Flood Friday (10 page)

“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.”

“D
O 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.”

“Guess what I found up in the apple tree?” asked Daddy. “Two bedspreads, a shirt of Bobby’s, a dress of Sally’s, an apron of Mother’s and Tim’s little red wagon.”

The children laughed.

“My sewing machine is buried out there in the sand too,” said Mother. “But I found my earrings still on the window sill in the kitchen. The water was up almost to the top of the window, but they were not washed away.”

“Goody, goody!” cried Karen. “Mother has her earrings!”

“Did you go inside the house?” asked Bobby.

“Not very far,” said Mother. “Daddy knocked down the door to get in. It’s a sea of mud—horrible. The piano’s falling apart.”

“Under the mud, the floor boards are swollen and lifted,” said Daddy. “The icebox and electric stove are ruined. Maybe I can get the motor on the washing machine baked—I don’t know.”

“We saw only one thing to laugh at—Bobby’s sign!” said Mother. “That gave us courage. NOBODY HOME BUT WE’LL BE BACK!”

All this time Mrs. Boyd and Barbara had been listening.

“I’ll come and help clean up,” said Mrs. Boyd.

“We’ll all go,” cried the children.

Mrs. Graham shook her head.

“But I can help, Mother,” said Sally. “I can scrub floors.”

“And I can shovel out mud,” said Bobby.

“I never knew you so anxious to help before,” said Mrs. Graham. “But you must wait till the house is cleaned. It’s too much of a health hazard. Children are ordered to keep out.”

“The fire department has run a water pipe down the street now,” said Mr. Graham, “so we can get water.”

“Good,” said Mrs. Boyd. “So many people were trying to clean mud out without a drop of water.”

“The prisoners from Wethersfield are shoveling out people’s cellars,” added Mr. Graham, “and the Army bulldozers are shoveling up fallen trees and wrecked cars. It’s wonderful how the whole country has sent help—trucks, bulldozers, men, food and clothing.”

Two days later, Mrs. Graham waded into the front yard of her home, loaded down with shovels, brooms, mops and pails. To her surprise, she saw that the worst of the mud had been shoveled out.

“Somebody’s been here, working,” she exclaimed. “The Wilsons, I bet.”

She went from one room to the other. She had to walk carefully for the mud was slick.