Watermarks

by Jarvis, J. L.

  Beth tried to move, but one leg was wedged in the wreckage, hopelessly pinned. She could not move it.

  "Robin? Go to the shore!"

  But Robin stood in shock, unable or unwilling to move from her mother.

  Like a giant logjam, water was piling and packing debris until it moved or broke. Robin stood on a pile of bricks, beside part of a house that shifted and leaned threateningly toward her.

  "Robin? You've got to move!"

  Robin turned her head toward her mother's voice, hearing, but not understanding.

  "Robin! Run? Run to the shore!"

  The building cracked and shifted a few inches more. Robin looked at her mother. She would not move. Onlookers held back. The threat of the teetering building was too great a risk. Beth despaired. They were so close to the shore, so close to safety. She had nothing left but prayers.

  "Lord help her! Save my Robin!"

  The slim shape of a woman pushed through the crowd at the bank of the river. Stumbling over the debris, she ran toward them, toward Robin.

  "Sophie!" Beth said. It was Jake's friend from the Christmas party.

  Sophie took Robin's hand and tugged. She was too big for Sophie to carry. "C'mon, Robin. You're coming with me."

  "Go with her, Robin!" urged her mother.

  Robin looked at Sophie with wide, hollow eyes.

  "Robin. You have to come now."

  But she would not, could not move. But the building did. The unrelenting waters pushed the looming building. It was going to fall.

  Robin looked up.

  "Now!" Sophie yelled, and Robin obeyed. She pushed Robin to safety as the wall toppled down, missing Beth, but crushing Sophie.

  With the threat of the falling building gone, several townsmen now rushed to Beth's aid.

  "My little girl. Is she okay?"

  "Don't worry. Someone's taking care of her."

  "Sophie," whispered Beth. "God rest her soul."

  Half a dozen men began working to uncover Beth while, not far off, a pile of debris had caught fire and now burned with increasing intensity.

  "It's my leg. I can't move it."

  It was only a matter of time before the fire would reach Beth. Anguished cries for mercy cut through the air. Hopelessly trapped men, women and children had survived the flood only to perish in the fire.

  Men chopped, pulled and pried as the fire burned on.

  One man said, "We may have to cut off your leg."

  Beth looked at him in horror. Another man rushed to join them.

  Eben Wakefield knelt beside her and put his hand on her shoulder. "I came down to help, and saw Robin. Don't worry, she's fine. Now let's get you out of here."

  She lay helplessly watching them work, as though she were somehow apart from the scene. Her life was in the hands of these men. There was no more to be done but to wait and pray.

  "When thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee." She repeated the words in panicked whispers.

  The warmth of the encroaching fire felt good to her cold, wet body, even as it spread closer. She wanted to rest in the warmth.

  The men toiled for two hours to free her. Death assaulted her senses. Through the cold air, hot flames licked and charred the trees, railroad ties, pieces of houses, and human bodies. Haunting cries and the smell of burning flesh and damp wood overwhelmed Beth's consciousness. She was dizzy, and then drifted off in a faint, only vaguely aware as they tugged and lifted her limp body. Her senses gave way to black silence.

  Chapter 26

  Maggie clung to her crude raft as the water slowed. She was better able to look about her. Houses, buildings, trains, all were broken and brown. There were no more colors, no more feelings but cold. Her dress had been torn from her. Her underclothes hung in tatters from her miry body. Wreckage piled up against overturned buildings. Something bumped against her. She looked to see an old woman float by with her eyes wide open. She had no legs. Maggie shuddered. It was the end of her world. She wanted to cry, but the tears would not come. It was too much. No more. Let the water carry her where it would.

  Voices grew louder. Voices. Maggie looked up to find she had drifted alongside one of the few buildings standing. Amid the rows of dark windows, people waved and called out to her. One of them threw her a length of rope. Again and again they threw the rope. It landed short, then wide. After three tries, she caught it and was pulled in through a window, where she collapsed on the floor in a puddle of watery mud.

