Fiction by Steve Lambert

Steve Lambert was born in Louisiana and grew up in Florida. His writing has appeared in Saw Palm, Tampa Review, Trampoline Poetry, Louisiana Literature, New World Writing, The Pinch, Broad River Review, Cortland Review, and many other places. In 2018 he won Emrys Journal’s Nancy Dew Taylor Poetry Prize for his poem “Serenade for Larkin.” Interviews with Lambert have appeared in print, on podcasts and radio. He is the author of the poetry collections Heat Seekers (2017) The Shamble (2021), and lies about the weather (2025); the book-length poem Dutch Ears (2025); and the fiction collection The Patron Saint of Birds (2020). His novel, Philisteens, was released in 2021. The collaborative fiction text, Mortality Birds, written with Timothy Dodd, appeared in 2022, as the first title from Southernmost Books. He and his wife live in Northeast Florida where he is a librarian and teaches writing at the University of North Florida.

Jill, In Her Element

“It sure is churning out there, babe,” said Roy, as he walked through the living room, running fingers through his damp hair. The meteorologist said it was a category one. It was west of The Canary Islands, slowly twisting towards The Caribbean. This time of year, Jill was a sucker for the tropical updates. As soon as she woke, before getting the coffee started, she’d put on the weather. Her parents had been the ride-it-out types. Never once evacuated. Not even in seventy-nine for David, the worst one in her memory. All the window screens tore off. A few broken windows. Carpet ruined. The old melaleuca tree out front stripped to the trunk. But nothing catastrophic.

“Yep,” she said.

“Still, a little early in the season, I’d say, to start worrying.”

Roy was not a native Floridian. His father had moved the family down from Iowa when Roy was in the ninth grade. He knew well by now that Jill didn’t put much store in his predictions or estimations on things hurricane related. He hadn’t been there long enough to have developed the antennae. Plus, Iowa? “Do they even have weather in Iowa?” she’d asked Roy when they’d started dating. Well, snow somehow didn’t count to Jill.

Roy sat down next to Jill and grabbed his foot and started to pick at a toenail.

“If the water doesn’t come back on soon, I’ll call Randy. He might know what to do.”

Earlier, while Roy was in the shower rinsing shampoo out of his hair, the water had cut off. Jill had had to fetch a gallon of spring water from their hurricane supply from the garage so that Roy could finish.

“Jesus! You mind not doing that around me?”

Jill got up and walked into the kitchen. She had a thing about feet. She didn’t even want to look at them. She suspected Roy of eating his toenails, as well, because in the five years that they’d lived together she’d never found any lying around and she knew that he didn’t collect them and throw them out.

Noontime and still no water. Saturdays Jill and Roy usually worked around the house most of the day. They could still do all the things that didn’t require any water, so they got into their work clothes and went out into the heat. Roy mowed the grass, edged and trimmed; Jill weeded the beds, pruned the Loropetalums out front, and put down the fertilizer when the mowing was done.

Halfway in they took a break. Jill made BLT’s and brought a plate of sliced cold watermelon. They sat and ate on the back porch, the ceiling fan on high, moving around the humid air.

“Lord, it’s hot,” said Roy.

“Yep,” said Jill.

She watched Roy, sitting on the concrete slab with his legs crossed, horking down the sandwich she’d made him. She looked away and pictured herself standing in front of a bonfire, a cord of wood next to her, grabbing a log every few minutes and chucking it in.

The Sunday morning weather segment was the longest of the week with or without tropical developments. Jill watched while Roy slept in. Now there were two storms. The original one, now named Aaron and a category two, was swirling towards The Bahamas. The new one, nameless still, was only a tropical depression. It remained a large confusion of wind and moisture off the coast of Africa, just north of the equator. The meteorologist predicted that Aaron’s eye would pass over Freeport by the end of the day and that the storm would most likely strengthen into a category three before colliding into the east coast of Florida, around the Melbourne area, late Tuesday. A slow mover. Jill found herself smiling.

Roy walked into the living room, looking rumpled and agitated.

