Page 22 of Zeppelin
I make quick work of getting it ready, watching the sky the whole time.
Zeppelin picks up on my nervous energy, but he sinks down at the table like there’s nothing wrong.
We both eat in silence. I’m always nauseous to some degree, but dinner is usually the best time of day. I’m careful to only eat a little because I’ve found out the hard way that nights are often not friendly for a rocky stomach.
Potatoes are good. They seem to stick.
Zeppelin eats in silence, helping himself to a huge serving of ham, tucking it away, then scooping out more. He doesn’t skimp on anything else either.
The night he was at my parents’ house for dinner, we were both too nervous about giving them the baby news to really eat much of anything. Tonight, it’s different. The fresh country air and hard work will do that.
Being a human his size probably freaking does it.
Zeppelin’s quiet until another clap of thunder shakes the house, sounding like it’s right on top of us. The floorboards legit shake beneath my feet. I nearly drop the dishes that I’m carrying to the white farmhouse sink to wash up. When Zeppelin pointed out the tap earlier, I was blasé about it. I’m not about to admit that getting hot water is a process—and part of me does wish I could have running water at the flick of a switch. But I tell myself that my grandparents managed just fine. The sink does have a pipe that drains underneath the cabin when the plug is pulled,so at least I don’t have to carry a big tub outside and pitch it out after.
The dishes clearly aren’t going to be done anytime soon.
Not when a torrent of rain unleashes, beating against the shingles. My dad has patched the roof over the years, so a lot of the shingles are new. There aren’t any obvious leaks. Yet.
The rain streaks down the windows, running in rivers.
The thunder rumbles again, then lets out a bang that I can feel in my bones this time.
I set the dishes in the sink and turn to stare at Zeppelin. He doesn’t look good. His skin has an almost gray pallor. Is he afraid of storms?
“I think we should go down to the cellar. It’s got a dirt floor, but wood walls, and it’s clean and safe. My app said a severe thunderstorm warning, but that often carries the chance for worse. I don’t want to take chances.”
“Perfect day out there for a tornado,” he agrees. His hands ball into fists and his whole body floods with tension. He seems to sway back and forth on the spot, without moving at all. “Alright,” he agrees after another bang of thunder. “Let’s get down there.”
This is an old farmhouse, so the cellar door is in the back. It’s the trapdoor kind that you throw open in the floor, with a set of sturdy wooden stairs that lead below. My dad repeatedly checked the foundations of this house, year after year, but he always came back home to remark, with no small amount of amazement, how sturdy it still was.
Zeppelin switches his phone flashlight on and lowers his big body down the stairs. It’s such a trip, seeing him disappear, until everything is gone except his head. He turns and extends his hand for me again.
When I take it, there’s a definite tremor from him. Nervous energy? Fear?
I follow him down. I don’t flip the door closed. That would be too much. Entirely too claustrophobic. There’s a set of stairs on the other end of the cellar and a door that opens up to outside. The walls are lined on the far right with wooden shelves. I have a few jars of preserves down here that I’ve brought over, and some of the groceries that just keep better where it’s cold, but the place is mostly empty. The far wall is clean, old wood. There aren’t any cobwebs down here. No mice scurrying around. Dad and Gabe did an incredible job cleaning this place from top all the way to actual bottom.
The cool air and earthy smell are scents I find inviting, not frightening, but Zeppelin doesn’t feel the same. He drops my hand the second I’m safely down the stairs and starts pacing in the small area. When I get my flashlight on and point it in his direction, not caring to even be subtle about it, his forehead is slick with perspiration, and his shirt clings damply to his body. Even in the hot, humid house, he wasn’t sweating like that when we ate.
“Zeppelin?”
He grunts out a non-response.
“Is it being in a small space? Does that bother you? Or is it the storm?”
His eyes chase the shadows from the phone lights around the small space, roving wildly back and forth. “I could pretend it wasn’t escalating before. A thunderstorm is a thunderstorm, but it looks bad out there.”
I flick the light off of him, allowing him some time to breathe.
“I just need a minute,” he chokes out.
I wait a minute. Another. Another. Time isn’t helping. If anything, Zeppelin’s breathing grows more erratic. Soon, it sounds like he’s working out hard.
I flick my phone light back on and cross the cellar. I stand right in front of him, trying to get in his space just enough that he focuses on me and not on freaking out.
His hair glints blue black in the light. His eyes flash as they roam the cellar one more time before finally fixing on my face. It doesn’t slow his breathing. If anything, it picks up, sawing in and out.
I don’t allow myself time to overthink and process it to death before I act. I take Zeppelin’s hand in mine. I unfurl his fist, tracing my fingertips gently over the hard callouses and worn creases of his palm. It’s not hard to imagine these strong hands working day in and day out to take things apart, solve problems, and put them back together again.
