The Storm

Parish

Chapter 20: The Storm

The storm builds in the west. Clem can see it from Earl's ranch at 3 PM, the wall of cloud that rises from the horizon like a second levee, a levee in the sky, the cloud dark at the base and white at the top, the top reaching into the upper atmosphere where the moisture freezes and the freezing produces the anvil, the flat-topped cloud that is the thunderstorm's signature, the shape that says: I am here, I am coming, I am carrying the water and the wind and the lightning and the violence that a Louisiana summer afternoon produces when the heat and the humidity and the atmospheric instability combine in the particular way that produces the storm.

The storm is not a hurricane. The storm is a thunderstorm, the ordinary violence of a Louisiana summer afternoon, the violence that is ordinary because it is frequent, the frequency being one of the parish's summer facts, the fact that the afternoon will bring the clouds and the clouds will bring the rain and the rain will be heavy and the heavy will be brief and the briefness will be the mercy, the mercy of a storm that comes hard and goes fast, the hard-and-fast being the thunderstorm's character, the character that the parish knows and endures.

But this storm is not ordinary. This storm is larger than the ordinary. Clem can see the size of it in the width of the cloud wall, the wall stretching from the southwest to the northwest, covering a quarter of the sky, the quarter that is the direction from which the weather comes, the weather always coming from the west in Louisiana, the west being the direction of the approaching, the approaching being the storm's first act.

He leaves Earl's ranch. He drives south. The storm is behind him and to his left and the storm is moving east, which means the storm is moving toward him, the toward-him being the geometry of the driving and the storm, the two movements intersecting at some point ahead, the point being the place where Clem's truck will meet the storm's front edge, and the meeting will be the rain.

The radio confirms. KFNV interrupts the country music with the weather alert: Severe thunderstorm warning for Concordia Parish, Catahoula Parish, LaSalle Parish. Winds gusting to 70 miles per hour. Hail possible. Rainfall rates of two to three inches per hour. Flash flooding likely in low-lying areas.

Low-lying areas. The phrase is redundant in Concordia Parish. All areas are low-lying. The parish is a floodplain. The parish's elevation above sea level ranges from 50 feet to 80 feet, the range being the flatness, the flatness that is the river's gift, the gift that the storm will test, the test being: Can the flat land absorb the water that the storm will drop? And the answer, when the storm drops five inches in two hours, is: No. The flat land cannot absorb five inches in two hours. The land will try. The soil will take what it can take and the drainage ditches will carry what they can carry and the bayous will rise and the roads will flood and the flooding will be the storm's consequence, the consequence that the parish will deal with the way it deals with all consequences, by enduring, by cleaning up, by rebuilding.

The first drops hit the windshield at 3:45. Large drops. The drops that precede the heavy rain, the drops that are the storm's announcement, the drops saying: I am here, the heavy is coming, the heavy is behind these first drops, the heavy that will be the five inches, the five inches that will be the test.

The heavy comes. The rain arrives not in drops but in sheets, the sheets that are the rain's continuous form, the form that is not individual drops falling but water descending, the water coming down as if the cloud has been opened and the opening is total, the total release of the moisture that the cloud has carried from the Gulf and the swamps and the river, the moisture that was evaporated by the heat and lifted by the convection and carried by the wind and released by the storm, the release being the rain, the rain being the deluge.

Clem cannot see. The windshield wipers are on high and the high is not sufficient, the wipers sweeping the water and the water returning before the sweep is complete, the returning being instantaneous, the windshield a continuous sheet of water through which the road is invisible, the road that Clem knows by memory becoming the road that Clem drives by faith, the faith that the road is where the road has always been, under the water, beneath the rain, the faith being the only navigation.

He pulls over. He stops the truck on the shoulder, the shoulder that he cannot see but that he finds by the feel of the tires leaving the asphalt and finding the gravel, the gravel being the shoulder's texture, the texture that the tires read the way Clem's fingers read the hoof, by touch, by the information that the contact provides.

