Isaac's Storm (39 page)

The
house
began
to
move.
The
wind
lifted
the
roof,
then
dropped
it.
Falling
wreckage
pinned
Ruby's
mother,
but
Anthony
Credo
managed
to
pull
her
free.
She
bled
heavily
from
head
lacerations.
Credo
tore
strips
of
cloth
from
her
clothes
to
make
bandages.
All
this
occurred
in
darkness.

The
house
eased
from
its
foundation,
slid
through
a
shallow
westward
arc,
then
began
to
float.
Credo
gathered
his
family
and
ordered
everyone
out
the
dormer
windows.
The
Goldmans
declined
to
leave.

"When
our
house
left
the
ground,
we
grabbed
at
anything
washing
by,
as
Papa
had
instructed
us
to
do,
but
it
was
all
you
could
do
to
stay
on
a
piece
of
wood,"
Ruby
said.

Waves
broke
upon
the
family
and
scattered
them.
Credo
herded
them
together
again.
The
cycle
repeated
itself.
In
darkness.

The
sea
pushed
the
family
north,
everyone
alive,
everyone
more
or
less
intact,
although
Ruby's
mother
looked
like
a
soldier
wounded
in
the
Spanish-American
War.

They
drifted.
Credo
shouted
orders.
Between
waves,
he
kicked
himself
up
from
the
water
as
high
as
he
could,
to
count
his
family
and
keep
anyone
from
straying.
One
wave
drove
a
telegraph
pole
into
the
back
of
Raymond's
head.
It
knocked
him
out
and
dug
a
severe
gash
in
his
scalp.
Even
in
the
darkness,
Anthony
Credo
could
tell
the
fluid
pouring
off
his
son's
head
was
blood.
Credo
held
Raymond
with
one
arm
and
kept
himself
afloat
with
his
other,
struggling
to
hold
Raymond's
head
out
of
the
water
and
still
keep
track
of
the
rest
of
his
family.

Credo
was
tired.
He
believed
his
son
dead,
or
nearly
so.
Several
times
he
considered
letting
Raymond
go.
Mrs.
Credo
would
not
let
him.
She
was
not
ready.
She
still
had
hope.

The
storm
was
more
intense
than
ever,
but
for
a
time
the
Credos
saw
a
full
moon
behind
thin
clouds.
An
inverted
roof
floated
past.
Credo
ordered
everyone
aboard.
One
daughter,
Florence,
helped
him
pull
Raymond
into
the
roof.
Credo
went
back
into
the
water.
He
did
not
want
to
risk
tipping
the
raft.
Mrs.
Credo
held
Raymond
close.

At
first
the
roof
proved
an
effective
lifeboat,
but
soon
it
began
to
break
apart.
Credo
watched
for
something
better.
An
upended
porch
floated
near.
It
looked
sturdier
than
the
roof.
Credo
shouted
for
everyone
to
abandon
the
roof
and
climb
onto
the
porch.

Ruby's
elder
sisters
Queeny,
Vivian,
and
Ethel
sat
together,
holding
tight
to
one
another's
clothing.
The
porch
was
so
stable,
some
of
the
children
fell
asleep.
"We
could
lie
back
on
these
sections,"
Ruby
said.
"They
were
well-made,
with
no
jagged
nails
or
splinters
to
gash
our
bodies
as
we
were
tossed
about."

Everyone
relaxed.
Raymond
still
did
not
move,
but
there
was
hope,
now.
The
family
was
together.
They
would
find
Raymond
a
doctor.
Everything
would
be
all
right.
"We
floated
this
way
for
an
hour,"
Ruby
said.
"Then
a
piece
of
timber
blown
up
by
a
wave
struck
my
three
sisters
a
terrific
blow,
knocking
Vivian
into
the
water
and
under
heavy
debris."

Vivian
did
not
surface.
The
porch
sailed
on.
The
moon
disappeared
and
lightning
flared,
the
first
lightning
anyone
could
recall
seeing.
Big
barrels
of
thunder
rolled
among
the
waves,
and
made
the
night
even
more
terrifying.
To
Ruby,
the
rain
was
a
particular
torment.
It
"felt
like
bullets."

Ruby's
sister
Pearl
was
sitting
peacefully
upon
the
raft
when
a
jagged
spike
of
wood
blew
through
her
arm,
just
below
her
elbow.
She
screamed.
Her
mother
held
Pearl
tight
as
Anthony
Credo
pulled
the
spike
from
her
arm.
Pearl
writhed
in
utter
agony.
Credo
applied
pressure
until
the
bleeding
slowed,
then
bandaged
it
as
best
he
could.

The
porch
beached
itself
against
a
reef
of
debris
twelve
feet
high,
near
an
intact
house.
Ruby
and
her
family
picked
their
way
over
the
wreckage
and
climbed
inside.
Anthony
Credo
carried
Raymond
on
his
back.

Credo
tallied
the
family's
casualties:
Vivian
dead;
Raymond
clearly
dying;
Pearl
hurt
and
now
at
grave
risk
of
infection,
fever,
amputation,
even
death.

An
unbearable
list,
but
in
fact
it
understated
the
true
extent
of
the
family's
loss.

WHEN
THE
TRESTLE
struck,
Isaac
was
at
the
center
of
the
room
with
his
wife
and
his
six-year-old
daughter,
Esther
Bellew.
His
baby.
A
wall
came
toward
him.
It
propelled
him
backward
into
a
large
chimney.
There
was
motion.
He
could
not
see
it,
but
felt
it
all
around.
Things
fell
from
the
sky.
Furniture,
books,
lanterns,
beams,
planks.
People.
Children.
He
entered
the
water.
Something
huge
caught
him
and
drove
him
to
the
bottom.
Timbers
held
him.
He
opened
his
eyes.
He
felt
the
water
but
saw
nothing.
It
was
quiet.
He
could
not
move.
He
knew
he
would
die.
There
was
peace
in
this.
It
gave
him
time
to
think.
He
appraised
things.
The
only
course
was
to
welcome
the
sea
into
his
body.
He
did
so.
He
disappeared.

