"I don't have keepsakes or souvenirs, not a single one. I'm bringing with me a family instead."
SERGEANT GEORGE ROWE,
TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,
LETTER TO HIS BROTHER IN PHILADELPHIA,
OCTOBER 14, 1877
*
Laura
The puppy was an Alaskan husky and it sat in her lap in her office at the shelter, attacking the buttons on her heavy cardigan sweater and occasionally looking up at her with its single eye. The woman who brought it in had claimed that the other dogs in her house had attacked the poor thing because it was the runt of the new litter, but Laura hadn't believed that and neither had the veterinarian: The vet had guessed someone with a boot on had kicked the puppy in the head. Still, aside from the reality that the dog was going to go through life with one eye, it was unhurt and as happy and playful as any of the puppies she saw. She'd named the dog Anya, and she knew both that the animal would find a good home and before it did the photographs of the pup in the Humane Society's newspaper ads would raise the shelter a fair amount of money.
Only one of the three volunteers who were scheduled to walk dogs that day had come in, and Laura was astonished that even one person was willing to walk dogs in the rainstorm, with the roads as bad as they were. The dogs today were being walked on the main street in front of the shelter, rather than the old logging trace behind it: The trail was impassable, a quagmire of melting snow with knee-deep mud underneath.
She tried hard to focus on the animals, which was the reason she was keeping Anya in her office with her, so she wouldn't think about the river and how high the water was, because it was impossible to envision the rapids right now in the Gale without thinking as well of her daughters. She looked at her watch and saw it was almost one-thirty. Normally it was only a half-hour drive back to Cornish, but with the roads as slick as they were, it had taken her forty-five minutes to drive here in the morning. If she wanted to be home when Alfred got off the school bus--and with Paul and Emily gone until tomorrow, she did--she'd have to bring Anya into her assistant's office in another twenty minutes and leave work no later than two.
She shuddered when she thought about the amount of water that was dribbling that moment inside the walls of her house. Terry wouldn't get there until at least four, when he came off his shift, and so he wouldn't have more than an hour to work on the roofs before dark. She certainly didn't want him up there after nightfall. He'd done that once when they were both much younger. The girls had been no more than toddlers, and they were both asleep. For a few minutes she and Terry had watched one of the leaks in the kitchen, and when it became clear that the Sheetrock on the ceiling would have to be retaped in the spring, he had gotten out the ladder and gone to work on the roof with a snow rake and an ax. He'd been standing on the roof over the front porch and slipped, and though he hadn't fallen off the roof--he'd fallen instead into the pile of snow he'd pulled off the higher pitch and was planning next to shovel into the yard--he'd reflexively tossed his ax into the air and it had conked him on the side of his head when it fell to earth. He was lucky it was the blunt edge that hit him, and so he'd wound up neither disfigured nor dead. But he learned from that lump--they both did--that you didn't climb onto a roof in the dark in the rain, no matter how bad the leak was or how competent you believed that you were.
She wondered if Terry would want to stay at the house when he was through, and whether she would let him. She knew that over the last couple of weeks he had had a fair amount of company at the camp where he was staying: His brother had been there a few nights, and though she didn't know it for a fact, she believed that this woman he was seeing had been there, too. It was almost a certainty in her mind.
She was still angry with him, and more hurt than she'd ever been in her life. But she missed him--the Terry, that is, with whom she had fallen in love and who had helped her to raise Hillary and Megan. Even during the past two years she had seen glimpses of that man, though he had all but disappeared in the grief that had enveloped them both. She still liked hearing his voice on the telephone, if only because he always sounded so capable and confident.
Moreover, she believed that he missed her, too--or, again, the woman he'd initially known. Not the woman who, faced with the single worst thing that could happen, she had become.
In the end, she knew that while there may very well have been a part of him that would want to remain in Cornish when the ice and the snow were gone from the roof--and there was clearly a part of her that would like that, too, if only so they could talk in person about Alfred's upcoming case review--it wasn't going to happen. Not yet, anyway, not tonight. Not while he was focused on this person named Phoebe, who, for whatever the reason, had such a hold on his emotions.
SHE HAD JUST ventured into the rain in the shelter parking lot when she heard the siren. She thought it belonged to a state police cruiser, and she turned her head just in time to see one speeding south on Route 7. She wondered if it was Terry, but she didn't consider the idea for long because a moment later, before she had even gotten into her car, she saw a second cruiser, this one without its lights or its siren on, turning onto the access road that led to the Humane Society. Clearly this was her husband.
He coasted to a stop right beside her car, climbed from the cruiser without turning off either the engine or the wipers, and motioned toward her Taurus. Let's get out of the rain, he said, and opened the driver's-side door for her.
He was sopping wet, she realized when they were both settled in the front seat of her car: It was as if he had jumped into a swimming pool in his uniform and his parka.
It's a tad nasty out there, he said, and he gave her a small smile and surprised her by taking her hand.
You're a maniac, she told him.
Nah. It's just water.
Freezing cold water.
I'm okay. More important, how are you?
I want to go home, she said. That's all. I just want to go home.
