by J. T. Warren
Calamity
J.T. Warren
In the middle of a cold winter night on March 26, 1951, two earthen dams in the hills above Sidney, Montana, collapsed. Millions of gallons of water and gigantic blocks of ice were sent roaring downhill into the unwary town as it lay sleeping. The only apparent fatalities were members of one family, the family of Herman and Ruth Foell who lived in a basement home on the outskirts of town nearest to the dams. Their home was totally destroyed, transformed into a tomb beneath the icy flood waters in a matter of minutes. This story is about that family, gleaned from the pages of Ruth Foell’s own journal, recovered after her untimely death. Her unfinished chronicle contained entries up to only a few weeks before this catastrophe nearly swept their town into oblivion.
CALAMITY
By J.T. Warren
Copyright 2011 J.T. Warren
This book is for people who always see the dark side and like the view.
Special thanks as always to my first readers and editors: LeeAnn Doherty, Scott Nicholson, Karla Herrera, and, of course, my lovely wife. Thanks is also due to Karla for her excellent cover design.
PROLOGUE
1
Five minutes of passing time between classes wasn’t much but sometimes it felt like a lifetime. Tyler Williams was exchanging books at his locker and grabbing the bag lunch Dad had made for him when Paul flopped his back against the lockers next to him. “When were you going to tell me?”
“Tell you what?” Tyler asked.
Paul laughed in the mocking way that said he knew Tyler was being a dick. “Didn’t even tell your best friend.” He shook his head. “I mean, I should have known first. I’m just so proud of you.” Paul pretended to wipe away tears.
“It’s no big deal,” Tyler said. “It’s just a date.”
“It’s the day you finally grew some balls. Congrats, man. I knew it would happen.” He slapped Tyler on the back. “Next thing you know you’ll be updating your status to ‘in a relationship.’”
“It’s just a date.”
“It’s proof you’re not a homo.”
“Real funny.”
“You mean, you are a homo?” Before Tyler could stop him, Paul was shouting in singsong fashion at the passing kids, “Tyler’s a homo! Tyler’s a homo!”
Someone yelled, “Right on, faggot!” and someone else said, “You’re the fag, you retard.”
Most of the kids crammed into the hallway of Stone Creek High School offered a brief, contemptuous glance and continued on their way.
“Where you taking her?”
“Movie and dinner.”
“Then what?”
“Then what, what?”
“You just going to ask if she’ll wrap that snaggletooth around your cock or you got something more creative planned?”
“I’ll be fine.”
“Yeah. You wouldn’t even have the date if not for me.”
Two days ago, Paul had told him that Rebecca had said that Sasha thought he was kind of cute and that she would answer a call from him if he happened to find her number, which Rebecca passed to Paul in a note folded fifteen times, like some secret message from an underground cult. Paul ragged him for three hours until he said that if Tyler didn’t man up for once in his life, he was bound to be a homosexual, if, that was, he wasn’t one already. If Tyler didn’t make the call, Paul said he’d spread the word that Tyler’s mother had found gay porn on his laptop.
That was all the motivation he needed. His fears of rejection, which kept him pacing frantically back and forth in his bedroom and which spurred him into a vicious tirade of self-critique, proved a waste of time. Sasha giggled and said yes. Now, he was mere hours from the date and unable to think of anything else. Mr. Gerard had called on him twice in math and both times Tyler had been thinking about how he was going to make that first move on Sasha. He had even started a list in the margin of his notebook of possible tactics. Bluntly asking if she’d suck his dick was not one of the possibilities.
“I owe you everything,” Tyler said in grand, kowtowing style. “Happy?” He slammed his locker shut and started toward the cafeteria. Paul, who didn’t have lunch until the following period, followed right along.
“What you owe me,” Paul said, “is a date with Delaney.”
“I’m about to eat. You want me to vomit?”
“Your sister is hot. You have to admit it.”
“I can’t even respond to that.”
