"We don't need to get near the cotton trailer," Pappy was saying as I arrived. "Not with that lightnin'."
"Better get to the house," my father said.
We loaded onto the flatbed trailer, all of us scrambling in a great hurry, and just as Pappy turned the tractor around, the rain hit with a fury. It was cold and sharp and falling sideways in the fierce wind. We were instantly soaked; I wouldn't have been wetter if I'd jumped in the creek.
The Spruills huddled together with Tally in the center. Just a few feet away, my father clutched me to his chest, as if the wind might take me away. My mother and Gran had left the fields not long before the storm hit.
The rain beat us in waves. It was so thick I could barely see the rows of cotton just a few feet in front of me. "Hurry up, Pappy!" I kept saying. The storm was so loud I couldn't hear the familiar knock of the tractor engine. Lightning cracked again, this time much closer, so close that my ears hurt. I thought we were going to die.
It took forever to get to the house, but when we did, the rain suddenly stopped. The sky was even darker, black in every direction. "It's a funnel!" Mr. Spruill said loudly as we were just getting off the trailer. To the west, far beyond the river and high above the tree line, a slim funnel cloud dipped downward. It was light gray, almost white against the black sky, and it grew larger and louder as it made its way very slowly toward the ground. It was several miles away, and because of the distance it didn't seem too dangerous.
Tornadoes were common in our part of Arkansas, and I'd heard stories about them all of my life. Decades earlier Gran's father had supposedly survived a horrible twister, one that had run in circles and struck the same small farm more than once. It was a tall tale, one that Gran told without much conviction. Twisters were a way of life, but I'd not seen one until now.
"Kathleen!" my father yelled toward the house. He didn't want my mother to miss such a spectacle. I glanced at the barn, where the Mexicans were as still and as amazed as we were. A couple of them were pointing.
We watched the funnel in muted fascination, without fear or terror, because it was nowhere near our farm and going away, to the north and east. It moved slowly, as if it were searching for the perfect place to touch down. Its tail was clearly visible above the horizon, way above the land, and it skipped along in midair, dancing at times while it decided where and when to strike. The bulk of the funnel spun tightly, a perfect upside-down cone whirling in a fierce spiral.
The screen door slammed behind us. My mother and Gran were on the steps, both of them wiping their hands with dish towels.
"It's headed for town," Pappy said with great authority, as if he could predict where tornadoes would hit.
"I think so," my father added, suddenly another expert weatherman.
The twister's tail sank lower and stopped skipping. It appeared as if it had indeed touched down somewhere far away, because we could no longer see the end of it.
The church, the gin, the movie theater, Pop and Pearl's grocery - I was tallying the damage when suddenly the twister lifted itself up and seemed to disappear completely.
There was another roar behind us. Across the road, deep into the Jeter property, another tornado had arrived. It had crept up on us while we were watching the first one. It was a mile or two away and seemed headed straight for our house. We watched in horror, unable to move for a second or two.
"Let's get in the barn!" Pappy shouted. Some of the Spruills were already running toward their camp, as if they'd be safe inside a tent.
"Over here!" Mr. Spruill shouted and pointed to the barn. Suddenly everyone was yelling and pointing and scurrying about. My father grabbed my hand, and we began running. The ground was shaking and the wind was screaming. The Mexicans were scattering in all directions; some thought it best to hide in the fields, others were headed toward our house until they saw us running to the barn. Hank flew past me with Trot on his back. Tally outran us, too.
Before we made it to the barn, the twister left the ground and rose quickly into the sky. Pappy stopped and watched, and then so did everybody else. The funnel went slightly to the east of our farm, and instead of a frontal assault, it left behind only a sprinkling of thick brown rainwater and specks of mud. We watched it jump along in midair, looking for another site to drop down in, just like the first one.
"A Painted House"
For a few minutes we were too stunned and too frightened to say much.
I studied the clouds in all directions, determined not to be blind-sided again. I wasn't the only one cutting my eyes around.
Then it started raining once more, and we went to the house.
The storm raged for two hours and threw almost everything in nature's arsenal at us: gale-force winds and blinding rains, twisters, hail, and lightning so quick and so close that we hid under our beds at times. The Spruills took refuge in our living room, while we cowered throughout the rest of the house. My mother kept me close. She was deathly afraid of storms and that made the entire ordeal even worse. I wasn't exactly sure how we would die-blown away by the wind or seared by a lightning bolt or swept away by the water-but it was obvious to me that the end had come. My father slept through most of it, though, and his indifference was a great comfort. He'd lived in foxholes and been shot at by the Germans, so nothing frightened him. The three of us lay on the floor of their bedroom-my father snoring, my mother praying, and me in the middle listening to the sounds of the storm. I thought of Noah and his forty days of rain, and I waited for our little house to simply lift up and begin floating.
When the rain and wind finally passed, we went outside to survey the destruction. Other than wet cotton, there was surprisingly little damage-several scattered tree branches, the usual washed-out gullies, and some ripped-up tomato plants in the garden. The cotton would be dry by the next morning, and we'd be back in business.
During a late lunch Pappy said, "I reckon I better go check on the gin." We were anxious to get to town. What if it had been leveled by the twister?
"I'd like to see the church," Gran said.
"Me, too," I said.
"Why do you wanna see the church?" my father asked.
"To see if the twister got it."
"Let's go," Pappy said, and we jumped from our chairs. The dishes were piled into the sink and left unwashed, something I'd never seen before.
Our road was nothing but mud, and in places large sections had been washed away. We slipped and slid for a quarter of a mile until we came to a crater. Pappy rammed it in low and tried to plow through the ditch on the left side, next to the Jeters' cotton. The truck stopped and settled, and we were hopelessly stuck. My father hiked back to the house to get the John Deere while we waited. As usual, I was in the back of the truck, and so I had plenty of room to move around. My mother was packed in the front with Pappy and Gran. I think it was Gran who said something to the effect that perhaps it wasn't such a good idea to go to town after all. Pappy just stewed.
When my father returned, he hooked a twenty-foot log chain to the front bumper and slowly pulled us out of the ditch. The men had decided it was best for the tractor to drag us all the way to the bridge. When we got there, Pappy unhitched the chain, and my father rode over on the tractor. Then we crossed in the truck. The road on the other side was even worse, according to the men, so they rehitched the chain, and the tractor pulled the truck for two miles until we came to a gravel road. We left the John Deere there and headed for town, if, in fact, it was still there. God only knew what carnage awaited us. I could barely conceal my excitement.