After we went to sleep I was awakened by a crack and a whoosh, as a tree on the mountain broke and fell. I hated to think of all the hemlocks and pines that was falling. The woods would have gaps and roads would be blocked by knocked-down trees. The sleet was doing its work in the dark. There was so many pops on the ridges above it sounded like somebody was hunting or starting a war. Even after I went back to sleep I heard in my dream a boom, and then another boom. I dreamed the trees was skeletons of ice breaking up into little bones as they walked in the glare of lightning.
But by the time we woke in the morning the popping and creaking had stopped. It was still dark when I got up to start a fire in the kitchen stove. As I laid in the kindling and cobs, I heard the dripping from the eaves, like all the ice was melting. And it did feel a little warmer, though the air was so damp the chill soaked into your bones.
When I opened the door to get more wood off the back porch I heard the rain. It was a quiet steady rain. The yard was a sheet of ice, but grooved where runoff had started melting it. “Didn’t I say it would warm up?” Hank said as he took the bucket out to milk.
“You sure did,” I said.
“Too late to do the trees any good,” he said.
After daylight we could see the trees down along the edge of the pasture and across the road. The ridge above the creek looked like it had been hacked with a mowing blade in places. There was still ice on the trees on top of the mountain. But in the valley most of the sleet was gone. There was only the broke trees, and the limbs laying everywhere, to show what a sleet had passed in the dark.
It was the day before Christmas and I had hoped to get outside and look for some ivy to string along the mantel and doorways with the turkey’s paw. And if I couldn’t find ivy I would gather galax, for I had seen a whole bed of galax on the ridge below the laurel thicket.
But all day the rain kept on. I expected it to slack off and the sun to come out. But instead it rained harder. It was a steady straight-down rain. Water stood in pools in the yard and the pasture looked more like a lake, or a bunch of little lakes. It was so wet the horse didn’t want to go outside, and the cow stayed close to the overhang of the stall. Hank got soaked just carrying in wood from the shed.
“Creek’s getting up,” he said.
I walked to the living room and looked out the window. The creek was an ugly red and frothed high between its banks. Where it rushed against a log, the creek water seemed to clap its hands and reach out for the weeds along the bank.
“We could have a flash flood,” I said.
“We’re already having a flash tide,” Hank said.
IT RAINED ALL day, never a lashing, harsh rain, but steady rain that filled every bucket and tub and sinkhole. The yard looked like a garden growing necks and blossoms of splash. The road looked like a creek, and the creek was running wild and red and wide as a river. Floodwater appears angry because it’s dirty and goes where you don’t expect to see water. All the ice on the mountain had melted far up as I could see. “The barn is leaking,” Hank said when he come in from milking.
“No wonder,” I said.
And when I started to make supper, lighting a fire in the stove and grinding up some of the chestnuts gathered by Hank and Carolyn to make chestnut bread, I heard a plop in the corner of the kitchen. I took the lamp and looked and seen a puddle on the floor. I raised the lamp and seen a nipple of water stretching from a wet spot on the ceiling. Wasn’t nothing to do but put a dishpan under the drip and mop up the mess on the floor. Before I got the chestnut bread mixed and in the oven, I heard another drip and got a bucket and put under that. And while I was getting the bread and grits and applesauce and sidemeat on the table, I seen the wet streaks coming down the wall behind the stove. It was leaking around the flue. It looked like the whole house was going to melt.
“Not supposed to come a flood on Christmas,” Hank said when we set down to eat. “Nobody ever heard of a flood on Christmas.”
“That’s because we’ve always lived on mountaintops before,” I said. And even as I said it I thought how narrow the Gap Creek valley was and how steep the ridges on both sides. We was below all the water that was falling on the mountains. All the rain on the mountains had to gather down into the slender valley.
“What does that mean?” Hank said.
“It just means we never had to worry about floods because we lived on the ridge,” I said.
I don’t reckon Hank had thought about floods in Gap Creek until then. We had moved there in early fall when it was dry. The little creek had behaved itself, staying in the bed of rocks that run like rough cobblestones between the fields and woods, twisty as a playful kitten. I could see by the look on his face how he thought for the first time of the narrowness of the valley and how close the house was to the creek.
“We are a good ways back from the creek,” I said.
“Not far enough,” Hank said.
I had hoped we would be feeling some Christmas cheer, but instead a wet, gray gloom had descended over us.
“If the creek rises we could climb up the mountain tomorrow and visit Mama and my sisters,” I said.
“If the creek rises we won’t be able to get out of the house without a boat,” Hank said. He said it like he was talking about the end of the world. He said it like Ma Richards would have said it, like there was no hope anywhere.
“This house has been here a long time,” I said. “It must have seen a lot of floods and not washed away yet.”
But Hank didn’t answer. He buried his face between his hands.
“Do you think we might ought to go on up the mountain tonight?” I said.
“We can’t leave the horse and cow here,” Hank said.
“We can take the horse,” I said. “And we can leave the cow if we have to.”
“I don’t think anything but a fish could travel in this rain,” Hank said.
