Storm of the Century (6 page)

Yes.

MIKE reaches up and pushes the end of her nose with the tip of his finger.

Beep! There it goes! Smaller! Quick, Pippa, before it gets big again!

PIPPA pulls her head out easily from between the posts. The kids clap and cheer. DON BEALS hops around like a monkey. One of the other boys, FRANK BRIGHT, hops around a little, too, then sees RALPHIE giving him a disgusted look and quits it.

HATCH gathers his daughter in for a hug. PIPPA hugs back, but eats her bread and jam at the same time. She stopped being scared when MIKE started talking to her. MOLLY smiles at MIKE gratefully and puts her hand through the stairwell posts where PIPPA was stuck. MIKE takes it on his side and kisses each finger extravagantly. The KIDS GIGGLE. One of them, BUSTER CARVER (BUSTER, the last of MOLLY’S day-care pupils, is about five), puts his hands over his eyes.

(moaning)

Finger-kissin’! Oh, no!

MOLLY laughs and pulls her hand back.

Thank you. Really.

Yeah--thanks, boss.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

No problem.

Dad, is my head still little? I felt it get little when Mr. Anderson said. Is it still little?

No, honey, just the right size.

MIKE walks to the foot of the stairs. MOLLY meets him. RALPHIE is there, too; MIKE picks him up and kisses the red mark on the bridge of the little boy’s nose. MOLLY kisses MIKE’S cheek.

I’m sorry if I pulled you away at a bad time. I saw her head that way and when I couldn’t get it to come out on my own, I just. . . freaked.

It’s okay. I needed a break, anyway.

Is it bad down at the store?

Bad enough. You know how it is when there’s a storm coming . . . and this is no ordinary storm. (to PIPPA) Got to go back, sweet girl. You be good.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

DON BLOWS ANOTHER RASPBERRY.

(low)

Gee, I love Robbie’s kid.

MOLLY says nothing, but rolls her eyes in agreement.

What do you say, Hatch?

Let’s roll while we still can. If they’re right, we’re all apt to be cooped up for the next three days. (pause) Like Pippa, with her head caught in the stairs.

None of them laugh. There’s too much truth in what he says.

32 EXTERIOR: THE ANDERSON HOUSE ON LOWER MAIN STREET--DAY.

The Island Services four-wheel drive is parked at the curb. In the foreground, by the walk, is a sign reading WEE FOLKS DAY-CARE CENTER. It’s on a chain, and swinging back and forth in the wind. The sky overhead is grayer than ever. The ocean, visible here in the background, is full of gray chop.

The door opens. MIKE and HATCH come out, pulling down their hats to keep the wind from tearing them off, raising the collars of their jackets. As they approach the car, MIKE stops and looks up at the sky. It’s coming, all right. A big one. MIKE’S anxious face says he knows that. Or thinks he does. No one knows how big this baby is going to be.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

He gets into the car behind the wheel, waving to MOLLY, who stands on the porch with her sweater over her shoulders. HATCH waves, too. She waves back. The four-wheel drive pulls around in a U-turn, headed back to the market.

33 INTERIOR: THE ISLAND SERVICES VEHICLE, WITH MIKE AND HATCH.

(quite amused)

The “smaller button,” huh?

Everyone’s got one. You gonna tell Melinda?

No . . . but Pippa will. Did you notice, through the whole thing, she never lost sight of her bread.

The two men look at each other and grin.

34 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET--DAY.

Coming up the center of the street, oblivious of the impending storm and rising wind, is a boy of about fourteen--DAVEY HOPEWELL. He’s dressed in a heavy coat and gloves with the fingers cut off. This makes it easier to handle a basketball. He weaves from side to side, dribbling and talking to himself. Doing play-by-play, in fact.

Davey Hopewell in transition ... he avoids the press . . . Stockton tries to steal the ball, but he doesn’t have a chance . . . It’s Davey Hopewell at the top of the key . . . clock running out . . . Davey Hopewell’s the Celtics’ only hope ... he shakes and bakes ... he--
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

DAVEY HOPEWELL stops. Holds the ball and looks at:

35 EXTERIOR: MARTHA CLARENDON’S HOUSE, FROM DAVEY’S POINT OF VIEW.

The door is open in spite of the cold, and the overturned walker is lying by the porch steps, where LINOGE threw it.

