Two Degrees
The neighborhood is quiet. Even the birds. The sky so thick with clouds, you’d think you could scoop it up like custard. It’s not raining, though, and I thought I’d see some people out and about. But the street is full of empty houses. Mostly, it’s people like me here now, living out our dreams of having a home only after they’ve been abandoned by those who could move on. Call me crazy, but sometimes I still find myself believing that there’s a chance things could turn around. All we need is a dry spell. A spell for clear skies and sun. I imagine how I might conjure one up. But then the hopeful fever subsides and I know, not science, not prayer, not even magic can shift this gray back to blue.
I have a shovel in hand and am digging. Not that anything in my southern suburban childhood prepared me for this. But the crack in the basement wall has reached the ceiling and if something’s not done soon, it will spread higher. These cracks are popping up all through the city, in buildings, on roads and bridges, hillsides, the water forcing its way to the rivers, paths of least resistance be damned. Usually this push is a slow torture, a movement fraction by fraction, but every now and then there’s a bursting: a hillside slides, a road buckles, trees uproot. When I saw a house a few streets away sink lopsided into its yard, I knew I had to do something.
Research has instructed me to dig a trench that will funnel the water away from the foundation. There’s nothing complicated about this centuries-old method. It takes digging, which I can do. It also takes pipe and gravel. That’s a little harder to come by—building materials are more expensive than land itself these days. But I’ll do what I can with what I have. Getting a house after living in the barracks for so long, I can’t lose this.
But I am wearing clothes I’m okay with ruining. A pair of skinny jeans from the Boundaries when partying was still a part of my life, a faded t-shirt. I almost threw on a Bobcats jersey, then thought it might be worth something online so I put it aside. I didn’t dwell on the irony that although the bobcats are long gone, their likenesses on old jerseys become more valuable every year.
Midge whines from the porch, strains at her leash. She wants to play in the dirt, too. I tell her, no, this is serious business. The soil is wet and heavy. After just a few shovelfuls, my arms complain about the weight and I wonder if I can train Midge to help, after all.
“Hey Maddie.”
The voice startles me, but I know right away it’s old Tom. He lives in the neighborhood; I’m not sure exactly where. I see him walking the street almost every day, unless the rain is really bad. If I’m outside, he’ll stop and talk. At first, I thought he might be a squatter taking shelter in one of the empty houses. He made me nervous—a year without sun can take its toll on even the most well adjusted psyche. He says he’s lived here all his life. An old-timer. There should be a pile of money somewhere but his looks don’t show it. He is ragged. A stubbly salt-and-pepper beard, dirty white hair thick up front but patchy with bald spots in the back. His clothes need a wash, and they hang too low and loose on his tall but slightly stooped frame.
“What’s with the shovel?” Tom asks.
“Nothing.” I say, hoping he’ll go on his way. I think he sees himself as kind of a surrogate grandpa. He likes to give advice, wanted or not—usually not—and now he’s too intrigued to move along.
“I can see it’s nothing. You trying to dig a hole or just tickle the earth?”
“Har har.”
“Gimme that.” Tom steps in the yard and takes the shovel, applies his body weight and pushes the blade in deep.
“That’s how you use a shovel.”
“I know,” I say. “But then it’s too heavy to lift.”
“What are you up to, anyhow?”
He won’t leave until I tell him, so I do.
“Well, that’s stupid,” he says. “You gonna dig a ditch and expect it won’t fill up with the first rain?”
His response isn’t surprising, but still the heat rises up my neck and my cheeks burn.
“I’ll get the drain pipes when I can. But I have the time off. I have to get started.”
“Yeah? It’s a shame you do all that work for nothing.” He considers, then says, “I think I got some stuff I can bring by.”
“What do you mean stuff?”
“I’ll bet I got some corrugated pipe. Some old gravel, too.”
“Just lying around the house?”
“I did construction for forty years. You accrue leftovers in all that time.”
“How much?”
“Enough. What d’ya got here? Say, fifty, sixty feet?”
“No, I mean how much would it cost?”
“Cost? Nothing.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I have no use for it.” His eyes brighten. “I’ve been saving it. Guess what for?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, guess.”
“What? I have no idea.”
“A rainy day.” He laughs. “You shoulda got that one, Maddie.”
Tom’s got to be over seventy, but he’s grinning like a little kid. He’s measuring the depth of my yard with his eyes, assuming I’ll say yes. That would be so easy, but I don’t like the idea of accepting something that might cement a relationship between us. “That’s too generous, Tom, I can’t—“
“Did you hear the sirens last night?” he interrupts.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I didn’t turn on. What happened?”
“A whole hillside came down.”
“Where?”
“About a mile up river.”
“Houses?” I ask.
“A couple.”
“Any people?”
“Not sure. Not the owners—but, you know.” Tom looks up at the sky, tugs at his hair. He steps up onto the dirt, uses his big foot to push open a hole. “You need the stuff. I have it. Why not take it?”
He’s running a hand through his hair, up and off his face. His eyes are clear, there’s kindness in them. I have to admit, he’s probably harmless. It can’t hurt, I think, a gift of stone.
“Okay,” I say.
“Alrighty then, I’ll bring it by tomorrow.” He’s getting ready to go but adds. “And no more digging ‘til I get back.”
“It won’t hurt to get started.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, shaking his head and heading down the road. “See you tomorrow, weather willing.”
That’s his tagline; he never leaves without saying it. It has started to play in my mind, too, but I don’t say it out loud—I’m not ready to admit the weather’s obvious authority.
Tom doesn’t come the next day. Or for several days after that. The weather, it seems, is willing for something else.
It starts as a drizzle. Gentle – the blanketing of precipitation we’ve learned to live with since last summer. Then the drizzle turns deadly serious and it begins to pour. All teasing is thrown aside: this is what is meant by rain. Work has called; the casino will be closed through the end of the week, maybe longer, depending on when the rain eases up or when anyone gets a hankering to bet the house again.
Midge and I hunker down inside. The solar tiles are a joke with all these clouds, but the windmill is working overtime to keep the refrigerator powered. Not enough, though, for lights. Only one house, up at the top of the hill with an array big enough to rival a small wind farm, is powered through the night. At some time early in the morning, unable to sleep, I stand at my back window and look up to the winking lights. Midge leans against my legs, wags her tail. I hadn’t planned on getting a dog, but she showed up in the fall, displaced after losing her family or simply left behind. Kindred spirits, I took her in. I pet her silken black head, plant a kiss on her nose, breathe in her scent. My shoulders relax. I am so very thankful for her. I call her back to bed, spend some precious reserves on a movie and let it coax me to sleep.
Four days later, the downpour stops. I open my front door, go outside. There’s little trace of the trench I’d begun, but mud lies thick on the sidewalk. Smoothed into scallops by the receding rain, it reminds me of sand on the beaches from back home, but I remind myself that this is dirt, nothing more.
I suit up and start cleaning up the mud. I’ve been at it for not more than an hour when a heavy odor, both sour and scorched, takes me back in time. I turn to see an old pick-up truck pull up with a large drum of biofuel in its bed. My shock must be obvious, because as soon as he hops out of the cab Tom points to a permit next to a faded FEMA FOR ALL bumper sticker.
“Don’t report me,” he says, “I’m legal.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“I’ve had her since the ‘30s. Bought her from a fellow just up from Florida. She’s only one of like ten left in the city. And she’s going good as ever. Look at this haul.” He pulls back a tarp to reveal a load of coiled pipe, gravel, shovels, a wheelbarrow.
“This wasn’t just lying around your house, Tom. You went out and bought this. I can’t accept it.”
“I’m gonna say you can, you’ll repeat you can’t, we’ll go around a few times, then we’ll get to work. So let’s skip that and get right to it. First thing? I show you how to use a shovel without breaking your back.”
Tom tells stories from the old days. Of the city’s shift from working class to high tech and finally the number one destination for fun and sun. We’re sitting on the porch, taking a break. I’ve made iced tea, splurged on the ice. The June breeze has a touch of dryness to it, and it feels like a picnic.
“This is what it was like when I was young.” Tom gestures up to the sky. “Well, not as bad as this, but it was pretty gloomy. Gray days more often than not. You got the mountains off east, the three rivers coming together—they’d funnel the clouds right down into these valleys. And that saying, ‘It ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity,’ that came from here.”
“Really?”
He chuckles. “Maddie, you’re too easy. Anyhow, things start changing. Summers get longer, winters milder. Sure, we still have bad spells, but nothing like everywhere else. You poor people down south. West burned or parched or flooded. New England too cold for witches. But here things are better than ever. We got more sun than these valleys have ever seen, fresh water, and plenty of land for building and growing. Now, I was in construction, me and my brother both. We had some lean years at first, believe me. Then the rest of the country notices our little oasis here and the migration starts. Pretty soon houses that used to sell for a song can’t be bought for less than a million. And these are old houses that need a lot of work. It’s when my brother gets the idea we should focus on roofing, that we really make a killing—”
Tom’s face pales almost to gray.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving him off.
