Up the coast.
We live inland, we live inland.
I think of all the space that was between my finger and the Atlantic Ocean on the improperly folded map of New England. Even so, I turn on WMHT. The newscaster says that Hurricane Susan is an extremely large storm and will reach our area by the next night.
Isn’t it funny that right has three homonyms and night only has one?
I stand in front of the cupboards where my father put away our supplies. I begin to count.
16 rolls of paper towels
24 rolls of toilet paper
2 large packages of napkins
4 packages of paper plates
2 packages of paper cups
I look at our food. I wonder if we have enough supplies for a power outage that lasts two days, four days, a week.
I wonder what will happen if a tree falls on our house.
I sit on the couch with Rain until it’s time to walk her and then we go to bed and I put my arms around her and feel her chest rise and fall as she breathes.
I cross my fingers and touch them to Rain’s heart.
17
Waiting
The next morning my father wakes me up by saying, “You’re in luck, Rose. School is closing at noon today.”
This is an unscheduled change. It’s not on our school calendar.
I frown and sit up. “Why?”
My father is standing in the doorway, looking at Rain and me in bed. “Why?” he repeats. “Because of the storm you’ve been talking about all week. It’s supposed to hit sometime tonight.”
“If it’s going to come tonight, why are they closing school today?”
“Geez, Rose, I don’t know. So people have time to prepare, I guess. Just go with it. You get half a day off from school, okay?”
Uncle Weldon drives me to Hatford Elementary and Mrs Leibler walks me to my class. Everyone is talking about Hurricane Susan, the superstorm. It has made landfall south of us. Four people are dead. Thousands of others have lost their homes. Towns are flooded. Power lines are down. The storm is headed north and is expected to make an inland turn.
We live inland, we live inland.
Susan is 74, which is not a prime number name, and I haven’t thought of a new homonym recently.
After Mrs Kushel takes attendance, she asks our class if we’d like to talk about the storm.
Everyone says yes.
“This is the biggest storm in history,” Josh announces. He sounds pleased.
“People have already died,” says Parvani nervously.
I stand up and shout, “Two, three, five, seven, eleven, thirteen!” Before I can say, “Seventeen,” Mrs Leibler is marching me to the hall.
Uncle Weldon pulls into my driveway at 12.17 p.m. Usually he drops me off and goes right back to his job, but today he has special permission to wait with me until my father comes home. Neither of us talks about the note from Mrs Leibler. When my father opens the envelope later he will read about the prime number incident.
At 1.21 p.m. my father returns from the J & R Garage and my uncle leaves. “We’ll try to stay in touch,” he says to my father and me. “Hopefully, the storm will miss us. Maybe this is a lot of hype after all.”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” my father replies.
Uncle Weldon heads down the driveway and I hand over the note. My father reads it as we stand on the porch. He shakes his head. “Geez, Rose, why can’t you just say those numbers to yourself?”
My father stays at home the rest of the day. He stays at home after dinner too, Rain and my father and I alone in our house with the eight tall trees outside. I can hear wind now, and a little rain.
My father turns on the Weather Channel and I sit across the room with my back to the television.
“We’re right in the path,” I hear my father say. “It can’t miss us.”
“Morgan broke a rule today,” I tell him, without turning around. “She didn’t raise her hand, and she interrupted Mrs Kushel.”
My father doesn’t answer.
“You know who else broke a rule? Josh. On the very first day of school he yelled, and yelling is against the rules.”
“You want to come over here and watch this like a normal person?”
“And once Anders tripped me. On purpose. And twice Flo butted into the middle of the lunch queue.”
“Rose, I can’t hear the television.”
“And also—”
My father stands up fast. He starts to throw the remote control at me, but then I think he remembers that the TV won’t work without it, so he puts it down. “Go to your room,” he says.
I back away from him. Rain follows me to my bed. I get out the list of homonyms. I study it and study it and then from the living room I hear the Weather Channel’s Rex Caprisi say, “Check out the links posted at the bottom of the screen.”
I jump off my bed. “Rain! ‘Links’ and ‘lynx’! A new homonym!”
I run my finger down to the L section of the list and see that there isn’t space for my new homonym pair. I’ll have to rewrite the list, starting with the L section.
I haven’t gotten any further than lane/lain when I make an m instead of an n. I throw down my pen.
“Two, three, five!” I shout and scrunch up the paper.
My father is standing in the doorway in an instant. He looks at me and then at the paper. “I’ve had just about enough,” he says quietly.
Rain edges herself between my father and me.
“If you can’t control yourself here, at least control yourself at school. I’m sick of this. I’m sick of the notes. I’m sick of the meetings.”
“But my homonyms list—”
My father stoops down and picks up the crumpled paper. “Not another word about homonyms. Put all this stuff away and go to bed. Right now.”
My father doesn’t leave the doorway, so Rain and I have to change our schedule for the second time that day. I slide under the covers with my clothes on. Rain lies warily next to me.
We both have to pee.