  Alma Hall had withstood the flood and now housed over two hundred and fifty people. Maggie lay drained of feeling or thought, except to rest. When she woke, she remembered Jake. The nightmare was real. Was Jake gone? How could he have survived? Beth and Robin. She had to look for them. She dragged herself to her feet and wandered through the building, looking at face after face blank with horror, and none of them Beth or Robin or Jake. Bruised and battered, she crawled to a corner. Then the chill set in. Wet to the bone, she shivered along with the others. Strange, bewildered faces and half-naked bodies sprawled all about in the dark room. The injured lay at one end, in agony. There was no medicine to ease the suffering, no blankets for the cold. Hopelessness hovered with the patience of death. There was nothing to do but wait the night out.

  Outside, the water was slowing. Only muted sounds drifted in through the window. An eerie hush cloaked the valley where only an occasional flame from a spilled oil lamp or leaking gas flickered against its ghostly reflection in the lapping water. Maggie leaned numbly against a wall and stared through the window at the static night sky. Underneath her frayed senses was a heart that would rip in two as soon as it was able once more to feel. But she could not feel yet, not when everyone and everything around her had touched death and still smelled of destruction. So she curled up against a wall and blocked her ears from the gentle moaning and whimpering in the hollow room. She closed her eyes to the memories of the day, and she rested in the void of the sleepless night, content to feel nothing. Bleak as the night was, numbness was better than the feelings that would follow.

  Beth smelled soap, and felt the warmth of a wet cloth against her face. She heard voices.

  "When is she going to wake up?"

  "I don't know. We have to be patient."

  "Mommy, please wake up."

  "Robin?"

  She couldn't see, and was only beginning to move.

  "Robin's here. She's okay."

  "Eben?"

  "Yes."

  "Am I going to die?"

  "No, you're not going to die," Eben said. But how close she had come.

  "Will I see you again?" She fell asleep before he could answer.

  Eben Wakefield smiled and stroked Beth's forehead. "If you want to," he smoothed the blanket around Beth's shoulders and watched her rest.

  "Robin?" Beth looked about.

  Eben took a cooking pan off the fire and hurried to her side. He said, "Robin, Look who's here."

  His voice sounded so loud. Light shone from the window behind him and framed his face with an aura.

  Robin rushed inside and knelt beside her mother. "Mama?"

  "Robin." Her name was a sigh and a smile as she slid back into her dreams.

  She later awoke to find herself in the only bed inside a small rustic cabin. Her leg ached terribly. She was wearing a man's shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  "Hank?"

  "We don't know yet. When you're better, we'll make inquiries. For now, let's just get you well."

  The memories came back in flashes, out of sequence. A face in the water. Cold gripping fingers. The fear.

  A person who'd come so close to death should have been glad to survive. But the feel of the other side was too close. It clung to her like a reminder that death was never far away. Of course she had faith that Heaven was waiting, but she wasn't quite ready to prove it. She had too much to do first.

  Beth said, "I need to go home."

  "You will. But you need to rest no
w."

  "I can rest at home." Her eyes dropped. And then she remembered. "I don't have a home. It's gone."

  Mr. Wakefield said, "The only way out of here is on foot, and you're not going anywhere on that foot," he said, nodding toward her splinted leg. So you might as well relax, you'll be here for a while.

  "It's too much. I can't ask--"

  "You're not asking. I'm telling. Now lie back and rest and I'll bring you some breakfast."

  He had gentle eyes. Beth felt almost at home here.

  "Good then. It's settled," he said. He set his hand over hers and squeezed it, then rose and returned to his cooking.

  "Mr. Wakefield?" Beth's eyes filled with tears. "Thank you."

  He turned his gentle eyes toward her and, she felt his compassion. It comforted her as she sank into sleep.