“No. It’s a terrible thing, getting rich after so much suffering. But people needed homes. We’re puttin’ in solar, living roofs, rainwater harvesting. We got a dozen outfits going, and me and Dan hang up our boots for good. Dan saw the writing on the wall, though. He moved up to the Dakotas five years ago. He’s enjoying their boom. But I couldn’t leave; these hills are too much my home.”
Tom shakes his head, tugs at his hair again. Maybe that’s why it’s so patchy back there.
It’s quiet. There’s no traffic on the street, no passers-by. The breeze is silent, too; there are so few leaves to rustle through.
All of a sudden Tom says, “Listen.” He cocks his head to the side. I concentrate, am about to give up when I hear, far away but still distinct: two-whit, two-whit, two, two, two.
“What is it?” I ask.
“That’s a cardinal. Look for bright red.”
We search but don’t find. Still, Tom’s troubled eyes are relieved by a smile. “Haven’t heard one of those for awhile,” he says. “Good omen, huh? C’mon, let’s get back to work.”
By the time the gray of the cloud cover has deepened to twilight, we’ve completed the trench along the length of the house. We call it quits for the day and step out into the street to survey our work.
“I can’t believe we got that much done,” I say.
“That much? I’d hoped we’d be done with it all. I guess I forgot how much I relied on a backhoe.”
“A back-what?”
“Never mind. If I told ya, you’d just be jealous.”
For some reason, this make me laugh and a little too heartily, probably from fatigue and hunger.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Let me make you some dinner. I’ll throw something together. You have to let me thank you somehow.”
Tom shuffles, seems suddenly shy, says, “I’m a mess.”
“Yeah, you are. So go home and clean up. I’ll make some pasta. I even have some bread. Will you come?”
I use the hot water. Not scrimp, not save, not regulate, but luxuriate in it. Dirt coats my skin, and the water runs down the drain brown and silty. I relish this precious use of energy, close my eyes, focus on the water spilling over my body. Images from my life flash behind my eyes. Mom and Dad. Always dressed for work in my memories—I can’t picture them in pajamas. Oh, but there they are, in bathing suits. Mom has a wrap over hers, a big sun hat. Dad is wearing red trunks that are too short. We all laugh when he comes out of the cabana. He says, “What?” We pretend it’s something else, ‘cause even with his funny looking legs, we want him to have a good time today. Alex and Jen and I go out into the water. Mom yells, “Watch out for them, Maddie.” We have boogie boards, are riding the shallow waves. We could do this forever. Suddenly Alex yells, “Lookee!” Out ahead, dolphins jump; there must be a whole school of them. Silvery backs arcing out of the sea. Catching the yes in each other’s eyes, we kick, paddle our boards out to the deeper water, but the farther we go, so do they. I hear Mom yelling from the sand. We turn around, swim back closer to shore. Outside the breaking waves, we float on our boards; swells rock us in slow motion, we could almost fall asleep. Sun, heat, peace. Water splashes on my face and startles me. I lick my lips—it’s been so long since I’ve tasted salt water. Like the dirt, like the aches in my shoulders, I rinse it away and root myself back in the present.
In the kitchen, I take the tomatoes out of their soak, get to work on making the sauce. Sprinkling dried garlic and onion in the oil, I fantasize about fresh vegetables, onions that can make your eyes sting. It’s fun cooking for more than just myself. I spend energy on music, shimmy and stir at the stove. A breaking report slips in between ads and songs. I ask Alexa to repeat it. She does, and the air feels lighter even though there’s been no change in the clouds.
I’ve just finished setting the table when there’s a knock on the door. It’s Tom, of course. He’s tidied up, sort of. His clothes look fresh and clean, as does his skin, but there’s no sign that a razor’s been applied. Which I don’t understand. As soon as the rain became permanent, I cut my hair short and still it stays damp for hours.
“Come on in,” I say.
“Howdy,” he responds and presents a bottle of wine from behind his back. Now I fully accept that Tom does have a pot of gold somewhere. I thank him. “Ah, it’s nothing. Hey, pup.” Tom stoops to meet Midge, gives her some gentle slaps on her rump, which is wagging back and forth so violently she almost knocks herself off her own feet. Unused to company, I have to think what comes next.
“Uh – come sit down. I’m starving. You must be, too.”
“Oh yeah. Worked up a good appetite today, huh? Hungry, hungry.” We sit and I dish out the spaghetti, am about to start eating when Tom bows his head. I wait. He gives a quick nod, then says, “Dig in.”
Tom slurps his pasta, uses his bread as a napkin. We’re both too hungry to talk much, and we eat until all that’s left is the wine. I pick up the bottle, and we head to the living room. Midge curls up next to me on the sofa. Tom opts for a straight back chair. He has finally dared to ask what I know he’s been wondering: the particulars of my story of displacement. I tell him about being a kid in the Carolinas when there was still a North and a South, summers at the ocean, the shock when the storms started coming, how my parents made me go to college up north so I could get away from those storms.
“And your family?” he asks. “You lose them in the big one?” Tom’s voice is gentle. The Big One. Even though there have been worse since, it was the one that showed things would never be the same. I nod.
“Is there anyone left?”
“No – well, some cousins. I don’t know where they are. Mom was the one who kept in touch. They could be here, for all I know.”
“So forgive me for asking, but I’ve been wondering. Are the Boundaries as bad as they say?”
I hold up the bottle and Tom shakes his head. I empty what’s left into my glass and think back to those early years after I was placed here.
“They housed us by age. I guess that made sense to some genius. So you got thousands of college students but no college. Just working and partying. And we partied like crazy. It was a hot bed of—," it takes only a second to realize the obvious conclusion, “hot beds.” I raise my glass. “Cheers.”
Tom doesn’t return the toast, his lips set tight in parallel lines.
“Yeah, that got old after a while.”
He nods, his mouth relaxes, and the wine is doing its job of allowing me to relax, too.
“There were so many of us. And no one had dibs on loss. Or being lost. It was work, party, sleep, over and over again. Really not much better than dumb survival. I was assigned to one of the new barracks. Four to a room, cement block walls, communal showers. They said it would be temporary. Seven years later I was still there.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Oh no. They made it so nice for us. Holiday dinners, picnics. Day trips to Lake Erie. You should have seen the Thanksgiving dinners they’d throw. Funny how it never occurred to anyone that a gymnasium filled with rows of white plastic tables and decorated with pumpkins and paper turkeys, which probably tasted as good as the turkey they served, was a poor substitute for actual family gatherings. Those were miserable, miserable days. I stopped going by my third year.”
“Wow. So how’d you end up getting out of there?”
“You know I work at a casino, right?”
“Yeah. You sayin’ you won the money to buy this place?”
“Kind of.”
Tom’s asks his question with his eyes.
“Okay,” I say, tucking my feet under me and settling in on the couch. “So, it’s last spring and things are still normal—mostly. We had that bad spell in December, but hey, snow melts and you forget about it, right? It’s getting warm, trees are budding, sun is shining. I’m working the floor. We’re packed with tourists. There’s a guy, he’s a local, and he’s playing the table games. I’m serving drinks and he wins some big pots, like thousands of dollars, calls me his lucky charm. No points for originality. So, the night goes on, he’s winning more than losing, but nothing huge. When it’s time to leave, he’s pretty plastered—I have to help keep him steady on his feet. We’re passing the slots, and he’s got money dropping out of his pockets. He picks up a hundred, says. ‘Hey, play this for me.’ He’s all swaggering. ‘You win, I’ll split it with you.’ I played it. You finish the rest.”
“You won? Enough to buy a house?”
“Not exactly. He kept the cash–“
“What!?”
“No wait—he took the money but he gave me his house.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. I figured this was worth way more than the jackpot. But what I didn’t know was, the guy was a psychic.”
“Get outta here.”
“No really. He worked for Accutracking. A climatologist. He knew what was coming. And he sure wanted out fast. In a week, he transferred the title to me and took off up north.”
“Whoa, that’s something,” Tom says.
“You bet. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. And it was heaven, for what, three, four months?” A sudden pain hits behind my eyes; I palm my forehead to massage it away.
“You okay, Maddie?”
“It must be the wine.”
“Yeah, better to have water after all our hard work.”
He gets me a glass. I take it and a sip.
“Better?”
I nod. “Thanks. And, I must correct you: working at the casino is just as hard as digging a trench, only here there are fewer irritating people around.”
“Fewer? You mean none?”
“No, there was one.”
I laugh and so does Tom.
“I guess I walked right into that one,” Tom says. “Hey—it wasn’t that funny. Why are you crying?”
I shake my head. “No, no it wasn’t.”
I sink back into the couch as my tears turn from laughter to confusion and finally, to release. I steady my breath and calm washes over me. Sneaking a glance at Tom, I think it wouldn’t be so bad having him as a grandpa. He’s quiet in this moment, then says gently, “I’m happy for you, Maddie. Might not have lasted long, but you got to enjoy some good times, too, at least for a little while.”
