Three Rivers Rising (14 page)

“What if the dam really
is
flawed?”
“Didn’t you say yourself they’d fix it
if it needed fixing?” Peter smiles and studies my face.

“What if they just don’t know very much about dams?”
“They’d hire somebody that knows about dams. Right?”
“Well, supposedly they
did
.” I shrug the blanket tighter.
“Club members are powerful men,” he says.
“They wouldn’t be who they are
if they didn’t handle their affairs responsibly.”
Peter wraps my hands
around a hot mug of broth.
Twists of steam sting my cheeks
and cloud my eyes.
I want so much to let him convince me,
to stay here in this moment:
warm fire,
warm blanket,
warm embrace …
but …

“I’ve
seen
how they
handle their affairs
!
How they deal with their own flesh and blood,
how my parents dealt with Estrella!”
My eyes fill with tears.
How I miss Estrella!
I put down the mug and blink.
Peter nods, suddenly serious. “What do you want to do?”

“Plan and prepare.”
Peter reaches for firewood. “We could leave in the morning.”
I place my hand on his arm. “We should leave tonight.”
“What about Papa?”

“We’ll carry him together
on a board or plank or …” I glance around the tiny room.
“How about that door?” Peter points to the bedroom door.

I grab the fire poker
to knock off the hinges. “Do you think
we can make it to the hills?”

“I know a man with a wagon …
maybe we can stay with one of Papa’s mining friends
up on Prospect Hill.”
“Good”—
the flimsy hinges give way—
“and we can bring our food to share,
maybe a gift, too. Do you have any whisky?”
Peter and I wrestle the door from its frame.
It breaks free all at once.
Peter, the door, and I land in a heap.
“Celestia!” Peter pretends to be shocked
as I squirm out from under the door. “Whisky?”
I roll my eyes and make a face. “For your father’s friends.”

4:07 p.m
.
Down the lane
someone is shouting.
I peer through raindrops on the windowpane.
People are running.
A distant rumbling shakes in my ears,
punctuated by crashing.

Could it be…?

“Peter! The dam must have gone out!”

His eyes go wide. “Run!”

“No. We’ll carry your father together.” I look for a spot
to lay the door flat
so we can rest him on it.

Peter disappears into the bedroom.
The roar is louder.
The cracking is closer.
Screams begin
and end suddenly.

Peter stands in the doorway,
his father over his shoulder.
Our eyes meet.

Beams creak.
The house shifts and moans.
A splitting sound
begins a bubbling in the floor.
I startle
and jump on the rocker.
Another hole
lets a geyser spray.

We start for the front door,
but with a great heaving sound,
the floor comes up to meet us.

4:09 p.m
.
It is upon us all at once.
The floorboards are rolling waves.
The house rocks and swirls.
Oily brackish liquid surges and billows.
With a crack,
Peter and his father
rise on a gusher
far above me.
The last instant is all Peter’s eyes
trying to hold on to me
with the strength of sight.
Then the men disappear—
that fast—
and the house is suddenly no more,
only me
and this door
to prove it ever existed.

4:10 p.m
.
Water closes in on all sides,
darkness,
a roof peak perhaps
above me.

The sum of life
tallies itself
in that moment before certain death.
Mine reads:
a good life
honest
loved
no regrets,
even if finding Peter
has been the death of me.

I breathe my last fill of putrid air
as I see a patch of light.
It cannot be the glow of heaven yet,
while my chest still bursts with breath.

Peter

4:10 p.m
.
Papa and I are lifted skyward
as the house folds up
beneath us—
Celestia!

All around is movement:
objects
people
pieces of houses
stopping
starting
swirling
in the mix.
Nothing like water,
it is an avalanche of wreckage.

I tighten my grip on Papa’s wrist
as we join the current.
I kick to keep us afloat
but crosscurrents compete
and we spin.

I hear a dull thud,
loud,
close.
Before the impact
travels down my body
to my toes,
even before the pain registers,
everything goes black.

