, but when you can’t hear a loud boom, there’s something drastically wrong. Scary enough, this hurricane.”

“I was asleep. What do you expect?”

“Well, get up. Something’s happened.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s ‘cause it’s already happened. The noise came from the deck.”

“Okay, okay.” Melvin grudgingly got out of bed, grabbed his housecoat, and headed to the side of the house. 

Marie followed. 

“It’s so scary. Listen to the wind. And what about the trees? Will the house survive? Will we?”

“Marie, nothing will happen to us.

She ran ahead of him and switched on the outside lights. “Look, see! The barbeque was blown across the deck. And there’s our bin, too. Gah, look at it. All broken up.”

“It’ll be fine, Marie. It’s plastic. It’ll fit back as good as new.”

“Glad I didn’t leave the cushions in there like you wanted to. They’d be scattered to China by now.”

Melvin started to slide open the screen door.

“Melvin! No! You can’t go out there. There’s a hurricane raging.”

“I need to get my barbeque.”

“Melvin! Your life—our lives—are worth more than an old barbeque.”

“It’s my Weber, Marie. My Weber! And it’s all your fault it’s blown away! I told you I didn’t want to tie the bin onto it. You know what happened? The wind grabbed the bin as if it were a sail, taking my barbeque with it. The barbeque wouldn’t have moved if I hadn’t tied it to the bin.”

“I never said to tie it to the bin.”

“You did, too.”

“I did not! Gah, I hate it when you blame everything on me.”

“I’m not blaming anything on you, Marie.”

She shut up, knowing better than to antagonize her husband. They were in the throes of Hurricane Fiona, which had been predicted to be the worst storm ever to hit the Maritimes. It wouldn’t do well for them to be fighting during such a catastrophe. Who would protect her? Not him if he was mad at her.

Melvin reached for the door again. 

“Okay then,” she said. “But grab the bin pieces. We can put them here in the kitchen. Can’t bring the barbeque inside, though. I’ll not have grease on my kitchen floor.”

As soon as he opened the door, the wind and rain hurled indoors. He slipped outside. Immediately, she slid the door closed after him.

He managed to clutch one of the bin sections and plod back to the door. 

She slid open the door a couple of inches. 

“Woman, open the door.”

She slid it wider. Grabbed one end of the bin and managed to get it indoors. Water poured onto the floor. 

Marie was certain her husband would be blasted off the deck. At times he resembled a garment on a clothesline on a fiercely windy day. Other times, he moved in slow motion, almost standing still, the wind beating against him, preventing him from making headway. One step forward; three shoves backward. Fiona wasn’t due to hit until three in the morning, and it was barely ten o’clock. What would it be like later?

They rinsed and repeated five more times. Six bin pieces. There should be seven. By that time, she didn’t much care about the bin. A bad idea bringing it into the house, what with the water pooling on the floor. 

After Melvin thrust in the sixth piece that she awkwardly leaned against the others, he grabbed her by her arm and pulled her outdoors.

“Melvin, what the hell are you doing?”

She couldn’t hear his reply over the wind’s howl—if he had replied.

Within seconds she was drenched. The wind slammed her body against his. She could barely move her arms to hold on to him. They were rag dogs: Raggedy Andy and Raggedy Ann, glued together, unable to break apart.

“The wind. It’s gonna throw us over the rail.” The wind carted away her words. We’ll go the way of the missing bin piece, she thought. We’re goners. My life’s over. And I’ve spent most of it with Melvin and I haven’t had a chance to live and—

Then it was as if they were enveloped in the funnel of a tornado. The “death zone.” She’d read about those things. She gasped for breath. Goners, for sure...

The wind weakened. 

“We’re Fred and Ginger!” Melvin screamed. “Isn’t this fun?”

“Melvin, it ain’t you moving. It’s the wind. The wind’s throwing us around like rag dolls. You ain’t no dancer.” 

She managed to wiggle out of her husband’s grasp and sped to the door as quickly as she could. Melvin wasn’t far behind.

 

*Note from the author: This is loosely based on a true story. The BBQ and patio bin did get blown across the deck shortly before ten p.m. when we were in bed, minutes before the power got knocked out by Fiona (knocked out for ten days!). At my insistence, my husband went out to the deck to retrieve the pieces of the bin (one piece we found the next day in the yard), and the wind did blow him around like a garment on a clothes line (or a rag doll). I truly thought he was going to be a goner. Hubby really did blame me for tying the BBQ and bin together (it was NOT my idea!!!). And, no, we did not dance in the rain!

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com
Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/