Shelter from the Storm

By Teresa Freeland

I hate our SUV. I hate the ugly brown exterior. I hate the glove compartment that won’t stay shut. I hate the aqua blue seats and the muddy beige carpet. And I hate that I have one more whole day of relentless riding in the hated back seat with my repulsive little brother. Mom and Dad loathe this car as much as I do. And at times I think they must hate us, and I know they can’t stand each other. 

A trip together is what this family needs—Dad had the audacity to say. So we took our ‘trip’, fought 100 percent of the time, ate bad fast food, and now, thank Jesus, we’re headed home. I can’t wait to get back to my own room where I can sleep in my own bed. Then tomorrow I can see my boyfriend Matt and unload all my frustration on him. I’ll even let him play that stupid zombie video game while I go off. 

Mom mutters something about lunch and bologna and cheese sandwiches. Dad slows down as we approach a rest stop planted in the middle of nowhere. We pass a ‘Restrooms’ sign that points to a grimy looking old building. It looks like it was just dropped there, surrounded by leafless trees and patches of tall grass. Picnic tables wearing ballsy faded bright green paint look a little sketch–pretty sure I’m not sitting on one. Then I notice there are no other cars in the parking lot, which gives me a creepy vibe. I feel the hairs stand up on my arms, so I smack my obnoxious little brother to keep from thinking about it.

As we pull into the lot, rain begins hitting the windshield. Out of nowhere, dark clouds gather overhead. A bolt of lightning flashes above the trees. Large pieces of hail start pounding at the roof of the car. Dad curses and Mom throws him a dirty look. My little brother kicks the seat and says he’s scared.

Dad turns to face us and beams a bright smile in our direction as he mutters something like everything is fine. He then glances at Mom telling her we can wait this out, it should blow over soon. To punctuate his sentence another bolt of lightning strikes and a slap of thunder rattles the car.

As if that wasn’t enough drama, another lightning flash spotlights a bent and skinny old man standing right in front of our car. He came out of nowhere, I’m not kidding. 

His matted, long gray hair stuck to his head like a wet, dirty mop, his sopping black and gray t- shirt glued to his chest. He just stands there, wet and dripping, like he’s leaking fluid.  Soon he’s knocking on Dad’s window and asking if he could seek shelter with us.

Dad rolls his window down just enough to talk to him. He asks the old man to empty his pockets inside out. He complies as pennies and dimes careen out along with several sticks of beef jerky. When Dad asks him to turn around and pat his back pockets Mom busts out ‘Are you out of your freaking mind?’  As the old man turns and pats his flat pockets a huge pellet of hail hits him on the bald part of the top of his head leaving a small gash that immediately pools with blood. 

After I’ve gawked enough at the old man’s head, my eyes focus on Dad, whose face is contorted into a painful grimace. He tells the old man he can wait out the storm if he wants to by releasing the rear hatch and climbing in. With agility beyond his appearance, he opens the hatch and crawls into the back. By this time, we have all pivoted around in our seats to watch him like he’s the greatest old action hero we’ve ever encountered. Which, given the state of action heroes nowadays, this old man ranks high on the charts.

As the old guy sits down cross-legged in the back, my stupid brother asks him where he came from. The old man laughs and replies Pennsylvania. My brother looks perplexed for a hot second then he laughs too. Mom reaches into the half open glove compartment, retrieves a handful of napkins, and hands them to me gesturing toward the back of the car. 

I hand the napkins to the old man. Apparently, his hail wound wasn’t that bad because he takes one small swipe at the top of his head, thanks Mom for the napkins and shrugs. 

Where are you folks headed? he asks.

Dad tells him we’re going home. That we went on a little vacation and now it’s over.

As the man listens, he takes the beef jerky out of his pocket. Then, as we sit, still pivoted, still gaping, he says that he has several, would we like any?

My brother grabs a piece of the jerky as he says thanks, he was getting hungry. Another blast of thunder rocks the car.

Between bites of the jerky, the old man tells us he and his wife would take the kids on vacation. They were never fun though. His kids would misbehave and his wife was never satisfied with their hotel or amusement park or even the weather, as if he could do anything about that. He looks out the window for a moment and when he looks back his eyes are clouded over. I can’t tell if it’s due to tears or cataracts.

Mom sits very still and then says in a low voice there must have been some good trips. He shakes his head. Not really, he says. Everyone is gone now. It’s just me.

Without warning, a chill runs through my body. Eying my sweater on the floor of the car, I wrap myself in it as I glance at my mom and dad and smile through my shivers. My brother is smacking his lips, his spit falling on his black and red striped t-shirt. He’s always a mess, but this time I wipe his chin with the arm of my sweater.

As the rain looks like it’s letting up, a shiny black limousine rolls up to our car from the entrance to the park. The raindrops magnify its sleek, long body as it pulls into the parking spot next to us.  

There’s my ride, the old man says. He thanks us for giving him shelter and asks Dad to flip the hatch on the rear. We all peer out at the stretch set of wheels; our mouths open again as our eyes fixate on a man dressed in a black suit getting out of the driver’s side door and approaching our car. 

Wait a second, Dad says. Who are you?

The old man snorts and laughs, all at the same time. Then he says he’s just an old guy that made a fortune investing in those 90s startup companies. The ones you now see on the S & P 500. 

As the limo driver stands erect at the SUV’s open back hatch, the old man says, I’m sorry I have to go. I have a few meetings on my agenda but wanted to get away for a bit. I do this now and then; take a long walk. It keeps me sane. My driver knows this shelter well. He picks me up here at least once a month.

I thought you were all alone. Mom says this like she does when she’s accusing me of something, or-anything.

I am all alone, the old man says. My wife or wives, I should say, all left me years ago, one by one. My kids are too busy for old dad, with the exception of when they want something. So, yeah, I’m pretty much all alone. But I like it that way. It’s easier, I’ve found. Don’t have to worry about glancing around for a knife in the old back. Well, tootles. Thanks for allowing me to seek cover with you and your nice family. He gestures toward his driver who immediately produces a wad of cash from his jacket. Here’s something for your trouble.

No thanks, Dad says. He glances back at Mom and then at my brother and me. We’re fine. I hope you have a good day.

The driver helps the old man into the limo and shuts the door. Not too long after that the black limo drives away.

Well, Dad says. I think the storm has passed. Let’s forget about eating bologna and cheese in the car and get back on the road. There should be a diner or something along the next stretch of highway. I’m starved. Then after our bellies are full we’ll head out.

Yeah, Dad, I find myself saying, I’m starving, too. 

Mom grabs Dad’s hand–the one not on the steering wheel–and smiles at him. My brother, obnoxious again for a moment, lowers his window and throws a piece of his jerky out. I accuse him of littering and he covers by saying the lean beef is for the birds. I tell him he is for the birds, roll my eyes and wink.

Dad turns on the radio as we head toward home.

Teresa Freeland is a writer of predominantly women’s fiction. Her short story, Pearl’s Visitor, was featured on a recent segment of Creepy Podcast. She lives in the Midwest and enjoys reading and watching the occasional Katherine Hepburn or Greta Garbo movie in her spare time.