Flood Friday (7 page)

“You’re not scared, are you?” asked Mother.

“Not with you by me,” said Sally.

“Say your prayers, dear, and go to sleep,” said Mother.

The last thing Sally heard before going to sleep was Mother telling the boys to lie still. The next thing she knew some one was shaking her. She opened her eyes—and it was Barbara. Morning had come. Sally was surprised to find herself still at school.

The next day was busier than ever. All morning, the people stood in line in the hall by the health room. Dr. Otis and several nurses in white caps were there giving shots. Everybody had to take one to avoid getting typhoid fever. The Grahams all stood in line and waited. Mother carried baby Betty, and Sally and Karen held Jack and Tim by the hand. Bobby brought up the rear, with Rusty in his arms. At last they got inside, and their turns came. The doctor was quick and the pricks did not hurt much. Only Tim cried.

When they came out in the hall, there was Daddy. Mother and the children gathered round to hear his news.

“Have we got a house or not?” asked Bobby.

“We still have a house,” said Daddy.

“Thank God,” said Mother.

Mr. Graham had had to travel a roundabout way to the Town Hall in the center of town, to get his pass. He found a friend to take him in a canoe down Farmington Avenue, to see if the house was still there. The waters had receded somewhat. From the boat he could look into the broken windows.

“You didn’t bring us any clothes?” asked Mother.

“I couldn’t get the doors or windows open,” said Daddy. “They are all swollen shut. I might have got in the upstairs window if I’d had a ladder.”

“How was the house?” asked Mother.

“There’s still water downstairs,” said Daddy. “The piano is lying face down—it must have bounced around. Your cedar chest floated out to the kitchen. The table is still upright, with the new coffeemaker on it. It must have gone up and down again. The washing machine moved around and ended up in a corner. Most of the windows are broken. It’s a good thing the cellar door was left open. That’s why we still have a house. The pressure was the same inside as out.”

“How deep was the water?” asked Mother.

“It must have been over six feet,” said Daddy. “We’re lucky it didn’t reach the second floor.”

“And the rest of town?” asked Mother.

“There are only four houses left on the river side of Farmington Avenue,” said Daddy. “It’s the saddest sight you want to see. Trash and lumber, ruined cars and trucks, debris everywhere.”

“Only four houses!” cried Mother. “All the others?”

“Washed away,” said Daddy. “Most of those on New Britain Avenue too.”

“Oh Daddy,” cried Sally. “Can’t we go home now? The water must be all down by today, if it was starting to go down last night.”

“We can’t go till we are allowed to,” said Daddy. “I had to get a pass to even go and look at it.”

“But Daddy,” said Karen. “We can’t stay
here.
There’s too many people. Where are we going then?”

“I’ll tell you later,” said Daddy.

“Let’s go to Maine,” said Jack.

“I wish we could,” said Daddy.

Sally was out in front of the school when a car drove up and everybody crowded around it. She went over to see. There was Fireman Leo Rogers and little Linda Marciano with her dog Tiny. The people went wild.

“Linda Marciano! Linda has been rescued!” they cried.

Sad-faced, weeping Angela was told the news. She rushed out of the school, gathered her small sister in her arms and wept now for joy. The little dog, Tiny, barked and barked. The fireman told his story, and everybody listened.

He and Linda and the dog had been swept some distance from the rest of the family. Rogers put Linda into a tree, then took the belt off her dress and tied her to a branch. She held the dog in her arms. From boards floating by, the fireman made a makeshift raft. It was so shaky, he was afraid to trust it with the child. Leaving her in the tree, he called, “Wait for me, Linda. I’ll be back.” But it was a long time before he saw her again. He rode his raft until it collapsed beneath him.

“I decided to swim for it,” he said. “Then by the grace of God an inner tube floated by. That helped a lot.”

After swimming several miles, he finally made it to dry land. He hurried to the Farmington Firehouse and made arrangements to go up in a helicopter. Trip after trip was made, but there was no trace of Linda. The search continued all day Friday, but still Linda could not be found.

Rescue workers refused to give up the search. Late into the night, boats continued to go out, looking for the child. At five in the morning, Saturday, Rogers set out once more in his canoe. Six hours later, at eleven o’clock, he found Linda. She was playing in the sand under the tree with her dog Tiny. She had untied her belt and climbed down after the waters receded. She had waited nearly thirty hours for him to come. Smiling up at the fireman, she said, “I thought you were never coming back, but you did!”

He took her to shore in his canoe. Now she was reunited with her older sister and her brothers Tony and Al.

Linda was the center of attention. All the people crowded round to ask her questions. A newspaper reporter asked her if she would appear on television.

Linda looked down at her torn and muddy dress, at her bare black feet. “How can I?” she said.

Then Dr. Otis came and took her in the building. She was taken to the health room for examination and rest. Later she was carried to the same hospital where her mother was.

After the excitement over Linda died down, Sally had a headache. Mother told her to lie down on a cot in the gymnasium. Barbara and Karen begged her to come and play with them, but she did not feel like it. She could not eat, either.