Well, I'm glad I got here before you left. Be careful.
Are the roads that bad?
They are, and he paused briefly before adding, And while I don't think the town has anything to worry about, I understand the Gale is very high.
The news didn't surprise her, but she still felt a tiny pulse of trepidation when she visualized the roiling brown water, and the foam where it collided with boulders or had to hurtle the massive slabs of ice. She understood he was telling her not simply because he was worried about the condition of the River Road, the road the Gale had torn apart with unfathomable fury just over two years ago now: The reality was she rarely took that way home. He was here because he understood that the very idea that the water might flood would be unnerving, and he wanted to warn her--tell her himself so she wouldn't be cudgeled by the news when she heard it on the radio, or witnessed the high water firsthand because, for example, she simply drove by the general store on her way home to pick up a quart of milk.
Seriously, he went on, his eyes fixed on her, I can't believe it will cause any real trouble again. But, just so you know, the river is--most rivers in the county are--at flood level.
She thought of her girls and she had an image of them on the bridge the day they died, and her anxiety grew more pronounced. And then she thought of Alfred. Anyone hurt? she asked.
No, believe not. She felt him squeeze her hand and then he said, I'm actually going to head up there and check on the roads, so I just might get to swing by the house after all. If you'd asked me an hour ago, I wouldn't have guessed I'd have a prayer in hell. But who knows? There might be a silver lining in all this high water.
I should get going, she said. I want to make sure Alfred's okay.
Don't worry, Paul and Emily will look in on him if the roads slow you down.
They're not home. They're visiting Catherine.
Still, you don't need to fret. He's a big boy, he'll be fine.
I know, that's what I keep telling myself. It's just...it's just everyt
hing.
He took back his hand and said, Look, I have to go close the road that runs by the quarry in New Haven. That's next. As soon as that's done, I'm going to shoot into Cornish and see about the bridge and the River Road. Then I'll come by the house, I promise.
I hope you're not thinking about the roof. God, at this point don't trouble yourself with that.
No, I wasn't thinking about the roof, he said as he opened the car door and swung his legs back out into the downpour. I was actually thinking about you.
"We took a mud wagon for the first part of the trip east. It was supposed to be pulled by six horses, but I remember we had four oxen instead. There was a white officer with us who was going home, too, and a blacksmith. Here's something that made me laugh: Before boarding we were told we could bring all the guns we wanted but no alcohol because, of course, we were traveling through Indian Territory."
VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),
WPA INTERVIEW,
MARCH 1938
*
Alfred
It wasn't even two-thirty and he was on the bus home because they were closing the school early. This time the little kids weren't ogling the river in excitement, or shrieking happily when they saw slabs of ice the size of bedsheets and as thick as truck tires careening down the water or wedged upright like firewalls. They were sitting in their seats and facing forward, only glancing at the river with the corners of their eyes. This was frightening to them--to everybody--because even if they hadn't known the Sheldon twins, they'd been told enough by their parents or they'd heard enough from older siblings to know exactly what water could do.
He knew Laura wouldn't be home when the bus arrived at the house, but he wasn't concerned. She would be back from the shelter within half an hour, and it just seemed easier to get on the bus than try to get a message to the shelter--which might have been useless, anyway, because she probably had just left--when he'd only be alone in the house for a couple of minutes. Not a big deal.
When he got off the bus, he thought he recognized the truck instantly. He'd only seen it once before, and that was at Terry's mother's house back on Thanksgiving, but he was fairly confident the dark blue Silverado with the gun and the gun rack and the extra long cab belonged to Russell. It was parked now with its left wheels in a sodden drift along the side of the driveway, causing the truck to tilt ominously.
He paused there in the rain and reflexively felt inside his pants pocket for his house key. Then he started toward the front door, but he hadn't even reached the steps when he heard the sound of metal scraping metal, and he saw Russell emerge from the far side of the house, hefting Terry's massive extension ladder under both of his arms. The ladder was the color of silver, and one long edge of it was caked with wet snow and ice.
Young man, you got yourself a northern exposure with not so much as an ice cube on it, he said, and he dropped the ladder in the snow by the front wall of the house. His eyes were tiny red slits and his hair was a mess: His bangs had been pasted against his forehead by the cold rain, and the strands over his ears were splayed and dangling like frozen bulb roots.
Alfred nodded, unsure what to say. He figured that Laura must have asked him to do this after all, but he couldn't get over his surprise at finding the man here.
No thanks needed, son, Russell said, lowering his voice unnaturally. I am just happy to help your fine family.
Thank you, he said then. He was thankful, because if Russell had eliminated the leaks, then Laura would be happy. But he still couldn't get over the fact that Russell was here.
Let's go inside, Russell said. I need me a towel and a beer, but maybe not in that exact order. The man then motioned toward the key in his fingers--until that moment, Alfred had forgotten that he'd actually taken it from his pocket and was holding it in his hands--and continued, I believe that key's my ticket inside. Then he took it from the boy's fingers and marched up the steps and into the house.
