by Lois Lenski
“Everybody’s getting sick in town now,” Mrs. Boyd reported at the end of the week. “The typhoid shots are having their effect. Then, too, it’s the cold food and funny water. People can’t scrub—there’s no water to scrub with. The smell down town is horrible. I had to hold my hand over my nose—sewer gas, decayed matter, disinfectants and I don’t know what.”
“I spent the whole morning standing in line trying to get a pass to go to my own home,” said Mrs. Graham, discouraged. “We all need a change of clothes, since there’s no water to wash anything. I haven’t a cent of money and the banks are closed. I can’t buy anything—the stores are closed. A person can’t do a thing he wants to. He’s got to take orders for everything. We might as well be in Europe.”
“I met Mrs. Joruska on the street,” said Mrs. Boyd. “When I said the same thing, she said they lived like this for eleven years in the old country.”
“And here we are complaining,” said Mrs. Graham, “when with us it will be only a few weeks. I’m ashamed of myself.”
“It’s always like this after a flood, isn’t it, Mother?” asked Sally. “Remember those floods in the Ohio River? And last year there was a bad one out in Iowa. I saw it on television.”
“We have not suffered at all,” said Mrs. Graham briskly. “Only those who lost dear ones and their homes, like the Webbs and the Dillons, know.”
“Jim says that as soon as the town gets electricity, the stores will open from six to eight in the evening,” said Mrs. Boyd. “This will allow the big trucks and bulldozers to work by day without people and traffic on the streets. After that, things will be better.”
It was a happy day for all in the Boyd house, when Mr. Graham returned with a three-burner kerosene stove and several jugs of oil. He also brought a crate of eggs. The women made coffee all day long. Mrs. Nelson fried eggs on demand. Several Army men, working on bulldozers removing the debris of River Bend, stopped in now and then for food and drink.
Once after they left, Ronnie said, “That skinny guy ate twelve eggs! I counted them!”
“He must have been hungry,” said Barbara.
They all laughed.
After new food supplies were brought to the Town Hall, Mrs. Graham spent one whole morning standing in line to get a piece of meat. And when she got it, it was a very tough piece of second-rate beef.
“Tough old cow that died in the flood!” said the boys.
But the women made a stew out of it, added canned vegetables, and everybody said it was the best meal they had ever eaten.
It was meat and it was hot!
7
NEW CLOTHES
“WE MUST GET SOME new clothes,” said Mrs. Graham.
“But how can we with the stores all closed?” asked Sally.
“We’ll go to the Town Hall and see what they have,” said her mother. “If the clothes we are wearing get any dirtier, they will fall to pieces.”
“There is plenty of water now,” said Mrs. Boyd.
The fire department had run a water pipe down the highway to River Bend, on top of the ground. The city water was on again. People could attach their garden hose to the pipe and get water for cleaning, washing or scrubbing. But still there was no electricity. Clothes had to be washed by hand.
“Gee! I’m sure glad to go somewhere once again,” said Bobby Graham.
After being cooped up for so long, it was exciting to get out. Going somewhere meant more than it ever had before. Mrs. Boyd brought her car, and Mrs. Graham and the children got in. Barbara went along too.
“I’ll tell you what I need, Mother,” said Bobby. “Shoes and sweater and pants and underwear!”
“Is that all?” Mrs. Graham laughed.
“It’ll do for a while,” said Bobby.
Mrs. Graham turned to Karen. “Do you have to take that doll wherever you go?”
Karen hugged the doll and smiled. “Yes, I have to,” she said. “Dolly wants to go too.”
It was a changed town through which they passed. Most of the houses on the river side of Farmington Avenue were gone. Their back yards were gone, too, only cellar holes were left. The bridge still stood across the river, but a great gully had been washed at its far end. Across the river, houses were gone too. In those that remained, clean-up work was going on. People were shoveling out mud. Trash and debris and mud were piled high along the sidewalks. Trees on what had once been a beautiful shaded street were upturned. Stores were boarded up where plate glass windows had been.
