The heavens were meant to be high above and out of reach. How was it that the sky felt so low?
Clem looked up at the dark clouds and shivered. The clouds smiled back at him, hundreds of dips and divets which resembled mouths and eyes. They were so close to the ground that Clem could feel their presence like a weight pressing down on his head.
Lightning smashed into the earth, and Clem startled. That had been closer than last time. Was the storm moving closer?
Mom always talked about how wicked people would eventually get their 'comeuppance.' Could be that their neighbor Jakob was finally going to get his for the pies he'd stolen.
Surely the lightning wasn't coming for his house. Not when Clem and his family were all good people.
Clem scampered into the shed and dumped his basket of apples into the 'unsorted' crate. After that, it was back into the storm and the wind.
He had to tuck his face into the crook of his elbow because the wind really was nasty. The trees around him bent and swayed like they were wearing invisible hula hoops. Branches snapped and fell, and Clem worried an entire tree might come down on top of him if he didn't hurry home. His footsteps squished in the wet grass, picking up speed.
No apples left on the trees after tonight, he thought. No roof on the house either.
Dad was waiting on the porch, which was just a rectangular wooden platform that didn't really fit the shape of the house. He could hear Cassandra crying inside. A baby's screams. The storm was disturbing her.
Dad wore a green and black checkered shirt, jeans, and a white wifebeater. All drenched in rain. His shaggy brown hair was being tossed into his face by the wind, making it hard to see his face. Clem saw glimpses of that always-on wild smile.
Clem gave him a quick hug, then ran for the door to the house.
A large hand grabbed the top of his head and forced him to turn back around.
"Where do you think you're going, son?" Dad asked.
"Thought I'd head inside because of the weather," Clem answered.
"What weather? This?"
Lightning flashed on either side of his father, and he let out a terrific laugh.
"This isn't 'weather'," Dad said, "This is opportunity knocking on your door!"
The wind was still knocking apples from the trees. Did his father want him to go and get them?
"I'm sorry, I don't follow," Clem admitted, nervous to hear the explanation. He shivered, anxious to get back inside. His clothes were cold and wet.
"A wise guy once said," Dad started, tilting his beer bottle back and forth, "That every storm you make it through changes you."
Like a lot of his father's wisdom, Clem didn't understand. But this was adult stuff, and he had to try.
"Changing is important then?" he guessed.
"Changing is the core - the crux - of growing up! Its the defining part!" his dad explained, "Don't you wanna grow up, Clem?"
Clem didn't know what 'crux' meant, but it sure sounded important.
And yes, he wanted to grow up.
"I'm ready to grow up," he said.
His father spread his arms, and water droplets fell from them like towels being squeezed dry.
"Then embrace the storm with me! Let it push and pull at you and wear you all out. You'll be better for it!"
Loud energy flooded his ears as lightning struck even closer than last time. Clem whipped his head in the direction of the bolt. It was impossible to ignore.
Every storm changes you.
He clung to the wisdom with every terrifying noise and flash that followed. Every worry about his family, his house, and himself was replaced with the wisdom, recited in his head with a child's conviction.
It wasn't bravery that drove him.
Clem would weather this storm, and he would change.
♠️
Two weeks later, his father walked out of his life.
Clem wasn't given a reason for why. Everything had seemed fine until the day Dad hadn't come home from the market.
His mother barely acted surprised.
There were hints, every now and again, of what had happened. One time while talking about their neighbor Jakob, his mother said a nasty thing about Dad.
"Neither is loyal, and a true man ought to be loyal."
Clem nodded. He knew not to ask for an explanation. She had promised one when he had 'come of age.'
Still, it bothered him not knowing, almost as much as it bothered him to not have a father. He spent at least a month falling asleep on the porch each night, hoping his father would return and jostle him from his sleep. Clem wanted to be the first to see him again so he could be there when everyone else saw. He wondered how big each of their smiles would get.
His sisters were maybe too young to understand. Would they even remember having a father?