He sits in the truck. The rain pounds the roof. The sound is total, the sound filling the cab the way the water fills the ditches, completely, without space for anything else, the sound being the storm's voice, the storm saying: I am here, I am everything, I am the only thing, the thing that you must sit in and wait through because the waiting is the only option, the option being: Wait. The storm will pass. The storm always passes. The passing is the mercy.

The wind hits. The truck rocks. Not dangerously — the F-250 is heavy, the veterinary box adding 500 pounds to the rear, the weight being the anchor, the anchor that holds the truck against the wind that would push a lighter vehicle sideways, the sideways being the danger, the danger that the weight prevents.

Lightning. The flash fills the cab with white light, the light that is instantaneous and complete, the light that illuminates everything for a fraction of a second — the road, the ditch, the fence posts, the soybeans lying flat in the field where the wind has pushed them down, the flatness of the soybeans being the wind's work, the work that is the damage, the damage that the farmer will assess tomorrow when the storm has passed and the assessment will be: Some of the soybeans are down and the down soybeans will produce less and the less is the cost, the storm's cost, the cost that the farmer cannot bill because there is no one to bill, the storm being the actor and the actor being the weather and the weather not accepting invoices.

The thunder follows. The thunder is not a sound but a physical event, the event being the concussion, the air displaced by the lightning's heat, the displacement producing the wave, the wave that hits the truck and the truck's body resonates with the wave and the resonance is felt in the chest, the thunder felt before it is heard, the feeling being the body's response to the atmospheric violence.

The storm passes. Not gradually but suddenly, the way summer storms end in Louisiana, the rain stopping as if a switch has been thrown, the switch being the storm's trailing edge, the edge passing over the truck and the passing being the ending and the ending being the silence, the silence that follows the storm the way the calm follows the crisis, the silence that is not silence but the return of the ordinary sounds — the engine, the wipers (still on, sweeping dry glass now), the refrigerated unit, the sounds that the storm's sound buried and that emerge now, blinking, from the burial.

Clem turns on the wipers' intermittent setting. He puts the truck in gear. He pulls back onto the road.

The road is a river. The water that the storm dropped — five inches, the radio will say later, five inches in two hours — the water is on the road because the road is lower than the fields on either side in many places, the road being the channel that the water finds the way all water finds the channel, the water flowing along the road's surface, the flowing being the drainage, the drainage that the road was not designed for because the road was designed for vehicles and not for water, the road's design being the asphalt and the base and the shoulders and the ditches, the ditches being the road's drainage system, and the system is overwhelmed, the ditches full, the water having exceeded the system's capacity, the capacity being the engineered limit that the storm has exceeded, the exceeding being the flooding, the flooding being the road turned to river.

Clem drives through the water. The water is six inches deep on the road, eight in the low spots, the depth being manageable for the F-250 but not for a car, not for the sedans and the small vehicles that make up most of the parish's traffic, and the not-manageable is the danger, the danger that the flooding creates for the people who must drive, who must get home, who must move through the parish that the storm has turned into a waterscape.

His phone rings. Arceneaux.

"Horses on the highway," Arceneaux said. "Five-fifteen north of Monterey. Fences are down. I've got at least four head on the road. I need you out here."

Clem turns north. Highway 515. The road that runs from Monterey toward Waterproof, the road that passes through the farm country where the fences are barbed wire and the barbed wire is strung between wooden posts and the wooden posts are set in the ground and the ground is soft from the rain and the softness lets the wind push the posts and the pushing breaks the wire and the breaking is the breach, the breach that lets the animals through, the through being the highway, the highway where the animals do not belong and where the animals are a danger to themselves and to the vehicles that travel the highway in the storm's aftermath, the aftermath being the time when the driving resumes and the driving meets the animals and the meeting is the accident.

He drives fast. The water sprays from the tires. The wipers sweep. The road ahead is visible now, the storm having moved east, the sky to the west clearing, the clearing producing the late-afternoon light that is the storm's gift, the golden light that the cleared atmosphere provides, the light being cleaner and sharper than the pre-storm light, the sharpness being the absence of the humidity that the storm has removed, the removal being temporary, the humidity returning by morning, but for now the light is sharp and the air is clean and the road is wet and the horses are on the highway.

