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Show Twisters . . . 35 NINE O'CLOCK I smashed face-first into Ryan's butterfly mobile. That's how I knew I was at the crib. I felt for him, got my hands under his nightshirt and diaper, rolled him over. I lifted him, but we didn't get far. He was caught in the mobile . . . his arm or his head . . . I couldn't see . . . I couldn't get him loose . . . "Mom!" I yelled, though I knew she wasn't there. I tried to lay him down again, but he was so tangled part of him was still up in the air. He started to cry. "Wait, Ryan, I'll get you out!" But I couldn't. Finally, holding him with my left arm, I climbed onto the side of the crib. My right hand followed the string up the mobile, way up to the hook. I yanked it loose. The whole thing came crashing down on top of us as I jumped backward off the crib. The plastic butterfly poking me was poking Ryan, too, but I didn't care. The tornado was close and I knew it. Both ears had popped and I had this crazy fear that those drains, sucking like monsters now, would get us if the storm didn't. Arthur was at the bottom of the stairs waiting. Thank God he'd found the flashlight! I jumped the last half-flight to the floor. "Hurry!" I screamed. I swung into the doorway of the bathroom with Arthur right behind me. We crouched under the towel rack. "Shine it here, on Ryan," I gasped, "he's caught in this thing." By now he was kicking and screaming and his eyes were big in the light. Once we got the mess of strings free of Ryan's sweaty nightshirt, Arthur kicked the mobile against the wall by the toilet. |
