TORNADO TWINS

“I don’t like the looks of this, Two.”

14-year-old Alex Pento was standing on the steps of their dad’s northwoods
cabin, looking up at the puzzling purple/black sky, while his twin brother
Aaron stood near the living room window, watching the wind lash angrily at
the tops of the trees. The air buzzed with the electric promise of
impending storm.

They were up north, visiting their dad, who was still at work and wouldn’t
be home until late that night. The day had been picture perfect — sunny
and warm — they tromped through the generous pine forest, waded in
streams, explored the surrounding hills — they couldn’t have asked for a
nicer day. Then around four that afternoon, the sky changed colors, the
wind picked up, and a sudden drop in temperature sent them hiking quickly
for home.

By the time they got back to the cabin, the sky was a worried black,
thunder rattled in the distance, and the swirling afternoon atmosphere was
filled with static and leaves. They were in for a big one.

Aaron stepped back from the window and let the curtains fall back against
the wall.

“Maybe we should get some candles together in case the power goes out.”

His brother didn’t answer. He was too busy looking at the sky, scanning
for funnel clouds or anything out of the ordinary.

“Hey, One,” Aaron called, trying to get his brother’s attention.

Alex turned and looked at him.

“Sorry. Got lost there for a second. Candles. Right.”

They rummaged through their dad’s kitchen drawers and came up with four big
emergency candles and a large box of kitchen matches. Accustomed to lodge
living and the rough weather that sometimes came with it, the boys’ father
was well-prepared for sudden emergencies. Alex grabbed a portable radio
and Aaron rummaged around under the sink until he found the big emergency
flashlight. He flipped it on to check the battery. A flash of bright
light confirmed that it was fully charged and ready for use.

“Maybe we should head down to the cellar,” Alex said. “The radio says
tornado warning. One touched down about nine miles west. I can’t see
anything out there yet, but I guess we better play it safe.”

“Fine with me,” Aaron answered, heading for the front door. The flipped
the lights off inside the cabin and stood on the front steps. The wind was
howling strongly now, ripping through their hair, tearing at their jackets.

“Holy shit,” Alex laughed as the wind nearly knocked him off his feet.
“Let’s get the hell out of here!”

Aaron laughed too as they jumped down the front steps and ran to the side
of the cabin in strained slow motion, their bodies pushing against the
force of the wind. They reached a small trapdoor extending from the side
of the cabin, leading down into the small, unfurnished cellar. Alex pulled
it open and jumped back in amused surprise as the wind caught the long
aluminum door and nearly ripped it out of his hands.

“Wow,” he yelled as they hurried down the steps and pulled the trapdoor
shut behind them. “I almost lost an arm.”

“Yep,” his brother nodded. “Nasty shit, One.”

The nicknames were a family joke. Alex had been born a whole seven minutes
before his brother — earning him the title “One.” Upon his arrival, the
doctor shouted out, “That’s One!” Their mother, even through the pain and
strain of childbirth, had thought the comment was hilarious, and cracked up
laughing on the spot. Well, laughing and pushing and screaming, actually.

Then when Aaron came out, the doctor shouted out “That’s Two!” Their
mother pushed and groaned and laughed again…and the nicknames took hold.
They were used frequently, and always with smiles, for years. And when
their parents stopped referring to them numerically, the names stuck with
the boys, and between the two of them, in casual conversation, they
frequently reverted to the familiar, happy One and Two.

Flipping on the flashlight beam, Aaron scanned the room for a light switch
or a hanging light bulb chain. He found one, dangling down from the
ceiling, and reached up to give it a tug.

“Nothing,” he said, as the tiny chain clicked an empty effort. “Power must
be out already. Either that, or the bulb’s too old.”

“Guess we’re stuck in shadow land,” Alex shrugged, lighting a couple of
candles and standing them upright on the floor.

The boys looked around their dad’s storm cellar. There wasn’t much to see.
A few dusty shelves lined one wall. There were pillows and sleeping bags
— jugs of emergency water — packs of batteries — also very dusty.