"My mom says you have the antisocial disorder!"
Clem jolted out of his daze, kicking at the seat in front of him. The side of his face came away wet from the school bus window. Probably because of the muggy weather.
The kid who usually sat in front of him was turned around, resting his chin on the top of the seat. He wore a smug grin, and Clem had no inkling as to why.
"Could you repeat that?" Clem asked.
"Antisocial something disorder," the kid said, "She says you have it and that's why you're a loner. She says people shouldn't trust you because you might do something bad."
"That so?" Clem said, going on the defensive, "Then how come I've never heard of it?"
"I don't know. But I'm gonna tell everyone in the sixth grade that you have it and they should stay away from you."
Clem frowned, not sure how to take that. It was an unnecessary and cruel thing to promise.
"But I'm not dangerous and I don't have it," Clem tried to explain.
"Mom says people like you are quiet all their lives, and then they snap and try to kill everyone. So that's what I'm telling," the kid stated, almost matter-of-fact-like.
Clem stared at the kid and realized he was baring his teeth at him. He tried to relax his jaw, but he couldn't. Why was this kid out to get him?
"You don't know anything about me. I've never even talked to you once," Clem said, feeling the desperation as a sickly cool sensation across his forehead.
"Exactly!" the kid said, before slumping back into his seat.
Clem was overcome with panic and felt it just as strong as he burst through the door to his home.
"Mom, I need your wisdom on something!" he shouted, tossing his bag into his bedroom on his way to hers. There wasn't a minute to spare. The cold sick feeling had spread to his stomach, and he felt like he might hurl.
He threw open her door and lavender filled his nostrils. It was so potent that it overrode the queasiness from before. He was still on edge, but he found himself able to relax more and catch his breath.
His mother stood a few paces from him, eyes fixed on the vanity in front of her. The chipped wood of the antique furniture had been recently polished. His mother cared a great deal about keeping the traditional pieces intact.
Her pleated skirt was black today, and her blouse was a happy pink. Oversized, to hide her curves. The only makeup she wore was pink blush and a trace of eyeliner. She continued to pass a brush through her mess of brown hair, which reached below her shoulders. The hair already looked as good as it was going to get, but she continued regardless.
When Clem entered her room in a frenzy, she did not pause her brushing. Instead, she plucked the black choir-conductors wand from her skirt and pointed it at her son.
"You know it is impolite to enter without knocking," she admonished.
"I'm sorry about that, Mom, I am. I just thought this was something important that can't really wait," Clem tried to explain.
"Mm. You are forgiven. Tell me, what is the matter?"
Clem told her everything about the encounter with the kid on the bus. She listened, eyes still trained on the mirror, the wand making lazy circles in the air.
"Grant me a few minutes?" she said when he was done recounting the details.
"Of course!" Clem said, nodding his head, relieved because it sounded like she had an idea.
She disappeared into her bathroom and locked the door. When Clem heard the first whisper, he put hands over his ears. Only rude people eavesdropped.
When she returned, she said, "My friends think you should stick up for yourself."
"How?" Clem wondered, eagerly. This was it. The wisdom.
"They reminded me what your father was like. No one ever threatened his pride. Do you remember why?"
Clem nodded. He remembered.
Clem was sent home early from school the next day with a two-week suspension. Hurting Stephen hadn't been fun and it hadn't felt right. But it was right. 'Comeuppance.' Stephen had to pay a price for being a bad person, and Clem was content with being that price.
His mom had been right. His dad too.
He had come out of this storm a different person, and he was better for it. Stronger.
He was growing up.
♠
Being strong was harder than being weak. For one thing, it didn't earn Clem many friends.
Clem wasn't supposed to be bothered by it. That was part of being strong, according to his mother's friends. And so he tried to not be bothered by it, and eventually, it stuck.
Until today.
Clem and his mother sat in the cramped office across from the school principal and her intern. The intern hadn't said one word during the meeting, and Clem couldn't help but wonder why she was here at all.