“I had a super messed up dream, babe. Stephen King was in it. But Stephen King wasn’t Stephen King. He was Randy. But I knew that Randy was Stephen King. Anyway he refused to fix our water because I hadn’t read The Stand. Friggin’ dream logic.” He sat down next to Jill. “Can you believe that?”

Jill pointed at the TV. “There’s two now.”

Randy squinted at her.

“Two storms. Might start feeling effects Tuesday. You haven’t read The Stand?” She took a sip of coffee.

“Jesus. That’s concerning. I started but couldn’t get into it. Read about fifty pages. Water’s still off, huh?”

“Not much we can do about it on a Sunday.”

Roy picked up Jill’s coffee and took a sip.

“Get your own, dude,” said Jill, grabbing her mug as he put it down. “Had to dip into our hurricane supplies again for this.”

“I’ll call Stephen King in a little bit and see if he can stop by.”

As Roy was getting up to get a coffee their came a knock at the door. Roy looked through the peephole. “Shit. It’s Bilanski.” Angela Bilanski was a cross-eyed redhead who lived next door.

Roy tried to avoid having to talk to her as he never knew how to handle eye contact with her. Go all in on the eyes or look away and risk seeming rude. “Wil you answer it, Jill?”

“Just open the door.”

He counted three and opened.

Angela was wearing denim shorts and a bathing suit top that may have been a little too small.

She looked impatiently at Roy. Roy looked at Jill.

“Have you been watching the news?”

Roy walked towards the kitchen and didn’t respond. Angela stepped into the house.

“Jill!” she yelled.

“Relax,” said Jill. “Come on in and have a seat. Want some coffee?”

A redheaded toddler wearing swim trunks over a sagging diaper came screaming onto the front porch and into the foyer. Angie picked him up and saddled him to her hip. He smacked at one of her breasts and giggled which elicited no response from the woman. Doing this seemed to pacify the boy and his scream settled into a hum.

“What’s up?” said Jill. She was nice to Angie because she liked being around the kid.

She sat down next to Jill and unloosed the child who took off running into Jill and Roy’s room.

“Come back here,” said Roy. The ladies ignored them both.

“What are you and Roy doing?” Angela was from Wisconsin and had only been in Florida for a year and a half. “This is my first hurricane. I’m not sure what to do.”

Roy walked back into the living room carrying the boy upside down. The boy giggled and writhed. Roy plunked him down on the couch next to Jill.

“Your water off?” Roy said to Angie. He walked into the kitchen and looked at the sink.

“No. Is yours?”

He grabbed the hot-water fixture and turned and water came gushing out of it.

“Babe, it’s back on.” He turned it off.

Jill nodded.

Angela threw up her hands and let them flop down onto her thighs. The boy sat next to Jill watching the ladies.

Jill smiled at Angie. “All right. Look, we are well north of where they’re predicting landfall. We’re not planning on going anywhere. It’ll be a little gusty and we’ll get a lot of rain. But it won’t be bad. No need to panic.” Jill tried to hide her excitement as she talked about the storm.

“I don’t know,” said Angela.

Jill looked over at the redheaded toddler and put her arm around him. He barked and scooted off the couch and took off running down the hall. Roy grunted and went after him. Jill fantasized swooping up the boy and running out the front door and down the street with him. I could steal that little bugger, she thought.

“Isn’t it too early to say anything for sure?” said Angie. “My folks are in North Carolina. They retired there.” This time she smiled and put her hand on Jill’s knee. “Safety is my main concern here.”

Jill picked up Angie’s hand and gave it back to her, then she stood up. “That’s a long drive over a little storm. Hey, I have a great idea. Why don’t you two stay the night here, with us, Tuesday. Wednesday night, too, if you like. It’ll be fun. A sleepover.”

The boy came hustling back into the living room, Roy chasing him.

“Fun?” said Angie. “No, no, no…”

Roy grabbed the boy around the waist.

Angela looked over at her little boy and Jill looked at Roy.