I sit up alert, “Oh my gosh—didn’t you hear today’s report?”
“What report?”
“About the weather.”
“Nah, I don’t pay attention to that stuff. When I want to know what’s coming, I look out the window.”
“Pretty limiting, Tom. Anyhow, they said that the jet stream might finally be shifting.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve heard talk of that. Grain o’salt.”
“What?”
“Means, don’t take that too seriously.”
“But they’ve charted it. The dips have been getting shallower and wider and they say that’s a definite sign that the stalls are weakening.”
“I think they report that stuff just to keep you tuning in.”
“Yeah, but—“
“Really, Maddie—you’re just getting your hopes up.”
“Maybe I want to get my hopes up.” I add quietly, “I’m just so tired of every tomorrow feeling like a threat.”
“Nah. Don’t go kidding yourself, Maddie. It’s best if you face what’s right in front of you.”
It takes a moment to register what he’s said. But when I do, I understand the weather completely because in a second I shift and there’s nothing going to stop this front from moving in.
“What did you say?”
“It’s best if you....” but he trails off once he notices the look on my face.
“You want me to face what’s right in front of me? That’s great advice from someone who ignored everything in front of him for, what, your entire life?”
“I’m sorry, what happened here?” He looks perplexed, puppy-eyed.
“Oh come on, Tom. They knew. Before you were born they knew this could happen. There were reports for years. And when the predictions started coming true, what did you do? Oh that’s right—you got rich.”
“Ah, Maddie.”
“That’s how you faced what was right in front of you.”
“I’m just trying to save you from some heartbreak. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, no, you’re right. It’s stupid to get my hopes up. I should admit once and for all that life’s going to be one long shit show—well, probably not long—and then it’ll be over. The sooner I get good with that, the better.”
All the warm feeling in the room has evaporated. Midge is looking between the two of us, on high alert.
“You should go.” I break the silence.
Tom stands, takes a few steps towards the door, then asks. “What about the trench? When d’ya want to finish that?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I was wrong to accept anything from you. Honest, though, I can’t pay for what you’ve given me, but I’ll figure out how to finish it myself. Or why even bother. You’re right, hope is a stupid thing.”
“Not stupid. Painful. At times.”
Tom shuffles, goes to the door, looks look he wishes he had a hat to collect or something, finally says, “You change your mind, you let me know. And don’t talk about owing anything.”
He’s still hesitating, so I bark “what” at him.
“Maddie,” he says, “if I could switch places with you, I would. If I could go back and change things. It’s the God’s honest truth, I never ever imagined anything like this could ever really happen.”
“That’s your defense? A lack of imagination?”
“I’m not trying to defend anyone, least of all myself. But I have tried to make sense of it all. Best I’ve come up with is maybe it’s how we’re programmed to survive. We’re creatures of habit. What worked yesterday will work today will work tomorrow. Right? Every blow, every shock to the system, you adjust, make it make sense, and you keep moving on like tomorrow will be the world you always thought it would be. Maybe this,” he makes a vague gesture to the sky, “maybe it was never in us to stop it. Maybe this is the best we had in us to do. Maybe now it’s time to put aside the blinders and face what’s coming. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
Tom bows his head, turns and leaves. As he closes the door, I can’t help but wonder, if this was the best they could do, what possibly could have been the worst?
On Tuesday, I’m back at work. We’ve been busy. Reports continue to mention shifts in the jet stream. The air has felt lighter, fewer downpours and more mistings. One customer says, “See, this is gonna clear up and we’ll be back to sunshine before you know it.” I agree reflexively.
At home, neighbors are emerging from their front doors like expectant groundhogs sniffing the breeze for good news. I take Midge out for a walk. It’s nice until we reach the end of the street and look down to the river, which is wider now than it’s ever been, the water a swirl of thick browns, the source of the muck evident all along the banks. We turn back; it’s not good to look for long. Then, I hear a distant sound from up above. A plane is coming in. I can’t spot it through the clouds but what I do see makes my heart jump. Off in the west, blue lifts into the sky. Not just a patch, but all along the horizon. I take a breath, let it out slow and steadying, tug on Midge’s leash. We walk home, hope swelling up right along with the blue.
The last rain was almost three weeks ago. Like the flip of a switch, the polar vortex has retreated and the golden days have returned. Downtown is a swarm of activity. The casino’s been packed and it’s my first day off in a while. Midge and I are hanging out in the backyard. I’m reading. Midge is trying to eat a bug. The story can’t compete with the sweetness of the sun, and I fall sleep. Something wet touches my hand and jolts me awake. It’s Midge poking me with her nose. I shade my eyes from the sun, but still the yard is washed in a stark yellow tinge that comes only from hot summer light. I feel disoriented, am struck by how dry everything looks. How can that be? Haven’t we saved up a lifetime’s worth of rain over the last year? I kneel and run my hands through the grass. It’s brittle, prickly to the touch. Midge nudges me again, but I push her aside, study the earth, scan the trees for signs of thirst. And there at the horizon, I see gray moving in. Rain is coming. Yes, this was the pattern during the golden years: days and days of sun, short bursts of rain. Yes, we’re getting back to normal, that’s all.
When it begins, it’s a light mist that makes me think of how many different faces the rain has. Here it is falling like a caress. My mother would have said it is down from the angels’ wings, a curtain, tender and soft, so gentle that the first rumble of thunder surprises me. I hadn’t expected a storm.
“Midge,” I call. “Come on, let’s go pee-pee.” I have to coax her to do her business. She’s confused, but sweet dog, she wants so badly to please. She figures things out and squats. The thunder threatens again, the wind picks up. Midge whines, runs circles around me. That’s when I notice a green haze in the sky. I look at my watch, check the radar. There must be a glitch. The southwestern quadrant is nothing but red. I reload and it swallows up the screen. My mouth runs dry. Midge barks all out now and I finally get what she’s on about. I follow her inside and down the basement stairs just as a series of thunderclaps roll over each other in a rumbling that never fully fades away.
We’re up against the wall in the deepest corner of the basement, and still we can feel the crashing going on outside. The air smells electric and I think I can taste it. I hold onto Midge, tell her it’s going to be all right. Lightning flashes, prismed through the glass block, at times so bright it turns on the whole basement. Otherwise, we are in a dim light that can only create monsters out of the dark. Midge whimpers, and I join her, our voices making a harmony. We can’t drown out the storm, but we can sing to each other. In a flash of light, I think of my mother, my brother, my sister. Is this what they did? Did she wrap her arms around them and sing? Of course, she must have. She would have held onto them all the while. I can only do the same. My arms wrapped around a big black dog, we sing a wordless song, each taking turns comforting the other.
I don’t know if it’s been minutes, hours, or days when the light returns and silence descends. I listen. The storm has passed.
Water streams across the concrete floor. My clothes are wet with it. It’s hard to move, to stand. But we do, both of us. Midge is frantic to go out but I know I have to keep her down here. It’s not safe, I tell her but she doesn’t understand. She won’t stay put, so I have to tie her. She cries, afraid that I’m leaving her, and my heart sinks as I climb the stairs.
At the top, I feel like Dorothy about to enter Oz, only instead of a world of wonder, I brace for destruction. I push the door open and am greeted by the sun shining in its merry perverse post-storm way. I’m overwhelmed by the Technicolor ruin. Water pools on the floor. It’s dripping from above. The ceiling sags, threatens to fall. I take a step in and see that some of the water is, in fact, shattered glass. When I reach the back door, expectation doesn’t prepare me for what I find. It’s like someone has picked up my neighborhood, crumbled it up and let the pieces of tree, brick, rock, metal, glass, wood fall back down to earth like confetti. Cattycorner from me, an oak has fallen into the neighbor’s house, bursting its bricks into haphazard piles. For a terrible second I wonder what I could build with them.
Despite the sun and blue sky, the air smells of loss. And smoke. I look up to the hilltop horizon, to the big house and its array. A gray haze hangs over the windmills, or what had been the windmills. Their blades are bent now like trampled grass. One column is fully snapped in two; it sticks up into the sky like a broken toothpick.
I turn to face my house. The windows are blown out, the back quarter of the roof has peeled off; this explains the water coming in the first floor. Midge barks from the basement, but soon I can’t distinguish her voice from the wailing that fills the air. Sirens and fire alarms, maybe people, too. I want to get back inside, but it’s as though the ground is shifting, and I can’t find a balance. My feet can’t carry me, so I go down on my knees and crawl but the door keeps moving farther away. I swear I can feel the earth itself spinning. Spread-eagled now, I’m holding onto the ground and know that if I let go, right now, there’s a chance I will never come back. I force my eyes to stay open. Count to a hundred. The heat on my head is like a shovel pounding me back into the earth and finally I figure why not. If this is all that’s left, why hold on? The sky tumbles into black and I let go.