He sees them. Three horses on the highway shoulder, a fourth in the road, standing in the center of the southbound lane, the standing being the danger, the horse visible in the golden light but the golden light will be gone in an hour and the dark will come and the dark horse on the dark road will be invisible and the invisible horse will be the accident.

Arceneaux's cruiser is parked on the shoulder, lights flashing, the flashing being the warning, the warning that says: Slow down, there is something on the road, the something being the horses and the something being the danger.

Clem parks behind the cruiser. He gets out. The air is different. The storm has changed the air, has cooled it by ten degrees, the cooling being the storm's other gift, the gift of reduced temperature that the parish will enjoy for the hours between the storm and the morning when the heat returns, the return being certain, the certainty being July's promise, the promise that the heat will come back.

Arceneaux is on the road, his arms spread, his body the barrier between the horse in the road and the traffic that is approaching from the south, the traffic being a truck that slows when it sees the cruiser's lights and the deputy's body and the horse, the truck slowing and stopping and waiting, the waiting being the cooperation, the cooperation that the emergency produces, the people cooperating with the emergency the way the parish cooperates with all its emergencies, by stopping, by waiting, by letting the people who know what to do do the thing they know.

Clem gets halters from the truck. He keeps halters in the box because the box contains everything the practice needs and the practice includes the catching of loose animals, the catching being one of the things that the parish veterinarian does, the thing that is not medicine but management, the management of the animals that the parish keeps and that the parish's infrastructure (the fences, the gates, the pens) normally contains, the normally being disrupted by the storm, the storm having broken the normally, and the breaking of the normally producing the emergency, and the emergency is horses on the highway.

The three horses on the shoulder are nervous but not panicked. They are standing together, the herd instinct holding them near each other, the instinct that says: Stay with the group, the group is the safety, the safety being the number, the number being three, three horses standing together on the highway shoulder in the golden light after the storm.

Clem approaches. He speaks. The voice. The steady voice that the horses hear and that the hearing produces the recognition, the recognition not of Clem specifically but of the category, the category of human who approaches with authority and calm, the authority being the posture and the calm being the voice and the combination being the signal that says: I am not a threat, I am the handler, the handling is what I do.

He halters the first horse. A bay mare, sweating, her eyes wide but not rolling, the not-rolling being the sign that the panic is not complete, the panic manageable, the mare accepting the halter because the halter is familiar, the halter being a thing she has worn before and the wearing-before being the training, the training that domestication provides, the training that makes a thousand-pound animal accept a two-pound piece of nylon and the acceptance is the cooperation and the cooperation is the management.

He ties the mare to the fence post on the shoulder. The fence post that is still standing, that the storm did not push over, the post being the anchor, the anchor that holds the mare while Clem goes for the next horse.

He halters the second. A sorrel gelding, younger, more nervous, the nervousness producing the dancing, the sidestepping that is the horse's physical expression of the anxiety, the anxiety being the emotion that the storm produced and that the highway intensified and that the halter calms, the calming being the halter's weight, the weight on the head that is the signal that says: Someone is in charge, the someone-in-charge being the calming fact, the fact that reduces the anxiety from the unmanageable to the manageable.

The third horse. A paint mare, stocky, calm, standing on the shoulder as if the shoulder is a pasture and the pasture is normal and the normal has not been disrupted, the calm being this horse's nature, the nature that every herd has in one member, the calm one, the one that does not panic, the one whose calmness calms the others, the herd's emotional anchor.

The fourth horse is in the road. A young horse, a two-year-old, barely halter-broke, the barely being the problem, the problem being: This horse does not know the halter well enough to trust the halter, does not know the human well enough to trust the human, and the not-knowing is the resistance, the resistance that the young horse will offer when Clem approaches.

Arceneaux is directing traffic around the horse. The traffic is light — the storm has kept people home — but the light traffic is still traffic, still vehicles that must be diverted around the horse standing in the southbound lane, the horse that is the obstacle and the danger and the problem that must be solved before the dark comes and the dark horse on the dark road becomes the accident.

