Unable to think of anything more productive to do, and in order to distract herself from the two questions that kept pushing themselves to the front of her mind—what qualifies as a vodka emergency? and when’s the earliest I can head over to the Stankovics’?—Jen had carried all of the Altmans’ post-hurricane supplies up from the basement. The flashlights, batteries, candles, rain ponchos, gallons of water, and canned goods were spread out on the kitchen table to be tabulated along with a full inventory of the food they had on hand.
She planned to tackle that just as soon as she finished her own personal, private inventory of their alcohol. Not because she planned to drink any of it, but just so she knew what they had.
She started at the bottom of the pantry, where they kept the beer and wine:
Seven bottles of red. Four white. Three IPAs.
She dragged the low stool from the pantry floor over to the fridge, hopped onto it, and opened the double cabinet above the fridge where they kept the household liquor:
Half a fifth of gin. Unopened fifth of bourbon, plus half an open bottle. Almost full fifths of Triple Sec, rum, crème de menthe. Half a fifth of vodka—
Is that legit? Or did I water it down?
She vaguely recalled watering down a household vodka at one point, for reasons that now escaped her.
Was it that fifth? Or another one?
She was about to open the bottle for a closer examination when she heard the clattering of metal in the garage. She slammed the cabinet shut, hopped off the stool, and was returning it to the pantry when Dan burst into the room.
He was wild-eyed, dripping sweat, and so frenzied that he almost knocked her over as he lurched toward the sink.
“Look out!”
“Jesus!”
He threw open a lower cabinet and pulled out their largest cooking pot.
She watched him, bewildered. “What are you—”
“The water’s going to run out!” He shoved the pot into the sink and opened the tap. As water began to flow into it from the faucet, he pulled three more pots from the cabinet and dumped them on the countertop.
“How do you know—”
“Fill all these up!” he yelled as he turned and squeezed past her again, this time on his way to the front stairs.
She followed him. “Dan! Will you settle down and—”
“Aaagh!” As he made the hairpin turn from the hall to the stairs, he suddenly faltered, nearly crumpling to the floor.
“What’s the matter?”
“Leg cramp! Shit!” Bent over, panting and clutching his left thigh with an anguished grimace, he hesitated for a moment. Then he straightened, grabbed the banister, and began to lurch up the stairs while cursing through his teeth.
“Shit! Shit! Shit!”
Jen went after him. “Let me help you!”
“Stay down there and fill the pots!” he yelled over his shoulder.
She disregarded his instructions, following him up to the second-floor landing as he hopped on one foot to the bathroom door and twisted the knob.
It was locked.
“Busy!” Max’s voice was a startled half shriek.
“Open up!” Dan yelled, jiggling the lock as he continued to gasp for breath and hop on one leg. “It’s an emergency!”
“I’m busy!”
“Dan—will you please calm down—”
“Max!” He pounded on the bathroom door. “Fill the tub with water! Do you hear me?”
“Yes!”
“Fill it with water!” Dan repeated as he turned and staggered past Jen. “Go back and fill the pots!” he told her.
He disappeared into the main bedroom. A moment later, she heard the hydraulic rumble of the taps opening in the bathtub.
Annoyed, she went back downstairs. The giant pot was overflowing in the sink. She swapped it for the others. Then, for good measure, she filled the plastic salad spinner, their largest serving bowl, and the Brita pitcher from the fridge before heading back upstairs.
As she reached the landing, Max opened the bathroom door. Behind him, she heard the tub filling with water. They made eye contact. Then, without a word, he turned his back and exited to his bedroom, moving with an odd, bow-legged gait.
Jen entered the vacated bathroom and checked the tub there. Confirming that it’d take a few more minutes to fill, she continued on to the bathroom in the main bedroom.
The tub was filling with water as a red-faced, still-panting Dan stood on one leg, clutching the edge of the sink with one hand while the other was twisted behind his back, tugging at the ankle of his jackknifed bad leg as he tried to stretch it.
“What the hell, dude?”
“Water’s going to run out. The—gagh!—town pumps don’t work.”
“Where’d you hear this?”
“Borough Hall. Mayor gave a . . . I dunno, press conference.”
“The new one? What’s her name again?”
“Can’t remember. What do I do to fix a leg cramp?”
“I don’t know. Try massaging it.”
Dan sank to the floor, lying on his back with his bad leg bent sideways above him as he kneaded the thigh with both hands. “I gotta get in shape. . . . Gagh! This isn’t helping.”
“You should roll it out.”
“With what?”
“One of those big rubber things they have at the gym.”
“Do we have one?”
“No.”
“Great advice, honey. Thanks.” He abandoned his attempt at massage, sat up, and pinned his leg underneath his butt in a second stab at stretching the muscle.
“Don’t they have backups?”
“What?”
“For the water. Don’t they have backup pumps or something?”
“Those are down, too. Did you fill the pots?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Is the—mmrf!—other tub filling?”
“Yeah. Are you okay?” Her husband’s face was a florid shade of red.
“Not really. I think I’m having a coronary. Did Chloe come home yet?”
“Nope.”
“Think she’s okay?”
“Why wouldn’t she be?”
“Things are getting fucked up out there. We might have to leave town.”
“And go where?”
“I dunno. Wellfleet?”
“Oh, Jesus—”
“What?”
“There’s no way I’m going to your mother’s.” The invocation of her mother-in-law’s summer home on Cape Cod triggered a pang of guilt as Jen’s own mother materialized in her mind’s eye.
Should I have called my mom? Are the phones working in Boca?
“She won’t be there! She’s in Newton. And if the alternative—”
“How would we even get to the Cape? The car won’t start.”
“I don’t know. Ride bikes?”
“Dan, look at yourself. Do you feel like a three-hundred-mile bike ride is doable right now?”
Max entered the bathroom. “What can I eat for lunch?”
“Kinda late for lunch, isn’t it?” Jen asked. She certainly hoped it was. Margaritas at the Stankovics’ couldn’t come soon enough.
Shit, did I eat anything today?
“Have a protein bar,” Dan suggested to Max through his grimace.
Max stared at his writhing father. “What’s wrong with you?”
“Leg cramp.”
“Sucks. What kind of protein bars do we have?”
“Chocolate chip, I think? But don’t spoil your dinner,” Jen warned.
“What’s for dinner?”
“We’re grilling steaks at the Stankovics’.”
Max’s face soured in disgust. “I’m not going to the Stankovics’!”
“You have to. There’s nothing to eat here.”
“No! No!”
“Buddy, calm down—”
“NO!” Max’s voice rose to a yell. “I fucking hate the Stankovics!”
“Hey! Watch your language—”
“Then you can go hungry,” Jen snorted.
“This is bullshit!” Max roared as he stormed out of the room.
“That wasn’t helpful,” Dan admonished Jen.
She shook her head, puzzled by her son’s outburst. “What’s up his butt?”