No Ordinary Day

by Polly Becks

“Maybe we’ll get an early dismissal,” Lucy said, coming down from her stepladder. “Clarence is passing over Philadelphia almost four hundred miles to the south, and dissipating, but the edge rains are supposed to hit us this morning—that’s probably them out there now.”

  “How was the Town Board meeting last night?”

  “Awful.” Lucy picked up the ladder, closed it, and took it back to the closet. “A total free-for-all.”

  “Yeah, I can’t believe they’re bringing that dam thing up again,” Kelly said, laying out the morning’s WHAT IS SPECIAL TODAY? cards on each desk. “Where does the Board stand on that? I thought we voted it down.”

  “We thought we did too, but apparently that wasn’t enough for the West Obergrande folks.”

  “Hmmph,” Kelly snorted in annoyance.

  “Dan Saunders, Donna Marquarte, and Joni Wolfe are all pretty soundly against it, or at least it seems that way,” Lucy said, leafing through her lesson plans.

  “Donna and Joni don’t surprise me—I expect you got a ‘how can you do more harm to the poor people in the community?’ bleeding heart speech from Joni?”

  Lucy looked up from her desk in surprise.

  “Well, yes, but I happen to agree with her,” she said.

  “So do I, but, unlike Donna, there’s something so, I dunno, so hippy-dippy about Joni that it’s hard to take her seriously.” Kelly dusted off her hands, then went over to the calendar. “I’m a little puzzled about Dan Saunders—doesn’t he live in West Obergrande? Aren’t there streets with his family name on them?”

  “I think so,” Lucy said, writing the morning’s riddle on the whiteboard in yellow, red, and black for Germany Day. “But he’s a business owner and seems like a very practical, hands-on kinda guy. I frequently see him down on the waterfront, working alongside his employees. He owns a lot of businesses in town, some of which are in East Obergrande. And it’s not all that hard to name a street in the Adirondacks if you want to. In Cold Brook, there’s one called Hooper-Dooper Avenue.”

  Kelly laughed. “That must be the one across from Sesame Street.”

  “That would be Mr. Hooper-Dooper Avenue. George Durant is all gung-ho for the dam, for the redesign of the town that the Public Benefit Corporation would pay for,” Lucy continued, fixing a spelling mistake in the riddle. “He kept saying ‘we can be better than Placid!’ over and over again. He got unanimous eye rolling when he said that—as if there is enough money in the world to out-class Lake Placid—no way.”

  “Sheesh. What about Phil Schirmer?”

  “He’s his usual flip-flop self—you know how he’s always with whomever has spoken to him last?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Well, apparently the pro-dam side got to him last night.”

  “Great,” said Kelly gloomily. “Where do the mayor and the town supervisor stand?”

  “Mayor Tibedeau seems to be fairly objective,” Lucy said. “He seems pretty distressed at the thought of moving all those houses, relocating all those people from the apartments, but he did point out that there would be money for those things. He remained calm, except for the fruit-throwing.”

  “Fruit-throwing? Seriously?”

  “Yep. Bob Lundford was mad from the beginning to the end of the meeting, shouting at people and banging his gavel, but I can’t say I have any idea where he stands.”

  Kelly shook her head, as if to shake off the thoughts of the meeting and the weather. “Wonderful. So, change of subject—how was your date with Glen Daniels last night?”

  Lucy blinked in surprise. “How did you know about that?”

  Kelly laughed. “Girl, everyone knows about that. So dish—is he really as dull as the grapevine says?”

  “Not at all,” Lucy said defensively. “He’s great. We had a nice time.”

  “Ooooooooohh,” said Kelly as the racket of approaching feet and the children attached to them began sounding in the hallway beyond the door. “You’ll have to tell me more at the end of the day.”

  7:52 AM

  THE CLASS WAS in a somewhat better mood that morning, despite the rain, Lucy decided.

  The language arts lesson of the day was one that included poetry, music, self-awareness, and physical movement that she had come up with the year before. It had been a great success then, but the previous year the day on which she had presented it was so beautifully sunny that she had taken the class outside to do it.