"Please understand. I know he only has three weeks left till graduation, but I can't allow him to attend his classes, innocent or no," the principal explained.
"But I didn't do it!" Clem said through gritted teeth.
"Clemente. Remember what my friends said?" his mother cautioned him.
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"Yes. Sorry," Clemente conceded. When it came to adult matters like this one, he could answer questions. He ought not to participate.
Still, it was pretty fucked up what they were accusing him of. Apparently, some fucker had written an incriminating message on one of the bathroom mirrors. Black Sharpie and handwriting that vaguely matched Clemente's.
'SHOOTING EVERYONE IN THE SCHOOL AT NOON. GET OUT, GET OUT OF MY WAY, OR GET GOT.'
Multiple students had offered testimonies, saying they had seen Clemente walk out of that same bathroom with an uncapped marker.
Which wasn't true at all. Mother's friends warned about the kind of bacteria that lived in public bathrooms, so Clemente never used them.
But still. Twelve years of keeping to himself, minding his own damn business, and then this happened? So close to graduation, too!
True, he had been in more than a few fights whenever someone challenged his pride. But those actions were based on duty, not emotion. He wanted to be left alone.
"Can he finish his schooling with an in-school suspension?" his mother asked.
Clemente felt good about that possibility. He always felt safe in that room with the grey cubicles and no paint on the walls.
"He cannot," the principal said, "No less than five parents have called me today and demanded I expel him. If he is seen on the premises, they will go above my head. Neither you nor I want that to happen. I might be forced to expel your son."
"Mm. So in a leadership role, you're just about useless," his mother said, pointing her black wand at her accusingly.
"Ms. Proctor. Let's stay civil."
"Civility? What if me and mine were to 'go above your head?' I assure you, my friends have more sway than these parents you speak of."
"I'm sure they do," the principal said, and Clemente saw the eye roll, "Look. The best I can do at this juncture is have Clemente finish his schooling over the summer."
"No deal. Transfer him."
"No d- Ms. Proctor! We do not have a lot of options, and transferring certainly isn't one of them. For one thing, the process takes an amount of time which is not available to us!"
"Then we walk," his mother said, in an icy tone.
"You walk?"
"Yes. Clemente does not have to graduate," his mother stated.
It took all of Clemente's accumulated strength to not speak up then. Not graduating? After all this time? The years of endurance?
"You can't be serious," the principal said, deadpan.
"I am," his mother said, rising from her chair and fixing her skirt. She turned and walked out the door. Clemente moved to follow.
"Clemente," the principal pleaded, and he paused to listen, "You have a father, right?"
Clemente looked at her and nodded. Everyone had a father.
"If you still want to graduate, I would need to speak to him. This is your future."
Clemente slowly shook his head. Not doable.
He found his mother waiting in the hall, tapping the wand against her hips impatiently.
"What did she say to you?" she prodded.
"Nothing that matters," Clemente answered.
♠
The years marched on, and he eventually got over being a high-school dropout. There was no point in graduating, really. His family's orchard earned enough money for him to stay afloat, and Clemente had no dreams of doing anything grandiose or meaningful. Not anymore. He was quite content to live out his days as the Yerington apple farmer.
Mother was still around because the orchard was her home too. So were the kids, Cassandra and Cecilia.
Even so, something felt off to Clemente. There was something wrong about his situation and he didn't know what. He had grown up. He was an adult now, in age and experience. One-hundred storms weathered.
Yet when he looked up at the clear blue sky, it felt oppressive.
He didn't understand why.
Clemente set his basket in the grass when the school bus came to a stop at the end of the long dirt driveway. It had the same bus number as the one he'd taken when he was in elementary and middle school. Was it the same bus? The paint looked too fresh.
His sisters tore down the driveway, backpacks bouncing back and forth on either side of them. Clemente extended a hand, and they both jumped up to give him a high-five on their way to the house. He abandoned the basket to follow them inside.
"Papers? Reports?" his mother asked them as they got settled around the kitchen table. Her wand was out and pointing to each of them.