Clem approaches. The young horse moves. Not away exactly — sideways, the sideway movement that is the horse's evasion, the evasion that is not flight but avoidance, the horse avoiding the approaching human by moving to the side, the side being the northbound lane, the lane that Arceneaux has blocked with his cruiser.

Clem follows. Slowly. The slow approach that the young horse requires, the slowness being the patience, the patience that is Clem's primary instrument, the instrument that he uses on the animals that do not trust him yet, the animals whose trust must be earned and the earning being the slowness, the slow approach that says: I will not rush you, I will not grab you, I will come at the pace that your fear allows, and the pace is slow, and the slow is fine, and the fine is the patience.

The young horse stops. It turns to face Clem. The rectangular nostrils flare, reading the air, reading Clem's scent, the scent being the information, the information being: This is a human, this human smells like animals, this human smells like the barn and the hay and the medications and the other horses, the smelling-like being the credential, the credential that the young horse's nose reads the way the young horse's eyes read the posture, and the posture is calm, and the scent is familiar, and the familiar-calm is the permission, the permission to approach.

Clem approaches. He extends his hand. The young horse sniffs the hand. The sniffing is the introduction, the introduction that horses perform with their noses, the nose being the horse's primary instrument the way Clem's hands are Clem's primary instrument.

He slips the halter over the nose. The young horse flinches but does not bolt. The not-bolting is the acceptance, the reluctant acceptance, the acceptance that says: I will allow this because the alternative is worse, the alternative being the highway and the traffic and the storm's aftermath and the dark that is coming.

Clem leads the young horse off the road. He leads it to the shoulder where the other three horses are tied. He ties the young horse to the fence post beside the paint mare, the calm mare, the calm being contagious, the young horse's anxiety reduced by the proximity to the calm horse, the proximity being the herd's medicine, the herd's version of the veterinarian's treatment, the treatment being: You are not alone, the not-alone being the cure for the fear.

Four horses. Caught. Off the road. Tied to fence posts on the shoulder while Clem and Arceneaux figure out where they belong and how to get them back.

The fences. Clem walks along the highway and finds the break. Three posts down. The wire on the ground. The posts pushed over by the wind that came with the storm, the wind that was seventy miles per hour and that pushed the posts the way it pushed the soybeans, down, the down being the breaking and the breaking being the breach and the breach being the opening through which the horses came.

He has temporary fencing in the truck. T-posts and wire, the temporary fencing that he carries for these situations, the situations that the parish produces when the storms come and the fences go down and the animals go through and the going-through is the emergency that the parish veterinarian responds to because the responding is the practice, the practice including not just the medicine but the management, the management of the animals and the fences and the emergencies that the weather creates.

He and Arceneaux set the temporary fence. The T-posts driven into the soft ground with the post driver that Clem keeps in the truck, the driver being the tool, the heavy metal sleeve that slides over the post and is lifted and dropped, lifted and dropped, the repetitive action that drives the post into the ground, the ground accepting the post because the ground is soft from the rain, the softness being the storm's one contribution to the repair.

They string the wire. They tie it to the posts with the wire ties that Clem carries. The temporary fence is not pretty and is not permanent but is sufficient, the sufficient being the standard, the standard being: Will this hold the horses until the owner can repair the real fence? And the answer is: Yes, probably, the probably being the honest assessment, the assessment that accounts for the temporary's limitations, the temporary being temporary.

They lead the horses through the break and into the pasture and close the temporary fence behind them. The horses stand in the pasture and the pasture is wet and the wet pasture is the normal, the normal restored, the horses in the pasture where the horses belong, behind the fence that keeps them off the highway, the highway that is not a place for horses, the highway being the human's road and the pasture being the horse's road and the fence being the boundary between them.

The owner arrives. A man named Prejean, forty, who lives down the road and who was in his house during the storm and who did not know his horses were loose until Arceneaux called him, the calling being the notification, the notification being: Your horses are on the highway, we caught them, they're back in the pasture, the temporary fence is up, fix the real fence tomorrow.