  This day could not have been more different.

  Nonetheless, she and Kelly had brought all the kids together in a big circle with their sit-upons, low, thin pillows on which most of their floor activities were done.

  As Mrs. Moran turned on the CD player, Lucy ran through the rules again.

  “OK, who are the Mondays?”

  Four children sat forward, waving red construction-paper circles.

  “Tuesdays?”

  Three hands waving orange circles shot up.

  She continued to quiz the class, making certain each child understood the day of his or her birth, as correlated to the colors of the rainbow and, satisfied that they did, she got down on her knees and sat with her backside on her heels, encouraging all but Kristen Feeny, her wheelchair-bound student for whom Kelly Moran was the primary aide, to do so as well.

  “Ready, Kristen?” she asked.

  The little girl nodded excitedly.

  “All right,” Lucy said, pulling a thick tangle of curls out of her eyes, “everyone sing—let’s go!”

  A chorus of young voices, mostly on key, broke into song along with the disc:

  Monday’s child is fair of face,

  Tuesday’s child is full of grace,

  Wednesday’s child is full of woe,

  Thursday’s child has far to go,

  Friday’s child is loving and giving,

  Saturday’s child works hard for a living,

  But the child who is born on the Sabbath Day

  Is bonny and blithe and good and gay.

  When each child’s day of birth was sung, he or she popped up off the floor, jumping high in the air and waving their colored circles, then sat quickly back down. The song went through three choruses, increasing in speed each time, giving the kids three opportunities to jump. Mrs. Moran stood behind Kristen, who happened to be a Friday, and spun her around each time that day was mentioned, causing her to giggle wildly.

  When the song was over, they fell with exaggerated silliness back on their sit-upons, Lucy being careful to keep her skirt from riding up unexpectedly.

  “Good job,” she said, a little out of breath. “All right, I think it’s time for morning snack.” She wiped the sweat off her brow with the sleeve of her sweater. “Whew! All right, guys, while Mrs. Moran gets the juice and trail mix, I just want to say that what you just sang is a very, very old poem, written long before you were born, and while we’re not sure who wrote it, the first time it was ever recorded in a book was in 1838, in England.”

  “Before you was born, too, Miss Sullivan?” asked James LaPointe innocently.

  “Uh, yes, yes it was, James. Hard as it may seem to believe, that poem is older than me.”

  The children nodded in agreement at how hard it was to believe her words.

  “England? Is that where princesses come from?” asked Sloane Wallace, a little redhead.

  “Sometimes,” Lucy said, rising from her sit-upon and herding the kids to the long tables where they normally ate their snacks.

  “I wish I comed from England, then,” said Sloane matter-of-factly. “It would be cool to be a princess. You get to marry Prince Charmin’ and live happy ever afta.”

  “Ick,” said Sarah Windsor decidedly. “Not me. I don’t want to marry no damn prince. I don’t wanna live in Inkland. I wanna live in Obergran’ for always.”

  Lucy’s mouth fell open, and she clapped her hand over it to keep from laughing out loud, knowing how shocked Sarah’s mother would be to hear the word damn coming out of her mouth.

  “Let’s ke
ep our talk nice, please, Sarah,” she said. The little girl blinked, then nodded, looking confused.

  “Who is Prince Charmin’, Sloane?” asked Kelly Moran humorously.

  The little redhead stopped comically in mid-stride, crossed her arms, and put a small finger to her forehead, thinking.

  “I dunno,” she said finally, great seriousness in her tone. “But I fink it might be Mr. Daniels.”

  Mrs. Moran choked, dropping several of the trail-mix envelopes, and Lucy stepped hurriedly into the corridor before she burst into laughter.

  9:14 AM

  SHORTLY AFTER MORNING snack, the afore-mentioned Mr. Daniels appeared in the open door.

  “Good morning, Miss Sullivan,” he said cheerily, in contrast to the gray rain beating against the window. “May I snag some of your students?”