The dolphins are back, but this time we catch them and hang on by their dorsal fins. They glide us through the water, chattering to each other while me, Alex, and Jen can’t stop laughing. If Mom’s protesting from the shore, I can’t hear her, and we’re off, heading deeper out to sea. I’m a little afraid when my dolphin jumps into the air and plunges underwater. I look back to check on Alex and Jen, but don’t see them. My guy tilts his head to me and asks, can we go down deep? I say, I’m scared. And he says, don’t be, hang on, you’ll be okay.
He dives, keeps chattering, don’t worry, don’t worry, I got you.
Underneath the waves, the sea is alive with light. A crystal city far below reflects the sun. Pods of whales are no more than clouds of minnows swimming through the sparkling spires.
A shark swims past us, turns its head and smiles at me. “Move it along, buster,” my guy says, then asks, “Where to next? The ocean is our oyster.”
The crystal city entreats me with its colors of gold and aqua and coral pink. Farther ahead the water is one deep blue and beyond that it is black. I spy Alex and Jen, small specks in the distance catching the last bit of light before disappearing into the nothingness.
“Alex! Jen!” I yell but they keep getting smaller. “Call them back.”
“They won’t hear.”
“Then follow them,” I say.
“Are you sure? If we dive down deeper, we can meet a whale or two.”
“But they’ll be afraid.”
“Probably.”
“Then we have to go after them. That’s my little brother and sister. I have to help them.”
“Alrighty then.”
He rears up like a horse then takes off, leaving the colors behind and the light, reaching into the blue with nothing but black beyond.
I come to with the sun blazing red and yellow through my closed eyes. I curl into a ball, try to hide myself from the assault and find some little relief when cool earth touches my cheek. I’m empty and am not sure if I can sit up. Or, if I can, if I want to. Time passes and then I hear distant voices, rumblings of vehicles, and I begin to wonder if someone has the dumb idea that life might still go on. Lifting an arm to shade my face, only then I open my eyes. There’s a forest of grass through the tunnel of my cupped hand. An ant is crawling through the blades; it’s bumping into them, turning this way then that. It doesn’t know where to go. I shift, raise myself up on my elbows, and watch it disappear into the woods. Has it found its path home? A grasshopper clings to a fallen branch. I scooch over to see it more clearly. It’s big and so much more than green: a mosaic of browns, even purples and blues, hints of gold, little suction-cup feet on the ends of spindly legs. Its head looks like a stormtrooper’s helmet that it swivels towards me. We stare at each other, its agate black eye considering me as much as I do it. Is it thinking, what the fuck? Or, in its world, do our broken homes matter little? I extend my hand, hope it’ll hop on, but of course it hops away instead, off the branch and up and over a pile of buckled concrete. There, I see a worm stranded on the hot stone. It’s a rich brown, not more than two inches long, as slender as a tacking nail. It’s wiggling convulsively, frantically spelling an “S” back and forth. I stare for what feels like a lifetime before I reach for it. Nudging it between my fingers and thumb, I lift it and place it in the grass. It no longer moves, too weak to burrow down. I dust some dirt overtop of it and don’t know if I saved it or not.
Just then, the heavy rumbling grows louder, approaches. It’s something big and heavy: a bulldozer must be out already, clearing a path through the debris. “Hey, are you okay?”
Someone wearing a neon orange vest has come from the side of the house. I look up. All I can make out is a wreath of grizzly gray hair washed in a golden halo from the sun. Then that someone kneels and the vision is gone. I’m looking into the worried eyes of a woman.
“Hi, there. I’m with the crisis care time. I’m Lia. What’s your name?” I tell her.
“Hi, Maddie. How are you doing today?”
Really? What a question. I don’t have an answer for that.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head no.
“Mind if I take a look?”
The woman scans my eyes with a small flashlight. Holds my wrist and takes my pulse, runs her hands along my hairline, feels my scalp, my neck.
“Okay, Maddie.” She sits back on her heels. “I don’t think you’re injured, but you’re probably in shock. Let’s get you out of the sun.”
Surprisingly strong hands hoist me up from under my arms and help me scoot into the shade from the house.
“That’s better, huh? Here, have something to drink.”
She opens the flap to a bag, takes out two water bottles, some energy bars, and hands them to me.
“Does anyone live with you?”
I nod. “Yeah, my dog. I need to check on her,” I say as I begin to stand.
“Hang on,” Lia says, stopping me.
“Give yourself a minute. Get your bearings first. Drink that water.”
I do, spilling some down my chin. It does help and some of the fog is starting to lift.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
Lia grimaces a bit. “Pretty bad,” she says.
“Everywhere?”
“Yeah.”
I’m surprisingly calm processing this information. Sometimes these storms pick and choose where they’ll hit, passing over whole neighborhoods, even counties, leaving the people there to go forward as if not much has changed. But not this one, huh? We’re all in this one together.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m okay, really. Can I have some water for my dog, too? I need to go to her.”
Lia’s face clouds over but then she says sure and hands me a couple more bottles. She steps into the yard to assess the damage.
“That’s a pretty big hole in your roof. D’ya have anyone you can call, see if they’re okay, see if you can stay with them?”
“No.”
“Okay. Here’s the thing, hon.” She comes back, kneels down on one knee. “They’re not going to let this building stand with a roof like that.”
“What?” I don’t get what she’s meaning.
“It’s not safe,” Lil says.
“Where is safe?” I start laughing.
“Not here,” Lil answers.
I start to realize what she’s getting at and I say, “It’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ll bet water’s coming into the first floor. Is it?”
I give half a nod.
“I thought so. Those ceilings won’t hold for long.”
I’m shaking my head, “What are you trying to tell me?”
“These old houses, damaged, they’re just tearing them down. You’re gonna need temporary housing. But the thing is, that’s only out in the Boundaries. And you can’t bring a dog with you out to the Boundaries.”
“It hardly matters—I’m not going there.”
“You want to stay here until the roof collapses on your head?”
“I’m not going to the Boundaries.”
I say this in the most defiant tone I can muster. Lia accepts the challenge. I notice only now that she’s much older than I thought. Her skin lined, weathered; her eyes deeper dark than the ocean. But those strong hands, her thick shoulders, if she chose to battle me, she would win. I know, I am fully at her mercy.
“Please,” I beg, now feeling as vulnerable as a child, a lost soul, a worm.
She considers me for a long time, then suddenly stands, says, “Maybe you’re right, maybe the roof’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll give it a pass, but you’ll need to tend to it, sooner than later, or they’ll bulldoze the house right down. You understand? You don’t fix it, you don’t stay here and that is going to be one hard task to complete. Got me?”
“I’ll fix it,” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll figure out a way.”
“Okay, then.”
She makes notes in her tablet. Tells me about the water buffalo set up at the end of the street at the old school. Food will be available, too, she says.
“And I’m serious, inspectors will be by in a couple of weeks. If they see your house like this, you know what’ll happen. You get to work on that.”
“I will.”
“Good,” Lia nods. “You take care, Maddie.”
I thank her, she leaves.
I need to get to the basement, check on Midge, but I’m so hungry, I tear into the energy bars and wish she’d left me a few more, even if they taste more like chalk than chocolate. My watch pings; it’s caught a charge. I expand the display to see images of rivers and creeks raging outside their banks, of flood waters burying streets, buildings lying in heaps torn apart by wind and downed trees, hillsides tumbling into their valleys. A special report shows ten miles of the PEL demolished in the Boundaries. “The Storm of the Season,” the ticker proclaims.
Something familiar flashes by: broken windmills, a burnt-out house. I stop the stream, scan back, look again. Yes, it is the house from on top of my hill. There are the bent blades of the windmills, and beyond, a blackened, collapsed house. An image comes on—an old man off in the distance, walking alongside the remains of his home. He’s tall and stooped, just another one of the locals facing the destruction the rest of us have known for years. Then he lifts a hand, tugs at the back of his head. Recognition prickles up my spine. It’s Tom, and in his gestures, the random wandering of his feet and turns of his head, I also recognize the complete bewilderment that comes from complete loss.
I know what I’m going to do before the idea takes the shape of words.
Midge and I make our way down the street. It’s dangerous picking though the mud and debris. She looks at me from time to time, confused, unsure. She doesn’t know where to put her nose, along the road to figure out what happened, or up in the air to sniff what’s coming next.
I’m rehearsing what I’ll say to Tom. How will I convince him to come stay with me? I search for reasons, think, maybe I could tell him he was right. It’s time we all face what’s right in front of us. Me too. And right now, the only thing that’s certain is that all we have left to do is take care of each other. Maybe that’s all we’ve ever had to do. Yes. That’s what I’ll tell him: I need your help, I’ll say. Maybe then he’ll admit he needs mine, too. That’s better than reasons; that’s just the truth. If that doesn’t work, then I don’t know.
We reach the end of the street, turn the corner and begin climbing the hill, Midge pulling on her leash, leading the way.
