Almost Heaven (3 page)

About that time a car came along honking its horn and that car was just going lickety-split. As the car raced on, I heard something upstream, and through the trees it looked like a semitrailer was moving fast along the road, except it was an actual house that was coming down the valley like a child will move a toy in the dirt. I stared at it, fix-eyed, my voice caught somewhere inside.

“Oh, Lordy, here it comes!” Mama opened the door as fast as she could and started hollering at the top of her lungs. “Other! The dam's busted! Get out of there!”

She took a step and fell flat on her behind in the mud and slid. I got out and tried to help her, and when I looked up, Miss Dreama's house was splintering from the wall of water that crashed down. It surged onto the other side of the hill carrying part of the town with it; then it switched back and that black sludge slammed into the side of Miss Dreama's place and lifted it right off its foundation, turning it a little. It was then I could see my father with a little one in each arm, trying to keep his balance. Miss Dreama screamed and Mama screamed and then I couldn't hear a thing. It was like some switch just turned off. I turned away because I couldn't bear to look and caught sight of Thunder just before the black water engulfed him.

My father's face was determined and stoic as he tried to step off the porch while the house moved, but it was swirling fast, like the house in
The Wizard of Oz
. It was all he could do to stay upright. And I thought if he could ride it out, maybe everything would be all right. Maybe if I closed my eyes and prayed, things would be okay and the whole crew of them would step off onto dry ground. But there was nothing dry in that West Virginia valley.

Mama got up and slipped and slid back to the car. When I just stayed there, watching, she picked me up by the arm and almost tossed me into the front seat with her. She started the car and held her foot on the brake as we slid backward toward the raging water, and then I heard my own screams. The car slipped sideways and she turned the wheel sharply so we drifted straight. Miss Dreama's house was moving faster now. I glanced at my mother; she was doing all she could to stop us but we were being drawn like a magnet down. Daddy had been right to put us up near the tree line and if we had stayed there, we would have been okay, but I never blamed her for what she did. She was doing it out of instinct, out of desperate love.

The car slid down and the water met us. I call it water but it wasn't really. It was as thick as gob and just as nasty. A black mix of mud and coal sludge and trees that had been ripped from the bank moving in a torrent that only God himself could've stopped. Once it was loosed from the number three, there was nothing that was going to stop it until it reached the Guyandotte.

The black mess was all over the window and coming in the backseat. Mama opened her door and tried to grab me, but she fell out and I was pulled back by another wave that swept over the car, caught fully in the weight of the water that treated houses and trailers like my toys. The car door closed and my birthday cake had fallen and mixed with the brackish water. I screamed for my mother, who ran along the bank—though it had been someone's backyard only a few minutes earlier. My breath came in fits, just gasps, and for a moment I thought about the preacher and the sudden destruction he had predicted.

“Help me. Help me. Mama! Help me!” I cried to God and Jesus and my mother and yelled for my daddy, but I couldn't see anymore and the coal sludge was filling up the car behind me.

The back of the car slammed into something that I later learned was a telephone pole that hadn't been swept away yet, and through the windshield I saw another house coming toward me, moving with the water like a boat. Then the car rose up like it wanted to stand on its trunk and I fell into the backseat and saw the open window. I knew right then this was my chance, my only chance to escape what was coming.

From that day to this one, when anyone asked how I survived, I have told them one story. That it was my birthday. That I didn't want to die. That something rose up inside of me that was equal to or greater than that flood, and that was the human instinct to survive. And not only did I jump out of that car into the swirling water and get to solid ground, but I grabbed my daddy's mandolin on the way out. Most people who heard me play never knew what that instrument went through. It was probably the only mandolin that survived the Buffalo Creek disaster, but I don't know that for a fact.

I was sitting in the mud, too close to the water that looked like cement, when Mama got to me. She hauled me back up the bank to safety and then collapsed in a heap, bawling and rocking back and forth and saying, “I thought I had lost you. I thought I had lost you. And I prayed that the Lord wouldn't take everything.”