The girls fished folders out of their backpacks and handed them to her. Clemente popped four slices of bread into the toaster and got out a jar of apple butter. Their mother filed through the contents of the folders.
"Mm. Good work, Cecilia. Proud of you," she said, putting the sparkly folder down and opening the pink one, "Cassandra... 'A'... 'A'... 'Outstanding'... Oh. Mm. No, no."
She drew a paper out and handed it to her youngest daughter. Cassandra looked it over, confused. A math assignment with a check in the corner.
"My teacher didn't mark anything wrong?" Cassandra said, puzzled.
Mom placed her finger on the top line where Cassandra had printed her name, "'Cassie Proctor?' That isn't the name I gave you."
"That's what my friends call me, and- and I like it!" she said, smiling brightly. Clemente leaned against a kitchen counter, seeing the note of doubt on her face. It got him thinking about the sky again. About his own doubts.
"Don't you know? It's disrespectful to choose your own name," his mother stated, "Pencil."
Cassandra reached into her backpack and drew a pencil out while saying, "It's not a new name. Not really. It's shorter! Short for Cassandra!"
Mother took the pencil and erased the name at the top of the paper. Then she deliberately placed the pencil in Cassandra's hand and said, "Try again."
Cassandra wrote 'Cassie Proctor', and mother puckered her lips.
Clemente puckered his, too, then stopped. Why was he doing that? For years, he had shown his teeth while stressed. Now he was...
Mother scribbled out the name before erasing it again, "Do as I say and write your name."
Cassandra shook her head, refusing to pick up the pencil.
Mother forced the pencil into her hand. Cassandra threw it across the table, and said, "No. I like 'Cassie.' That's who I am and I don't care who I disrespect!"
Meanwhile, Clemente connected the dots. These habits, his way of speaking. He was becoming his mother.
The toast was beginning to burn. Clem didn't retrieve it.
Mother took three steps back and flourished her wand. She looked up at the ceiling, considering, waving her wand around, and then said, "Ahh. My friends are telling me I should let you shorten your name after all, but that I should choose how. How should we proceed, then? Cass? Andrea?" She looked around her as she spoke as if flies were surrounding her, "Sandy? Annie? All good suggestions, indeed. Oh, but I like this one the best! Let us make it... Kendra."
Cassie shrunk in her chair, then disappeared under the tablecloth. For Clemente, the other shoe dropped.
"Mother," he began carefully, "Who are your friends? Can I meet them?"
"I'm afraid you can't," mother responded, "And that's the end of that. Kendra-,"
"No," Clem interrupted her, "Hold on one fucking-,"
"Language! And mind your tone!"
"-minute, and don't interrupt me. Tell me more about your 'friends.'"
From under the table, Cassie shouted, "Stop! This isn't nuclear!"
Cecilia disappeared under the tablecloth, too. She was calming her younger sister down. Good.
"Toasts burning, Clemente," mother stated, "Go and get it."
Clem let it burn.
"Your friends. Are they real?" he asked, forcing himself to bear his teeth, to become an ounce of himself again. He could feel a storm building inside of him.
"But of course! I hear their voices just as I hear yours! You should mind your tone, by the way, it's improper. And the toast-,"
"Are they speaking to you now?" Clem pressed.
Mother didn't answer. Didn't shake her head 'no.' Her wand was held limp at her side. Lips thoroughly puckered.
Then she walked down the hall and locked herself in the bedroom.
"Get your shoes on," Clem said to the table.
"Why? Is everything okay?" the table asked him. Cecilia's voice.
Because Cecilia was under there with Cassie. They were there, he could see their feet. He wasn't hearing things. Not like mother.
"They will be soon," Clem said, "I'm treating you both to ice cream."
They don't need this right now. They're so young.
They were his responsibility now. Clem wouldn't let his sisters get caught up in this.