  Lucy blinked, having forgotten. “Oh, of course,” she said, looking around at the children cleaning up their trail mix envelopes and juice cups. “Er—Sarah, Sloane, Corinne, Grace, and—and—”

  “Elisa,” Mr. Daniels said, smiling at the little girl, dressed, as always, very prettily. The little girl looked confused.

  “Elisa,” Lucy said to her, “Quieres cantar con el Sr. Daniels?”

  The new girl brightened. “Sí, por favor.”

  Lucy smiled. “Go on,” she said, sweeping the girls out the door with her hands. She caught Mr. Daniels’ eye and winced suddenly.

  “I’m sorry,” she said, walking closer to him to speak quietly. “I left your umbrella in the car—I was afraid it would turn inside out in the wind this morning.”

  “No problem whatsoever,” Mr. Daniels said, still smiling. “Keep it until the rain stops, assuming it ever does. Thanks again for last night.”

  “No, thank you,” Lucy corrected. “You’re the one who was magnanimous enough to share that piece of pie.”

  Mr. Daniels laughed. “We’ll be back in half an hour. See you later. Enjoy your morning.”

  Lucy watched him walk down the hall with the five little girls dancing excitedly around him, talking animatedly to him. He was a sweet and natural teacher who had chosen kids with five very different personalities, from different sides of town, different social classes, and that impressed her.

  Sarah, the first child he had requested, was a delightful young girl in spite of her unintentional swear word, quiet and pleasant, a natural leader. She and Corinne, an eager little person who had a deep love for Sebastian, the class turtle, and a gleaming smile contrasting with dusky skin and a head of curls the color of coffee, could always be counted on to get and keep their friends in line, even at the age of five. Corinne’s father was the professor who had spoken after Lucy the night before.

  Sloane, the would-be princess, was the only daughter in a famous West Obergrande family, and she was used to being asked to do special or difficult tasks. While she was possessed of an impish nature and a lot of self-confidence, Lucy sensed some insecurity below the surface. She had observed the same thing in Grace, the daughter of the pastor of the Obergrande Community Church, who had a warm smile that wavered a little when she was put on the spot.

  And, of course, there was Elisa, whom she had discussed with both Mrs. Cox and Mr. Daniels the previous day.

  She lingered in the doorway, watching down the hall as the tall young teacher rounded the corner with five of her students, all six of them laughing as they disappeared from sight.

  At the campsite between Newcomb and Obergrande

  BRAM AWOKE TO the sounds of crashing, screaming, and his infant daughter wailing.

  The rain was pounding hard on the tent top, knifing through the seams and dousing the young family with cold water. The wind beyond the flapping fabric sides was howling, pulling the tent taught on its ropes and the stakes that held it to the ground.

  He scrambled from the sleeping bag and pulled his still-damp clothes on, once he had made certain that Anjolie and the baby were unhurt, only terrified.

  “Come!” he urged his wife, scooping the baby from the tent floor that was beginning to slide in the mud. He reached out a hand to Anjolie, who was unable to stand in the slipping tent. He pulled her to her feet, then quickly packed the baby into the backpack in which they carried her when hiking.

  He ran his shaking fingers over the pocket in the baby carrier, and felt the treasure he had received from Mutti, still behind the zipper where he had secured it.

  “We have to abandon the gear, the tent and such,” he told his quaking wife. “There’s no way to pack it now. Help me flip the canoe, put on your life jacket, and grab what you can.”

  Anjolie, shaking violently, followed him out of the tent and assisted him in turning the watercraft over, then scrambled back inside, scooping up the critical supplies.

  “There, there, kindje,” Bram said as he secured the hiccupping baby in her carrier, a life jacket attached around it, into place in the canoe. “Hold on, little one—we will have a bumpy ride for certain, but we will be together, finally heading for our new home.”

  He tried to keep the terror out of his voice.

  A sickening snap and a harsh, screeching noise from behind the tent rent the air.

  * * *

  It had long been known in the lore of the Adirondacks, and especially in foothill towns like Obergrande, that mountain ranges can trap thunderstorms, then funnel huge amounts of water into canyons and downstream into the towns and cities built beneath their towering peaks.