36 EXTERIOR: RESUME DAVEY.

He tucks his basketball under his arm and goes slowly to MARTHA’S gate. He stands there for a moment, then sees something black on the white paint. There are CHAR MARKS where LINOGE

tapped his cane. DAVEY touches one with a couple of bare fingers (cutoff gloves, remember) and then snatches them away.

Owww!

Still hot, those marks. But he loses interest in them as he looks at the overturned walker and the open door--that door shouldn’t be open, not in this weather. He starts up the path; climbs the steps. He bends, moves the walker aside.

WEATHER LADY (voice)

What part does global warming play in such storms? The fact is, we just don’t know . . .

(calls)

Mrs. Clarendon? You all right?

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

37 INTERIOR: MARTHA’S LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.

The weather is still playing. The storm graphics have moved closer toward their eventual point of impact. LINOGE sits in MARTHA’S chair, with his bloody cane drawn across his lap. His eyes are closed. His face has that look of meditation.

One thing we do know is that the jet stream has taken on a pattern which is very typical for this time of year, although the upper flow is even stronger than usual, helping to account for the terrific strength of this western storm.

DAVEY (off-screen)

(calls)

Mrs. Clarendon? It’s Davey! Davey Hopewell! Are you all right?

LINOGE opens his eyes. Once again they are BLACK . . . but now the black is shot through with TWISTS OF RED . . . like FIRE. HE GRINS, showing those AWFUL TEETH. We hold on this, then:

FADE OUT. THIS ENDS ACT 1.

Act 2

38 EXTERIOR: THE PORCH OF MARTHA’S HOUSE--DAY.

We are looking out through the open door at DAVEY HOPEWELL, who is approaching the door slowly and with growing unease. He’s still got his basketball under his arm.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Mrs. Clarendon? Mrs.-WEATHER LADY (voice-over)

Large windows should be taped to improve their integrity in the face of strong wind gusts.

He stops suddenly, his eyes widening, as he sees:

39 INTERIOR: THE HALLWAY, FROM DAVEY’S POINT OF VIEW.

Sticking out of the shadows are two old-lady shoes, and the hem of an old-lady dress.

WEATHER LADY (voice-over)

Gusts in this storm may range into . . .

40 EXTERIOR: THE PORCH, WITH DAVEY.

His fears temporarily forgotten--he thinks he knows the worst, that she’s fainted, or had a stroke, or something--DAVEY drops to one knee and leans forward to examine her . . . then FREEZES. His basketball slips out from under his arm and rolls across the porch as his eyes fill up with horror. We don’t need to see. We know.

WEATHER LADY (voice-over)

. . . speeds we normally associate with hurricanes. Check the dampers on stoves and fireplace chimneys! This is very important . . .

DAVEY pulls in breath, and at first can’t get it out. We see him struggle. He is trying to scream. He touches one of MARTHA’S shoes and makes a little wheezing noise.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

LINOGE (voice)

Forget the NBA, Davey--you’ll never even play first string in high school. You’re slow, and you couldn’t throw it in the ocean.

DAVEY looks down the shadowy hall, realizing that MARTHA’S killer is likely still in MARTHA’S

house. His paralysis breaks. He lets out a SHRIEK, bolts to his feet, turns, and pelts down the steps. He stumbles on the last one and sprawls on the walk.

LINOGE (voice)

(calling)

Also, you’re short. You’re a dwarf. Why don’t you come on in here, Davey? I’ll do you a favor. Save you a lot of grief.

DAVEY scrambles to his feet and flees, flinging terrified glances back over his shoulder as he buttonhooks out of the CLARENDON gate, across the sidewalk, and into the street. He pelts down Atlantic toward the docks.

(screaming)

Help! Missus Clarendon’s dead! Someone’s killed her! Blood! Help! Oh, God, somebody help!