♠
They returned after dark. Clem had taken them to get ice cream, then to the playground, then to the dollar store. Cecilia asked if they could walk along the river, so he took them there, too. He needed time to process this and come up with a plan for how to deal with his mother.
Schizophrenia. Demonic possession. Hallucinations.
All possibilities, and none of them pretty.
Witchcraft? Explained the wand.
The more he thought about it, the more he came to understand just how much control his mother had leveraged in steering his life. Who was Clemente? Who was Clem? Clem didn't even know anymore. He couldn't let that happen to his sisters.
Clem parked the van in the drive and switched the headlights off. His sisters unbuckled, and he helped them out of the car and up the porch. He placed a key in the door, and...
...it was already unlocked.
Had mother gone out? No, the door was 'always to be locked, no exceptions.' This was something else.
Clem let the door creak open, and an expanding triangle of moonlight painted the darkened kitchen. He switched on the lights, then immediately switched them off again.
"Girls, head to your room," he ordered.
"But we can't see!" Cassie whined.
"Please," Clem urged.
Cecilia grabbed Cassie's hand and guided her through the unlit home. When they were gone, Clem switched the lights back on.
In the center of the kitchen table, a black choir conductor's wand. Snapped in two.
Clem looked at it, looked around, then looked behind him. Then to the hallway.
In his next breath, he was bounding down the hall and crashing into his mother's room.
Bedroom, bathroom, closet. Backyard, the shed.
She wasn't any of those places.
Clem returned to the porch and began to shout as loud as he could. His mother's name, over and over until his voice was sore, and then more, and then louder.
A voice like the thunder that shook the house, in all those many storms. It made his bones rumble. He began to stomp his feet on the shoddy porch, over and over.
His sisters found him there, and Cassie grabbed his stomping leg, forcing it to be still. They didn't have to ask why he was shouting for mother. They knew. They might have even seen the wand.
It was possible mother was out on an errand. But she wasn't. Town was two miles down the road, the stores were closed, it was dark out, and Clem had taken the only vehicle.
She was gone. Fled or worse. Just like Dad.
He called the police, asked them to keep their eyes out for her, and then returned to the porch to stew.
Cassie cried and Cecilia asked him a million questions he couldn't answer. Clem listened and eventually took a seat at the edge of the porch. Cassie snuggled in beside him, wiping tears into his shirt.
Cecilia paced in circles in the yard, holding it together. Not crying. It was impressive, and it made Clem proud to know her.
Cassie eventually traded crying for speech, and said, "This is all my fault."
"Mm?" Clem said, "No. Of course it isn't. If anything, it's mine."
"But I didn't want to be Kendra," she said, shaking her head with conviction, "I disobeyed her. It was the last thing she said to me before she left. I ruined our family..."
Clem set a hand on her head and leaned in to meet her eyes. They were so red that they were gaining texture. Ridges under her eyelids that would swell.
"Now that's a foolish thing to say," Clem remarked, "Don't ever think that. I'm the one who yelled at her, so this is on me and no one else."
"Ok," she said. She fumbled for another thing to say, "Are we going to be alright? Our family? Can it be nuclear?"
"I don't know where you picked up that word," Clem said, "But I'm not giving up on you two. No matter what happens, you'll be okay. On God's name, I swear it."
The smallest of smiles formed on Cassie's face, "Mom never swore on God's name."
"She didn't."
"I'm glad you're my brother," Cassie said, wrapping her arms around his belly. He removed his hand from her head and wrapped it around her side.
Cecilia continued to pace.
Cassie eventually broke the hug. She looked away as she said, "I've been thinking about it all day. Um. Mom wanted me to be Kendra. And it was the last thing she wanted. I was thinking maybe it wouldn't be so bad if I..."
She didn't finish.
Clem was already shaking his head, "You said you liked being Cassie. So be Cassie."
"I could learn to like Kendra, though. I could! I- I'm doing it. Call me Kendra now," she declared.
Clem shook his head again, and said, "You can't."
"Why not?" she demanded.
"Because I'm going to be Kendra now, and we can't have two Kendra's."