When I went out to the back porch to get water to wash the dishes, it was raining hard as ever. In the dark you couldn’t see nothing but lamplight shining on falling drops. It was like the air was sheets and curtains of falling water. Rain was coming down in ropes and clots and tattered rags of water. It felt like the sky was falling and the weight of the rain was pushing everything down to the ground, down the hill, down the valley.
After I finished the dishes and went to set in the living room, we listened to the rain drumming on the roof. The rain was harder and faster now. It sounded like an army marching over our heads, and it sounded like millstones rubbing each other. I heard a drip and seen water splash right on the hearth. It was leaking around the chimney. Hank got the ash bucket to put under the drip. “This house is going to fall apart like cardboard,” he said.
“It is not,” I said, trying to sound like the rain was a little thing. But looking out from the back porch into the steady rain had unnerved me too. In the dark it was like some force was coming out of the sky to drown us in the mud and flood. Whoever thought of an evil force coming from the sky? But it was like the air was threatening to smother us and crush us.
To work against the gloom I got up and lit the candle on top of the Christmas tree. The tree stood in the corner pointing up toward where all the rain was coming from. I thought of a description I had heard of the host of fallen angels being throwed out of heaven. The air was full of black angels falling in the dark, thick as snowflakes. Crowflakes, I thought. But the lighted candle pointed upward.
“We ought to sing some Christmas carols,” I said. I thought if we sung it would make us feel better. Hank always loved to sing. It would make me feel better to hear his fine baritone voice.
“I can’t remember any Christmas carols,” Hank said.
“I don’t believe that,” I said. “You know all the Christmas carols.” I started humming “Silent Night” and then begun singing it. But Hank didn’t join in. I sung the first verse and stopped.
“We should have an organ,” I said.
“We couldn’t even afford a mouth harp,�
�� Hank said.
“I wish you had kept your banjo,” I said.
“Ma made me give it up when I got saved,” Hank said.
“You’ll have to get another one,” I said.
Hank looked toward the front door and fear come on his face.
“What is it?” I said.
He pointed to the door and I seen a tongue of black water reaching over the threshold. It was in the shape of a bib spreading on the floor.
“It’s just water from the porch,” I said.
“That is the creek coming into the house,” Hank said.
“Put something under the door,” I said. I run to get an old blanket from the bedroom and stuffed it along the bottom of the door, the way you would to stop a draft. Water soaked through the blanket quick.
“Won’t do no good,” Hank said.
“What will?” I said. We couldn’t open the door, for that would only let in more rain. Rain must be blowing right across the porch, I thought. But all I heard was steady rain on the roof.
“Nothing,” Hank said. I looked at him, and listened. And then I heard the lips sound, the kissing sound and sucking that rising water makes when it touches a building or rock wall.
“You mean that’s creek water?” I said. Gap Creek had rose out of its banks and crossed the road. In the dark it had reached into the yard and licked against the porch, then swirled up onto the boards of the porch and was now pouring under the door. Hank looked so worried I felt sorry for him. I tried to think of something to stop the water from coming into the house. I grabbed a lamp and run to look at the back door, for I thought it was lower than the front. But I had only took one step into the kitchen when my foot hit something thick. There was a splash and I seen water already standing on the kitchen floor.
I lowered the lamp to look at the water and seen pieces of kindling floating around under the table. And there was cans and bottles floating, and a cardboard box with some pinecones. Even as I looked I could see the water rising, washing in little tides across my feet. I turned to run back to the living room where Hank stood by the fireplace, leaning against the mantel.
“There’s water already in the kitchen,” I said.
“It’ll put out the fire in a minute,” he hollered.
Sure enough, water seeping under the front door had spread across the living room to the hearth. When it rose another inch it would be in the fireplace and the fire would go out in smoke and steam. I tried to think of some way to protect the fire, to build a wall around the hearth. There wasn’t no way.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” Hank said.
“We can’t go out in a flood in the dark,” I said. “We’d get drowneded.”
“We can’t just stay here,” Hank hollered. I didn’t like the look in his eye and the shrillness that had come into his voice.
“Only a fish could get through a flood in this dark,” I said. “You said so yourself.”
“We’ve got to make a run for it,” Hank said. The tone of his voice scared me as much as what he said.
“We can’t go up the valley to the mountain,” I said. I wished more than anything that we had gone home for Christmas. I wished I was on top of the mountains with Mama and my sisters.
“Do you want to drown here?” Hank shouted, like I was responsible for the flood. He sloshed through the water in the kitchen and grabbed his mackinaw coat off the peg, and he lit the barn lantern. “Get your coat,” he said.
“Where are you going?” I said.
“We’ve got to get out of this house,” Hank shouted. I seen there was no use to argue with him.
“What can we take?” I said.
“We can’t take nothing if we have to swim,” Hank yelled. I’d never seen him so scared. The water was getting deeper by the second in the kitchen, and his words echoed off the walls in an odd way.
I tried to think what was most valuable in the house. We didn’t have any money left but a few cents in my purse. There was a few pots and pans I had brung with me, and the comb and brush set Rosie had give me when we got married.
