Storms of Malhado Book Blog Tour and #Giveaway #LoneStarLit

Excerpt from Storms of Malhado

By Maria Elena Sandovici

“Galveston 2008 – Waiting for Ike”

     Only fifty miles south of Houston, the Island felt like a whole world away. It seemed to Katie both endless and confining, depending on her mood. For this narrow sandbank, less than thirty miles long and only three miles wide, possessed its own talents for mirage and sorcery: It could at times feel so stifling and small Katie wanted to scratch her skin off. That’s when it felt like she’d seen each and every one of the Island’s sixty thousand or so inhabitants once too often and there was nowhere to hide from their endless small-talk and barely disguised curiosity. Other times it seemed like this was a vast and magical universe, the small Island containing more wonder than the whole world itself, a concentrated type of wonder that made it unnecessary to travel anywhere else. For wasn’t her one true love here? Also Mama and Daddy? Didn’t the sky melt into the most glorious sunsets, didn’t the surf smell and sound divine, and weren’t you able to see everything, from large cargo ships, to cruise liners, tiny shrimp boats, and happy bouncy dolphins roll in and out as you stood still, moored into a sense of quiet contemplation? You had it all in Galveston: the sweet charm of the old houses in the East End Historical District, plumerias and oleanders, gingerbread trim, porch swings, and gas lanterns creating a fairytale atmosphere, the sometimes aggressive energy of the Seawall with its loud motorcycles and never-ending stream of tourists, the tacky shops of the Strand selling swimsuits and beer and candied apples, the beaches that were peaceful and those that were not, the historic cemetery with its haunted beauty, abandoned warehouses speaking of a glorious and tragic past, bars with live music that could transport you to more charming and melodious times, and those that plunged you into drunk tourist hell, modern lofts downtown with high ceilings, overpriced granite countertops, and spectacular views, the occasional alligator lurking in the nature preserve, the haunted mansions and stores selling old nautical artifacts that smelled like the interior cabins of a ship. Sometimes Katie relished the joy of getting lost in the complex and ever surprising universe that was Galveston. Other times she felt lonely, listless, and bored.

     Today the water looked calm. Almost blue. You’d never have guessed there was a bad storm brewing. Her friends in Houston had thought she was crazy for going down to the Island instead of staying put or driving north to Dallas. Her friends were not from Texas. They didn’t know. They couldn’t, like her, recall the sweaty, miserable hours stuck in a car on the freeway before Rita. That time Mama had prevailed, and Daddy would never let her forget it. It was why they were staying now. It was why they were having a party. George had not wanted to leave either. George who was from up North and had never lived through a hurricane. He’d insisted Katie come down, fished for an invite to weather the storm at her parents’ house – a sturdier structure than the garage apartment he rented. Katie only hoped he hadn’t changed his mind at the last minute.She tried to detect any trace of a shiver on the water, a warning of some sort. It wasn’t there. Her fear of storms, and Mama’s too, contrasted their overall no-nonsense dispositions. Mama and Katie were the only ones who didn’t believe their house was haunted. Even Daddy, when drunk, liked to tell stories of the ghosts he’d supposedly seen. And Katie knew when he was too drunk to care about entertaining the guests. He wasn’t merely putting on a show. She’d bet her life he believed all that nonsense. Mama laughed it off, but it made Katie think sometimes. If there were ghosts in their house, could it be they made themselves known to everyone but her and Mama? Even George, who under normal circumstances didn’t like to visit her parents, said he’d felt “a presence” one time or two. If there was such a “presence,” why had it never made itself known to Katie or Mama?

Was this another way in which the Island rejected them, denying them its magic? For the Island’s rejection was never a straightforward thing. Having committed the ultimate sin, unthinkable for a BOI, of crossing the Causeway and moving to the Mainland, to Houston, no less, that impossible maze of concrete and multi-lane highways, Katie knew that the Island would occasionally still try to lure her back. Sweet breezes, pelicans, long beach walks at sunset, the balmy water to sink her feet into, lush hibiscus in bloom, a thin crust of salt on her car on mornings after she’d spend the night at her parents’, the unmistakable whistle of Island birds, even the occasional pleasant encounter with people she’d been certain she didn’t want to see. If there were ghosts in their house, Katie was certain, they’d have manifested to tease her with their stories, to try to lure her back only to disappoint her later the way the Island always did. “Push-pull,” Mama called it, and also “the energy is sometimes open, sometimes closed.” Katie’s visits were either so magical she wanted to move back, or so dull she sped all the way back to Houston and sighed a big sigh of relief when she saw the city’s skyline in the distance.