"What? No, that's ri-dicco-luss. Let me be Kendra!"
"No," Clem said, with a father's firmness, "All my life, I've been told how to act and who to be. I never once got to be who I wanted or who I was meant to be. Mother led me down a path that was wrong, and she wanted to take you down that path, too. You want to be Cassie, so be Cassie. Don't ever let others control your identity."
"Ok," Cassie surrendered, and it wasn't a sad 'ok.'
Clem was glad for that.
The night yawned on for what felt like hours. Cecilia switched between pacing and sitting in the grass. Cassie and Clem pointed out stars, with Clem encouraging Cassie to find her favorite one.
When Cassie's voice took on a slower drawl, Clem knew she was getting tired. She rested her head on his arm, beginning to nod off.
Clem woke her with words, "There's something your dad told me once."
Cecilia stopped pacing and faced him. No one ever talked about dad.
Clem continued, "He said that every storm you make it through changes you. Every problem. Every hard part of your life. You always come out a different person."
Cecilia stared at him, mute. Cassie nuzzled his shoulder.
"I would contend that he was half right," he said, "Storms change you, but in a very specific way. Every storm, every time, they make you stronger."
Cecilia grinned, and said, "I'm already strong."
"That you are," Clem agreed.
The breeze died down, and the chill of night began to settle in. Cassie pressed in closer, using Clem for warmth.
"Thanks for telling us that stuff about Dad," Cassie said after some time had passed. She yawned in a very conservative manner, and asked, "Are you really gonna be Kendra now?"
Clem considered, then smiled and nodded up at the star-lit sky.
"Yeah, you can call me that," Kendra answered.
♥
Cecilia dropped the dagger and screamed. Her voice was lost in the vicious winds which pulled and ripped at her. Cassie screamed too, seeing the six inches of red ice which had stabbed through Cecilia's shoe.
Kendra wrestled his arm free from Cassie. She immediately latched onto him again, and he shook her free.
Not now. I need my arm for this.
She didn't grab him a third time. Instead, she fell on her ass and curled into a ball. Making herself a smaller target. Good instincts.
Kendra turned his full attention to the wind, the ice, and the darkness. The chaos that swirled all around him and threatened to destroy those he'd sworn to protect.
Another storm which he would fucking weather.
Options. What were his options?
A stone which could absorb and reshape matter.
A torch which kept the holder warm and would never go out.
Mm-hm. I see.
The answer manifested with a crystalline clarity.
With his teeth sufficiently bared, he held the survivalist's kit against the flame of the torch. The plume of fire tilted sideways, getting sucked into the rock, but never extinguishing. Absorbing heat from the infinite source.
He let the metaphorical battery charge and shouted his defiance to the wind.
"In God's name and my own, I implore you to leave us the fuck alone! You won't like what happens otherwise!"
The storm didn't listen and continued to take new shapes. A line of ice crystals manifested, and he hopped out of the way just in time.
"Alrighty then!" he howled, holding the survivalist's kit to the sky, "Have it your way! Deus vult!"
A cone of fire erupted from the top of the stone and spread into a canopy of heat and destruction. Walls of fire fell into place all around them, obeying his every will.
Heat to melt the ice. Light to end the darkness. Pulling strength from the wind to grow in power.
Years of preparation. A lifetime of changing, of enduring.
If you weather enough storms, you eventually become as strong as the storm. I'm even stronger.
He commanded the flames to scatter and bellowed his triumph to the heavens. Embers fell all around him, like twinkling orange stars
When the flames were finished dispersing, all of the swirling threats no longer encompassed them. Nothing but blue skies and untouched mountains. A gentle breeze settled in.
Kendra enjoyed a hearty chuckle and turned his gaze upwards. As he studied the sky, he felt it retreating, allowing him room to stand taller. A foothold, bringing him one step closer to carving out an identity for himself.
It felt incredible. Liberating.
"That's fucking right!" he shouted. To the sky which was no longer bounded.