18
Storm Sounds
My father closes the door to my room, so Rain and I lie in the darkness. I can see a strip of light under my door and hear the sounds of the Weather Channel.
I can’t fall asleep, even with my hand resting on Rain’s sleek back.
The wind grows louder and louder. It’s as loud as a train. Rain whimpers.
The television sounds disappear and then the strip of light dims, which is how I know my father has gone to bed.
The rain falls harder until it’s thundering on our roof. Beside me, Rain begins to shake.
In (inn) the yard the trees creak (creek) and crack. Branches snap off.
Something heavy blows against my window. It makes a bang and I grab Rain, but the window doesn’t break (brake).
I get out of bed and tiptoe to the door. I open it and listen. Nothing but (butt) storm sounds. I peer (pier) around the corner at my father’s door. It’s closed. No light shines underneath.
I go back to bed, leaving my door open.
My clock says 11.34 p.m. when I hear (here) a tree crash down in our front yard.
It says 1.53 a.m. when a violent gust of wind hurls something against our (hour) front door, and I wonder what we left outside. Rain shakes until the bed vibrates.
The clock says 3.10 a.m. when I hear a ferocious crack from somewhere, maybe the street, and then my clock blinks off and all the humming sounds in the house come to a stop.
Our power has gone out.
I hug Rain as tightly as possible and finally I fall asleep.
When I awaken there’s dim light seeping around my window shades. The house is quiet. The storm must be nearly over.
Rain is not in my room.
19
Rain Doesn’t Come When I Call
On our kitchen counter is a clock that is not electric. It’s round and blue, and on the face is a drawing of an ocean wave. Above the wave are the words Atlant
ic City. The morning after the storm, I tiptoe out of my bedroom and into the very quiet kitchen. The first thing I look at is the clock. The hands are pointing to 8.05. Next I turn around to see if my father’s door is open. It is not. I pick up our phone and listen for a dialling tone. Nothing. I press a few buttons. Still nothing. We have no electricity and no telephone.
I walk to the window in the living room and look outside. The day is very dark and wet. Rain is still falling, but gently, as if it might stop soon. The leaves on the trees are fluttering a little, but the wind is not roaring like it was during the night.
In our yard two trees have fallen, the birch and the elm. The birch tree came up by its roots. The tips of its branches are resting on the porch roof. The elm tree snapped just above the ground. It fell in the other direction, across the road, and took the power lines with it. Also, one of our oak trees split down the middle, and the top part snapped off another. There are branches and leaves everywhere I look.
I peer sideways over to the driveway, which is covered with branches and leaves like everything else, and follow it to the road.
I draw my breath in tight. I realize that I can see the stream that runs alongside Hud. This is the first time I’ve been able to see the water from so far away. As I mentioned in “Chapter 15: Where We Live”, there has never been more than 10.5 inches of water in the stream. But now the water is so deep that it’s flowed over its banks and flooded both the road and the lower part of our yard. It’s rushing along fast and hard and swollen like a river, and it couldn’t fit under our bridge, so it roared over it. The bottom of our drive has washed away. Sturdy pieces of timber are breaking apart and hurtling down Hud.
We are stuck on our property. Even after the water recedes, the stream will still be there, with no driveway bridging it. I turn around, wondering whether it’s okay to wake my father. I want to ask him about the bridge and hear (here) his thoughts on being stranded.
I’m about to knock on his door when I realize that I haven’t seen (scene) Rain. She’s not in the kitchen or the living room. I go back to my room and look under my bed. Sometimes Rain hides there if she gets scared.
No Rain.
I check the bathroom.
No Rain.
I look in the kitchen and living room once more.
“Rain?” I call. “Rain?”
Nothing.
I call louder. “Rain?”
Suddenly the door to my father’s room bursts open.
“Rose, quit yelling. I let Rain outside. She had to pee.”
“You let her outside? When?”
“I don’t know. A while ago.”
“Did you let her back in?”
“No.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because it was early. I went back to sleep. She’s probably on the porch.”
I forget about the trees and the water and the driveway and being stranded. I fling open the front door.
The porch is wet. Everything is dripping, and the couch is soaked.
Rain is not there. I call her name again. Then I step onto the porch in my bare feet. I stand at the top of the steps and call, “Rain! Rain! Rain! Rain!” into the grey morning.
The only sound I hear is dripping.
I begin to breathe very fast.
I think this is a sign of panic.
“Two, three, five, seven, eleven,” I say. “Two, three, five, seven, eleven.”
20
Why I Get Mad at My Father
I sit in a chair at the kitchen table.
Something has happened to Rain.
My father let her outside and she didn’t come back.
This is not like her.
She may be lost.
I stand at the window again and gaze out at the rushing water, at the fallen trees, at the bottom of our yard that now looks like a pond.
“Find her?”
I jump. I turn around to see my father. He’s standing in the doorway to his bedroom wearing an undershirt and boxer shorts.
“What time did you let her out?” I ask.
