Stormy Crossroads

This story is by Hazel Dahl Behrens and was part of our 2024 Spring Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.

After a lousy night’s sleep, I dress for my early morning waitress shift, grumbling about my shitty roommate who wants me out so Boyfriend can move in.

Outside, it’s raining. Great.

My daily chat with Mom rattles through my brain. Come home, Mary, she says. New neighbors. A boy your age. – Me, the shy girl who needs a play date.

I arrive at the restaurant 5 minutes late. The lot is strangely deserted. Inside, the owner hands over my final check. He sold the restaurant and shares his fortune with me. So generous — two week’s pay instead of one. Now I’m homeless AND unemployed.

At home, Boyfriend stands behind the kitchen counter. I hope he’s wearing something. Her Highness enters in her bathrobe. “Why are you back so early?”

I tell them.

“Oh, good, then you can move sooner. Ed wants the spare room for an office.”

Entering the ‘spare’ room, I slam the door. That’s all I am, a spare. I look around my humble abode and realize none of it matters. At least from my Mom’s spare room, I’d have a view of the pool and the handsome pool cleaner.

I call my mom and say I’m coming home.

I spend the day throwing trash in one corner and packing my clothes in black trash bags. I raid the fridge for lunch, take a nap and eat leftover pizza before nightfall.

Early to bed. Nothing else to do.

Another restless night, I’m up at 5 and everything I own is in my old van. The Princess and Boyfriend can deal with my second hand furniture and lumpy mattress. 13 hours of driving from Montana to Minnesota.  Running home to mommy, again.

I make brief stops at gas stations, grabbing fast food to keep moving. The overcast sky dulls the rising sun as I head East across South Dakota. As the miles clicked by I read signs; Devil’s Tower, Wind Cave National Park, and Mount Rushmore National Monument. Quick stop for Wall Drug’s famous ten cent coffee and a fresh donut. As I leave, another sign, Entrance to the Badlands.

My sister calls around 4 PM when I’m filling the tank in Mitchell, home of the Corn Palace.

“Mary, Mom says you’re moving home. What are you thinking?”

“The restaurant closed and my roommate kicked me out. What else can I do?”

“Join the Peace Corps. Anything, but not home. Live your own life, not hers.”

My sister continues to talk, but I’m distracted by the strange green-gray cloud to the south.

“Sis, I’ve got to go. It looks like heavy rain coming my way. I’ll call you later.”

Back on the road, the southern cloud grows. I’ve seen wall clouds before but not like this. It changes color from green to dusty brown and then darkening gray. In less than an hour, crosswinds rock my van and I search for an exit. Hartford.

I make it to a convenience store. With hours to go before sunset, the sky turns midnight black. As if to prove my point, street lights blink on as I exit the car. I race the gale with debris hitting my back; dried grass, paper, the occasional plastic bottle.

The gusts yank at me. I use all my strength to pry the glass door open. The blast slams the door shut, shattering it beside me.

All light goes out. I freeze.

Someone calls, “Over here.”

I follow the voice and find employees and customers huddled at the far wall. “Get down and cover your head.”

As I obey, a roar overtakes the building which shudders. The south windows implode, peppering our backs with shards. Horizontal rain wets my back and the chill echoes my fear.

The gale drowns voices, even thought. The building groans under the constant pressure as debris swirls around us. The roar subsides to a steady thrum.

A child sobs and is comforted nearby. A man talks reassuringly on his phone but stops abruptly. Lost signal. I’m grateful not to be alone.

Employees start to move. “Is everyone okay?” One by one, we rise. No one injured, thank God. Flashlights guide the way out as the sky lightens.

The rain continues, reduced to a steady patter. A FedEx trailer has tipped, mere feet from my van. Oh, God! My windows are shattered and the plastic bags flutter in the breeze, salted with glass.

“You can’t drive that.” A woman stands behind me. “Grab your valuables and come with me.”

Mechanically, I find my purse and my laptop case, hearing the tinkle of shards as I lift them.

Her name is Amy. Avoiding downed trees, we drive past her house, windows okay, minor roof damage. She spots her husband’s truck. They exchange news and she explains about my van.

“I can fetch it as soon as some of these trees are pulled off roads. Do you have the keys?

I hand them over, feeling lost. “Where am I going to sleep?” Even as I speak, it’s odd that sleep is my big concern.

Amy says “We’ll check the motel. You passed it as you pulled into town. Where were you headed?”

“Home, I guess. Fairmont, Minnesota.”

The motel is full. Even without electricity, every undamaged room is occupied. Amy takes me to a nearby town with a mom & pop motel. Tom, the owner, gives me a room for half price until the electricity is restored.

Amy says, “I’ll call Tom with news of your van. Landlines are working so you can save your phone battery.”

I thank Amy and watch her pull away as if my past leaves with her. Collapsing on the bed, I let the tears flow. My emotions battle; despair, hope, fear and elation. “I’m alive – I’m alive.”

The room is stifling. I open the windows to catch the cross current. The motel lost its sign, nothing more. I’ve lost everything.

A knock on the door. Tom holds out a t-shirt and sweater. “My wife thought these might fit. The city is cooking a free meal at the fire hall. We can drive you over.”

I change, thinking how kind these people are.

Eating a delicious cheeseburger, I begin to relax. People share damage reports and compare experiences. Laughter comes as old timers share historic storm tales.

Above the noise, a man shouts. “Can anyone, without repairs of their own, swing a hammer?”

My hand rises. “My father was a carpenter.”

The man looks me over and asks, “Are you afraid of heights?”

“No, sir.”

“Then, you’re hired. We have to start covering damaged shingles before the vultures appear.”

“Vultures? In South Dakota?”

“No, the fly-by-night scavengers who will swoop in and promise to fix things cheap. I need to reassure our customers that we can take care of them. We start work at first light tomorrow.”

“But I don’t have transportation.” Tom explains my situation and the roofing contractor nods.

“My son’s coveralls and boots should fit you. I’ll deliver them tonight and pick you up in the morning. You’ll start at the newbie rate.”

As my life lands in the hands of strangers, Tom tells me Charlie is the best roofer in the business and treats his crews well.

I lay in bed as the sun sets. Why did I raise my hand? I’ve never been on a roof. All I did was pass Dad the shingles.

“Dad, watch over me tomorrow.”

The first day, my thighs ache from climbing ladders. I’m working next to Matt, who shows me safety basics and explains methods of covering the damaged roofs. After a few hours, Matt says he is impressed with my work. “And you don’t grumble like most of the newbies.”

Thanks Dad.

I’ve never felt so good about the work I do, like it matters, like I matter.  I tumble exhausted into bed, too tired to think.

Since Hartford gets their power back, Amy shows up with my freshly laundered belongings packed neatly in banker boxes. The van will take longer.

On Saturday, Charlie hands me the largest check I’ve ever earned and offers me a job. “At least through the summer, maybe longer.”

We don’t work on Sunday. I have time to ponder recent events. According to the news, I experienced a derecho, straight-line winds causing widespread damage. Bozeman was my mom’s choice, her alma mater. I’m here because of a storm. I never liked school and kept waitressing because it was easy. Doing physical labor never crossed my mind.

I ponder the handsome pool boy. He probably graduated and she hired someone new.

When electricity is restored, I call my mom.

“Where are you? I’ve been calling you all week.”

I explain briefly and add, “I’m not coming home after all. I’ll be busy all summer.”

“Doing what?”

“Roofing, like Dad did.”

As she tries to talk me out of it, I scan rooftops to the interstate beyond, grateful to be alive. Crossroads lead more than one way.