Viv watched the sky disappear into darkness. The Saturday morning felt like swimming underwater in a murky river where the cool water soothed but its current held danger. As the wind whistled warnings, Dad nailed the final sheet of plywood over the den’s picture window. All morning he had hammered wood over windows. Momma gathered candles, flashlights, and a couple of kerosene lanterns; she also defrosted some round steaks. Footsie, their three-legged dog, vacillated from watching over Viv and her sisters to barking at the rice fields that surrounded their home as the smell of rain got stronger.
Oblivious to the weather, G. and Kelly played hopscotch in the garage while Viv cared for her white rabbit, George. Just an hour before Footsie had attacked George in the backyard when Viv had let the bunny out of the homemade hutch for her daily exercise. An intense little sister fight had distracted Viv from her rabbit watch. So it was Kelly’s fault that George had a mangled left foot and fright trauma. If Kelly had not thrown G.’s best Barbie’s head on the pump house roof, G. wouldn’t have yelled like she’d lost a limb, and Viv would not have run into the front of the garage and left George free to attempt a getaway into the grey fields while the wind increased its whistling.
Footsie probably mistook the pet for one of the wild rabbits that populated the rice fields. In the few minutes it took Viv to comfort the middle sister and reprimand the youngest one, the dog had caught the runaway bunny, shocked himself with the bloody result of his bite, and run to the garage area to bark the news to his girls. Viv first thought Footsie was upset by their yelling and crying, but he then did a Lassie imitation of “Bark, bark, bark,” looking off to the back yard, “Bark, bark,” and giving the girls a stare that was as close to “Hurry up, y’all!” as a dog could muster.
“What’s wrong?” asked Kelly, taking on the Timmy role.
“Bark! Bark!” Footsie took a few steps. “Bark! Bark!”
So all three followed Footsie to the backyard evidence of his crime. George lay motionless in a patch of dirt and grass sticky with red-brown blood. Now Viv sounded like she’d lost a limb. She gathered her pet in both arms and wailed to the ominous clouds.
G. ran through the backdoor yelling, “Momma!” Kelly followed Viv to the patio and saw the bunny’s left ear flick twice.
“Vivvy! Lookit! Lookit Pauly!” (Even though the rabbit had been Viv’s birthday gift, the younger sisters refused Viv the honor of naming him. Once Viv honored the pet with the name of her favorite Beatle, G. and Kelly bucked Viv’s authority and each named the rabbit after her favorite Beatle). Viv petted George/Paul/John gently between the ears. She sucked in the next sob and saw the rabbit’s long ears move again, so she switched from grieving pet owner to amateur vet. “Georgie, Georgie, you alive,” she said as she hugged her pet and kissed its soft head. She petted her pet and searched for injuries. Before she could finish her examination, Momma arrived and for a second believed the blood might belong to her oldest daughter.
“Sweet Jesus, Vivian!”said Momma, but when Viv extended both arms to hand the patient over to a more experienced medical authority, she realized the limp bloody rabbit owned all the injuries. “Cher, lapin,” said Momma reverting to her first language – Cajun French. She held the wounded pet and placed it on the patio’s low round terrazzo table that would serve as an examination room. Blood covered both long rear rabbit legs. “Get me water and the first aide kit,” Momma said. G. answered that call to action like the competitor she was. George/Paul/John jerked all four legs when Momma touched its left jumper paw. Viv gasped. “Pet the head, Viv,” Momma said as Kelly leaned in closer. “Ya’ll gotta move on back when I start the bandaging,” said Momma as G. reappeared with a clear plastic pitcher full of water and a yellow bucket first-aid kit.
“Poor John,” said G.
“Hold her down, Viv, while I wash her boo-boo,” said Momma.
As the rabbit became more aware of its pain, it kicked and fought. “Tighter. Use both hands.”
Viv used all her mental focus to will her weaker, cerebral palsied left hand to obey Momma’s words.
“Kelly and G., go get the hose and refill the bucket.”
For several minutes, Momma cleaned and bandaged the mangled rabbit while Viv looked away but held her pet still. George got docile after the hose changed its fur back to white. The younger sisters drifted off to find Footsie and decide on his punishment. Viv heard branches bumping into one another and the tire swing hitting the tree trunk. Zydeco…zydeco…zydeco beats bounced about as Viv slipped into a scene from last week’s matinee showing of Zorba, the Greek.