  The soil of the region had already been saturated that spring when the massive snowfall of the previous winter melted, causing the season commonly known to its residents as Mud to be even more like its name.

  It had seemed to the citizens of Obergrande, who were still recuperating from their combative Town Board meeting the night before, that the endless storms of spring had just continued to soak their cursed town throughout that meeting and the rest of the night that followed it.

  But they were wrong.

  In fact, during the six hours after the meeting concluded at 1 AM, almost fifteen inches of hard rain, trapped between the peaks of the mountains on both sides of the Hudson River, fell on the long-weary area.

  A parting gift from the far-away Hurricane Clarence.

  A billion metric tons of water.

  For the watershed of the central Adirondacks, the trapped storm was the last straw.

  At 6:41 AM, just as the thunderstorm was finally dissipating, almost every stream and creek in the region swelled over its banks.

  Almost as if the waterways had planned it that way.

  At precisely 9:22 AM, swollen by the excessive rains of the spring season, and clogged with massive amounts of debris, the Lake Obergrande dam, which had held that lake and the river in check for more than a hundred years, failed.

  And loosed an unrelenting flood of terrifying proportions, sending it rolling down the Hudson, swelling over the river’s banks, ripping up roadways and swallowing buildings.

  On its way to the little town.

  Chapter 10

  ‡

  9:47 AM

  Obergrande Elementary School, interior music room

  THE FIVE LITTLE girls had learned the music faster than Glen Daniels could have imagined.

  He had read them the lyrics, played the melody once through on the piano for them, and then suggested they try it with him.

  He was pleasantly surprised to hear them, all on key, in time and singing the right words the first time through.

  “Wow,” he said as the girls giggled and danced excitedly. “That was wonderful, ladies.” He stood up and thumbed through a pile of music spread across the top of the upright piano. “Hang on a second—I think I have some solo lines you can each learn.”

  All of the girls were hovering near the piano except for Elisa Santiago, the young Latina who was always so nicely dressed. Uncertain of what was happening, she wandered the music room while the teacher searched through the music, nervous at the lack of windows in the back wall.

  H
ad Lucy Sullivan thought about it, she might have remembered that the absence of windows in a room was something that Elisa’s parents had warned the administration about, a nervousness rooted in frightening things from the little girl’s past, but the kindergarten teacher had been occupied that morning with the other students, and the thought had not occurred to her.

  So Mr. Daniels had no idea it was an issue for Elisa.

  While he and the other girls were occupied, she wandered toward the only window in the music room, the small glass opening in the door that led back out into the hallway.

  Elisa glanced around the room and located a small stepstool sitting under a chair, picked it up and carried it over to the door, putting it down below the window. Then she stood on the stepstool and looked out into the hallway.

  And gasped aloud.

  She stumbled down off the stool and ran to the teacher, grabbing his suit coat and pointing at the door.

  She tried to form words, but none would come.

  Mr. Daniels, still intent on his music, didn’t seem to notice. As her tugging grew more intense, he looked back at her. “Yes, Elisa?”

  Elisa pulled frantically on Mr. Daniels’ coat. “Agua. Hay agua.”

  The vocal music teacher shook his head. “No, sweetie, you can have water when we go back to the room in a few minutes. I can’t send you to the fountain by yourself.”

  Elisa shook her head in frustration. “Agua en el pasillo!”

  Glen Daniels’ brows drew together in confusion. “What are you saying? Elisa, use your English, please.”

  “Hallway! Water! No debe estar!” She pointed to the window in the doorway.

  Mr. Daniels went to the doorway and looked through the small window.

  Water, clogged with branches and trash, was coursing down the tiled floor of the hallway.

  “Oh my God!” he gasped.

  He grabbed the room’s telephone on the nearby wall, hitting the zero to reach the office, but there was no dial tone, no response.

  He glanced around the classroom, looking for the highest ground, then ran to the piano and pushed it up against the long heater that stood against the far wall, his hands shaking with adrenaline.