“Yeah, because you know I’m right.”
Up ahead, kids were shouting or grunting back and forth to each other like gorillas in the mountains. A group of girls in short skirts and high heels gossiped rapidly back and forth. Passing them, Tyler caught the words, “such a bitch” and “whore better back off.” The sounds of talking and yelling echoed everywhere. To the left, a little freshman was on his knees in front of his locker trying to get the combination right for the hundredth time. Any moment now, the tears would start. Tyler thought of his little brother Brendan and felt sorry for this kid but it wasn’t his job to help him. That’s why there were teachers, although he didn’t see any in the halls.
“Besides,” Paul said. “I think she likes me.”
“Don’t you have history class?”
“Mr. B. doesn’t care if I’m late.”
Two football players, dressed in their home jerseys even though the season had ended months ago, were play fighting up ahead outside a computer lab. The flowing traffic gave them a wide birth, which slowed Tyler’s steps to a crawl.
“This place is fucked,” Tyler said.
“Just like you’re going to be tonight, right?” Paul asked.
“Right.”
“C’mon, man. She said yes. She’s a little weird or whatever, but she said yes.” Paul leaned close. “A girl like that is aching for it. I’m surprised one of the jocks hasn’t hit it yet. She’s ready to fall off the vine. You only have to reach for it.”
Tyler had been with girls before but never advanced past the boundary of the jeans. He didn’t want to seem like some desperate pervert but Paul was right: Sasha was exactly the type of girl who went around secretly hoping some guy would just whip it out for her.
Before the date, Tyler would be back on the Internet surfing for dating tips. Just undoing her bra strap posed its own challenge. He’d spent enough time staring at her breasts in English that they were burned into his brain. He often thought about going up to her in class and ripping open her shirt and launching his mouth at those breasts.
A hot rush flushed through him.
“You just have to man up,” Paul said. “Then you can stick it in her.”
“Real classy.”
“Then put in the good word for me with Delaney so I can stick—”
“Jesus, enough.”
Paul paused. “All you have to do is lay the foundation for me.”
“No.”
Paul adopted one of his over-the-top, dramatic personas. “I see how it is. I see how you do me. Fine. Whatever. But I hope Sasha pulls some weirdo shit on you and you wake up with your cock in a jar.”
“That’s great. See ya.”
“Whateva, nigga. Peace.” He made some kind of gang gesture over his head, something he probably saw in a movie, and headed back the way they had walked.
Paul was always good for a laugh but Tyler was too busy waging an internal battle between anxiety and lust to care what he wanted. Tyler had a genuine chance to get some serious action tonight so long as he didn’t turn into a cowardly douche.
In the cafeteria, Tyler sat with this kid Aaron Vandershant who was sometimes funny and often a dick. If he knew about Tyler’s date with Sasha, Aaron would unload a barrage of vile-soaked insults at Tyler’s choice of girl. Aaron had never been seen even talking to a girl one-o
n-one, so Tyler didn’t much care what Aaron said. Besides, the kid could be quite amusing.
“I’m in Mrs. Pulk’s class,” Aaron says before Tyler even opens his brown bag. “She’s doing her usual lecture shit and the class is real quiet. Bunch of zombies in there, man, I tell you. Anyway, she’s talking about some constellation or some shit and then she stops, like freezes, bends over like she’s about to fall and grabs the desk in front of her—Kyle Prescott is sitting there like somebody strung or out or something—and she unloads this ass cheek-shaking fart that sounds like a damn grenade going off. I was so stunned I couldn’t say anything. And then you know what she does? Mrs. Pulk straightens up, looks at us, and says, ‘Bet you can’t beat that.’ I fucking lost it, man. Almost fell out of my seat.”
“She didn’t say that.”
“Fuck yeah, she did. That bitch is crazy.”
“That is crazy.” Tyler actually thought it was kind of great that a teacher, especially an old one like Mrs. Pulk, could be so cool about farting.