Viv looks up at a dark grey sky that matches a black and white world. Distant mountains surround the fields around her. Viv tightens her hold on the runaway goat as the tall grizzled man approaches her. “Good job, Boss,” Zorba says.“You are learning the ways of the island. The widow will thank you for saving her goat.” Viv’s smile is brief because an angry mob of mustached men march up the dirt road that leads to their cottage. The men raise hairy fists and throw foreign threats at Viv. “What do they want?” she asks. “Don’t you worry, Boss,” says Zorba who then marches to meet them. The goat bleats and Viv holds it closer with two equally strong hands. Zorba addresses the mob in loud urgent tones, and a magical stringed instrument strums its music around them. Its rhythm becomes part of the wind, and Zorba slaps the ground and brings his hands above his head and snaps to the music. The men quieten and form a semi-circle as Zorba calls to Viv. “Cut the rope and be free!” He extends an overhead arm to Viv. Viv stands and walks toward the gathering. The goat follows her as if in a trance. Then man and girl snap fingers with extended raised arms to the music that calms the crowd. The goat follows their lead and becomes part of the performance. Slack-jawed faces with thick eyebrows watch in silence.
“Watch what you’re doing,” said Momma when Viv released the rabbit’s front paws to snap the fingers of her right hand. “I’m not finished with this bandage.” Viv put her healthy right hand atop her smaller left one to keep the rabbit still.
“It’s ok, George.” The white rabbit surrendered to the humans and dreamed of crisp carrots and freedom, even as clouds let go fat heavy raindrops and darkened the backyard as if to foretell the night’s violence.
Rural Louisiana in the 1960s meant no fences for people without livestock, no leashes for dogs, and except for goldfish or hamsters, pets lived outdoors. Dad had built the hutch for the rabbit, but no way, no how would Momma let the girls bring it inside. Viv and her sisters begged for an exception to the “no animals in the house” rule. They were used to Footsie weathering hurricanes in the garage, but George/Paul/John was injured.
Viv tried, “We can keep him in the bathroom and cover the floor with newspaper.”
“Pauly could die!” was Kelly’s approach, and G. threw herself on the sofa and fake cried for a solid twelve minutes, setting a new record.
“Animals outside,” said Momma. “C’est la vie.” And that was that.
Dad moved the rabbit hutch to a corner of the garage and gave Footsie a camping blanket to sleep on. The sisters watched the rabbit sleep. Every once in awhile her ears twitched, and Viv took comfort in the steadiness of the rise and fall of her breathing. Each girl petted Footsie, and G. ironically told the dog, “Look out for John tonight.” Viv left her rabbit two carrots and fresh water, but her eyes stayed shut when she petted and praised the pet for its bravery before Momma forced the girls indoors to wait out the storm.
At 6:46 p.m. Viv sat cross-legged with her sisters in the den, listening to the wooden planks on the windows shake. G. held a flashlight under her chin as it was her turn to tell a scary story. Momma washed dishes by lantern since the electricity had gone out two hours ago. The wind howled background effects for G. “Frankie and Annette were driving down a long, dark road. And then the storm came.” A loud steady roll of thunder surrounded them as if on cue. Kelly grabbed Viv’s knee. “So Frankie drove faster to get outta the dark woods. But he was running out of gas, and it started raining harder and harder…” G. paused and stared right and left into each sister’s eyes, “like a hurricane!” The angry crack of lightening (the loudest of the night so far) made Kelly’s shoulders jump and she dug her fingernails into Viv’s leg. “And then the car just stopped. And then Frankie said, ‘I gotta get gas’ and he kissed Annette a long time and then she said, ‘OK, but hurry,’ and she locked the doors and prayed her rosary.”
Viv knew where this tale was headed. Soon Annette would hear taps on the car window that were from the feet of a dead hanging boyfriend. Viv focused on the rattling windows and worried about Georgie in the garage. Viv now heard sounds of stuff tossed about outside. Broken branches danced with lawn chairs and plastic toys. The rusty-red metal patio chair rocked and creaked an uneven tune. A basketball hit the side of the terrazzo table and bounced back and forth. Viv discovered the zydeco… zydeco…zydeco rhythm of the hurricane. Her imagination took her to a scene in her current favorite movie The Sound of Music.