Celestia

4:11 p.m
.
Knuckles white,
gripping the wood—
Peter’s door
will surely be my raft
to the other side.

Sounds muffle,
air bubbles,
light ripples
above me
and opens.
Somehow
I break surface
for another gasp
of brown mist.

The door and I bob up
and float—
a different boat
on Lake Conemaugh—
before the rapids
spirit us away.

Houses sail by,
people on the rooftops.
Some spin,
some get stuck,
some fold up
and sink:
house
roof
people
and all.

A locomotive rears up
and slams down:
a new ripple
to redirect my little craft.

People wave from attic windows
and try to reach me
with broom handles
or throw me ropes,
but I am moving so fast
and bumping over things
that I do not dare take a hand off the door.
I long for their comfort
in numbers
but I have seen what can happen to a house
in an instant.
Are they truly safe?
Are they any safer than I am?

Mostly I want the sides,
the hills.
I can see people there,
some of them dry,
some of them climbing out of the mess.
If I found a stick or a board,
would I dare attempt to paddle?
I picture another boat,
another time,
paddling on the lake—
Estrella singing—
this calms me a bit.
I struggle for the words,
the tune,
anything—
the lanterns,
the fireflies,
her face.
I want to see her.
I
will
see her.
I resolve to walk out of this.
Climb,
crawl,
or hobble out of this.
Peter is likely dead.
But I will live
to find Estrella
and her baby.

4:35 p.m
.
The water is slower now.
My little raft and I have bounced
all around town
and I have seen fickle fate
splinter crafts more seaworthy than mine.
And I have seen rescues of travelers
more hopeless.

A large woman with braids
like bundles of flax
directs a pack of men to knot rope bridges
and lay planks across the wreckage.
They pass children up to her on the hill.
I wish I could be one of them,
turned over to the capable hands of
someone who could so quickly
make order out of chaos,
but my raft is drifting in a tide pool of sorts,
away from that trajectory.

The door and I are moored
against a bank of debris,
out of the torrent
but not secure enough to walk across.
I must leave the relative safety
of this temporary harbor
and rejoin the rushing falls
to have any hope
of navigating over to the rescuers.

I tighten my grip
with shaking raw fingers
and push off the rubble
with my feet—
stripped of shoes
overshoes
and stockings.
How little I dare extend
either leg for fear of tipping the raft!
Sometimes only a toe touches
barrel
wagon
weathervane.
How slowly I creep.
How wet and cold
and alone.
The grunting
I hear
is my own sobs
choking in my throat.
I am
too frightened for tears.

4:37 p.m
.
I ride the door
back into the fray,
heading for the men
leaning down from the plank bridges.
One calls and holds out a hand.
I must stand to reach it,
must balance in the water
and risk my door,
which has saved me
thus far,
maybe even jump
at the last second
for a chance
at five human fingers.

I force myself to wait
until the moment is right,
pull my knees up under me
crouch
wobble
wobble
then jump.

“Got her!” the man yells.
His hand is warm
and padded with calluses.
But my jump
has caused the door
to shoot out from under me
too suddenly.
My weight is thrown forward,
ripping my hand from his grip.

The splash cuts across my face.
I will not sink
but move with the current.
My destination is clear:
the crush of houses
barns
steeples
and stores
colliding ahead.

The woman with the pale braids
is at the water’s edge,
leaning forward like the prow of a ship,
her waist tied with rope.
She jumps just ahead of me
and I tumble into her grasp.
We lurch toward shore
one tug at a time
as the others reel us in.

But my savior is suddenly my captor:
she clings to me,
strangling,
dragging me under.

What an odd kind of bravery,
one that could kill us both.

I pry
push
fight for breath.
Her arms are locked
around my neck and head.
The men shout,
dragging us,
separating us.
She is frozen shut with shock.
They carry her off.

I press my face
to the dirt and rock.
I want to put my arms around the hill
and swallow it.
I want to be the land—
on it,
in it,
never leave it.