“Does that mean you didn’t find her?”
“She doesn’t come when I call.”
“Why can’t you just answer me? Say, ‘No, I didn’t find her’.”
“No, I didn’t find her. What time did you let her out?”
My father scratches his neck and sits at the kitchen table. “Power’s out,” he says. “Phone too?”
“I have to answer your questions, but you don’t have to answer mine?”
I see a mean little smile on my father’s mouth, but all he says is, “Seven fifteen.”
Seven and one and five add up to thirteen, which is a prime number, but in this case I don’t think it’s a good thing. “She’s been gone for over an hour,” I reply.
“Now you answer my question. Is the phone out too?”
“Yes. Why didn’t you watch Rain when she went outside?”
“Rose.”
“But why didn’t you?”
“Rose, you’re driving me crazy.”
“Well, why didn’t you wake me up?”
“What? When Rain went out? I don’t know. Because we always let her out by herself and she always comes back to the porch.”
“She hasn’t been out during a storm before.”
“Did you eat breakfast yet?”
“I was looking for Rain.”
“Did. You. Eat. Breakfast. Yet.”
“No.”
My father starts pulling out supplies. He sets paper bowls and paper cups on the table, a box of cereal, and milk from the fridge, which is dark inside. “The milk is still okay,” he says, sniffing it.
I walk from the window to the table and back to the window. I open the front door. I call, “Rain! Rain!”
“Breakfast is ready,” says my father.
“Rain is missing.” I step back inside.
My father goes to the window. “What a mess,” he says.
“The bridge over the driveway washed away,” I tell him. “We’re stuck here.”
“Damn.”
“I wish we could call Uncle Weldon.”
“What’s he going to do?”
“Help me look for Rain. Why didn’t you watch her when she went out?”
“I’ve already answered that question, Rose. Now let’s eat.”
I stand at the window. I pace into my bedroom and back to the kitchen. “Why didn’t you check to see if she came back?”
My father slams his hand on the table and the carton of milk jumps. He looks at the Atlantic City clock. “It’s 8.30,” he says, “and already I’ve had it with you.”
8.30 a.m. is when my father has had it with me, and also when I notice that Rain’s collar is hanging on the doorknob. That’s where I left it last night, before my father made Rain and me go to bed without peeing.
Rain is lost outside and she isn’t wearing her collar.
She has no identification.
My father is the one who let her out. That’s why I’m mad at him.
21
Rain’s Nose
All dogs have smart noses, but Rain’s must be especially smart. I think of the day she followed me through the hallways at school until she found me in Mrs Kushel’s room. Her nose had to sort through the smells of dozens of kids and teachers, and choose just mine to track.
I remember Parvani saying, “You’re so lucky, Rose.” She meant lucky to have Rain, a dog with such a smart nose.
I can’t eat the cereal my father gets for me. I leave the table and stand at the front door again.
“A watched pot never boils,” says my father. He slurps some cereal and washes it down with warm Coke from a can.
“What?” I say.
“Never heard that expression? It means…” My father pauses. “It means, well, it means don’t keep standing there. Rain will come back when she’s ready.”
I turn around to face my father. “Rain has a smart nose,” I tell him.
“
Unh.”
“She does. Even if she got turned around in the storm her nose will help her find her way home.”
“Okay then. Come eat your breakfast.”
The day is long and dark. The rain stops falling and the wind stops blowing, but the sun doesn’t come out. Our house is cold. My father puts on trousers and a flannel shirt. He makes a fire in the woodstove. I think I would feel warmer if Rain were here.
After breakfast I ask if I can go outside and search for Rain.
My father stands on the front porch and considers this. At last he says, “You can go outside, but don’t leave our yard. There are power lines down and you could electrocute yourself. Don’t go near any wires, and don’t go near any water either. You have no idea how powerful rushing water is.”
“Could Rain swim in it?” I ask.
“In rushing water? Probably not.”
I walk all around our yard. I call, “Rain! Rain! Rain!” I have to step over branches and climb over the fallen trees.
No sign of Rain.
I walk down the slope towards Hud Road, but stop when I reach the water. The water in our yard is not moving fast, but I don’t know how deep it is. The water by the road is moving fast. It’s rushing, just like my father said. I throw a branch in and it disappears immediately. I don’t see it again.
I call for Rain, but the water is so loud I can barely hear my voice.
I go back inside. My father is sitting at the kitchen table trying to tune the battery-powered radio.
“Piece of junk,” he mutters, just before a voice comes booming into the room.
“It works,” I say, and then remember my father’s sarcasm remark about being observant. I wait for him to say something, but he just keeps fiddling with the knobs.
Finally he tunes into a weather alert about a flood warning.
“What a surprise,” says my father. “A flood warning.”
This sarcasm is directed at the radio.
For lunch we each eat a banana and an untoasted bagel with peanut butter. Then my father says, “Might as well begin cleaning up the yard. There’s nothing else to do.”
How to Look for a Lost Dog Page 5