Viv pedals her bike fast down cobblestone streets. Ahead Maria and the children sing and bike toward a grove of trees that forms a road canopy. “Doe, a deer, a female deer,” echoes towards Viv when she turns her bike down a graveled side street and leaves her group.
“Me, a name, I call myself,” barely reaches Viv’s ears when she slows and stops her bike. The sun is setting. She looks down at her unfortunate dress and smooths her loud green skirt. “Stupid kerchief,” she says as she yanks off the matching headpiece and shakes loose her long, straight hair. Her German boyfriend emerges from behind a bush, and his face glows in the approaching moonlight. He smiles and takes both of Viv’s even hands into his.“I thought perhaps you would not come.” Viv smiles back and lets the wind move her hair behind her. He looks strong and honest in his starched tan uniform.“You are so lovely,” he says. Viv looks down and blushes as the music begins. The teen leads her to a white gazebo lit by the stars. Viv sits on a bench as her beau sings, “You are sixteen going on seventeen…” When Viv later stands to sing her part of the song, the sky darkens and thunder booms. The cry of a wounded animal nearby stops the orchestra’s performance. The boy follows Viv who follows the urgent cries. Under an oak a white rabbit lies in a pool of blood. It whimpers weakly. Viv gasps and kneels near the animal.“Careful,” says the boy. “Perhaps this is a trap.” Viv says,“I have to help it,” and she leans towards the rabbit.
A hard shove sent her backwards. “What’s the deal!?” said G. “It’s not your turn yet.” Viv stood up. “I gotta check on Georgie.” She took the flashlight from G. and hurried out the room.
“It’s all storming and raining,” said Kelly.
“Momma’s not gonna let you go out,” said G., but Viv walked towards the back door. She heard Momma washing dishes by lantern light in the kitchen and Dad’s transistor radio from his bedroom. The younger sisters paused three seconds before following Viv. She turned the backdoor knob slow, slow and opened the door just enough to squeeze out. G. and Kelly did likewise.
The flashlight’s beam made the rain and wind more menacing. Rain poured down in blinding sheets along the covered patio. A quick gust blew through and pushed the rain sideways towards the girls. “Shit,” said Kelly and G. echoed her with “Shit, for sure.” Viv took longer steps down the uncovered sidewalk towards the garage. Kelly held G.’s hips and G. held Viv’s as the conga line reached the garage door. A renegade badminton racket flew towards them and slapped G’s butt. “Damnit!” she said before they all entered the dark garage.
It felt so crowded with the truck and car parked inside. Dad’s pickup usually rested near the closest oak tree to give the kids room to play hopscotch. Footsie hobbled to greet his girls. Kelly paused to pet their dog, G. stopped to rub his ears, but Viv made her way to the back corner of the garage. She shone the flashlight on George’s hutch.
“Georgie, you ok?” she said. Viv strained to see if the white fur moved up and down. She put the light atop a stack of cardboard boxes and undid the hutch’s latch. She reached for Georgie, careful not to disturb his bandaged back foot. The rabbit felt stiff. Viv reached in with both hands and saw a trickle of blood on Georgie’s mouth. She cradled her pet and cried quietly. Viv heard the howls and whines of the hurricane. Suddenly a thunderbolt sent G. and Kelly toward their sister’s flashlight glow.
“Oh poor, poor Pauly,” said Kelly, and G. put her arms around Viv’s shaking shoulders. “It musta been John’s time,” said G. as Momma rushed into the garage.
“What in the world are ya’ll doing?” said Momma. Then she saw the sad huddle. “Oh no, Vivvy, oh no.” All three girls grieved together as Momma threw her dishrag over her shoulder to hug her daughters. Kelly said, “Poor, poor Paulie,” and the rain fell hard and loud outside the garage.
After Ginger Keller Gannaway’s parents made her switch her major from Creative Writing to English Education in 1976, she switched her focus from writing to teaching. After raising three sons and teaching public school for 36 years, Gannaway has time to write again. Although she co-writes a blog (sittinuglysistahs.com), her true love is writing fiction. Her stories have appeared in Pigeon Review and one will soon be in Breath and Shadow. She lives in Texas but will forever have a Cajun soul and a need for beaucoup bon temps.