I had been staying with Ciara for a week during a University Alumni Retreat. As the week came to a close it seemed like it might have been time to leave, even though I didn't really want to go back to my small, pandemic-locked-down apartment in New York City. When I asked her if I could stay longer her simple, direct answer was "Stay as long as you want. Or forever."
A month later the pandemic began to dramatically surge again, despite everyone's hopes. I was now even less inclined to return to New York. Working remotely was easy, and things were generally quieter and safer living with her in Pennsylvania than in New York. On the weekends she'd put me to work, small chores, little household repair jobs, and other things that needed tending.
We mostly kept to ourselves, but I did get to know a few neighbors in the row houses on either side of her house. As she put it, "you don't need to take of your business in a neighborhood of row houses where people can hear through the walls - everyone will mind your business for you."
It was about six weeks later that the storm blew through -- remnants of a hurricane that had turned inland just below Philadelphia. Delaware got hammered, and while the winds were supposed to die down by the time they got this far inland the weather forecasters were wrong.
By ten p.m. that night the rain was pounding against the windows, and then, all at once, both of our phones started shrieking -- almost unprecedented, a tornado had been seen forming on the tail edge of the storm. We took shelter in the basement with the cat, Dr. Socks, his nervous pacing only adding to our own anxiety.
We heard the rain pounding, the wind, and then we heard a huge crash and explosion. The lights went out and the house shuddered - and everything went quiet. All we could hear was the rain.
Then began another sound, mixed with the rain -- a pounding, steady and rhythmic thud -- "bang bang bang" - then a pause -- then "bang bang bang." I switched on my cell phone's light, told Ciara to stay put, and crept up the steps into the darkness of the ground floor.
The house seemed intact from what I could tell -- but the pounding continued, from the back. I padded quietly and carefully through the living room into the kitchen -- and then I saw a figure at the back door, almost yelling in the rain, "Ciara, it's me, let me in, help!"
I wasn't sure who "me" was, but I opened the door anyway. It was the next-door neighbor, Linda Stoltzfus.
She was shaking and nearly incoherent. I offered her a chair and called for Ciara, and poured her a stiff drink. The story came out between sobs.
Apparently the telephone pole in front of our houses had been tossed by the wind and then snapped. As it started to fall over the transformer atop the pole exploded, right as it crashed through the front of Linda's home.
We lit some candles, checked her for injuries from flying glass -- she was thankfully ok -- and eventually settled her into the guest room to get some sleep.
By the next morning the storm had cleared, and we all went out to inspect the damage.
It was a stroke of luck that Linda hadn't been killed -- and not only because of the crashing pole. The transformer on the pole had started a fire which was only prevented from spreading by the torrential rain.
Her insurance company would take over from here -- they'd probably cover the front of the house with a tarp, check everything for smoke and water damage, and oversee repairs, which would take months.
Linda lived alone, and managed a small dental practice in town. Her children had moved away, and her husband had died a few years ago -- I knew, even before Ciara said anything to me, that we'd be taking her in. We'd lose some of the privacy we cherished, but other than that it was a small inconvenience. Besides, I thought, it would give Ciara someone to talk to during the day when I was working.
In fact, it worked out well. We all kept different hours, but would get together for dinner every night, share a bottle of wine, and relax. My work required me to get up early to stay in touch with Europe, and so Ciara and I would often turn in early.
Most nights we'd lay in bed and read before turning out the lights -- old school, paperbacks and hardcovers. It was about a week after Linda had moved in that Ciara and I were in bed reading. I had barely cracked open my book and found the place I had left off when I felt Ciara's hand on my bare leg under the covers, lightly stroking the inside of my thigh. Some nights her touch was a gentle caress, a loving reminder of our affection -- and some nights it led to more.