“I feel sick,” she said.

“It must be the shot,” said Mother.

Other children were lying on cots and mats. They did not play as hard as on the previous day. The shots were beginning to have their effect. Some were sick at their stomachs.

When Sally woke up from a restless sleep, she heard Daddy and Mother talking about going somewhere. If only she could go home again.

“Are we going home?” she asked.

“No, dear,” said Mother. “You heard what Daddy said.”

“I want to go home,” said Sally.

“So do we all,” said Mother.

The day passed somehow, and another night came. Sally was walking around now, though her arm still pained her.

“Let’s go outside,” she said to Barbara.

The Army men had lamps and chairs outside. The weather was still hot, and the night was close. Stars were shining, but people said the rain was not over. The girls sat down under the stars to get some fresh air. It was nice to see the stars shining. Maybe the sun would come out tomorrow. It would be good to see the sun again, after all the long days of rain.

A soldier came up and said, “We need those chairs.”

So the girls got up and went in.

“Where are we going?” asked Sally.

The question was in the minds of all the children.

“I’m going home,” said Barbara Boyd. “We only had water in the cellar, and the fire department is there now pumping it out.”

Sally and Karen looked so sad, Barbara felt sorry for them.

“Ask your mother if you can come home with me,” said Barbara.

Sally shook her head. “Mother won’t let us. She says, whatever happens, we’re all going to stay together.”

By Saturday night, the river had gone down. The stream, which had been a raging torrent for two days and two nights, seemed to have emptied itself, and was now a tiny harmless trickle of water in a riverbed of rocks, boulders and debris.

For sanitary reasons, all the families had to be evacuated from Union School. Many homeless people had already left, to go to friends on higher ground. Those who had no cars were to be given transportation.

Again the halls and gymnasium were scenes of disorder. Army cots, temporary oil stoves and folding chairs were being moved out. Food and medical supplies were being taken to Red Cross headquarters in the Town Hall. All was noise and confusion.

Sally heard a group of mothers talking.

“I’m not going,” said Mrs. Dillon. Her seven children were huddled around her. “They’re just taking us to another school. I can’t go on living like this. My husband is trying to find some one to take us to Vermont, to his parents. We have no car and no way to get there.”

Mrs. Bradford, the black-eyed woman, came up.

“The larger families will be broken up,” she said, “and taken to private homes. We have had offers from many people in the high part of town. They are willing and anxious to take you into their homes, but not many of them can accommodate a family of seven or more people. Your children will be well cared for …”

“But mine are sick …” said one woman.

“We have only the clothes we are wearing,” said another woman.

“Food and clothing will be available at the Town Hall,” said Mrs. Bradford. “Don’t worry about that.”

“Can they take me and my family to Winsted?” asked Mrs. Nelson. “My sister lives there. She’ll take us in.”

“It is impossible to get to Winsted,” said Mrs. Bradford. “Winsted is hard hit. All the roads to the north are blocked. The only way to get even to Farmington is by Army duck.”

“I’m going to keep my kids with me,” said Mrs. Dillon. “We’re going to Vermont. My husband will find a way to get there.”

Slowly the women turned away. They herded their children and their few possessions out the door, where an Army duck stood waiting. The “duck” was a heavy cumbersome vehicle, constructed by the U.S. Army for land or water transportation.

“Is that a
duck
?” asked Sally. “I thought it was something that could fly.”

“No, it swims, silly,” said her brother Bobby. “It can float and also go on wheels. It’s a boat and a car for river or road.”

Women and children were being helped up the sides of the strange vehicle. It was surprising how many people the duck could hold. More and more got in.

“All families going to Wallace School come this way,” said the Civil Defense director.

Soon the duck moved off down the hill and onto the highway. Another took its place. When it was loaded, a third one came.

Several cars drove up. “All families going to friends in the high part of town will be taken in these cars. Come this way,” said the director.

The cars were quickly filled.

Mrs. Dillon refused to go in the duck and refused to go in the cars. Then Mr. Dillon came up.

“My wife don’t want our kids scattered,” he told the director, “and she don’t want to go to another school. I have a friend who works at the Benton Sand and Gravel Co. on Red Brick Road. That’s between Unionville and Farmington. He’ll give me a car, I think, to drive to my folks in Vermont.”

“Come on,” said the director. “We’ll drop you off at Red Brick Road.”

The Dillons, big and little, climbed into the last duck. Tommy turned around with a flourish and waved a gay good-bye.

“Last call for transportation to Farmington!” called the director.

Mrs. Graham hurried up, holding sick Sally by the hand and the baby in her arms. Bobby and Karen pulled Jack and Tim along. Rusty, as usual, was in Bobby’s arms, and Karen’s doll in hers. They started toward the duck. Mrs. Graham had decided to go along with the other families, since she could not return to their own home.

Sally had not seen Barbara and wondered where she was. She hated to go to Farmington without telling Barbara good-bye.