It wasn't long after I got out of the water that a trailer smashed into our car and took the telephone pole with it and all of it went rolling down the valley like dirt rolls off a car when it's washed. It was just gravity and force and pressure doing what God intended when he made this old world. I was an eyewitness to the whole thing.

* * *

The water went down in about three hours or so, and then everybody started looking for survivors and walking through the houses that weren't smashed. Mama and I moved back up to where our house was, thinking maybe Daddy had gone there and was waiting. We didn't find him or our house. It looked like somebody just took a hand and pushed everything away. There was nothing left.

The street was mud- and coal-covered, and people were walking here and there asking if we'd seen this person or that. Some of the bodies had been found, and men made stretchers to carry them to the temporary morgue. People said the National Guard had been called out but wouldn't arrive until the next day. But everybody pitched in and did what had to be done. Hill people are like that. We take care of our own.

People invited folks into their houses. Just flung open the doors wide without a care in the world how they would make it. Some brought others in for a meal or just to sit and tell their stories. I don't know that anything helped more than talking about what had happened. Where they were when the water hit. How their cousins looked the last time they saw them. And then there were the stories of people going by in houses, standing on roofs, just trying to survive the surge. Those were the hardest for me because I remembered my daddy.

We worked our way to the school, hoping to find him there. We passed what looked like our car raised up on a twenty-foot pile of debris. I could only see the underside of it and the top was smashed in. I couldn't tell if it was ours or not, and anyway it didn't make much sense to guess.

The two of us wandered into the school, and when Mama saw her friends, they just fell into each other's arms and cried. I stood back, watching and wondering what we were going to do. We didn't have a house. Our car was gone. We only had the clothes on our backs and that mandolin.

It was late that afternoon when we finally had something to eat put in front of us, but neither of us was hungry. Every time somebody walked in the front door, Mama would jump. Whoever it was got an earful of questions. She'd say Daddy's name and then repeat it: “Other Alexander Allman.” She'd tell them the mine he worked in and that he had a tattoo of an eagle on his right shoulder.

We slept on cots in the gymnasium that night. There was a lot of coffee and talking until late at night, and then the crying started. Mothers crying for their babies. Husbands crying for their wives. Children crying for their parents. Just a whole mass of humanity trying to get through. One man was interviewed by the TV news, and he said he was sorry God had allowed him to live to see what he did.

A lot of people were coming in and out, exhausted from all the searching. I fell asleep and my father came to me in his miner's hat, his face black with coal dust. He had marks on his face and neck where he'd been hit by tree limbs and rocks.

“Where were you, Daddy?” I cried. “What happened?”

Just like that, he was gone and I woke up with the most awful feeling, crying out for him. Mama was there to hush me, saying it was okay. I looked around and others were staring. I just held on to her.

* * *

The next day the National Guard came, and they were pulling bodies out of the creek and out from under houses and even out of trees. It seems odd to say that, but the wall of water was that high. It lifted people right up into the trees and left them. There was a church that was moved off its foundation and plopped down a long way from where it used to be, and everybody said wasn't that like God to leave a house of worship alone. But what we didn't know was there was somebody underneath it they found a while later.

I knew my daddy was somewhere in that list of victims, just another body in a stack of people they brought in bags and on stretchers. I didn't want to see him that way. I wanted to keep thinking of him in the good way, him teaching me about the mandolin or holding my hand as we walked to the company store. But the picture that kept coming back was him on Miss Dreama's porch holding those kids and trying to get to safety.

We walked around like zombies all day, and then here came some trucks with clothes and blankets and big boxes filled with cans of Spam and other food and water. I lost all my appetite for Spam about then.

That night there was talk of when the funerals would start. Our pastor came and Mama hugged him and he was in just as bad a shape as we were.

