Hurricane House Read Free Page A

seventy-five in a flash flood. “Name’s Ellen. What’s yours?”
    “John.” He offered his right, gloved hand. His left hand gripped the steering wheel.
    She couldn’t make herself shake hands with that glove. Better to stare at the windshield wipers battling the rain. How could anyone see to drive in this stuff? She certainly couldn’t, though she had no problem seeing the way John gave her the once over as if she were a sexy model, not a fifty-year-old woman, forty pounds overweight. He needed to watch the road, not give her the eye.
    “What’s your story, Ellen? Where are you from originally?”
    Ellen stared at the stranger, trying to memorize every detail in case she needed to remember later. “Born in New York City, lived there for thirty years.”
    “But not now?”
    “Right.”
    “Got tired of the Big Apple? Can’t say as I blame you.”
    “Oh, no, I love New York. The city so nice they named it twice. I miss living in the city. I miss the Broadway shows, especially the opera, everything, even the rude taxi drivers.”
    He laughed. “Don’t know as I agree with you, or David Letterman, on that one. Why’d you leave?”
    “Lost my job.”
    “What kind of work do you do?” John squinted at Ellen, and she thought his eyelids looked heavy, sleepy. Could she trust him not to fall asleep at the wheel?
    “We’re talking twenty years since I worked full-time. I was a switchboard operator on Wall Street for many years.” “What do you do now?”
    “Clean trucks and houses.”
    “I’m sure there’s a demand for that.”
    “I’m good at it, too, but if I had my druthers, I’d sing for a living.”
    He laughed. “You mean sing for your supper?”
    Not funny, Ellen wanted to say when the Hummer hydroplaned, skidding across I-10. They almost hit a trucker in front of them. She screamed and gripped the arm rest. God help me. “Slow down,” she yelled. “Keep your eyes on the road.”
    He slowed to sixty-five. “I have a heavy foot, sorry.” He took his right hand off the wheel and patted her shoulder. “Now what were we talking about? Oh, yeah, something about your singing? You said you’d like to sing for a living. Did you ever sing professionally?”
    Ellen moved away from his hand. “I studied with Luciano Pavarotti’s coach. Was second choice for ‘Aida’ once.” Ellen didn’t expect John, or whatever his name was, to believe her, though she never lied.
    He cocked one eyebrow. “Why give that up?”
    Ellen felt trapped, similar to the time she got stuck in the Empire State Building elevator. “Polyps on my vocal cords. Lost my job, then my apartment.”
    “What about family? Couldn’t they help you out?”
    Ellen bit her lip in fear. She needed to make a move, get out of this Hummer, but how? “My parents were abusive drunks.”
    John shook his head. “Life sucks sometimes.” He glanced through sleepy eyes.
    Ellen thought he might be on drugs. What if he fell asleep at the wheel? “I moved in with my boyfriend. He was an alcoholic and abusive, just like my folks. So I left him and caught a bus to Seattle but couldn’t find a job there.”
    “Why couldn’t you find a job?”
    “I don’t have enough sense to keep my mouth shut. Whatever I’m thinking comes out, but that’s okay. Now I’m glad I didn’t get a job in Seattle. It rained every day I was there, very depressing. Two people in my homeless shelter killed themselves.”
    John pointed to his dashboard. “Need to stop for gas.” He turned off at an exit where a BP station adjoined a rest area. “So, you gave up on your singing.”
    “No, I still sing. I just haven’t performed in a theater for twenty years.”
    “I’d like to hear you.” He smiled at her.
    Ellen thought, why not? She loved to sing, and it might keep him awake until she could get away from him. “Okay, I’ll sing some of Aida in Act IV when Aida and her lover Radamès are buried alive in a crypt.” Ellen transformed herself into the