The Light Pirate(9)

Planning activities for little boys who hate her is not how this year was supposed to go. If she’d gone back to Houston, she would have her master’s degree by now. She’d have a job, too. No more waitressing or making lattes—she’d be beginning her career as a proper architect, sitting in some open-plan office full of glass and crisp modern shapes. And a view—she imagines that today is clear and sunny in Houston, far from the turmoil lurking off the coast. In this fantasy, Joy is alive, sending postcards from Turks and Caicos. There is no pregnancy. Frida’s body is her own and her potential is enormous. She designs buildings and bridges and parks. Her work is feted. Her future is bright.

But she can only imagine this for so long before the sound of the boys screaming at each other drags her back to Rudder. To this house, which feels tight and uninspired. She and Kirby agreed when they married that after the baby came, she would finish her degree somehow. There’s a good program in Miami. He promised that they would make it work. But it suddenly hits her that this is just as much a fantasy as her elegant, sun-filled office. She rubs her belly and feels ashamed for imagining that it is flat and empty. I didn’t mean it, she tells its resident. Except maybe she did.

She’s found Kirby’s list by now, knows that there are things she must attend to before he gets back, but she can’t bring herself to do much more than stand in front of the stove and contemplate this breakfast she doesn’t want. The baby kicks. Or is it a cramp? A pain grips her abdomen and then lets go. The oatmeal bubbles, slow and viscous. In the other room, one of the boys gives a shout of victory and she can’t tell which kid it is and more importantly, she doesn’t care.





Chapter 9




Kirby parks in the yard and goes to meet his foreman, who leans against the town’s bucket truck, already halfway down a thick cigar.

“A little early for that, isn’t it?” Kirby says.

“Nah.” Emilio flicks ash onto the ground. “I been awake for hours. Early don’t mean much when you can’t sleep.” He rolls the smoke in his mouth, letting it escape in a long, slow line. His silvery hair is slicked straight back, gray stubble creeping down his neck. His head barely comes up to Kirby’s shoulder and he must be nearing sixty, but he moves with a kind of efficient, understated power, like there’s a reservoir of strength standing by: tightly coiled, always ready. Kirby likes him more and more the longer they work together.

“So what are we playing with?”

Emilio shrugs. “Probably just a short circuit. Didn’t give details. Won’t know till we get out there.”

“Whatever it is, we’ll get her done fast,” Kirby says. Emilio nods his approval, puffing hard on his cigar. He’s done talking, and Kirby lets the silence stand. No matter how well Emilio and Kirby get along, he’s still the new guy. He doesn’t want to overstep.

Wes arrives, and the three of them lean against the bucket truck while they wait for the last two. It’s a crew of five—two on the ground, two in the air, and Emilio supervising. Thus far, Kirby has found the work of maintaining a single municipality’s grid mild compared to storm-duty contracts, but he knows saying so won’t win him any goodwill here. Wes is scraggly, tall and thin like an adolescent pine tree, with a mouth that never stops flapping. He’s a squirrelly son of a bitch and Kirby doesn’t like him, but he keeps it civil.

“Whose dumbass idea was it to call us in with a Cat Four comin’ in for a landing?” Wes asks.

“Utility director assigned it. Like always,” Emilio grumbles. He’s not interested in Wes’s bullshit, either.

“You mean Cat Three,” Kirby says.

“Upgraded it on the way here. Headed straight for us, too,” Wes says. “Just watch, this line’ll be out again in a few hours. Wind changed overnight. Lookin’ like a direct hit.”

“That so?” Kirby tries not to show his surprise. He should know by now that hurricanes do whatever they want. A direct hit…he can feel his stomach twist as Wes chatters on about the forecast. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, but he wants to get home. He doesn’t want Frida to hear all of this on the news.

The groundmen are late. When they do arrive, they are together. Brenda is at the wheel, a Black woman with a ball cap pulled down over her eyes who looks like she would rather be anywhere else, while Jerome, a scrawny white twenty-year-old, sits beside her, chattering away. Brenda pulls her truck alongside them and rolls down her window, hooking her arm over the side. “Sorry,” she says, rolling her eyes toward Jerome by way of explanation. “We’ll follow you.” She smacks her hand against the door for emphasis, her T-shirt sleeve cuffed to hold a pack of cigarettes.

“Hey, lovebirds,” Wes calls into the cab, and makes a wet kissing sound.

Brenda fixes him with a rigid stare and cuts the wheel with ferocious precision, backing up abruptly to make room, her eyes never leaving Wes. That’s the right way to deal with that, Kirby thinks. He’s never worked with a woman before, but he likes Brenda. She’s quiet and strong and a hard worker. Jerome, on the other hand, is a liability. He’s been begging rides ever since Kirby started—something about a DUI. Kirby doesn’t ask for details that aren’t offered.



At the job site, they find a downed line and a few heavy branches in the road. Brenda can’t get out of the truck fast enough; she’s clapped a hard hat over her box braids and is setting out cones before anyone else has even turned off their engines. The line is slithering: a hot, sparking snake slapping against the pavement. Kirby knows that’s 13,800 volts or so trying to find a home and he’d rather it wasn’t him. Emilio’s cigar has burned down to a nub, but he won’t throw it away until it begins to singe the hair on his knuckles. Kirby gets the hot sticks from the truck as quickly as he can and tosses one to Wes.