“The Lord has a purpose in this,” the pastor said. “For the life of me, I don't know what it is, but I know my Redeemer liveth. And heaven is a more beautiful place because of all these good people who are there.”

“Is my daddy there?” I asked.

The man's face was as wrinkled as a paper sack after lunch. “Billy, if your daddy got caught in the flood and died, I know for sure where he is. He's praising Jesus in the presence of God and the angels. You don't have to worry about that.”

“Is that what happens when you die?” I said in a shaky voice. I was thinking about the kids in my class who wouldn't be there next week. “You don't go floating off somewhere and stay around in the air; you just go on to heaven?”

“Absent from the body is present with the Lord,” he said. I could tell it was something he had memorized because it came out stiff and cold. I knew he couldn't help it. He was suffering right along with us.

When he started talking about Daddy and what a good man he was, that sent Mama into a fit of bawling, and I followed her. He said he was sorry, but Mama said not to be. That we needed to remember. And that there was still a chance, as long as he hadn't been found.

“They found one little baby stuck in a hole up the holler,” the pastor said. “It's a plain miracle is what it is. And God ain't done yet, son.”

I wished that baby were my father, but I was still glad for the little guy. The pastor asked us if we wanted to come back to the parsonage, that it hadn't been touched by the water, and Mama said it would be better for us to wait at the school, in case any word came.

After the pastor left, she went off in the corner to talk with some women and they'd get to crying and I didn't want to bother her, but I was scared to be alone. All night the trucks and machines rolled in, so we didn't get much sleep, but who can sleep when you have lost everything?

A man in uniform showed up about daybreak and asked in a big voice if there was an Arlene Allman staying there. She hurried to the door and next thing I saw, she was on the floor, on her knees, one hand raised up over her head like I've seen her do in church, just crying and saying, “Jesus, Jesus.”

I had been praying to Jesus that Daddy would make it out somehow, but I knew in my heart right then that he was gone. A cold shiver shot down my soul that made me think of what it would be like living without him. I had it planned out that Mama would sleep in her room and I would stay in mine and we'd just go on like other people do when someone is killed in a mine explosion or a cave-in. Then I remembered that our house was gone and so was our car and we were wearing the only clothes we owned.

Mama stayed with the man a few minutes getting information on a sheet of paper, then collected herself and came over and knelt in front of my cot. The dam had burst on her and the tears just flowed and it didn't seem they were ever going to stop. Then I saw something in her face—a spark, I guess. Something that told me to hope.

“Billy, listen to me,” she said. “Your daddy's alive. He's not dead; he's alive.”

She kind of shook me because I guess my mouth was open and nothing came out. She said something about him being pulled out of the creek and taken to a hospital. Unconscious at first. Then he spoke up and gave them his wife's name and his son's name. She pointed at the paper that listed the name of the hospital. The Guard people were going to try and get us over there, but they were dealing with other injured people and all that came with the cleanup. And there was a lot of that to do.

“He's there waiting for us. They're going to get him all better, so you don't have to worry. Jesus was taking care of him all this time and we didn't even know it.”

I managed to say something finally. “What happened?”

“We don't know. But somebody pulled him out of the mud and saved his life. Some good neighbor who was at the right place at the right time.”

All I could do was hug her and hang on because even though it was good news, I didn't know whether to believe it or not. Until I could actually hold his big, calloused hand, there was part of me that couldn't believe.

“Your daddy is going to be so proud of you,” Mama said.

I picked up the mandolin and held it tight to my chest, rubbing the front of it and hoping it was true and not some cruel joke. That news was like getting Lazarus back from the dead, and to this day I still remember the sight of him, wrapped up in bandages, his arm in a sling, gauze over the eye that got gouged out and scrapes all over his face, lying there in the hospital bed watching
I Love Lucy
, except he wasn't watching; it was the fellow next to him watching. I was still holding the mandolin when I hugged him, and the nurse had to pry me off there because she had to take blood or give him a shot or something.