Hank swung the lantern like he was going to bash it on the wall, but stopped hisself. “You don’t want to burn down the house,” I said.
“What difference would it make?” he said. He started stomping in the water so the splashes flung out like wings. I grabbed my coat off the peg. I hated to get the bottom of the coat wet, but there was no way not to.
Hank acted like he was beside hisself. He stomped into the bedroom and got Mr. Pendergast’s shotgun, which was about the only thing Caroline Glascock had left. He broke down the barrel and put a shell inside, and he put another shell in his coat pocket.
“What are you doing?” I said, shivering in the icy water up to my knees.
“Let’s get out of here,” Hank said. Holding the lantern and shotgun in one hand, he grabbed my arm with the other and pulled me through the kitchen to the back door. When he opened the door more water swirled into the room. In the lantern light the flood looked an evil brown, dark and smelly. It was water that had poured through outhouses and barns, graveyards and trash gullies.
The wind hit my face like somebody had slapped me with a cold wet hand. The air was whipping sheets of rain. Suddenly the air turned to shining blue powder, and I seen it was lightning. And I could see clear across the yard to the barn and pasture. There was nothing but water curving and swerving in a rush as far as you could see. Then it was dark again.
“Where are we going?” I yelled.
“To higher ground,” Hank shouted. “Or hell.” He pulled me into the current and it felt like a sow or horse had rolled against my legs. The water hit so hard it bruised me and wrapped around my knees and thighs and pulled at my coat.
“I can’t stand up,” I hollered.
“Got to hurry!” Hank yelled into the rain. He held the gun and lantern high and jerked me along with his left hand. Every time I lifted a foot it nearly got swept away from under me. We lurched and wrestled our way across the river toward the barn. The closest high ground I could think of was in the pasture, up where the salt lick was. But that was beyond the barn and across the pasture. I didn’t see how we could get that far in the awful waves. In the dark I couldn’t even tell if we was past the woodpile or chicken coop. It was black and the rain and current made you feel crazy. The glow from the lantern was weak as a lightning bug.
“Lord help us,” I hollered. Something hit my side like a floating board or body. The rain smothered me.
But we kept going, from one foothold to another, and I think we might have made it to the barn, or even to the pasture fence, except that Hank stumbled. I don’t know what happened exactly, but it was like he stepped into a ditch or sinkhole, or the flood jerked his feet out from under him. I don’t think he meant to let go my hand. But down he went, and his hand was wrenched away from mine, and I was on my own in the middle of the raging water.
“Hank!” I screamed, and seen the lantern go bobbing away until it went out. And then everything was black as tar around me, with wind and rain in my face and water slurping and pawing at my legs and between my legs. I didn’t know what direction to go in. I couldn’t remember where the barn was, and where the house was.
“Hank!” I yelled again. But the wind hit me in the face and covered up my voice. I tried to listen, but heard nothing but wind. I took a step and the water got deeper. Was Hank under the water? Had he been swept down the valley? At the speed the water was moving he could already be a long way off. Should I try to look for him? I couldn’t hardly stand up myself. I couldn’t think what to do because I couldn’t swim, and I didn’t even know in what direction to move.
I don’t know what I would have done, standing deep in that wild, stinking water, twisting myself against the current, except just then it come another flash of lightning that blinded me, and through my squinted eyes I seen the barn ahead. For a second the barn wall glared like it was lit, and then it was gone. Quick, before I lost the direction, I pushed mysel
f toward the barn. Took all my strength to reach one foot, and then the other, through the tide, bracing myself and leaning against the current. If I fell down in that flood I was a goner.
As I worked my way step by short steps toward the barn I wondered if I should go back to look for Hank. Was he out there somewhere clinging to a fence post or tree? Was he deep in the mud of the creek? But I would be lucky to save myself and the baby inside me. It wouldn’t do nobody any good if I got carried off in the flood.
When I finally reached the barn I put my hands flat against the wall and felt my way along to the door. The cow bawled inside and something banged like the horse lunging in panic. The barn felt like it was trembling in the grip of the flood. I eased my way along to the hallway door, and soon as I got into the passageway the current wasn’t so fierce. The water was swirling through the stalls and it smelled like manure and rotten leaves.
“Hank!” I hollered, and held on to the slats of the cow stall. I could try to find the ladder to the hay loft and climb up there out of the water. But I couldn’t just climb up to the dry hay and leave Hank out in the flood. If only I could see. If only I had some rope or a long pole I could help him.
“Hank!” I yelled again. The cow bawled inside her stall and something banged against the barn like a log or floating outhouse. I didn’t want to go back out in the flood, for I had to think of the baby. It was my job to save the baby. But I felt bad about leaving Hank in the raging water.
I worked my way along the wall hung with harness, plowlines, and hames and horse collars until I reached the ladder. As I put my hand on the step of the ladder to pull myself up out of the water I felt a wet shoe. At first I didn’t know what it was, and then I thought, has somebody left a boot out here? And then I wondered if a stranger was hiding in the dark barn. Was it somebody like Timmy Gosnell?
Gap Creek Page 21