The children were silent as they looked. Not until now did the full significance of the tragedy reach them. Sally put her arm in her mother’s. “I can’t bear it,” she said.
“I never thought a flood could be like this,” said Barbara.
The Town Hall was a busy place. Above the door hung a huge sign: RED CROSS HEADQUARTERS. Cars were coming and going. People went in and out the door. The two women herded the children inside.
“Is this a store, Mother?” asked little Tim.
“No, it’s the Town Hall, silly,” said Jack.
They entered the large auditorium. On the right side were tables piled high with food, boxes of cereal and canned goods, and milk in cardboard containers. On the floor near by was an array of brooms, mops, pails, sponges and disinfectants. Mrs. Graham picked some out to take home with her. “I’ll need them for cleaning up,” she said.
On the left side were lines of clothes racks, with clothes hanging on hangers. There were boxes with folded clothing and shoes near by. A table in the center of the room was piled high with sheets, pillow cases and blankets. On the stage, a group of women were sitting around a table, sewing and mending second-hand clothing. Clothing had been donated and shipped in from many parts of the United States.
Mrs. Boyd helped Mrs. Graham and a volunteer worker look for clothing and shoes for the younger children. Barbara helped Karen and Sally pick out slips and dresses, second-hand shoes and socks and some underwear.
“Now, let’s pick out yours,” said Sally.
“Oh, I’m not taking anything,” said Barbara.
“But they’re free, Barbara,” said Sally. “Look at this pretty blouse and skirt. It’s your size and your favorite color, blue.”
“Why don’t you take it, Barbara?” asked Karen. “You could pretend that all your clothes were lost in the flood.”
“I don’t need it,” said Barbara. “I have enough dresses.”
Sally looked at her friend in wonder. The volunteer worker said, “There are not many little girls like you. You’d be surprised how greedy people are. Most of them take all they can get, because it costs nothing.”
Sally put her arm around Barbara’s waist. She wished she could be as fine and good as Barbara, as thoughtful and kind.
Karen looked up at the young woman. “Can I get a dress for my doll?” she asked.
“Why yes,” said the woman. She brought baby clothes and Karen chose a pink dress. She put it on her doll and thanked the woman.
“Look!” cried Barbara. “There’s the Marciano girls. Let’s go talk to them.”
Angela Marciano came in the front door, holding her little sister Linda by the hand.
“Hi, there, Angela!” called Barbara. She and Karen and Sally went over.
“Hi!” said Angela. “What you girls doin’ here? Gettin’ new clothes to wear?”
“Yes,” said Sally, “a few. Mine are still at home and we can’t get to them.”
“You getting something, Angela?” asked Barbara.
“Oh, we been here lotta times,” said Angela, “and got a whole bunch of things. We got clothes for all of us and stuff to eat. We got a dollhouse for me and Linda—Linda lets me play with it sometimes. We got games for Tony and Al. And what do you think? We got our pictures taken three times! They’re gonna be in a magazine!”
Sally could only think of that sad day in school when Linda was missing. Now, a changed Angela was talking. And little rescued Linda was being terribly spoiled.
�
��Tell them what you did, Linda,” bragged Angela.
“I was on TV in Hartford,” said Linda, proudly. “I told ’em I stayed all night in a tree with my dog Tiny.”
“Everybody thinks my little sister is wonderful,” Angela went on. “We’ve got a rent and the Red Cross is giving us all new furniture, beds, blankets, silverware and tables and a beautiful red chair to go good with our new green rug! Gee! There’s my mother. We gotta go.”
Barbara and Karen laughed happily over the good fortune of the Marcianos. They saw some of their school friends around the water cooler at the entrance. Several boys were getting drinks, while the girls waited their turn.
“There’s that mean old Tommy Dillon,” said Sally. “I thought the Dillons went to Vermont.”
“There’s David Joruska and Carol Rosansky,” said Barbara. “Let’s go over and talk to them.”
