During the storm, we stay in the basement with a candle and a game of checkers. Others are on the outside, in the darkness, hiding behind the walls. My wife and our son Adam sit in a circle of sparkling light, smiling, and trying to guess the other’s next move. I watch over the game and slap Adam’s hand if he moves out of turn. And when my wife is indecisive, I move her piece for her.
I stand and walk into darkness. “Don’t do anything until I return,” I say.
“Where are you going?” my wife asks. Her voice is indistinct, as if a great distance separates us.
“Upstairs,” I say.
“Then you’re going the wrong way,” she says.
“Don’t try to fool me,” I say.
My son laughs. I look at him eagerly, and see that he is not laughing at me. He stares into his mother’s eyes, as if waiting for her next move. She completes her move, and my son laughs again.
“I knew you’d do that!” he says.
“Why didn’t you stop me?” my wife asks. Her voice is weak, and her face is blurred by the dimming candlelight. She seems upset.
“Honey, where are you going?” she asks me, beginning to stand.
“Don’t stand!” I say.
“Daddy, you’re going the wrong way!” my son says. He stands beside his mother, searching the darkness for me.
“Stay down, you two,” I say. “Daddy will be right back.”
I find the staircase and grab onto the railing so hard the wood splinters and comes loose. I pull myself up, one step at a time, until I’m on the second floor.
“Where’d you go?” my wife asks. She’s playing checkers alone now, throwing pieces onto the board. I watch her from the darkness. I want to ask a question but can’t remember what it is. My thoughts are muddied, and I feel lightheaded.
“I was waiting here when Adam stood and walked away,” my wife says.
“Adam’s gone?”
My wife responds, but her voice is so weak I can’t hear her. Her head lulls forward, and she uses both hands to lift it up. She wipes her face on her palms and pulls her hair back into a ponytail. She sniffles.
I asked if she is crying.
“No,” she says. “I have allergies.”
“Where’s Adam,” I say.
“He went looking for you.”
“Stay here,” I say. I turn and retrace my steps to the staircase.
“Claire!” I say.
The candle burns dimly now. There is a blanket by the checkerboard; I’m not sure if someone is beneath it. Then I see movement. My wife’s head lifts up as if to listen for me, and drops again. As I stare, I realize the blanket is empty.
I’m tired now, too tired to call out to my wife and son. Through the cellar window, I see morning come. The sunlight filters through the clouds and diminishes the light of the candle. I blow out the candle and pick up the blanket. With my other hand, I grab the checkerboard and scrape the pieces into a pile. I look for the box. I shake out the blanket but the box is not there. I kick around in the shadows but all I feel is the dusty cement floor.
“Claire!” I yell. “Adam!”
The sun brightens and the shadows retreat. I grab the checker pieces and stuff them in my pockets. I put the candle under my arm. As the basement loses all trace of the storm and the night, I smile. I close my eyes, and take a deep breath of the damp, basement air.