“Maybe if you had a child to worry about,” said Angela.

Jill had to fight back the urge to scream. She wanted to scream in Angela’s face. Instead she said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe you should go to North Carolina. Be with your family.”

Roy was now holding the boy around the waist with one arm, as if he were carrying a bag of mulch.

“Roy, put him down,” said Jill.

Roy complied and the boy ran over to his mother and grabbed her leg.

“Best get packing,” said Jill. “Time is running out.”

Angela scowled at Jill. She hoisted up the boy and left without a word.

“That was a little harsh,” said Roy.

“She’s wrong,” said Jill, crossing her arms.

“Yeah, overreacting. Damn snowbird.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about. And she’s not a snowbird.”

Roy walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge. “Anything good in here?” he said.

Monday morning Jill called in sick and enjoyed having the house to herself all day. Aaron had been upgraded to a category three, still on course for Florida’s east coast. The other one, the tropical depression, had fizzled out in the middle of the Atlantic. Much of Central Florida was under a hurricane warning and mandatory evacuations were in place for those living along the central east coast. The transplants would go, but it’s never easy to convince Floridians to leave their homes, even with a mandatory evacuation. Jill dozed off for a while and woke to the sound of a car door slamming. She got up, walked outside and to the end of the driveway, pretending to check the mail.

Angela was out packing her car. The boy stuck with her wherever she moved, right at her feet. He reminded Jill of a pilot fish. He carried a toy truck with him and when he saw Jill he ran towards her and hurled the truck at her. Jill picked it up and brought it to him. Angela turned around and gave a start when she saw Jill standing there next to her son.

“North Carolina bound, I guess.”

“It’s a number three now,” said Angela, looking up at the sky.

“Category three, yes.”

Angela turned around and looked at her car.

“You’re doing the right thing, by the way. Keep this little guy safe.”

Angela turned around and smiled at her son, standing between them.

“Need a hand with anything?”

“No thanks. Pretty much finished here.” She held her hand out and the boy moved toward it. “I guess you and Roy are staying put.”

“Yep.” She walked over and hugged Angela, told her to drive safely. The little boy would not let her hug him. She ran after him until he screamed and jumped into the backseat of the car.

Jill decided on hot dogs and macaroni and cheese for dinner. I will feed him like a child, she thought. She was standing over the stove, mixing the cheese packet and butter and milk into the cooked macaroni when Roy came in from work.

“I hope you’re feeling better.”

“I wasn’t sick.”

“I know.”

He walked up behind her and saw the hot dogs floating in the pot of mirky water and saw the macaroni and cheese all mixed up.

“Yes!” he said and pumped his fist.

They ate in front of the TV.

“You think we can watch something other than weather. It’s not a movie.”

“Have you heard?” said Jill. “Aaron is a three now. Definitely making landfall near Melbourne.”

“Angie must be halfway to Wisconsin by now.”

“North Carolina, actually.”

Roy picked up the remote and changed the channel until he found a sitcom he liked. Jill watched Roy watch the show. It wasn’t long before he was chuckling along with the laugh track. When he finished he waited for Jill to finish and got up and grabbed her plate and walked into the kitchen and cleaned up, as was customary. Jill took the remote and turned the channel to the local news station. Now that the storm was imminent the local stations had good coverage. Roy listened to the meteorologist as he washed dishes.

“Wow. Maybe we should take Angie’s lead and get out of here for a few days. We could make a mini-vacation out of it. Could be fun, actually.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just a thought. A lot of people will be leaving in the morning.” He wiped his hands on a dish towel and threw it over his shoulder, walked into the living room. “I think it’s worth considering. Don’t be so dismissive about it, anyway.”

“You are serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No, you’re right,” she said. “Why wouldn’t you be? I mean, of course you are.” She turned back to the TV.

“I’m not going to be held responsible for what happens if we stay.” He wasn’t sure what he meant by that, but it seemed like what you say in this kind of situation.

“Why don’t you go,” said Jill. “Go to your brother’s. Mississippi is out of its path.”