Prejean thanks them. The thank-you is brief and embarrassed, the embarrassment being the owner's emotion when the animals escape, the emotion that says: My fence failed, my animals were loose, my responsibility was unmet, and the unmet responsibility is the embarrassment, the embarrassment being the cost that the storm imposes on the owner's pride.

Clem and Arceneaux stand on the highway shoulder. The light is almost gone. The golden light has faded to the amber that precedes the dark, the amber being the last light, the light that says: The day is ending, the storm has passed, the horses are caught, the fence is up, the emergency is over.

They stand the way they stand after the emergencies, the two men who share the parish's darknesses, the two men who respond when the parish produces the thing that requires response — the horses on the highway, the neglected horse in the pasture, the dog attack, the livestock on the road, the things that the parish's animals produce when the parish's infrastructure fails, the failing being the storm's work, the storm breaking what the parish has built, and the parish rebuilding what the storm has broken.

"Long day," Arceneaux said.

"Long day," Clem said.

The exchange is sufficient. The exchange is the acknowledgment, the acknowledgment that the day was long and the long was hard and the hard was the work and the work was done and the done-ness is the satisfaction, the satisfaction that comes from the work completed, the horses off the road, the fence up, the emergency resolved.

Clem drives home. The road is still wet. The ditches are still full. The parish is dark and wet and the dark-wet is the storm's aftermath, the aftermath that the parish will clean up tomorrow, the tomorrow being the time for the assessment, the assessment of the damage — the fences down, the trees down, the power lines down, the roads flooded, the soybeans flattened — the assessment that the parish will perform the way it performs all assessments, systematically, practically, without drama, because the drama was the storm and the storm has passed and the passing of the storm is the beginning of the rebuilding and the rebuilding is the parish's perpetual activity.

The power is out. Clem pulls into the driveway and the house is dark, the dark being the power outage, the outage that the storm produced by dropping trees on the power lines, the dropping being the storm's work and the work producing the outage and the outage producing the dark.

Renee is on the porch. She has candles. The candles are the light, the light that the power outage requires, the light that is older than the electrical light, the light that the parish used before the electricity came and that the parish returns to when the electricity goes, the returning being the regression, the temporary regression to the older technology, the candle and the match and the flame.

Clem sits on the porch. The candles flicker. The parish is dark around them, the dark of the power outage being the dark of the old parish, the parish before the lines and the poles and the transformers, the parish lit by candle and lamp, the parish that was dark when the sun set and that was dark until the sun rose, and the dark was the condition and the condition was the life.

The storm has cooled the air. The temperature has dropped fifteen degrees, from 98 to 83, the dropping being the storm's gift, the gift of reduced heat that the parish will enjoy tonight, the one night of the summer when the sleeping will be comfortable, when the air through the open windows will be cool enough for the body to recover, the recovery that July has not allowed, the recovery that one storm provides.

They sit on the porch. The candles. The dark. The cool air. The parish dark and wet and quiet, the quiet of the aftermath, the quiet that follows the violence, the quiet that is the parish catching its breath, the breath-catching that is the pause between the storm and the rebuilding, the pause that the evening provides.

The power will come back tomorrow. The fences will be repaired. The roads will drain. The soybeans will stand back up, some of them, the standing-back-up being the resilience, the resilience that the parish shares with its crops and its animals and its people, the resilience that says: The storm came, the storm broke things, the things will be rebuilt, the rebuilding is what we do, the doing is the parish.

Clem sits. Renee sits. The candles flicker. The parish is dark. The storm has passed. The rebuilding will begin in the morning.

The morning will come. The morning always comes. The coming of the morning is the faith, the faith that sustains the parish through the storm and the dark and the aftermath, the faith that says: Tomorrow the power will be on and the fences will be mended and the roads will be dry and the veterinarian will drive his truck through the parish and the truck will carry the tools and the medications and the hands and the willingness, and the willingness is the practice, and the practice is the parish, and the parish endures.

The candles flicker. The dark holds. The morning comes.