41 INTERIOR: MARTHA’S LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.

His eyes are back to normal ... if you can call that cool, unsettling blue normal. He raises one hand, and makes a beckoning gesture with his index finger.

The best way to sum up what we’re saying to you is “prepare for the worst, because this is going to be a bad one.”

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

42 EXTERIOR: MARTHA’S FRONT PORCH.

Faintly, we can still hear DAVEY HOPEWELL bawling for help. His basketball, which came to rest against the porch rail, rolls across the boards--slowly at first, then gathering speed--to the front door. It bounces up over the doorstoop and inside.

43 INTERIOR: MARTHA’S HALL, LOOKING BACK TOWARD THE PORCH.

In the background is MARTHA’S body, just a dark lump of shadow. DAVEY’S basketball bounces past it, leaving great big smacks of blood every time in lands.

Another piece of advice? Make sure you’ve got plenty of Smile-Boy all-beef bologna on hand. When the weather turns nasty, nothing warms you up ...

44 INTERIOR: THE LIVING ROOM, WITH LINOGE.

The ball rolls across the floor, weaving between the furniture. When it reaches MARTHA’S chair, where LINOGE now sits, it bounces itself twice, gaining altitude. On the third bounce, it lands in his lap. He picks it up.

(holds sandwich)

. . . like a good old fried bologna sandwich! Especially if the bologna is Smile-Boy all-beef bologna!

He shoots . . .

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

He throws the ball with SUPERHUMAN FORCE at the TV. It hits the screen dead center, sending the WEATHER LADY, her sandwich, and her two enormous storm systems into electronic limbo. Sparks fly.

... he scores!

45 EXTERIOR: ATLANTIC STREET, WITH DAVEY.

He’s still running down the center of the street, still screaming at the top of his lungs.

Mrs. Clarendon! Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon! There’s blood all over! One of her eyes is out! It’s on her cheek! Oh, God, one of her eyeballs is right out on her cheek!

People are coming to windows and opening front doors to look. They all know DAVEY, of course, but before anyone can grab him and calm him down, a big green Lincoln pulls in front of him, like a cop cutting off a speeder. Written on the side is ISLAND-ATLANTIC REALTY. A portly gentleman in a suit, tie, and topcoat (the only business garb on Little Tall Island, quite likely) gets out. We may or may not see a resemblance to the absurd mannequin on the store’s porch. This is ROBBIE BEALS, the local big deal, the unpleasant DON BEALS’S even more unpleasant father. Now he grabs DAVEY by the shoulders of his jacket and gives him a hard shake.

Davey! Stop it! Stop that right now!

DAVEY stops it and begins to get himself under control.

Why are you running down the middle of Atlantic Street, making a spectacle of yourself?

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Someone killed Mrs. Clarendon.

Nonsense, what are you talking about?

There’s blood everywhere. And her eye’s out. It’s . . . it’s on her cheek.

DAVEY begins to weep. Other people are gathering now, looking at the man and the boy. Slowly, ROBBIE releases DAVEY. Something is going on here, something that may be serious, and if so, there’s only one man to check it out. We see this realization dawning on ROBBIE’S face.

He looks around at a middle-aged woman with a sweater hastily pulled around her shoulders and a bowl of cake batter still in one hand.

Mrs. Kingsbury. Look after him. Get him a hot tea . . .

(reconsiders)

No, give him a little whiskey, if you’ve got some.

MRS. KINGSBURY

Are you going to call Mike Anderson?

ROBBIE looks sour. There’s no love lost between him and MIKE.

Generated by ABC Amber LIT Conv
erter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html

Not until I take a look for myself.

Be careful, Mr. Beals. She’s dead . . . but there’s someone in the house, I think . . .

ROBBIE looks at him impatiently. The boy is clearly hysterical. An old man with a craggy New England face steps forward.

You want help, Robbie Beals?

Not necessary, George. I’ll be fine.

He gets back into his car. It’s too big to U-turn in the street, so he uses a neighboring driveway.