Road to Bountiful Read Online Free PDF Page B

and in control, and not scared out of my wits, I start to whistle.
    “Are you nervous, Levi?” Uncle Loyal looks at me sweetly, the way a parent would ask, “And how was your spelling test this afternoon, Junior?”
    “No, no. Me, nervous? Nope. Ha! Well, maybe a little. You said a word that caught my attention, though.” I glanced and him and lowered my voice. “ Tornado.”
    “I think we’ll be fine. You need not worry.”
    The hail pounds the car. I wish I had read the fine print of the rental contract to know if I will be responsible for dents caused by Mother Nature. How will I tell Aunt Barbara? Guess what? I not only got your father to Utah but as a bonus, I bought you a new car in the process! Insurance. I hope the rental company has insurance. My mind wraps around the word and clings to it, the way a drowning man clings to a chunk of wood from a shipwreck.
    I can’t see more than twenty feet ahead, and the dark gray veil is growing thicker. I slow to maybe forty miles an hour. Is it my imagination, or is the sky looking faintly green?
    “Do you think we should pull over?”
    “There isn’t much visibility.”
    “I can’t stop on the highway.”
    “If you drive another quarter mile, you’ll see a large white mailbox. Just beyond it is a wide driveway that leads to a farmhouse. It’s John Jannuzzi’s place. We can pull into the drive and wait out the storm. These storms usually don’t last more than an hour or so.”
    I do not know John Jannuzzi, but I love the man, and I love that he’s a friend of Uncle Loyal and that he owns a house only a quarter mile away.
    “Will it be okay if we pull off there? Is there a chance John what’s-his-name will run into us?”
    “No, Levi.” Uncle Loyal smiles, a wispy little grin, and his eyebrows lift up and form that odd triangle on his forehead. “John’s lived on the prairie his whole life. He knows better than to come out in this kind of weather. He probably saw this cloudburst coming more than an hour ago. He knows the plains and how the weather works here. And it’s common to borrow a road or driveway to wait out a storm. It’s customary. It’s neighborly.”
    I slow again and hope nobody behind is coming fast toward us. Maybe Uncle Loyal is right. The natives understand this weather, and they stay at home when they see the dark clouds gathering, sort of a local native custom, like when chickens stop laying eggs just before an earthquake. At this moment, I am really, really glad to have grown up in Utah and not North Dakota or South Dakota or Iowa or Nova Scotia or any place that has tornadoes.
    I keep my eyes peeled for the mailbox. Out of the gloom, between the sheets of drenching rain and pounding hail, it appears, shimmering for a burst of a second when the wiper blades swish across the windshield.
    “Here?”
    “Yes. Turn here. If you’d like, we could probably drive right to John’s house. He’d let us in, and we could wait out the storm.”
    “Let’s see what happens. Let’s just sit it out in the car, if we can.”
    I bring the car to a stop, scrunching as close as I can to the side of the broad, gravel driveway. Outside, lightning crackles, thunder booms, and rain slashes at the side of the car. It’s dark; it’s gloomy. The car sways a little when the wind gusts.
    It’s all kind of creepy. I begin to feel queasy. The wind howls. The hail beats against the car. I’m stuck somewhere on the plains of North Dakota sitting next to someone I barely know, a long road ahead of me. The six hundred dollars? I may be earning it after all.
    Where am I? What am I doing here? Tell me again. Someone. I need assurance. I need comfort. I need someone to tell me it will be all right. I need my night light.
    Uncle Loyal looks down on the floor and picks up the paper bag that he carried into the car with him. He reaches inside and pulls out what looks to be food in the dim evening light.
    “Are you hungry?” he asks. “This is what I thought. I