Grits And Glory. Ron Benrey

I shouldn’t say this,” Ann said, “but I’m delighted you stayed in town this evening.” She positioned a golf umbrella to shield Richard Squires’s back from driving rain, fighting against the wind. His big-brimmed baseball cap seemed to be doing a good job keeping rain off his face.

      “They won’t let me leave Glory,” he said with a laugh. “I manage the crew that keeps the rest of the emergency personnel well fed. More light on the right side of the engine, please.”

      Ann shifted the powerful utility light she held in her other hand and wished she could do more to help Richard. He was a self-taught expert on engine maintenance and a restorer of vintage cars when he wasn’t managing Squires’ Place, one of Glory’s best restaurants. He also sang tenor in Glory Community’s choir.

      He picked up a wrench. “One of these days, we’ll have to buy a replacement fuel pump, but this fix will keep the engine running throughout Gilda’s visit.”

      “Amen!” Ann murmured.

      He went on, “I’m glad that TV fellow tested the generator—I should have done it this morning.”

      “You’re one of our most valuable volunteers, Richard. I thank you for all you do for the church.”

      She watched Richard stretch to work on the back of the engine. “This is one of those times I wish I was taller,” he said. Even standing on a step stool, Richard, who was only an inch or two taller than Ann, had difficulty reaching deep into the generator’s cabinet.

      Her cell phone rang.

      “Give me the utility light,” Richard said. “That’ll free up your right hand.”

      Ann managed to flip her phone open and was surprised to find her brother calling.

      “Alan! Everything all right with Mom?” she asked.

      “Mom’s fine—and proud as punch.”

      “About?”

      “You didn’t hear it?”

      “Hear what?”

      “You’re famous! Carlo Vaughn talked about you on the Storm Channel.”

      “Oh, no! What did he say?” Ann laughed.

      “He called you one of the ‘courageous few.’ Even better—he’s going to put you on the air later today.”

      “I’ve never been on TV before.” Ann saw Richard struggling with the utility light and the wrench. “I have to run, Alan. Thanks for the news! I’ll call you later. Love to Mom.”

      Richard extracted himself from the generator box. “I only heard one side of your conversation, but it seems to me that you should find yourself a TV set. The Storm Channel often repeats Carlo Vaughn’s broadcasts.”

      “You don’t mind?”

      “Not at all. I’m nearly done. I can replace the generator cover by myself.”

      “Then what will you do, Richard? The storm’s getting worse,” Ann said, raising her voice to be heard over the wind.

      “It’s a short drive to the emergency command center. I’ll be there long before Gilda arrives for real.”

      Ann thanked Richard and headed for the Chapman Lounge, the location of the church’s only TV set. As she walked down the hallway, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in a glass-paneled door. Nothing about her face appearance had improved during the past hour. I’d better freshen up if Carlo is going to stand me in front of a TV camera and ask questions. She made a detour to her office and retrieved the duffel bag she’d packed that morning.

      The Chapman Lounge was a comfortable room next to the pastor’s office that had a small sofa, two armchairs, and a big-screen TV set. Ann had to wait less than ten minutes for the rerun of Carlo’s report.

      She felt somewhat eccentric laughing out loud in an empty church, but she couldn’t stop herself. Hearing herself praised by Carlo cracked her up. He’d made a grim day more cheery by pushing Gilda to the back of her mind.

      She unzipped the duffel bag and surveyed her meager wardrobe. Everything fell into the “working clothing” category—clothes suitable for working in the kitchen, working in the basement, working on the church grounds. Nothing was really appropriate for a TV interview. She finally decided on a pair of tan chinos (clean but threadbare) and a dark blue cotton sweater (originally part of her mother’s wardrobe and at least fifteen years old). The bright blue tactical police radio hanging from the lanyard around her neck would spruce up her outfit with an extra touch of color. It was the best she could do on short notice, she decided.

      Ann hadn’t meant to stay in the lounge for long, but she got caught up in the Storm Channel’s coverage of Gilda provided by other weather reporters who were based closer to North Carolina’s Atlantic Coast. The slowly changing satellite images showed the revolving hurricane approaching the shoreline like a huge Frisbee.

      Suddenly, the lights flickered. Not the electricity. Not yet. They flickered again, then died, leaving the lounge in complete darkness.

      Ann fumbled for the flashlight on her lanyard. The lounge, now illuminated by a single beam, seemed bleak and forbidding, a sensation made even worse by the roar of the wind and the pelting of rain against the wooden shutters, sounds previously covered by the TV. Gilda had arrived.

      She soon began to hear the reassuring chug of the church’s generator. The lights blinked back on.

      Please, God, keep the engine going.

      Ann decided to move to the narthex, to be closer to the front door. As she walked down the hallway, strange creaks from above added to the cacophony of sound. A few seconds later, a loud tearing noise made her flinch, followed quickly by a loud crash outside. It took her a moment to put the sounds together.

      Gilda ripped our steeple off the roof.

      Sean stumbled against the wind and managed to grab the handle of Glory Community’s door with his good left hand. He used his aching right hand to wipe rain-diluted blood off his face, then gingerly placed his thumb on the doorbell. He pulled again and again, ignoring the throbbing in his head and the haze that seemed to saturate his mind.

      He saw the door begin to open and pulled even harder. “It’ll take both of us to hold it against the wind,” he shouted.

      “Okay,” Ann shouted back. “You pull, I’ll push.”

      The force of the wind against the heavy steel door was even greater than he’d anticipated. It shoved him a step backward and simultaneously tugged Ann beyond the sill, exposing her to the curtain of rain whirling beneath the narrow overhanging portico. He managed to stay on his feet and, with Ann’s help, held the door half-open against a sudden gust.

      “Goodness!” she said. “Your head is bleeding.”

      “The church’s steeple fell on our truck when it blew off the roof.”

      “Where’s Carlo?”

      “Still in the truck. He’s unconscious.”

      He heard her gasp.

      “Let’s get inside,” he said. “Then I’ll call for help.”

      Sean maneuvered around Ann and grabbed the inside handle. Slowly…slowly, they dragged the door shut. Sean felt muzzy headed. He sagged against the wall.

      “You need a doctor,” she said.

      “Probably—but not as much as Carlo.”

      Ann guided him toward a chair in the small lobby. “You rest. I’ll radio the emergency command center.”

      “I don’t want to drip blood on your upholstery.”

      “That chair has survived a dozen Vacation Bible Schools. It’s seen far worse than a few drops of blood.”

      Sean