Rain Reign by Ann M. Martin Read Free Book Online Page A

about the path of the storm? On Wednesday he says unh , he doesn’t ever remember losing power for more than four days.
    Today is Thursday and my father is at home and out in our yard when Uncle Weldon drops me off after school. My father is checking to see if our gas cans are full. Rain is watching him from the couch on the porch. Her head is resting on her front paws (pause), but her eyes are alert.
    â€œBye,” I say to my uncle, and because I like him, I lean back into the truck before I close the door, and I look directly into his eyes. “Thank you for the ride,” I say clearly.
    Uncle Weldon smiles at me. “You’re welcome. I’ll see you tomorrow.” Finger crosses, heart touches.
    My uncle waves to my father through the windshield and turns the truck around.
    â€œYou’re not at work,” I say to my father.
    â€œNope, not at work. Very observant.”
    This might (mite) be (bee) sarcasm, which is like mockery.
    Rain jumps off the porch to greet me and my father says, “I’m going into town to get supplies. Do you and Rain want to come with me?”
    â€œSupplies for the superstorm known as Hurricane Susan?”
    â€œYes. Do you want to come with me?” he says again, and this is my reminder to answer his question.
    â€œYes, I do,” I say.
    I sit beside my father in the cab of our truck. Rain rides in the back. We drive down Hud Road. As we pass the J & R Garage my father waves to Jerry, who’s one of the owners. I don’t know why my father isn’t working today, but I don’t ask him any questions.
    At the bottom of Hud Road my father turns left without using his directional.
    â€œHey, you didn’t—” I cry.
    But my father says, “Can it, Rose,” without looking at me.
    We drive into Hatford and my father angles the truck into a parking place near the hardware store. The inside of the store is very crowded. So many people are shopping today that it’s hard to walk down the aisles.
    I wring my hands. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen,” I chant. I look at the ceiling.
    â€œStop it, Rose,” says my father.
    â€œRose/rows, toad/towed, or/ore/oar.”
    â€œRose, that’s enough . What’s the matter? Are there too many people in here?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œDo you need to go back to the truck?”
    â€œI don’t know.”
    â€œBecause I could use some help.” My father drags me to a quiet corner of the store. “Everyone is out getting supplies and I’d like to get ours now before there’s nothing left. So could you just settle down and help me?” He’s taken me by the shoulders and is holding them a little too tightly. Also, his face is very, very close to mine. “Rose? Can you give me a hand here, please?”
    Please/pleas.
    â€œOkay,” I say.
    My father finds a cart and I focus on what we need. Paper plates and paper cups in case our dishwasher doesn’t work, paper towels in case our washing machine doesn’t work, water in case our water pump doesn’t work, AA batteries and C batteries and D batteries for a radio and flashlights and tools.
    I help my father carry our supplies to the truck. Then we drive to the grocery store and buy cereal and bread and dog food and canned soup and other things that won’t go bad if our refrigerator doesn’t work.
    After the grocery store we drive to the Exxon station and fill up the gas cans.
    *   *   *
    That night Sam Diamond calls my father at 6:21 p.m. and they decide to go to The Luck of the Irish, so Rain and I are left alone. I realize that I could listen to the Weather Channel without looking at it. With my back to the TV I hear Rex Caprisi say that Hurricane Susan is expected to make landfall in a couple of hours and then travel up the coast.
    Up the coast.
    We live inland, we live inland.
    I think of all the space that was between my finger and the