I have a shovel in hand and am digging. Not that anything in my southern suburban childhood prepared me for this. But the crack in the basement wall has reached the ceiling and if something’s not done soon, it will spread higher. These cracks are popping up all through the city, in buildings, on roads and bridges, hillsides, the water forcing its way to the rivers, paths of least resistance be damned. Usually this push is a slow torture, a movement fraction by fraction, but every now and then there’s a bursting: a hillside slides, a road buckles, trees uproot. When I saw a house a few streets away sink lopsided into its yard, I knew I had to do something.
Research has instructed me to dig a trench that will funnel the water away from the foundation. There’s nothing complicated about this centuries-old method. It takes digging, which I can do. It also takes pipe and gravel. That’s a little harder to come by—building materials are more expensive than land itself these days. But I’ll do what I can with what I have. Getting a house after living in the barracks for so long, I can’t lose this.
But I am wearing clothes I’m okay with ruining. A pair of skinny jeans from the Boundaries when partying was still a part of my life, a faded t-shirt. I almost threw on a Bobcats jersey, then thought it might be worth something online so I put it aside. I didn’t dwell on the irony that although the bobcats are long gone, their likenesses on old jerseys become more valuable every year.
Midge whines from the porch, strains at her leash. She wants to play in the dirt, too. I tell her, no, this is serious business. The soil is wet and heavy. After just a few shovelfuls, my arms complain about the weight and I wonder if I can train Midge to help, after all.
“Hey Maddie.”
The voice startles me, but I know right away it’s old Tom. He lives in the neighborhood; I’m not sure exactly where. I see him walking the street almost every day, unless the rain is really bad. If I’m outside, he’ll stop and talk. At first, I thought he might be a squatter taking shelter in one of the empty houses. He made me nervous—a year without sun can take its toll on even the most well adjusted psyche. He says he’s lived here all his life. An old-timer. There should be a pile of money somewhere but his looks don’t show it. He is ragged. A stubbly salt-and-pepper beard, dirty white hair thick up front but patchy with bald spots in the back. His clothes need a wash, and they hang too low and loose on his tall but slightly stooped frame.
“What’s with the shovel?” Tom asks.
“Nothing.” I say, hoping he’ll go on his way. I think he sees himself as kind of a surrogate grandpa. He likes to give advice, wanted or not—usually not—and now he’s too intrigued to move along.
“I can see it’s nothing. You trying to dig a hole or just tickle the earth?”
“Har har.”
“Gimme that.” Tom steps in the yard and takes the shovel, applies his body weight and pushes the blade in deep.
“That’s how you use a shovel.”
“I know,” I say. “But then it’s too heavy to lift.”
“What are you up to, anyhow?”
He won’t leave until I tell him, so I do.
“Well, that’s stupid,” he says. “You gonna dig a ditch and expect it won’t fill up with the first rain?”
His response isn’t surprising, but still the heat rises up my neck and my cheeks burn.
“I’ll get the drain pipes when I can. But I have the time off. I have to get started.”
“Yeah? It’s a shame you do all that work for nothing.” He considers, then says, “I think I got some stuff I can bring by.”
“What do you mean stuff?”
“I’ll bet I got some corrugated pipe. Some old gravel, too.”
“Just lying around the house?”
“I did construction for forty years. You accrue leftovers in all that time.”
“How much?”
“Enough. What d’ya got here? Say, fifty, sixty feet?”
“No, I mean how much would it cost?”
“Cost? Nothing.”
“Yeah, right.”
“I have no use for it.” His eyes brighten. “I’ve been saving it. Guess what for?”
“I don’t know.”
“C’mon, guess.”
“What? I have no idea.”
“A rainy day.” He laughs. “You shoulda got that one, Maddie.”
Tom’s got to be over seventy, but he’s grinning like a little kid. He’s measuring the depth of my yard with his eyes, assuming I’ll say yes. That would be so easy, but I don’t like the idea of accepting something that might cement a relationship between us. “That’s too generous, Tom, I can’t—“
“Did you hear the sirens last night?” he interrupts.
“Yeah.” I nod. “I didn’t turn on. What happened?”
“A whole hillside came down.”
“Where?”
“About a mile up river.”
“Houses?” I ask.
“A couple.”
“Any people?”
“Not sure. Not the owners—but, you know.” Tom looks up at the sky, tugs at his hair. He steps up onto the dirt, uses his big foot to push open a hole. “You need the stuff. I have it. Why not take it?”
He’s running a hand through his hair, up and off his face. His eyes are clear, there’s kindness in them. I have to admit, he’s probably harmless. It can’t hurt, I think, a gift of stone.
“Okay,” I say.
“Alrighty then, I’ll bring it by tomorrow.” He’s getting ready to go but adds. “And no more digging ‘til I get back.”
“It won’t hurt to get started.”
“Suit yourself,” he says, shaking his head and heading down the road. “See you tomorrow, weather willing.”
That’s his tagline; he never leaves without saying it. It has started to play in my mind, too, but I don’t say it out loud—I’m not ready to admit the weather’s obvious authority.
Tom doesn’t come the next day. Or for several days after that. The weather, it seems, is willing for something else.
It starts as a drizzle. Gentle – the blanketing of precipitation we’ve learned to live with since last summer. Then the drizzle turns deadly serious and it begins to pour. All teasing is thrown aside: this is what is meant by rain. Work has called; the casino will be closed through the end of the week, maybe longer, depending on when the rain eases up or when anyone gets a hankering to bet the house again.
Midge and I hunker down inside. The solar tiles are a joke with all these clouds, but the windmill is working overtime to keep the refrigerator powered. Not enough, though, for lights. Only one house, up at the top of the hill with an array big enough to rival a small wind farm, is powered through the night. At some time early in the morning, unable to sleep, I stand at my back window and look up to the winking lights. Midge leans against my legs, wags her tail. I hadn’t planned on getting a dog, but she showed up in the fall, displaced after losing her family or simply left behind. Kindred spirits, I took her in. I pet her silken black head, plant a kiss on her nose, breathe in her scent. My shoulders relax. I am so very thankful for her. I call her back to bed, spend some precious reserves on a movie and let it coax me to sleep.
Four days later, the downpour stops. I open my front door, go outside. There’s little trace of the trench I’d begun, but mud lies thick on the sidewalk. Smoothed into scallops by the receding rain, it reminds me of sand on the beaches from back home, but I remind myself that this is dirt, nothing more.
I suit up and start cleaning up the mud. I’ve been at it for not more than an hour when a heavy odor, both sour and scorched, takes me back in time. I turn to see an old pick-up truck pull up with a large drum of biofuel in its bed. My shock must be obvious, because as soon as he hops out of the cab Tom points to a permit next to a faded FEMA FOR ALL bumper sticker.
“Don’t report me,” he says, “I’m legal.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“I’ve had her since the ‘30s. Bought her from a fellow just up from Florida. She’s only one of like ten left in the city. And she’s going good as ever. Look at this haul.” He pulls back a tarp to reveal a load of coiled pipe, gravel, shovels, a wheelbarrow.
“This wasn’t just lying around your house, Tom. You went out and bought this. I can’t accept it.”
“I’m gonna say you can, you’ll repeat you can’t, we’ll go around a few times, then we’ll get to work. So let’s skip that and get right to it. First thing? I show you how to use a shovel without breaking your back.”
Tom tells stories from the old days. Of the city’s shift from working class to high tech and finally the number one destination for fun and sun. We’re sitting on the porch, taking a break. I’ve made iced tea, splurged on the ice. The June breeze has a touch of dryness to it, and it feels like a picnic.
“This is what it was like when I was young.” Tom gestures up to the sky. “Well, not as bad as this, but it was pretty gloomy. Gray days more often than not. You got the mountains off east, the three rivers coming together—they’d funnel the clouds right down into these valleys. And that saying, ‘It ain’t the heat, it’s the humidity,’ that came from here.”
“Really?”
He chuckles. “Maddie, you’re too easy. Anyhow, things start changing. Summers get longer, winters milder. Sure, we still have bad spells, but nothing like everywhere else. You poor people down south. West burned or parched or flooded. New England too cold for witches. But here things are better than ever. We got more sun than these valleys have ever seen, fresh water, and plenty of land for building and growing. Now, I was in construction, me and my brother both. We had some lean years at first, believe me. Then the rest of the country notices our little oasis here and the migration starts. Pretty soon houses that used to sell for a song can’t be bought for less than a million. And these are old houses that need a lot of work. It’s when my brother gets the idea we should focus on roofing, that we really make a killing—”
Tom’s face pales almost to gray.
“Don’t worry about it,” I say, waving him off.
“No. It’s a terrible thing, getting rich after so much suffering. But people needed homes. We’re puttin’ in solar, living roofs, rainwater harvesting. We got a dozen outfits going, and me and Dan hang up our boots for good. Dan saw the writing on the wall, though. He moved up to the Dakotas five years ago. He’s enjoying their boom. But I couldn’t leave; these hills are too much my home.”
Tom shakes his head, tugs at his hair again. Maybe that’s why it’s so patchy back there.
It’s quiet. There’s no traffic on the street, no passers-by. The breeze is silent, too; there are so few leaves to rustle through.