“Kyle woke up, started choking, said, ‘Damn, what’s that stink?’ And I yell out, “Look out, she had tacos for lunch!’ That did it—class erupted and Mrs. Pulk had to stand there and take it.”
Delaney and her friends Shannon and Randi joined the table. Usually, the conversations never overlapped or intersected but Tyler didn’t detest his sister the way a lot of boys detested theirs. He never ignored her or pretended they weren’t related. She was a year younger, a bit of a nerd and like to dress up real girly though not trashy like most high school girls. She only owned one pair of high heels and those she wore for her band concerts. They had been really close when they were young, playing all the time, and though he mostly made fun of her now, it was always out of brotherly devotion. She was a cool girl and he liked hanging with her, but that didn’t mean he wanted Paul shoving his tongue down her throat. Or anything else, for that matter.
“What’s up, bro? Dad make you his special PB&J?”
“Haven’t looked yet. Aaron was regaling me with a story of Mrs. Pulk, the amazing farting teacher.”
Delaney frowned. “I love Mrs. Pulk. She farted in class?”
Aaron found a break in his laughter to make an explosion gesture with his hands and shout, “Kaboom!”
Delaney smiled. “That’s horrible. Stop laughing.”
“It was like D-Day!” Aaron yelled. His face had darkened to deep red.
After saying something to Shannon and Randi, Delaney turned back to Tyler and asked about his big date.
“Who told you?”
“Everybody knows, big brother.” She shook her head. “You sure can pick them.”
Aaron quieted his screeches of laughter. “Date? Who you banging, Tyler?”
“I’m not banging any—”
“Sasha Karras,” Delaney said.
Aaron’s eyes went huge. “That weirdo bitch? You’re kidding me? Her mother’s a witch or something.”
“She’s not a witch.”
Sasha’s mother worked the Key Club Fright Fest every Halloween, always dressed up in a black gown with heavy, black makeup. She read fortunes from a stack of tarot cards. Kids said she sacrificed stray cats to her evil witch god.
“Crazy bitch collected Sasha’s period blood to use in her ceremonies.”
“Ew,” Shannon said but she was smiling.
“You made that up.”
Aaron shrugged. Even if he had made it up that didn’t mean it wasn’t true. Such was the world of high school logic.
“Don’t do it,” Aaron said. “You’ll be tainted.”
Tyler turned to Delaney. “Thanks, sis.”
“No problem, bro. Just don’t embarrass the family. I have a reputation to maintain.”
“Yeah, right. Tough to keep that nerd persona untarnished.”
Her face crumpled a bit but she fought it off. “Just don’t forget to wear a condom.”
“Yeah,” Aaron said, all serious. “You don’t want to have a kid with that bitch.”
“Shut up,” Tyler said. He finally opened his lunch and found a Hot Pocket in its plastic wrapper. How the hell was he going to microwave it? Thanks, Dad.
2
Chloe wanted her damn pills. She could scream for them, shout at the top of her lungs until her throat cracked and her energy vanished. She could beg for them, cry for them, but Anthony wasn’t going to give them to her. Dr. Carroll had prescribed them, so, sure, legally she could take them, but that didn’t mean she should take them.
“Please!” Her plea rolled down the hallway from the bedroom where she kept a constant vigil in bed.
If she really wanted her little coma-inducing pills, she could get out of bed and get them herself. But she wouldn’t, of course, not until her withdrawal became too painful to endure. But he wouldn’t let it go that far. She would wear him down and he would obediently fetch whichever colored pill she wanted.
“I need them.” Her voice was an anger-tinged cry, the sound of an animal stuck in a trap.
He wasn’t doing anything, just standing in the kitchen, cleaning the counter, drinking some coffee, but he wanted to tell her to get the fuck out of the bed this instant, stop being so damn pathetic, take a shower, get some clean clothes on, go outside and stop bothering him.
“I deserve them,” she yelled. Her voice rasped like it was on the verge of collapse.
