"Hurricane Betsey" & "Our Cottage"

Hurricane Betsey Margaret Sullivan Wurlein’s window, the real Basilicawhere certain people made certain choicesjust buy an organjust buy a baby grandthe white one with gold keysmaybe some kid’s Christmas presentsome special anniversarydrive along Canal Streetsuddenly, you want an organwe weren’t allowed togo to the bomb shelterat my schooland sleep beside theUrsuline sisters as they wereserving soup andshowing movies on alinen bedsheet“I’m not sleeping on the floor in that basementbeside all those losers!”shouted my father“We’re finding a hotel.”so we were on Canal Streetnot buying a pianonot being touristsnot looking for po boy standsnot obeying the authoritiesby going to the bomb shelterHere’s what you dowhen Betsey comes callingyou lower the windowsone or two inchessame on each sideso the winds match each otherwinds from the east matchwinds from the westthe car will be rockingthe winds will blow through itand not tip you oversame with your houseHurricane Betsey was coming on strongthe eye of this hurricaneset squarely in the City centerbefore my eyesthe window of Wurlein’sblew in like crushed iceour car was rockingthe street was strewn withoverturned carssplinters of glasssliced through the back seatglass from the eastgetting caught in my hairto get a hotel roomyou must leave the caryou should not leave the carrocking your childrenbut you need a hotel roomthe honeymoon suiteis all that they havethree oranges, canned stewcooked under a lighterfive spoons in the saucepana heart shaped bedwe were toldwe could bringone thingI brought my blue bearFrank brought his slide rulePatrick brought the indexof the encyclopediait was heavy in his arms|“One thing,” said my father“One thing,” said my father“One thing you could bring|and you chose the index?”and you chose the index?”‍“All of civilizationwill be destroyed tonight,”said my brotherwho was nine at the timeall of itas we know itwill be goneall in one nightand that nightis tonight‍Our CottageMargaret Sullivan A sweep of a glass wall exposedthe interiorthe iron and glass dining tablethe living room on the righta granite platform most would call a coffee tableseven cedar steps built for a prior purpose I could see right into the soft white bedsa chair he had won a design award foran ebony black pedestal bowlresting inside the full skeleton of a fawnarranged like the reception area flowersat the Excelsior Hotel in Romean iron stove for a fireplacea stone mantel behind itholding a simple glass vase a wide bouquet of porcupine quills stood straight upHe told me stories, late at night,about how he found these thingssome of them being illegal to havehere in Canadawhere he rescues eaglesbathroom walls of clean heavy teakwoodfloors of granite that actually felt softthe bathtub so wide that you could stretch out your arms and legsbecome the Vitruvian Manand not touch the sidescircular window along the side of the tubshowing you shining woodsand the edge of the slope that led down to the waterat night time, it showed you nothingbut waving shadows and mysterious movementsMuch was going on low on the groundmuch moving of little feetrearranging of fruits and branches and pineconesmuch was going on inside the leavesmuch fluttering of wingsswishing of nest materialat the top of the treesthere was constant manipulating of branchesan owl maybeor just the wind maybebreaking the curtain of forested darknessletting in dark bluerevealing very quickly one starthen shutting the curtain fast and hardHow did I see it again?was it in the sky was it reflected onto the bath water?there was muchmoving around in there tooas I shivered under the pressureof the tide and the wind and the wildlifeand the changing light‍