Three Rivers Rising (12 page)

12:30 p.m
.
A smooth sheet of water
pours over the center of the dam
like cream from a tipped pitcher.

Even a businessman from the city
knows water going
over
a dam
means that dam is about to fail!
And a few men with shovels
will not succeed in holding back
three miles of reservoir.

Thousands of people live in that valley,
and my daughter is certainly among them
.

2:45 p.m
.
The mood of the crowd changes
as water sprouts
from the face of the dam
and washes away riprap,
the rocks tumbling down
toward the valley.
Workers have dismantled the bridge
over the spillway.
There is nothing left to do.
Everyone moves off the dam
to the sides
to wait,
to watch.

Several boulders roll away—
then more leaks.
Once the water gets a taste
for moving,
nothing can stop it.

A notch appears,
a trough
gouged
by lake water.
I can no longer hear voices now;
the rush uses up all the sound in the world.

Soon the better part of the dam just melts,
disappears.
The water cannot get out fast enough,
far enough.

My head cannot hold the roar—
no room in it for thought.

3:46 p.m
.
Just shy of an hour
the lake is gone,
past a bend in the valley.
Silence is such a surprise.
My ears hum.

Workers climb down into the muck
to gather flapping fish.
Those precious fish
held in by screens
that helped the dam fail—
some sport to fetch them now.

3:50 p.m
.
The lake is empty
and my mind is empty of rational thought.

All I have are tormented visions
of what that rush of lake water
is doing to my daughter
right now.

I can only wish Celestia
were right here with me,
so I could know she was safe—
I would not even care
what juvenile rebellions
she might be planning.
But this fretful wish
comes with the dark twin of knowing
I alone am responsible
for driving her away.

Fear
commands my arms and legs
to find my daughter—
fear that it is too late,
but also dread and regret,
and a need to know if she is alive or dead.

Though I cannot get ahead of the flood
and save her,
my irrational impulse is to try.

I begin to descend;
the other men try to hold me back, shouting,
“What’s the matter with you, Whitcomb?”
“The road’s washed away!” another yells.
I can barely form words,
something between a growl and a moan
escapes my throat:

“My daughter’s down there.”
“Sorry.” They release me. “Good luck—
stay up high or you’ll drown in mud.”

I pick my way through the trees
and tangles of branches
above the
washed-bare
valley floor.

I hear the men’s voices above me
echoing off the stone corridor: “Poor bastard.
Who knows what he’ll find.”
“If he even makes it there alive.
It’s fifteen miles to Johnstown and hell in every step.”

The mountain walls are ripped down to rock
over fifty feet up.

I am an hour behind the lake—
whatever is done
is long done now.

East Conemaugh

Kate

3:35 p.m
.
Last year, a train took me to nursing school,
and that was fitting.
Today, another train carries me to a new job
further east.
All east-bound trains are halted,
have been the better part of the day.
Make lists in my head to pass the time:
supplies the new boss might need,
symptoms of various ailments,
names of bones and such.
Time will prove if it is a good match—
don’t believe in fate.
Just hard work.

Rain impedes our progress.
Cars shift around in the train yard.
Waiting is something for which I have a talent;
however, the body does not like to sit so long.

One foot pauses on the last step;
one foot pauses over the mud.
The hushed voices of the conductor and the brakeman
meet my ears:
“Washout near Buttermilk Falls
up the line.
Nothing to do but wait.” The conductor’s voice is low.
“Railroad’ll get someone down to fix it.
Probably take the rest of the day, though.”
The brakeman spits.

The conductor’s voice carries
in the direction of the train yard,
“All that Cambria iron
and human ingenuity
don’t amount to beans
when all this water puts its mind to it.”
“Speaking of which”—the brakeman clears his throat,
but his voice still shakes a bit—
“do you pay any mind
to talk of that dam giving way?”

“Same story year after year
and it always holds.
Some folks think it’s funny
to get you riled up.”
“Just the same,
it wouldn’t hurt to be prepared.” The brakeman spits again.

“I won’t be responsible for what happens
if you strike panic in these people”—
the conductor whistles softly—
“like caged animals.”
“Well, I suppose a railcar
is
the safest place
they could be.”
“Sure, you know how heavy that thing is.”

3:38 p.m
.
Always think of myself as the sensible type.
Not one to fix on
the brakeman’s worries.
Trust what I can see and hear
with my own eyes and ears.
Trust the solid ground beneath my feet.
Wouldn’t have put any stock in the idea of
rats leaving a sinking ship,
but I swear I have a moment
of some kind of animal sense
that says to get off that train.

Now!
But maybe it has more to do with this:
since the sight of Early
drowned dead beneath the footbridge
was forever lodged in my nightmares,
I am deathly afraid of water.

3:39 p.m
.
Thinking of so much lake water
up in the mountains above us
gets these legs moving.
My feet barely touch the wet earth.
The railroad men yell, “Miss! You’ll be soaked!”
and start after me,
but I clear the ditch
and break for the incline.

Run out of hillside,
can go no further,
climb a tree,
gasping for breath,
wondering what it felt like
for Early,
if he was even aware.

The branches crack
and bow
beneath my weight.
Heart slows its pounding.
Must look plenty silly,
a respectable woman,
a trained nurse,
squatting in a tree.
Almost laugh.
Almost.

Straighten my collar
and smooth my shirtwaist.
Plan my excuses to the other passengers.

Feet
slippery with silty mud
search out a lower branch.

Just then, a train whistle,
tied down,
wails
from up the line
in the direction of that old dam.

Thunder falls toward us
from high up the mountain pass.
Breath and screams
leave the lungs
all at once.
Fingernails dig into the tree
and my face buries itself
in the wet trunk.

It’s coming.
The water is on its way
and I am already drowning.

Maura

3:39 p.m
.
At first I think the long whistle is just for me,
a love song.
I smile to myself,
hands to hot cheeks.

But it doesn’t end,
getting closer
too quickly,
and still it doesn’t end.

My skin prickles
all over
remembering Joseph’s stories
of the screaming fairies
who shriek in the dooryard
right before someone inside dies.

Their sound couldn’t be
more horrible than this.

So loud now
I wonder if he is bringing the train
right for us
off the tracks
cutting through fields of mud.

I gather the children
into my skirts
to hide them from the blare,
to hide them from the banshee.

3:40 p.m
.
The children’s whimpers
are lost in the shrill whistle,
but I can see their lips curl,
their eyes pleading.

My life has been about saving things:
the pinch of sugar
that becomes the birthday cake;
the scraps of cloth
that become the quilt to warm our sleep
or the rug to cushion our feet;
the bird baby that falls from its cozy nest in the eaves,
soft as fog where its feathers should be.
I feed it with a wet rag.
Even the stitching I make with my needles,
each knot more secure than the last,
holding my love tightly
in its woolen grip,
each stitch
a moment of my time,
a breath of my life,
to create a fabric
my loved ones
will remember me by …