  The days in the cabin were peaceful. Safe in the mountains above the devastated valley, Beth rested. Robin played quietly outside. She made dolls out of pine cones and seemed to forget the horror of what she had survived. Sometimes she would ask about her father and Maggie. Beth did not lie, but she let her hang onto hope.

  But she worried, as well. What if Maggie was looking for her? And Hank, too. They would not know if she was alive or dead. And then the thought came to her. It seduced her. If she were dead--if Hank thought she was dead--she could leave him. She could walk away and keep on walking, away from Hank, and he would never know to look for her. Oh, the freedom of life without Hank! The idea enticed her. To be free from Hank. Then Robin walked in and the dream turned to vapor.

  On the third morning, Mr. Wakefield left for town on foot. In the late afternoon, he returned with clothing, milk, bread, cheese and a small collection of canned goods.

  Beth watched him walk inside, but did not give voice to her question. Bad news would wait.

  "Maggie's alive," he said.

  A tiny choked sigh came from Beth's throat. "You've seen her?"

  "No, but they've set up a Registry Bureau near the schoolhouse, where they're gathering names of survivors. Her name was listed there. I've added yours and Robin's."

  "And Hank?"

  "They've only just begun collecting names. Give it time."

  Beth's face grew dull. "What about Maeve, and Jake--the O'Neills?"

  Mr. Wakefield's voice was even and direct. "Their names were not on the list."

  Beth nodded. Not Maeve and the children. No more grief. She couldn't bear it. She could only feel weary. She curled up facing the wall and went to sleep.

  Evening fell. Beth awoke. Robin was tucked into her blanket on the floor. Beth slowly rose and hobbled over to join Mr. Wakefield where he sat by the fire. He leapt to his feet and circled her waist with a supporting arm. With his hands under her arms, he eased her gently to sit down. The trees outside were but shadows against a darkening haze. Inside the tiny cabin, Beth felt nothing. For now that was a relief. She leaned back and watched the fire with Eben.

  "I wanted to leave; just leave Hank here, leave everything and let him think I was dead."

  Eben turned his head sharply, but watched her with interest.

  She lifted her eyes to meet his. "But I couldn't do it."

  His mouth turned up only a bit, so it could not quite be described as a smile. He got up and stoked the fire. Beth studied him when he could not see her. His hands and arms were lean and strong enough. He moved with facile assurance. He needed a shave, but his sand colored hair was straight, starting to thin, and quite orderly.

  "I did it." He glanced back over his shoulder, and then got up. "I ran away once," he said, as he dusted his hands off, and sat back down in his chair. He watched the fire. In that steady gaze, Beth saw what looked like disappointment, which she understood too well.

  "And here I am," he said.

  "I suspect there is more to that story," she said, wanting to know, but unwilling to pry. They smiled at each other and lapsed into easy silence. Beth did not press for more. She would not stir up his sorrow just to satisfy her own curiosity. It was enough to sit here and stare into the flames together. It was peaceful and warm.

  One by one they climbed out of Alma Hall, Maggie and the others, over a pathway of sometimes shifting debris to higher ground. Maggie's eyes took in the vast destruction, but her assaulted senses had ceased to respond with emotion. Buildings that used to be homes were overturned and tossed aside and covered with the cold and the damp, which she felt to the bone. And the bodies--she could not allow herself to think of the bodies--that used to be lives. Parents and children and futures lay lost. And lovers.

  Maggie spent days looking for Jake, searching, questioning. Others were finding each other. But not Maggie. She was alone. Beth and Robin were on the list of survivors, but they were nowhere to be found. With so many bodies, so many lives lost, mistakes were made. She was afraid to believe they were alive without seeing them. Temporary hospitals were set up in several locations, and Maggie visited every one and found no one. After five days of searching, despair engulfed her.

  Dressed in donated clothing, Maggie handed a note to a volunteer at the registry office, in case someone came by and inquired about her. She headed for the station, to take a train to Pittsburgh, where she'd heard there were places for flood victims.