Dr. Carroll said the pills would take the edge off, but they had done a whole hell of a lot more than that—they had anesthetized her from life. Dr. Carroll was a good man, a good psychiatrist based on the recommendations of a few people from work, but he was awfully quick to prescribe drugs. Anthony hadn’t wanted his son Brendan on any Ritalin or similar Help-You-Focus drug, but the proof was, as they say, in the pudding. Brendan’s grades had improved. So, after that day last month when he discovered the pain so many other parents have suffered and yet still thought his own pain far worse, he turned to Dr. Carroll for help. He and Chloe attended sessions together but, ultimately, Chloe had gotten the script she wanted and found the peace she sought. If you slept all the time, maybe the pain would stay away. Anthony suffered more pain in his dreams where he relived the tragic day over and over or, and this was sometimes worse, dreamt the baby was still alive and then awoke to discover the truth. But Chloe didn’t suffer nightmares; her pills were a forcefield against them. Against everything else, too.
“Why don’t you care about me?” Her words gargled on her self-pity.
Anthony sipped his coffee and squeezed the dish towel in his hand. If he punched her in the face, he could knock her out without pills and the towel might cushion the hit so he wouldn’t break her cheekbone.
That thought lingered for several seconds before Anthony’s revulsion pushed it far away, forced him to set down his coffee, and urged his legs down the hallway to the bedroom.
The room was dark, the shades drawn. The day’s sunlight was forced into the corners where swirls of dust danced in the air. The room stank of old sweat and persistent halitosis. Both were side effects of the pills.
Chloe was beneath the comforter. Her withered body was hardly a lump among the folds. In the dark, her face was a talking shadow, like something from one of his nightmares.
“I’ve been calling for you.”
“I know.”
“Get me my pills.”
He stopped halfway to the master bath. “You should get out of bed.”
“I’m tired.”
“A shower will make you feel good.”
“My pills.”
“I’ll make you some breakfast. The kids are at school. We can talk.”
She paused, thinking. Her lips made a wet smacking sound. “Talk about what?”
“About helping you.”
“Helping me? Helping me? How the hell are you going to help me?”
“I want you to get better.”
“Then get me my pills.”
“You sound like a monster. Like some dying witch.”
“Fuck you,” she said in a casual way.
He went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet. The bottles stared back.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she asked. “You just want to fuck me. Well, go ahead. Give me my pills and fuck me all you want.”
Chills rolled over his skin. He kept his tone steady, loving. “I just want you to get better. I want you to get back to life.”
“What about the life that was taken out of me and then from me?” She was on the cusp of tears, as she had been the past month.
“You have to find a way to carry on. We still have three beautiful children. We have to do what is best for them.”
“You just want me to forget!” she screamed. “Forget about my baby? Forget like you forgot. You don’t give a flying fuck about our dead child but I’m not that goddamn heartless! I need to grieve! I need my pills!”
Anthony’s fingers tightened around a large white bottle.
“You hear me!” she yelled again. “Or don’t you give a shit?”
He turned out of the bathroom, threw the bottle of pills at her head—she caught them with an exasperated ooofff sound, and left the bedroom. He slammed the door for good measure.
What the hell was he going to do? He had to keep his family together. He had to find a way to bring back the old days, the happy days, the days before the baby died.
He went back to the kitchen but his coffee had turned cold.
3
Brendan’s teacher wanted to speak with him. While the playground monitor escorted the rest of the class outside in a single-file line, Brendan approached Miss Tuyol.
She was a young teacher, the youngest in the building, and some of the boys thought she was hot but Brendan didn’t think of her as being hot or not. Actually, he never really thought about any of his teachers.
She was sitting behind her desk, which was organized with colored folders and boxes and decorated with fake apples and little plaques that said things like “World’s Greatest Teacher” and “Teachers Light the Way to Tomorrow.” She was wearing a bright purple sweater with a picture of the Easter Bunny on it.
