Call Down the Storm #221183

He sprawled in Alexander Gardell's battered heavy armchair, his heels hooked on the railing of the front verandah's iron balusters, his lank frame outwardly as relaxed as the moonlight flooded evening, his stomach burdened with Sarah's excellent supper. If only Alexander Cardell could be sitting in his chair this calm night, the turmoil in his son's mind would fade out as quickly as the rasping shrill call of that male cicada in the tow ering water oak near the road.