He
awoke
to
lions.
Rain
came
like
shrapnel.
He
was
afloat,
his
chest
caught
between
two
large
timbers.
He
coughed
water.
He
sensed
burden.
There
was
something
he
had
to
do.
It
was
like
waking
to
a
child's
cry
in
the
night.
He
sensed
absence.

It
came
to
him
abruptly
that
he
was
now
alone.

THE
SCREAM
HAD
been
shocking
enough.
What
Louise
Hopkins
saw
next
caused
her
heart
to
leap
halfway
from
her
body.

Her
sister,
Lois,
red-faced
from
the
great
energy
she
stuffed
into
that
scream,
pointed
furiously
at
the
place
where
the
east
wall
joined
the
ceiling.
At
first
Louise
did
not
understand,
but
as
she
watched,
she
saw
the
wall
begin
to
breathe.
With
each
gust
of
wind,
the
wall
moved
out
from
the
house
until
Louise
could
see
the
sky;
then
the
wall
wheezed
back
into
position.
There
was
a
moon
outside.
Louise
saw
clouds
rushing
by
overhead.

Louise
looked
at
her
mother.
Mrs.
Hopkins
alone
seemed
not
to
be
surprised.
Apparently,
she
had
been
watching
all
along,
but
had
not
wanted
to
frighten
her
children
any
more
than
they
already
were.

It
was
time
to
leave,
Mrs.
Hopkins
resolved.
The
house
across
the
way,
owned
by
the
Dau
family,
looked
sturdy,
and
there
was
a
light
inside.
They
would
go
there.
Mrs.
Hopkins
worked
out
a
plan.
They
would
use
a
mattress
as
a
raft.
The
Hopkins
boys,
both
strong
swimmers,
would
pull
it
across
the
street
with
Mrs.
Hopkins,
Lois,
and
Louise
aboard.
Mrs.
Hopkins
pulled
sheets
from
the
bed
and
tore
them

into
strips,
which
she
tied
around
her
waist
and
the
waists
of
her
girls.

They
assembled
behind
the
big
double
front
door,
poised
to
exit.
Every
time
the
east
wall
and
ceiling
parted,
Mrs.
Hopkins
would
cry,
"Let's
go
now."

But
in
the
next
instant
the
ceiling
would
settle,
and
Lois
would
shout,
"Wait."

They
could
not
muster
the
courage
to
cross.
Water
flowed
wildly
down
the
street.
Bursts
of
spindrift
erupted
from
the
surface
as
missiles
of
slate
and
timber
hissed
back
to
earth.

The
light
across
the
way
was
irresistible.
It
offered
safety,
comfort,
and
company.
"It
doesn't
seem
so
now,"
Louise
said,
"but
there
was
such
a
consolation
to
know
that
somebody
was
still
alive."

But
this
light,
this
beacon
of
comfort,
began
to
move.
They
saw
it
dance
from
room
to
room.
It
moved
toward
the
front
door.
They
saw
Mr.
Dau
carry
the
lantern
out
his
front
door
and
down
his
steps.

Leaving
—
the
man
was
leaving.
Like
a
ship
captain
ignoring
a
lifeboat
adrift.

To
Louise
and
her
family
it
was
as
if
hope
itself
hadjust
departed.

THREE
MILES
DOWN
the
beach,
the
big
St.
Mary's
Orphanage
with
ninety-three
children
inside
was
under
siege.
It
was
a
fortress
of
brick
and
stone
that
rose
straight
out
of
the
grass
just
north
of
the
tide
line,
a
lonely
Gibraltar
shrouded
most
evenings
in
blue
mist.
Now
waves
crashed
against
its
second
story.
Anyone
watching
from
outside
would
have
seen
the
lights
of
candles
and
lanterns
move
from
room
to
room
toward
the
back
of
the
orphanage
as
the
frontmost
portions
of
the
building
collapsed
into
the
sea
like
icebergs
calved
from
a
glacier.

The
ten
sisters
who
ran
the
place
herded
all
ninety-three
children
into
the
chapel.
Sister
M.
Camillus
Tracy,
thirty-one
years
old,
the
mother
superior,
ordered
the
other
sisters
to
tie
lengths
of
clothesline
to
the
youngest
children,
then
tie
one
end
around
their
waists.
They
formed
chains
of
six
to
eight
children
each,
roped
together
like
miniature
climbing
parties.
A
few
older
children,
among
them
Will
Murney,
Albert
Campbell,
and
Francis
Bulnavic
remained
free.
Sister
Camillus
led
the
children
in
hymns,
including
the
children's
favorite,
"Queen
of
the
Waves.
The
water
rose.
The
children
felt
the
concussion
of
each
breaker
as
it
struck
the
front
of
the
building.

The
sisters
drew
the
children
to
the
girls'
dormitory
at
the
back
of
the
building,
away
from
the
beach.
They
heard
the
crash
of
wood
and
brick
behind
them
as
the
boys'
dormitory
fell
into
the
Gulf.
The
storm
advanced
through
the
building
quickly
and
systematically,
as
if
hunting
the
children.
The
chapel
disappeared.
Windows
shattered.
Hallways
rose
and
fell
like
drawbridges.
The
children
sang.