  She stood on the platform as the Pittsburgh train approached. The sound of the train whistle jarred her. The same whistle had sounded before the flood came and tore her life apart. What sort of survival was this, to be left to grieve all alone?

  The train was coming into the station, slowing and nearing, its rhythm drawn out. Steel beating steel grew louder. It filled her ears, drowning out her own silent cries. It drew closer, and she did the same. Her toes met the edge of the platform. She turned toward it. The looming engine was almost upon her. And she knew in that instant her grief could be ended. Her heart could stop its raw, painful pounding with one easy step.

  Chapter 27

  Strong hands clamped onto her arms and held her back as the train pulled into the station and hissed to a stop.

  "Are you alright, Miss?"

  Maggie turned to find a porter eyeing her with a troubled demeanor. She looked blankly at him. "Yes, I'm fine." She spoke softly. She knew she was not. He released her arms but continued to watch her with concern. She felt as though she were lost.

  "Are you sure, Miss?" He searched her face.

  She regarded him. "Yes." She was not herself, and she knew it. The porter had just saved her life. She was suddenly grateful. Only then did she know that a lost part of her still wanted to live. She looked at the porter, but could not find the right words. She said only, "Thank you."

  He looked at her, this stranger, and seemed understood even if she did not. Something in her satisfied him. With a heartening nod, he turned away and resumed his duties. Maggie boarded the train.

  Six Days Earlier

  Jake burst to the surface of the dark water and gulped for air. A shadowy mass skimmed by him as he fought to stay afloat. Grabbing hold of a broken plank, he rode the angry current on a collision course with a jagged mountain of ruins backed up against the Stone Bridge, more than thirty acres in size. With death all around him, Jake knew his time could come, and this seemed a likely place. People were trapped by accumulating rubble, their mouths open in screams he could not hear for the roar of pounding water and burning wreckage.

  He braced himself to meet death, but the water swerved and sucked him through an opening in the mass and on down the river. Helplessly tossed about by wild waters, Jake was pounded and jabbed by objects and bodies. He used every bit of his strength to hang on and not get sucked under the water. He clung to the board as the wild current swept him twelve miles down the river to the town of Nineveh. There he was pulled to shore half conscious, arm broken, ribs battered, and a throbbing knot on his head.

  Folks from the nearby hills had gathered all along the river to do what they could, pulling one after the other from the cresting water of the Conemaugh River. Jake was one of the lucky on
es pulled out alive.

  He awoke the next day on the porch of a shack sheltering a handful of other survivors. A woman with wiry gray hair and a smile missing teeth offered Jake a tin cup of oily coffee, which he drank, only peripherally aware of the hot liquid as it warmed his throat and chest. He looked about at his companions, all dull-eyed and shivering in this dank new world in which they found themselves. He did not remember falling asleep, but he must have, for he was told he had slept two days before he awoke and tried to leave.

  He finished his coffee and stood, but dizziness overpowered him and he had to sit down. His head felt like the throbbing would break it, and his ribs were a jagged vise about his lungs. With shallow breaths he sat and willed the pain to leave, but it would not. He gathered his strength and braced himself to endure another effort to stand, but he lasted mere moments, and then sank to the porch. Walking was beyond imagining. And so he stayed on the porch of this shack, along with a handful of other survivors, determined to gather strength for the journey back home.

  For three days he slept and rested and thought through each step of the twelve-mile journey home, how he would follow the tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad like the tramp he now appeared to be. His clothes had been torn off in the water, and he now wore an old pair of trousers and a worn flannel shirt from a pile of clothing his hosts had collected from neighbors. Though they continued to smell like the previous owner, he was grateful to have any clothing at all.

  Five days after the flood, Jake stepped off the porch and began to walk away from Ninevah. Each step demanded attention. One step, then the other, each one set waves of pain through his head. His body grew weak, but his will was relentless. And so he moved forward. Even one step was progress.