During the Storm

The outer bands were already sweeping across south Texas, hundreds of miles from the eye of the hurricane. I pulled on my mud boots and windbreaker and headed out to the old red barn, my favorite building on the farm. It smelled like sweet feed and hay with a hint of horse manure, and my kids were unlikely to brave the storm to come and find me out there. When they did venture out to the barn, I tended to put them to work raking out stalls.

If I really wanted to hide, I would go up to the hayloft and climb on top of the stacked haybales and over to the center, where I had made a secret space for myself. I was surprised the kids hadn’t found it yet, and I would know if they had. I loved my five kids more than anything in the world, but it was exhausting faking my happiness and being strong for them. In the middle of those haybales, I could cry. But I didn’t need to cry on this evening, in the middle of this storm.

The horses were already stomping around in their open stalls, clearly agitated by the weather. Cowboy, the cattle dog, had followed me out, with his ears laid back and concern on his face. Cattle dogs are so expressive. They look at you right in the eyes like they are reading your mind, and some of them (like Cowboy) tried to “talk.” He was tall and lean for a heeler. I was his person and always had been.

Thunder shook the old barn walls and caused the horses to whinny. With Cowboy at my feet, I sat on a haybale in the middle of the barn, trying to decide what to do. My husband, Jim, had not come home again the night before and was not answering his phone. This had happened several times—starting about a year ago—and our marriage was already tied by the thinnest of threads barely visible in the fading light. I was realizing that I just wanted out.

Then, . . . it seemed to happen so fast. At that moment—when the thunder from a too-close lightning bolt shook the barn again—a switch flipped in my brain, extinguishing that tiny light. I suddenly knew I didn’t need Jim. It was a surprising relief. I breathed in the ozone-filled ocean-scented air, let out the breath, and smiled.

Just as I was letting my new feeling of freedom run its course through my body, I heard a car turning onto our gravel driveway and then proceeding down the long path to our home. Cowboy was alert and staring at the barn entrance but didn’t leave my side. As I stood, Cowboy took that as permission to run out and see who it was. He barked, so I knew it wasn’t Jim.

Reaching the barn’s entrance, I saw Sheriff Jeff Anderson shutting his car door and then adjusting his hat with his face away from the rain and from me. “Sheriff! I’m over here!” I yelled to be heard over the downpour and the rumbling thunder.

He walked toward me. “Janie, how ‘er you doin’?” Living out here my whole life, I knew the sheriff well.

“I’m ok, Jeff. What’s up?” I could tell it was going to be bad news, but I still hoped his serious demeanor was a result of the storm and not something worse.

Just then, the hayloft door banged and dust floated down from the barn ceiling. “Let me go latch that,” I said as I turned to the ladder. I climbed up and latched the door, which gave me a few moments to think. What now? Too much had already happened in this past year. I lost my dad, had to sell off some land to pay my bills, and was now ready to find a way out of my marriage. I sighed and went back down the ladder to face whatever it would be.

“Jim is not coming home this time, Janie,” Jeff said as I reached the bottom rung. I could tell he had been holding it in, dreading this moment and having to say those words.

“What happened?” I was completely calm with what my grandma would call the “peace that passes understanding.”

“Some folks found him in his truck on the side of the road over in Galveston County. Somewhere along Highway 6. Of course, you will need to come down and identify . . . him, but . . . it’s him, Janie.”

I felt strong right then, stronger than I ever had before in my life. I had loved Jim for so long, but he had changed. I’m sure I had changed, too. “How long had he been there?”

“It looks like he may have passed last night. Looks like he was there for a long time before anyone stopped to check inside the truck,” he explained. “Looks like he was on his way home because he was headed west.” Jeff looked at the ground. He knew exactly what he was saying.

“But what happened? Did he have any injuries? Or was it natural, you think?”

“No way to know yet, but there were no obvious injuries. As soon as you identify him, he will be sent for an autopsy. But I think we’ll all have to wait out this storm first, and autopsy results can take weeks,” he said. “Are you goin’ to be ok?”

“Yes. I’m ok.” Then, I realized I was going to have to tell the kids. “Oh, gosh. No. How can I tell the kids?” I said out loud. “Does anyone else know?” I asked. I was suddenly worried that someone would call or text one of the kids.

“I can get my deputies to keep this to themselves for a while,” said Sheriff Jeff, obviously knowing what I was thinking. “Everybody handles these things differently, Janie. I know you are a strong woman, but if you need anything . . . . Just let me . . . us . . . know, OK?”

“Thanks.” I sat back down on my haybale, actually thankful that I could sit out here and think for a while before facing the fullness of this new reality.

After the sheriff left, I sat and stared for a long time. The roaring wind blew the rain sideways. I knew I would have to go inside, but it was beautiful from my perch in the old barn. I still had my kids, my home, Cowboy and the horses, my old barn. Cowboy put his head on my knee and looked up at me with those big brown eyes.

I would be ok. We all would be. But that tiny light had flickered back on. He was on his way home.