Three Rivers Rising (13 page)

But the stitches are slipping
and I feel row after row
ripping
unpopping
faster
faster
unfastening
at last
unraveling.

I imagine
the dam crumbling,
the lake bursting,
and floodwater rising around us,
destroying all the good we’ve made.

But this awful noise has come to warn us,
perhaps to say this flood will
not
be the gradual
seeping tide we all expected,
but perhaps something more like a crashing wave.
It suddenly dawns so clear,
the terrible power of moving water
and the need to run for the hillside
in peril for our lives.

And this is the moment
that will live inside me
all my life,
maybe for eternity:
I can’t save it—
my house,
my geraniums,
my handiwork—
and I can’t stay
for the love of it.
My children must live
and I must live
for them.

Kate

3:40 p.m
.
Eyes closed,
waiting for it to be over,
don’t want to think of the other train passengers:
man with a cane,
foolish women with frilly hats,
bored children,
not to mention the townspeople …
so many people …
and they’re going to need help
getting to higher ground.

Force air into the lungs.
Knees shimmy down the tree.
Fears be damned!

3:42 p.m
.
Didn’t think much could surprise me in life
anymore,
but when I’m old and gray
on my deathbed
and I close my eyes the last time,
I will still see this sight:
an entire town
at my feet
disappears.

Maura

3:42 p.m
.
Leaving takes me over.

I lift the tiny baby from the cradle
and tie him to my chest with a shawl.
He sleeps undisturbed.

I tie up my skirts,
preparing to run,
and replace a loose hairpin with shaking fingers,
still knotting
until the last.

One final look
at all I swept
and cleaned
and created—
the daily doings,
sweat and toil
of a humble country girl,
one like any other—
it pales
and blurs
before my eyes.
It is nothing now.

One baby strapped to my belly,
another on each hip,
and the oldest clinging to my skirt,
I leave it all behind,
not bothering to shut the door,
a silent offering
to the invader that is surely on its way:
Take it all
,
just not these babies
.
We cross the street
against the rain
and begin the climb uphill.
My arms and legs burn from the effort.
The children are much put out.

Neighbors climb with us
and a woman with long braids
who I do not recognize
helps me with the little ones.
Strangers jump from railcars,
some with bags
and umbrellas.
They jump the ditch to follow us.

All these townspeople,
all these railway passengers
saved
by Joseph’s warning,
and I would trade them all
for him.

Kate

3:43 p.m
.
Looking down from the hill
at the East Conemaugh train yard:
a roundhouse,
towers,
sheds,
extra locomotives
and cars …
and, pointed east,
two sections
of the
Day Express
parked alongside each other,
and the mail train,
waiting out the rain.

When folks hear the blare
of that engine whistle tied down,
I see it they got two choices:
run for the hills
or stay put and pray
that a train car is the safest place to be.

Passengers
of the first section of the
Day Express
choose to run.
Problem is,
the length of the second section
now stands between them
and the hill.
Most folks crawl under,
some climb over,
a few run the length and around.
Next problem:
a ten-foot ditch wild with runoff.
Folks make the leap,
or jump in and climb out the other side,
or throw each other in.
Some never make it out.
Eyeing the mud,
a few return to their seats.
Two fancy-dressed girls go back,
my guess is, for their overshoes.
Won’t need them where they’re going.
Passengers
from the second section of the
Day Express
choose to stay put,
except the folks in one sleeper car
who choose to run.
Passengers
of the mail train
choose to run.
Everyone exits
in an orderly fashion
with the assistance of the trainmen,
like a well-rehearsed dance.
They negotiate the ditch,
climb the hill
to safety.

People from the houses
run uphill, too.
A girl my age
is much burdened with babies,
so I grab the two middle-sized,
one under each arm,
trying to lead her on shaking legs
up the muddy hillside.

The girl stops short
as the engine with the tied-down whistle
comes round the bend
into town,
screams that she knows the sound
of her husband’s whistle.

Maura

3:44 p.m
.
I hand the baby to a neighbor,
pry loose the older one’s fingers,
and run for the engine.
Friends try to hold me back,
tearing my dress and my flesh,
but I am fierce
and they don’t expect it.

I peer up the tracks
and thank God
I see the light of Joseph’s locomotive
coming toward the train yard,
but the next sight
drops me to my knees
right there on the rails.

Behind the train
trees sway violently
in a tumbling thunder
like a storm coming up from the ground
or a tornado on its side.
The lake water can’t be far behind,
coming on fast.
Will the engine be faster?