All of a sudden Tom says, “Listen.” He cocks his head to the side. I concentrate, am about to give up when I hear, far away but still distinct: two-whit, two-whit, two, two, two.
“What is it?” I ask.
“That’s a cardinal. Look for bright red.”
We search but don’t find. Still, Tom’s troubled eyes are relieved by a smile. “Haven’t heard one of those for awhile,” he says. “Good omen, huh? C’mon, let’s get back to work.”
By the time the gray of the cloud cover has deepened to twilight, we’ve completed the trench along the length of the house. We call it quits for the day and step out into the street to survey our work.
“I can’t believe we got that much done,” I say.
“That much? I’d hoped we’d be done with it all. I guess I forgot how much I relied on a backhoe.”
“A back-what?”
“Never mind. If I told ya, you’d just be jealous.”
For some reason, this make me laugh and a little too heartily, probably from fatigue and hunger.
“I’m starving,” I say. “Let me make you some dinner. I’ll throw something together. You have to let me thank you somehow.”
Tom shuffles, seems suddenly shy, says, “I’m a mess.”
“Yeah, you are. So go home and clean up. I’ll make some pasta. I even have some bread. Will you come?”
I use the hot water. Not scrimp, not save, not regulate, but luxuriate in it. Dirt coats my skin, and the water runs down the drain brown and silty. I relish this precious use of energy, close my eyes, focus on the water spilling over my body. Images from my life flash behind my eyes. Mom and Dad. Always dressed for work in my memories—I can’t picture them in pajamas. Oh, but there they are, in bathing suits. Mom has a wrap over hers, a big sun hat. Dad is wearing red trunks that are too short. We all laugh when he comes out of the cabana. He says, “What?” We pretend it’s something else, ‘cause even with his funny looking legs, we want him to have a good time today. Alex and Jen and I go out into the water. Mom yells, “Watch out for them, Maddie.” We have boogie boards, are riding the shallow waves. We could do this forever. Suddenly Alex yells, “Lookee!” Out ahead, dolphins jump; there must be a whole school of them. Silvery backs arcing out of the sea. Catching the yes in each other’s eyes, we kick, paddle our boards out to the deeper water, but the farther we go, so do they. I hear Mom yelling from the sand. We turn around, swim back closer to shore. Outside the breaking waves, we float on our boards; swells rock us in slow motion, we could almost fall asleep. Sun, heat, peace. Water splashes on my face and startles me. I lick my lips—it’s been so long since I’ve tasted salt water. Like the dirt, like the aches in my shoulders, I rinse it away and root myself back in the present.
In the kitchen, I take the tomatoes out of their soak, get to work on making the sauce. Sprinkling dried garlic and onion in the oil, I fantasize about fresh vegetables, onions that can make your eyes sting. It’s fun cooking for more than just myself. I spend energy on music, shimmy and stir at the stove. A breaking report slips in between ads and songs. I ask Alexa to repeat it. She does, and the air feels lighter even though there’s been no change in the clouds.
I’ve just finished setting the table when there’s a knock on the door. It’s Tom, of course. He’s tidied up, sort of. His clothes look fresh and clean, as does his skin, but there’s no sign that a razor’s been applied. Which I don’t understand. As soon as the rain became permanent, I cut my hair short and still it stays damp for hours.
“Come on in,” I say.
“Howdy,” he responds and presents a bottle of wine from behind his back. Now I fully accept that Tom does have a pot of gold somewhere. I thank him. “Ah, it’s nothing. Hey, pup.” Tom stoops to meet Midge, gives her some gentle slaps on her rump, which is wagging back and forth so violently she almost knocks herself off her own feet. Unused to company, I have to think what comes next.
“Uh – come sit down. I’m starving. You must be, too.”
“Oh yeah. Worked up a good appetite today, huh? Hungry, hungry.” We sit and I dish out the spaghetti, am about to start eating when Tom bows his head. I wait. He gives a quick nod, then says, “Dig in.”
Tom slurps his pasta, uses his bread as a napkin. We’re both too hungry to talk much, and we eat until all that’s left is the wine. I pick up the bottle, and we head to the living room. Midge curls up next to me on the sofa. Tom opts for a straight back chair. He has finally dared to ask what I know he’s been wondering: the particulars of my story of displacement. I tell him about being a kid in the Carolinas when there was still a North and a South, summers at the ocean, the shock when the storms started coming, how my parents made me go to college up north so I could get away from those storms.
“And your family?” he asks. “You lose them in the big one?” Tom’s voice is gentle. The Big One. Even though there have been worse since, it was the one that showed things would never be the same. I nod.
“Is there anyone left?”
“No – well, some cousins. I don’t know where they are. Mom was the one who kept in touch. They could be here, for all I know.”
“So forgive me for asking, but I’ve been wondering. Are the Boundaries as bad as they say?”
I hold up the bottle and Tom shakes his head. I empty what’s left into my glass and think back to those early years after I was placed here.
“They housed us by age. I guess that made sense to some genius. So you got thousands of college students but no college. Just working and partying. And we partied like crazy. It was a hot bed of—," it takes only a second to realize the obvious conclusion, “hot beds.” I raise my glass. “Cheers.”
Tom doesn’t return the toast, his lips set tight in parallel lines.
“Yeah, that got old after a while.”
He nods, his mouth relaxes, and the wine is doing its job of allowing me to relax, too.
“There were so many of us. And no one had dibs on loss. Or being lost. It was work, party, sleep, over and over again. Really not much better than dumb survival. I was assigned to one of the new barracks. Four to a room, cement block walls, communal showers. They said it would be temporary. Seven years later I was still there.”
“Sounds grim.”
“Oh no. They made it so nice for us. Holiday dinners, picnics. Day trips to Lake Erie. You should have seen the Thanksgiving dinners they’d throw. Funny how it never occurred to anyone that a gymnasium filled with rows of white plastic tables and decorated with pumpkins and paper turkeys, which probably tasted as good as the turkey they served, was a poor substitute for actual family gatherings. Those were miserable, miserable days. I stopped going by my third year.”
“Wow. So how’d you end up getting out of there?”
“You know I work at a casino, right?”
“Yeah. You sayin’ you won the money to buy this place?”
“Kind of.”
Tom’s asks his question with his eyes.
“Okay,” I say, tucking my feet under me and settling in on the couch. “So, it’s last spring and things are still normal—mostly. We had that bad spell in December, but hey, snow melts and you forget about it, right? It’s getting warm, trees are budding, sun is shining. I’m working the floor. We’re packed with tourists. There’s a guy, he’s a local, and he’s playing the table games. I’m serving drinks and he wins some big pots, like thousands of dollars, calls me his lucky charm. No points for originality. So, the night goes on, he’s winning more than losing, but nothing huge. When it’s time to leave, he’s pretty plastered—I have to help keep him steady on his feet. We’re passing the slots, and he’s got money dropping out of his pockets. He picks up a hundred, says. ‘Hey, play this for me.’ He’s all swaggering. ‘You win, I’ll split it with you.’ I played it. You finish the rest.”
“You won? Enough to buy a house?”
“Not exactly. He kept the cash–“
“What!?”
“No wait—he took the money but he gave me his house.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Nope. I figured this was worth way more than the jackpot. But what I didn’t know was, the guy was a psychic.”
“Get outta here.”
“No really. He worked for Accutracking. A climatologist. He knew what was coming. And he sure wanted out fast. In a week, he transferred the title to me and took off up north.”
“Whoa, that’s something,” Tom says.
“You bet. I thought I’d died and gone to heaven. And it was heaven, for what, three, four months?” A sudden pain hits behind my eyes; I palm my forehead to massage it away.
“You okay, Maddie?”
“It must be the wine.”
“Yeah, better to have water after all our hard work.”
He gets me a glass. I take it and a sip.
“Better?”
I nod. “Thanks. And, I must correct you: working at the casino is just as hard as digging a trench, only here there are fewer irritating people around.”
“Fewer? You mean none?”
“No, there was one.”
I laugh and so does Tom.
“I guess I walked right into that one,” Tom says. “Hey—it wasn’t that funny. Why are you crying?”
I shake my head. “No, no it wasn’t.”
I sink back into the couch as my tears turn from laughter to confusion and finally, to release. I steady my breath and calm washes over me. Sneaking a glance at Tom, I think it wouldn’t be so bad having him as a grandpa. He’s quiet in this moment, then says gently, “I’m happy for you, Maddie. Might not have lasted long, but you got to enjoy some good times, too, at least for a little while.”
I sit up alert, “Oh my gosh—didn’t you hear today’s report?”
“What report?”
“About the weather.”
“Nah, I don’t pay attention to that stuff. When I want to know what’s coming, I look out the window.”
“Pretty limiting, Tom. Anyhow, they said that the jet stream might finally be shifting.”
“Oh yeah. I’ve heard talk of that. Grain o’salt.”
“What?”
“Means, don’t take that too seriously.”
“But they’ve charted it. The dips have been getting shallower and wider and they say that’s a definite sign that the stalls are weakening.”
