The greatest pleasure of bad weather, like so many things in life, was the anticipation. Knowing the storm was coming, Henry, like the project manager he was, built it into the schedule. At noon the Jamestown station said the rain would arrive sometime around four. By three-thirty, though the sky above the far shore was a bright, unbroken blue, a legion of dark clouds had begun to encroach from the north, the contrast ominous. Kenny, done with the gutters, was helping Ella and the boys replace the downstairs screens. Margaret, having finally turned the garden, was in the kitchen with Emily and Arlene, relining the cupboards. Satisfied, Henry went out and rescued the cushions of the porch furniture, piling them on the glider. The wind had picked up. The flag was tangled, wrapped around itself. He took it down and leaned it in a corner of the porch, then thought better and put it in the garage.
He was at his workbench, unpacking a shoebox of screws, trying to find a nice pair for the spice rack, half listening to the Jammers game, when a cold gust reached in the window, chilling him. The sky was dark and low, ragged wisps of clouds hanging down, rotating slowly. Overhead, thunder rolled, a chain reaction like boxcars coupling in a switchyard. The chestnut thrashed, scattering leaves across the dock. Far out in the middle, a last fisherman motored for home.
“Too late,” Henry said, worried for his safety. Hadn’t he checked the weather?
On the radio, static crashed, obliterating the game, followed by a blinding flash that seemed to pass inches in front of his nose. The thunder cracked. Heavy drops lashed the roof and plopped in the water—not rain at all but hail, bits of ice like mothballs floating in the shallows. They plinked off the cars, gathered in the grass. The hail changed to rain and accelerated to a gallop, pounding the roof, blowing in through the screen so he had to close the window. The world melted and ran. He could see the Van de Meers’ Chris-Craft pitching in its slip, but the end of the dock was lost in fog.
In the cottage, the lights were on. One of the boys stood at the door leading to the screen porch—Sam, probably, being the more adventurous. He waved and Henry waved back. The downspouts gushed. The lawn was a pond, the Adirondack chairs swamped. With no umbrella, he was trapped, but pleasantly so, safe and dry with the rain tapping in the rafters and the ball game playing, enveloped by the familiar smell of gas and hot tarpaper, and leaned in the doorway, admiring the fury of the storm, nodding at each blast of thunder as if he’d predicted it.