There's nothing like a good Florida thunderstorm to set the scene for some action, maybe in a ghost story, or the precursor to some serious conflict between characters.
In my story, it served as the introduction to a revelation about a major character, Ida Mae, whose death forms one of the plot threads for my story: did she jump, or was she pushed, from the widow's walk of her old home during - you guessed it - a bad thunderstorm!
Sounds cheesy, I know, but as a young writer I thought it was dynamite, and I'm pleased to say it actually worked pretty well. In my previous post, I set the scene and characters for my action and now I'm getting ready to make the 'big reveal' about Ida Mae that comes later in my story.
Here we go...
"We have to celebrate!" Ellen says, gathering us together in the kitchen. "What'll you have? I've got bourbon, three types, that's all we drink around here. I have a heart condition. Doctor says bourbon is the best thing for me."
I choose a Wild Turkey and Ellen pours a generous measure and splashes some ice into the glass. The glass is unwashed, there are dog hairs floating on top, and the bourbon smells like sulphur.
"It's my well," Ellen says. "Florida has the worst water in the Union and I have the worst water in the state."
We settle ourselves around the kitchen table, and while Ellen and Carl catch up, I look around. The kitchen is the focal point of the house. The countertops are covered in used cooking equipment and there's a hallway leading off into a dark room where I hear a TV going. I notice that the breeze has dropped away, the light outside is tainted greenish-yellow, and even the birds are silent under a heaviness in the air.
There is a low distant rumbling, followed by another, louder, a deep, throaty, rolling sound accompanied by flashes. I remember the stories Mom told us about Florida thunderstorms, how her mother gathered them together in the downstairs kitchen until the fury of the storm had passed.
"Somethin's fixin' to happen," says Doll, so quietly only I can hear.
The others seem oblivious to the approaching threat and keep talking about Ida Mae's death.
"It's comin' a-thunderboomin'," Doll says, again with an ominous quiet, sticking her false teeth out on the end of her tongue.
It has grown so dark outside we can barely see each other in the dim kitchen. Ellen turns on a lightbulb hanging over the table, casting a pale glow. The thunder is now very loud, reverberating through the whole house, seeking out the hallways and bedrooms and porch until the place seems to throb with a life of its own.
Flashes of lightning skitter over the kitchen walls, the wind kicks up in gusts that scatter leaves and limbs over the roof, the storm descending with frightening speed. Trees bow and toss, the old house creaks and groans as the wind slaps and thumps against the walls. Ellen tips more bourbon into our glasses as lightning snaps and pops and then the rain comes, huge floods of it, pounding on the roof like millions of little bulldog feet running over the tin, cascading in waterfalls from overflowing gutters. I feel like we're sitting under Niagara Falls. The noise is deafening and Ellen shouts to be heard.
"It's a fact. Ida Mae fell off the roof but you know what I think? I reckon she was pushed."
There is a brilliant flash and, in that split second, several things happen. The lighbulb over the table pops and glass showers everywhere. There is a loud bang from the livingroom as the TV blows up. The puppy on Doll's lap flies through the air with fright, landing in the middle of the table sending glasses and ice scattering. Doll screeches and throws her beer bottle in the air. The lightning seems to dance through every wire, electrifying the house and us in an instant of such terror that my eyes bulge. There is an earth-shattering, ear-splitting thunderclap right over the house that shakes every cupboard, glass and false tooth in the place and then there's a rumbling that rocks about the sides of the kitchen like loose bowling balls. We have had the grande finale.
The storm subsides almost as quickly as it had come, the wind dies down, the tree shake themselves dry. Carl laughs the way people do when they have looked death in the face and lived to talk about it. Ellen seems oblivious to the damage to her house. She empties shards of glass from our drinks and pours a fresh round. Doll picks up her beer bottle and one of the puppies laps up the beer.
"You get used to this," Ellen says to me. "This is Florida."
"I never get used to it," says Doll. "Scares the mess outta me every time."
I am wiping my brow when we hear a high wavering voice from the livingroom, that of an old man. Doll's nearly deaf and half-crippled father was in there watching TV.
"What y'all doin' in there?" he cries out. "Y'all blew up the TV!"
"We're having sex, daddy!" says Ellen.
And so the story rolled on to reveal what really happened to dear old Ida Mae ...