“I think they report that stuff just to keep you tuning in.”
“Yeah, but—“
“Really, Maddie—you’re just getting your hopes up.”
“Maybe I want to get my hopes up.” I add quietly, “I’m just so tired of every tomorrow feeling like a threat.”
“Nah. Don’t go kidding yourself, Maddie. It’s best if you face what’s right in front of you.”
It takes a moment to register what he’s said. But when I do, I understand the weather completely because in a second I shift and there’s nothing going to stop this front from moving in.
“What did you say?”
“It’s best if you....” but he trails off once he notices the look on my face.
“You want me to face what’s right in front of me? That’s great advice from someone who ignored everything in front of him for, what, your entire life?”
“I’m sorry, what happened here?” He looks perplexed, puppy-eyed.
“Oh come on, Tom. They knew. Before you were born they knew this could happen. There were reports for years. And when the predictions started coming true, what did you do? Oh that’s right—you got rich.”
“Ah, Maddie.”
“That’s how you faced what was right in front of you.”
“I’m just trying to save you from some heartbreak. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”
“No, no, you’re right. It’s stupid to get my hopes up. I should admit once and for all that life’s going to be one long shit show—well, probably not long—and then it’ll be over. The sooner I get good with that, the better.”
All the warm feeling in the room has evaporated. Midge is looking between the two of us, on high alert.
“You should go.” I break the silence.
Tom stands, takes a few steps towards the door, then asks. “What about the trench? When d’ya want to finish that?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No.”
“I don’t want your help.”
“Don’t be like that.”
“I was wrong to accept anything from you. Honest, though, I can’t pay for what you’ve given me, but I’ll figure out how to finish it myself. Or why even bother. You’re right, hope is a stupid thing.”
“Not stupid. Painful. At times.”
Tom shuffles, goes to the door, looks look he wishes he had a hat to collect or something, finally says, “You change your mind, you let me know. And don’t talk about owing anything.”
He’s still hesitating, so I bark “what” at him.
“Maddie,” he says, “if I could switch places with you, I would. If I could go back and change things. It’s the God’s honest truth, I never ever imagined anything like this could ever really happen.”
“That’s your defense? A lack of imagination?”
“I’m not trying to defend anyone, least of all myself. But I have tried to make sense of it all. Best I’ve come up with is maybe it’s how we’re programmed to survive. We’re creatures of habit. What worked yesterday will work today will work tomorrow. Right? Every blow, every shock to the system, you adjust, make it make sense, and you keep moving on like tomorrow will be the world you always thought it would be. Maybe this,” he makes a vague gesture to the sky, “maybe it was never in us to stop it. Maybe this is the best we had in us to do. Maybe now it’s time to put aside the blinders and face what’s coming. That’s all I’m trying to say.”
Tom bows his head, turns and leaves. As he closes the door, I can’t help but wonder, if this was the best they could do, what possibly could have been the worst?
On Tuesday, I’m back at work. We’ve been busy. Reports continue to mention shifts in the jet stream. The air has felt lighter, fewer downpours and more mistings. One customer says, “See, this is gonna clear up and we’ll be back to sunshine before you know it.” I agree reflexively.
At home, neighbors are emerging from their front doors like expectant groundhogs sniffing the breeze for good news. I take Midge out for a walk. It’s nice until we reach the end of the street and look down to the river, which is wider now than it’s ever been, the water a swirl of thick browns, the source of the muck evident all along the banks. We turn back; it’s not good to look for long. Then, I hear a distant sound from up above. A plane is coming in. I can’t spot it through the clouds but what I do see makes my heart jump. Off in the west, blue lifts into the sky. Not just a patch, but all along the horizon. I take a breath, let it out slow and steadying, tug on Midge’s leash. We walk home, hope swelling up right along with the blue.
The last rain was almost three weeks ago. Like the flip of a switch, the polar vortex has retreated and the golden days have returned. Downtown is a swarm of activity. The casino’s been packed and it’s my first day off in a while. Midge and I are hanging out in the backyard. I’m reading. Midge is trying to eat a bug. The story can’t compete with the sweetness of the sun, and I fall sleep. Something wet touches my hand and jolts me awake. It’s Midge poking me with her nose. I shade my eyes from the sun, but still the yard is washed in a stark yellow tinge that comes only from hot summer light. I feel disoriented, am struck by how dry everything looks. How can that be? Haven’t we saved up a lifetime’s worth of rain over the last year? I kneel and run my hands through the grass. It’s brittle, prickly to the touch. Midge nudges me again, but I push her aside, study the earth, scan the trees for signs of thirst. And there at the horizon, I see gray moving in. Rain is coming. Yes, this was the pattern during the golden years: days and days of sun, short bursts of rain. Yes, we’re getting back to normal, that’s all.
When it begins, it’s a light mist that makes me think of how many different faces the rain has. Here it is falling like a caress. My mother would have said it is down from the angels’ wings, a curtain, tender and soft, so gentle that the first rumble of thunder surprises me. I hadn’t expected a storm.
“Midge,” I call. “Come on, let’s go pee-pee.” I have to coax her to do her business. She’s confused, but sweet dog, she wants so badly to please. She figures things out and squats. The thunder threatens again, the wind picks up. Midge whines, runs circles around me. That’s when I notice a green haze in the sky. I look at my watch, check the radar. There must be a glitch. The southwestern quadrant is nothing but red. I reload and it swallows up the screen. My mouth runs dry. Midge barks all out now and I finally get what she’s on about. I follow her inside and down the basement stairs just as a series of thunderclaps roll over each other in a rumbling that never fully fades away.
We’re up against the wall in the deepest corner of the basement, and still we can feel the crashing going on outside. The air smells electric and I think I can taste it. I hold onto Midge, tell her it’s going to be all right. Lightning flashes, prismed through the glass block, at times so bright it turns on the whole basement. Otherwise, we are in a dim light that can only create monsters out of the dark. Midge whimpers, and I join her, our voices making a harmony. We can’t drown out the storm, but we can sing to each other. In a flash of light, I think of my mother, my brother, my sister. Is this what they did? Did she wrap her arms around them and sing? Of course, she must have. She would have held onto them all the while. I can only do the same. My arms wrapped around a big black dog, we sing a wordless song, each taking turns comforting the other.
I don’t know if it’s been minutes, hours, or days when the light returns and silence descends. I listen. The storm has passed.
Water streams across the concrete floor. My clothes are wet with it. It’s hard to move, to stand. But we do, both of us. Midge is frantic to go out but I know I have to keep her down here. It’s not safe, I tell her but she doesn’t understand. She won’t stay put, so I have to tie her. She cries, afraid that I’m leaving her, and my heart sinks as I climb the stairs.
At the top, I feel like Dorothy about to enter Oz, only instead of a world of wonder, I brace for destruction. I push the door open and am greeted by the sun shining in its merry perverse post-storm way. I’m overwhelmed by the Technicolor ruin. Water pools on the floor. It’s dripping from above. The ceiling sags, threatens to fall. I take a step in and see that some of the water is, in fact, shattered glass. When I reach the back door, expectation doesn’t prepare me for what I find. It’s like someone has picked up my neighborhood, crumbled it up and let the pieces of tree, brick, rock, metal, glass, wood fall back down to earth like confetti. Cattycorner from me, an oak has fallen into the neighbor’s house, bursting its bricks into haphazard piles. For a terrible second I wonder what I could build with them.
Despite the sun and blue sky, the air smells of loss. And smoke. I look up to the hilltop horizon, to the big house and its array. A gray haze hangs over the windmills, or what had been the windmills. Their blades are bent now like trampled grass. One column is fully snapped in two; it sticks up into the sky like a broken toothpick.
I turn to face my house. The windows are blown out, the back quarter of the roof has peeled off; this explains the water coming in the first floor. Midge barks from the basement, but soon I can’t distinguish her voice from the wailing that fills the air. Sirens and fire alarms, maybe people, too. I want to get back inside, but it’s as though the ground is shifting, and I can’t find a balance. My feet can’t carry me, so I go down on my knees and crawl but the door keeps moving farther away. I swear I can feel the earth itself spinning. Spread-eagled now, I’m holding onto the ground and know that if I let go, right now, there’s a chance I will never come back. I force my eyes to stay open. Count to a hundred. The heat on my head is like a shovel pounding me back into the earth and finally I figure why not. If this is all that’s left, why hold on? The sky tumbles into black and I let go.
The dolphins are back, but this time we catch them and hang on by their dorsal fins. They glide us through the water, chattering to each other while me, Alex, and Jen can’t stop laughing. If Mom’s protesting from the shore, I can’t hear her, and we’re off, heading deeper out to sea. I’m a little afraid when my dolphin jumps into the air and plunges underwater. I look back to check on Alex and Jen, but don’t see them. My guy tilts his head to me and asks, can we go down deep? I say, I’m scared. And he says, don’t be, hang on, you’ll be okay.
He dives, keeps chattering, don’t worry, don’t worry, I got you.