RUSSELL BLEW HIS nose into a wadded paper napkin and stood with a towel over his head like a shawl. He took a long swallow of his beer, finishing it, Alfred guessed, and stared at the ceiling above the stove. There was a drop slowly forming where the Sheetrock was taped, but nothing had dripped in the sixty seconds he had stood there and watched the leak.
It may still drip a bit for a while more, he said. Until everything already in the walls has run its course. But I would say you're outta the woods.
Apparently, Russell had been up on the roof with a sledgehammer and a snow rake since well before lunch, banging and scraping away at the ice and the snow that had been melting into the house.
Nasty, nasty stuff, he added, and then he tossed both the towel and the beer can, now empty, into the sink. And on that note, I'm off. The Lone Ranger is riding off into the...well, sure as shit, not the sunset, not today. Into the monsoon, is what it is.
You're not going to wait for Laura?
Russell fell back against the counter in mock astonishment and smacked his hands, open-palmed, against his cheeks. For the love of God, the boy speaks! The boy speaks! It's a miracle, a miracle, I tell you!
I talk, he said.
Hardly. But, no, I am not going to wait for Laura. I kinda like the notion that she'll just get home and then Terry will drive on up, and they'll both see that I took care of the roof. They'll see the slate and the standing seam as clean as the middle of June, and my fine, upstanding older brother and sister-in-law will see that ol' no-account Russell got the job done just fine, thank you very much.
He then walked into the hallway where he had left his boots, sat on the steps to the second floor, and climbed back inside them. A puddle had formed on the wood where he had set them down, and Alfred had a feeling the insides must have felt as squishy as marsh mud. Then Russell was gone, outside the door and the house, and he heard the truck engine start with a growl and the man was driving down the hill toward the village and, Alfred guessed, home.
WHEN LAURA WASN'T back by three-thirty, he called the shelter. He guessed she had probably left by now, but maybe something had come up and she'd called the school and someone had forgotten to give him a message. Or maybe because the school had closed a little early, no one had been able to get the message to him.
Caitlin, the shelter's kennel manager, answered the phone, and he could hear alarm in her voice the moment he asked to speak to Laura. She told him that Laura had left an hour and a half earlier, and as far as she knew had gone straight home. She said that Laura had in fact left when she did precisely because she wanted to be able to meet the school bus when it got to the house.
We got let out early, he told her, not exactly sure why this fact would make the woman feel better, but hoping now, at least, she wouldn't be alarmed by the reality that he had gotten off the bus and no one had been there. Besides, he added, I'm ten. Lots of kids my age get home after school and nobody's there.
Oh, I'm sure, she said. Then: Do me a favor. Would you please have her call me the minute she gets there? I know there's nothing to be worried about--I know some roads are closed, it was on the radio--but I'll still feel better when I know she's back. Okay?
Okay, he said, and after he hung up the phone he decided that he wouldn't wait for the rain to let up to go take care of Mesa. She was used to seeing either Paul or him this time of the day, and he wasn't about to let either the man or the horse down.
Besides, it was one of Sergeant Rowe's rules. You always take care of your horse.
THOUGH HE HAD the hood of his raincoat up and the wind was rumbling like ocean surf, he could hear the sirens in the village in the distance. Not the ambulance from the Durham Rescue Squad, he believed, these were the sirens atop the volunteer firefighters' trucks. He fed the horse and brushed her a bit, and when she was done eating, he decided that he would muck out the stall later. He thought the sirens had gone down the River Road, but he couldn't be sure. They might have been heading south into Ripton. And so even though he still wasn't supposed to ride Mesa when Paul or
Laura or some grown-up wasn't around, he carefully unfolded the blanket and placed it atop the horse's back, got the saddle and the bridle off the wall, and decided that he would ride to the center of town. Something was going on, and perhaps if Laura had been home he wouldn't have felt the need to investigate. But she wasn't there and she was supposed to be, and that was exactly the problem.
The horse paused for a moment just inside the wide entrance to the barn, sniffing at the wind and the rain, and he had to squeeze hard with his heels and his legs to prod her outside. There were wide streams of runoff along the sides of the road, and a smooth glaze in the center. Though he knew the road crew would spread sand and salt all night long, if the temperature fell fast enough after dark, the roads would still be impassable in the morning. He wondered if there'd be school the next day.
He saw Laura's car still wasn't back in the driveway, and so he rode across the street to the house, hitched the horse to the front railing, and went inside to write her a note. He couldn't tell her where he was going because he wasn't exactly sure, but he didn't want her to worry and so he scribbled simply that he and Mesa had ridden toward the village and they wouldn't be gone long.
When he emerged back onto the porch and climbed atop Mesa, the wind immediately blew his hood off his helmet. He pulled it back up and over the mound, but it blew off again, and so he listened to the raindrops drum steadily on the plastic shell as he started down the hill at a trot. He was cold and wet and he realized there was something frightening about the sirens and the squalls, but still he pressed on. He pretended he was a buffalo soldier, and sat a little higher in the saddle than Heather would have liked.
the Buffalo Soldier (2002) Page 34