“Hi, there!” said Tommy Dillon, as the girls came up. “Want a drink of water? It’s cold this time.”
He held out a cup of water and Sally took it. After she drank, she made a face. “It tastes funny,” she said.
“Just like gasoline!” laughed Tommy. “They put Army tablets in it.”
“Chlorine, probably,” said Barbara.
People came up with jugs to fill, so the children moved to one side. It was their first meeting since they had left Union School after the flood. Like the adults, all the children wanted to talk. So much had happened and talk was their first outlet. Carol Rosansky was telling about her escape.
“I wasn’t too scared,” she said. “I never thought our house would go. My mother and father stood on a hill and watched all the houses go by. But they didn’t see ours go.”
“Our house went,” said David Joruska. “The water took it away at nine o’clock on Flood Friday. It went floating down the street. The nails fell out of the boards and it all came apart. All the houses broke in pieces.”
“How do you know?” asked Barbara. “Did you see it?”
“No,” said David. “I never saw our house after it went, but my father did.” He paused for a moment. “My mother said she’d never like to live near that river again.”
The children were silent. Then Tommy Dillon spoke up.
“Huh!” he said. “That’s nothing. Everybody’s house went. Ours went too.” He spoke proudly, in a bragging tone. “All that’s left of our house is the cellar foundation and the front steps.”
“What about that rope around the chimney?” asked Sally.
Tommy looked at her in disgust. “A little old rope like that couldn’t hold a big house like ours.” He looked at Sally again. “Did your house go?” he asked.
Sally suddenly came to her senses. “Well—no,” she said. “Ours is still standing.”
The others all stared at her, as if having a house was something to be ashamed of. Tommy Dillon looked down his nose at her. “Just water damage, and the house didn’t go?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Sally.
“Well, you didn’t feel nothin’ then,” he said flatly.
“We had to get out in a boat,” said Sally feebly.
“Huh! That’s nothin’,” said Tommy. “What I want to know is, did you lose every single thing you got? Your bike and all?”
“No,” said Sally, “we still got our beds upstairs and …”
“Well,” said Tommy emphatically, “you don’t know much about a flood then.”
Sally wanted to protest, but could not. Barbara, who had only had water in her cellar, had said nothing, had just listened.
Values were twisted, somehow. Instead of a tragedy, losing one’s home had become something to be proud of. As with the adults, so it was with the children. The people who lost everything became heroes and achieved prestige. They would hardly speak to those who still had homes, even though those homes had been badly damaged.
The children began to boast of their losses.
“We lost two bikes,” said Jerry Nelson, “mine and my sister’s.”
“My mother lost her marriage ring,” said Carol Rosansky. “She kept it in the top drawer of her bureau in a jewelry box. The whole bureau went.”
“Our mother lost her Bible and her wedding picture and her cedar chest,” said Ray Marberry, who had come up.
“And our daddy lost his projector that cost a hundred dollars,” said Ray’s brother Ralph.
“Huh!” said Tommy Dillon. “That’s nothin’. We lost everything we ever had except the clothes on our backs. And our whole family—all nine of us—were rescued by a helicopter!”
It was Barbara Boyd who had the courage to speak up.
“You’re not the only one, Tommy Dillon,” she said. “My daddy said over ninety families in this town alone lost their homes and everything.”
“Is that so!” said Tommy.
Barbara turned to David Joruska. “Where are you living now, David?”
“At Lakewood Acres,” said David.
“Where’s that?” asked Sally.
“Over at West Hartford,” said David.
Tommy turned on David. “Are you living in that old Army barracks project?” he asked. “There’s not even a decent sewer there, and you have to pay $48 a month. In winter you freeze and in summer you bake.”
David said quietly, “It’s better’n nothing. All my friends are over there—all the River Bend kids. They’re going to send a bus to bring us back to our own school, as soon as school starts.” David paused, then went on, “The only thing I don’t like about it, my dog died of distemper there. He drank some flood water. That first night after we got there, they told me my dog was dead. My father and mother were sorry too. They liked him. I carried him out in my arms.”
