Three Calls

She was snapping green beans when the wind changed.

The colander in her lap, the bowl on the chair next to her, her phone face-down on the railing because her sister had called twice. Hanging plant needed water. Screen door closed but not latched. August. Tuesday. Late afternoon, slow.

The cool came through first. A thread of it on her arms.

She looked up.

The sky over the levee was already gone: pale blue an hour ago, dark green and bruised purple now, moving toward her faster than it should. Birds came out of somewhere and went the other way, low and quiet. Like they’d been told.

She kept snapping. The wind pulled at the hanging plant. Mrs. Henrietta two doors down called her grandson inside in the voice grandmothers use when they’re not asking. First drop hit the railing. Second hit the back of her hand.

She finished the bean she was holding.

Then she stood up. Picked up the colander. Picked up the bowl. Picked up the phone. Walked inside.

The screen door swung shut behind her.

In the kitchen she set the beans down. Ran water over the snapped ones. Covered the rest. Turned the radio off. Unplugged the toaster (her mama used to do that) and didn’t think about why.

The first real gust hit. Windows held.

She stood at the sink and watched the rain come across her backyard. Sheet of it. Moving.

Her phone lit up. Sister. Third time.

She looked at it.

Picked it up.

“Hey.”