“I couldn’t leave without you.” Roy couldn’t believe she’d suggested it.

By ten Roy was fast asleep. Jill lay there in bed next to him and thought about everything. Roy.

Their relationship. Their life together. If there was a child, she thought, an actual child, things might be different. A child would be a reason. A reason to try harder.

The wind kicked up outside. Fronds from the banana tree outside slapped against their bedroom window, rain came now in brief, howling torrents, followed by periods of strange, lovely quiet. 

She got out of bed and walked to the window. It was too dark outside for her to see anything. She walked out to the living room and turned on the TV without the sound. Aaron’s fingers were brushing up against the coast. The meteorologist pointed at the image and seemed to be smiling. Jill smiled, too. She walked into the kitchen and tried looking out the window, again. The streetlight helped. It looked like a black and white movie outside. Hard rain slanted down on everything. The microwave clock said midnight. No lightning, no thunder—just rain and wind. She went to the front door and opened it a little. The wind almost blew the door into the exterior wall. She opened it wider and walked out onto their small parch.

Tiny hard-driven droplets of rain stung her face. But, she noticed, there were all sizes of drops, all mixed together. The wind, at these speeds, tore at the larger drops, exploded them into smaller ones, even, at times, into a fine mist. She closed her eyes and listened to the rain and the wind and, without thinking, ran out into it.

She ran against the wind down the street to the intersection—a distance of eight houses. She liked the sound her feet made, slapping against the wet road. She grabbed hold of the stop sign and glanced around. She let go, turned to run back home, and a gust of wind picked her up and slammed her down on the asphalt. She landed on her hip and the palms of her hands. She lay there by the stop sign, the rain and wind beating down on her, wincing in pain. She waited for a calm moment and when one came she got up and, this time, walked toward her house. When the house was in sight, about three houses away, she heard something, a faint moan coming from the house in front of her. The windows on the house were dark—boarded up, in fact—but the porchlight was on and she saw a black and white cat, soaked and miserable looking, hunched up into a glistening lump, eyes wide.

As she stood over it, the cat didn’t budge. It just glared up at her with its wide eyes. It moaned and she picked it up. The wind blew hard and she backed into the corner of the porch and the cat nuzzled into Jill’s arm. She readied herself, waited for a calming in the wind, then ran.

Somehow she’d locked herself out. She knocked on the door. No one came. She rang the doorbell. Finally Roy came running to the door.

“What the hell?” His voice sounded strained and deeper than normal.

“I accidentally locked myself out.” She pushed by him and walked down the hall to the bathroom and grabbed two towels. She came back into the living room, put a towel out on the floor, sat down on it, and went to drying the cat with the other towel.

“Is that Paul?” Roy sat down on the couch.

“Is that his name?”

“Yeah, the Jenkins’ cat. Paul Giamatti.”

She laughed and Roy did too.

The cat jumped up on the couch, walked a circle, and sat down next to Roy.

“Poor Paul,” said Jill.

The TV was still on without the sound and they took a moment to watch the radar image of the storm colliding with the coast.

“It’s kind of beautiful,” said Roy. “Isn’t it?”

Jill looked at Roy, the cat cozy against him, and smiled.

Roy looked down at the cat.

“What are we going to do about Paul? He’s not your cat, you know. You can’t just take over someone’s cat.”

“They’re the ones who left their cat. Boarded up their windows and left without Paul. In my opinion, once you do that, you forfeit your claim of ownership.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. There was nothing else to say. “I’m going back to bed.”

The lights flickered.

“We may lose power,” said Jill. “I’m going to stay up a little longer. I’ll make Paul a litter box.

I think we’ve got a bag of soil or something in the garage.”

Roy said good night. Paul got up and arched his back. He got into Jill’s lap, haltingly turned a circle, curled up and started purring loudly. Jill put her hand on his side. The purring vibrated her hand. After a few minutes of siting like that it felt as if her whole body was vibrating. The vibrating gave way to a kind of vertigo, a slow turning inside of her. She closed her eyes and rode it out.