Nobody said anything. We still have Rusty, thought Sally, remembering how the dog had jumped to the window sill when they were getting out.
David turned to Tommy, “Where you living now, Tommy?”
Sally wanted to know too. “You went to Vermont to your grandfather’s, didn’t you, Tommy?”
“We never got there,” said Tommy in a low voice. “Couldn’t make it—all the roads was washed out.”
“Where did you go then?” asked Barbara.
“The Army men never stopped at Red Brick Road to let us off the duck, like they said they would,” answered Tommy. “They took us clear over to that school and then to that crazy barracks project where David lives. My Dad didn’t like it there, so some friends of his found us a Girl Scout cabin to stay in. It’s cold there, though, at night. It’s right in the dark damp woods and there’s no stove. So we’re just camping.” He stopped for a minute, then went on bravely, “We’re gonna be living in a trailer by Monday. The Red Cross promised us one. A big six-person trailer for all nine of us.”
“That’s nice,” said Barbara. “I’m so glad.”
“Do you think you’ll like it, Tommy?” asked Sally.
“Like it?” said Tommy. “Heck, no! It’s too little. We’ll bump each other. We’ll knock things down. But what do I care?”
“Where are you living, Carol?” asked Barbara.
“With some strange people I never saw before,” said Carol, “up in the high part of town, They’re all right, but—”
“Don’t you like it?” asked Sally.
“I was lonesome for my mother,” said Carol. “I cried because she stayed far away on the other side of town.”
Sally thought of all her schoolmates whose homes had been washed away. Now they were living in temporary housing, or with friends or with strangers—the children separated from parents in many cases. The real impact of the flood reached Sally and filled her with sadness.
Suddenly into her mind popped the image of her shiny gold compact, the compact that Tommy Dillon had taken from her so long ago. It had seemed so important then, but now had lost all meaning. Somehow she must let Tommy know. And mixed up with her desire to tell him, was a deep sympathy for all he had suffered.
“Remember that compact you took, Tommy?” she asked.
Tommy hung his head. All his bravado was gone. “I’ll buy you a new one. I’ll get some money—some day.”
“No,” said Sally sharply. “Don’t do that! I don’t ever want to see one again.”
8
CLEAN-UP TIME
“DO WE HAVE TO have another shot?” asked Sally. “I don’t want to get sick again.”
“You’ll be a lot sicker if you don’t get them,” said Mrs. Graham. “Everybody needs three shots. It takes two weeks, spacing them a week apart. We all have to have them before we can go back.”
“When are we going?” asked Sally excitedly.
“Not till the house is cleaned up,” said Mrs. Graham.
Mr. Graham had obtained a pass. So he and his wife had paid their first visit to the flooded house. When they returned, they were very blue.
“The front yard is full of junk,” said Mr. Graham. “There’s a gulley five feet deep washed out by our front porch. Perry Wilson’s truck is wrapped around the elm tree. Somebody’s car is there too, upside down and filled with sand.”
“Daddy put a mark up on the door frame to show how high the water came,” said Mrs. Graham. “Perry Wilson pulled our gutter down, trying to climb up on our roof. Later he took off his shoes and swam the swift current to the elm tree. He hung there for thirteen hours till a helicopter picked him up.”
“Mr. Wilson in our tree?” asked Sally.
“Yes,” said Daddy, “and another man in the apple tree in the back yard. Both were saved.”
“Most of the back yard is washed away,” said Mrs. Graham. “The river bed has come almost up to the house. Vegetables and flowers are gone. It’s all just sand.”
“What about the lawn chairs that we put on the back porch?” asked Bobby. “And Rusty’s doghouse? Are the bikes still there?”
“I saw one chair hanging up in a tree.” Daddy laughed. “The others are buried in the sand. So are your bikes and the doghouse. I didn’t see them anywhere.”
“And so are most of my pots and pans,” added Mother, “and all our shovels and tools and a lot of our clothes. I was ironing the day before Flood Friday.”