Underneath the waves, the sea is alive with light. A crystal city far below reflects the sun. Pods of whales are no more than clouds of minnows swimming through the sparkling spires.
A shark swims past us, turns its head and smiles at me. “Move it along, buster,” my guy says, then asks, “Where to next? The ocean is our oyster.”
The crystal city entreats me with its colors of gold and aqua and coral pink. Farther ahead the water is one deep blue and beyond that it is black. I spy Alex and Jen, small specks in the distance catching the last bit of light before disappearing into the nothingness.
“Alex! Jen!” I yell but they keep getting smaller. “Call them back.”
“They won’t hear.”
“Then follow them,” I say.
“Are you sure? If we dive down deeper, we can meet a whale or two.”
“But they’ll be afraid.”
“Probably.”
“Then we have to go after them. That’s my little brother and sister. I have to help them.”
“Alrighty then.”
He rears up like a horse then takes off, leaving the colors behind and the light, reaching into the blue with nothing but black beyond.
I come to with the sun blazing red and yellow through my closed eyes. I curl into a ball, try to hide myself from the assault and find some little relief when cool earth touches my cheek. I’m empty and am not sure if I can sit up. Or, if I can, if I want to. Time passes and then I hear distant voices, rumblings of vehicles, and I begin to wonder if someone has the dumb idea that life might still go on. Lifting an arm to shade my face, only then I open my eyes. There’s a forest of grass through the tunnel of my cupped hand. An ant is crawling through the blades; it’s bumping into them, turning this way then that. It doesn’t know where to go. I shift, raise myself up on my elbows, and watch it disappear into the woods. Has it found its path home? A grasshopper clings to a fallen branch. I scooch over to see it more clearly. It’s big and so much more than green: a mosaic of browns, even purples and blues, hints of gold, little suction-cup feet on the ends of spindly legs. Its head looks like a stormtrooper’s helmet that it swivels towards me. We stare at each other, its agate black eye considering me as much as I do it. Is it thinking, what the fuck? Or, in its world, do our broken homes matter little? I extend my hand, hope it’ll hop on, but of course it hops away instead, off the branch and up and over a pile of buckled concrete. There, I see a worm stranded on the hot stone. It’s a rich brown, not more than two inches long, as slender as a tacking nail. It’s wiggling convulsively, frantically spelling an “S” back and forth. I stare for what feels like a lifetime before I reach for it. Nudging it between my fingers and thumb, I lift it and place it in the grass. It no longer moves, too weak to burrow down. I dust some dirt overtop of it and don’t know if I saved it or not.
Just then, the heavy rumbling grows louder, approaches. It’s something big and heavy: a bulldozer must be out already, clearing a path through the debris. “Hey, are you okay?”
Someone wearing a neon orange vest has come from the side of the house. I look up. All I can make out is a wreath of grizzly gray hair washed in a golden halo from the sun. Then that someone kneels and the vision is gone. I’m looking into the worried eyes of a woman.
“Hi, there. I’m with the crisis care time. I’m Lia. What’s your name?” I tell her.
“Hi, Maddie. How are you doing today?”
Really? What a question. I don’t have an answer for that.
“Are you hurt?”
I shake my head no.
“Mind if I take a look?”
The woman scans my eyes with a small flashlight. Holds my wrist and takes my pulse, runs her hands along my hairline, feels my scalp, my neck.
“Okay, Maddie.” She sits back on her heels. “I don’t think you’re injured, but you’re probably in shock. Let’s get you out of the sun.”
Surprisingly strong hands hoist me up from under my arms and help me scoot into the shade from the house.
“That’s better, huh? Here, have something to drink.”
She opens the flap to a bag, takes out two water bottles, some energy bars, and hands them to me.
“Does anyone live with you?”
I nod. “Yeah, my dog. I need to check on her,” I say as I begin to stand.
“Hang on,” Lia says, stopping me.
“Give yourself a minute. Get your bearings first. Drink that water.”
I do, spilling some down my chin. It does help and some of the fog is starting to lift.
“How bad is it?” I ask.
Lia grimaces a bit. “Pretty bad,” she says.
“Everywhere?”
“Yeah.”
I’m surprisingly calm processing this information. Sometimes these storms pick and choose where they’ll hit, passing over whole neighborhoods, even counties, leaving the people there to go forward as if not much has changed. But not this one, huh? We’re all in this one together.
“Hey,” I say, “I’m okay, really. Can I have some water for my dog, too? I need to go to her.”
Lia’s face clouds over but then she says sure and hands me a couple more bottles. She steps into the yard to assess the damage.
“That’s a pretty big hole in your roof. D’ya have anyone you can call, see if they’re okay, see if you can stay with them?”
“No.”
“Okay. Here’s the thing, hon.” She comes back, kneels down on one knee. “They’re not going to let this building stand with a roof like that.”
“What?” I don’t get what she’s meaning.
“It’s not safe,” Lil says.
“Where is safe?” I start laughing.
“Not here,” Lil answers.
I start to realize what she’s getting at and I say, “It’s not so bad.”
“Yeah, it is. I’ll bet water’s coming into the first floor. Is it?”
I give half a nod.
“I thought so. Those ceilings won’t hold for long.”
I’m shaking my head, “What are you trying to tell me?”
“These old houses, damaged, they’re just tearing them down. You’re gonna need temporary housing. But the thing is, that’s only out in the Boundaries. And you can’t bring a dog with you out to the Boundaries.”
“It hardly matters—I’m not going there.”
“You want to stay here until the roof collapses on your head?”
“I’m not going to the Boundaries.”
I say this in the most defiant tone I can muster. Lia accepts the challenge. I notice only now that she’s much older than I thought. Her skin lined, weathered; her eyes deeper dark than the ocean. But those strong hands, her thick shoulders, if she chose to battle me, she would win. I know, I am fully at her mercy.
“Please,” I beg, now feeling as vulnerable as a child, a lost soul, a worm.
She considers me for a long time, then suddenly stands, says, “Maybe you’re right, maybe the roof’s not as bad as I thought. I’ll give it a pass, but you’ll need to tend to it, sooner than later, or they’ll bulldoze the house right down. You understand? You don’t fix it, you don’t stay here and that is going to be one hard task to complete. Got me?”
“I’ll fix it,” I say, nodding my head. “I’ll figure out a way.”
“Okay, then.”
She makes notes in her tablet. Tells me about the water buffalo set up at the end of the street at the old school. Food will be available, too, she says.
“And I’m serious, inspectors will be by in a couple of weeks. If they see your house like this, you know what’ll happen. You get to work on that.”
“I will.”
“Good,” Lia nods. “You take care, Maddie.”
I thank her, she leaves.
I need to get to the basement, check on Midge, but I’m so hungry, I tear into the energy bars and wish she’d left me a few more, even if they taste more like chalk than chocolate. My watch pings; it’s caught a charge. I expand the display to see images of rivers and creeks raging outside their banks, of flood waters burying streets, buildings lying in heaps torn apart by wind and downed trees, hillsides tumbling into their valleys. A special report shows ten miles of the PEL demolished in the Boundaries. “The Storm of the Season,” the ticker proclaims.
Something familiar flashes by: broken windmills, a burnt-out house. I stop the stream, scan back, look again. Yes, it is the house from on top of my hill. There are the bent blades of the windmills, and beyond, a blackened, collapsed house. An image comes on—an old man off in the distance, walking alongside the remains of his home. He’s tall and stooped, just another one of the locals facing the destruction the rest of us have known for years. Then he lifts a hand, tugs at the back of his head. Recognition prickles up my spine. It’s Tom, and in his gestures, the random wandering of his feet and turns of his head, I also recognize the complete bewilderment that comes from complete loss.
I know what I’m going to do before the idea takes the shape of words.
Midge and I make our way down the street. It’s dangerous picking though the mud and debris. She looks at me from time to time, confused, unsure. She doesn’t know where to put her nose, along the road to figure out what happened, or up in the air to sniff what’s coming next.
I’m rehearsing what I’ll say to Tom. How will I convince him to come stay with me? I search for reasons, think, maybe I could tell him he was right. It’s time we all face what’s right in front of us. Me too. And right now, the only thing that’s certain is that all we have left to do is take care of each other. Maybe that’s all we’ve ever had to do. Yes. That’s what I’ll tell him: I need your help, I’ll say. Maybe then he’ll admit he needs mine, too. That’s better than reasons; that’s just the truth. If that doesn’t work, then I don’t know.
We reach the end of the street, turn the corner and begin climbing the hill, Midge pulling on her leash, leading the way.
Kath Donnelly is a playwright and fiction writer living in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. She's had numerous productions of her plays in the western PA region, and her published one-act "Upon a Sea of Dreams" has been performed throughout the US and Canada. Her piece, "How is This My Story," was included in Philadelphia Story's 10th Anniversary "best of" fiction anthology. She has taught creative writing for over 25 years, including two decades with Pittsburgh's School for the Creative and Performing Arts.