3:45 p.m
.
Around the last bend
in the mountain pass
before East Conemaugh
the mystery comes clear.

A dark mass fills the valley,
coming down fast,
racing the train.

The big powerful locomotive
suddenly looks small
and my big powerful husband
is helpless.

The whistle fills my ears
but the roar and the rumble
fill my whole body
and the ground beneath
with quaking.

The mail train and two passenger trains
block the way.
His engine slows.
I cover my ears
and run toward it,
slipping in the mud,
my knees bloody,
my hair loose in my eyes.

When he sees me
stumbling toward him,
Joseph skips the stairs
and jumps from the cab.
We roll together,
head for the rise,
crawl and scratch up the rocks.
Fear pins us to a tree,
arms around each other and the trunk.
With only a heartbeat to spare,
the thing is upon us.

It is some time before we see water.
First is churning
trees
poles
fences
barns
and houses.
Then the valley is a river—
a boiling soup
of buildings
horses
cows
and people,
some clinging to rooftops
or logs,
some floating
already still.

The torrent lifts my husband’s locomotive
and whirls it
off down the valley.

Our little white frame house
with the front porch,
nesting birds,
and baskets of red geraniums,
lifts off its moorings,
rides with the current awhile
before spinning
and splintering.

I saved what I could,
what matters:
I look further uphill
to my babies,
who watch with interest
but without understanding.
Kind neighbors
and the helpful stranger
hold them safe,
but their wide eyes
and outstretched arms
say they want only me.
And Joseph.
The town below
is beyond their concern.

We work our way toward them.
I reach for them
with a need to kiss every inch
and cling
and weep
and rejoice
that we all made it out alive.
And that we’re together.

Kate

3:45 p.m
.

It’s a thirty-foot wave when it hits,
taking apart section one of the
Day Express
.
The cars swirl off with the water;
some catch fire.

The big roundhouse where trains are stored
deflects the flood
for section two of the
Day Express
.
The flood moves the train cars forward
and back on the track,
fills and empties them of water,
but no one from section two is harmed
except for those
who tried to run.
One man has a cane and a limp.

Another fellow carries him
for a stretch,
but drops him
to make the hill
with only a second to spare.

The mail train itself
is trapped under a fallen telegraph tower,
which keeps it from being swept on down the valley.

The baggage master doesn’t make it to the hill,
but climbs on one of the train yard’s engines.
When the water moves on,
the one he chose is the only train yard engine left standing,
the others toppled,
or strewn about.
Everyone from the mail train survives.

Maura

3:53 p.m
.
Joseph and I form a circle
around the children
on the muddy slope.
I check every limb for soundness
over and over again,
count every finger and toe
the way I did when they were born.
The baby sleeps.
The girls hide their faces in their father’s shoulders.
The oldest can’t stop crying and hiccupping.
His face is hot and streaked,
but his eyes are fresh out of tears.
His open mouth against my neck,
he grabs a hank of my hair
too hard,
like he’ll never let go.
And I don’t want him to,
no matter how much it hurts.
Terror has broken my heart
in two:
equal parts
bitter and sweet.

3:55 p.m
.
When the beast has roared past,
the relative quiet
is too loud.

Watching the tail of it
whip toward Johnstown,
we know it isn’t over yet
for our neighbors below,
where the population is greater.

Those of us
so grateful to be safe on the hillside
are silent with prayer
for the people of Johnstown
in their last moments of not knowing.

Kate

3:55 p.m
.
Looking back
at what is left of East Conemaugh,
knowing the need
will be greatest in Johnstown proper,
I hurry down the line,
up on the ridge,
quick as the mud and fallen trees allow.

Johnstown

Celestia

4:00 p.m
.
Johnstown appears shut down
with rain.
I abandon my craving for fresh bread
and turn back,
empty-handed,
soaked to the waist.

“Peter, the rivers are rising.
The streets are canals.
People are poling skiffs!”
I wring out my skirts and coat as I stand on the doorstep.
Peter grins. “Welcome to Johnstown.”

“Some families are moving to higher ground.”
“This is how it is
to live in a valley
where three rivers cross paths.”

“But your neighbors say it has never been this high before.”
“Water comes up to the front step
but it never comes in the door.” He takes my coat
and spreads it over the rocker by the fire.

I rub my hands near the stove
but cannot shake the chill. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Are you thinking about
the dam?” Peter shakes out a blanket
around my shoulders and bundles it under my chin.