Three Rivers Rising (17 page)

Barrels of whisky appear first,
before food or water.
Some of the men indulge in the evenings
at the edge of the camp.
Every man wants to toast my husband,
slap his back
with teary-eyed gratitude
and offers of gifts when we all get back on our feet.
Some nights he doesn’t make it home at all—
home being the ring of stones
where I tend my fire
and the pile of dirty blankets I rock our babies to sleep in.
This is my hearth.
Come back to my hearth
.

I don’t know how much more gratitude I can bear.

Johnstown

Kate

The girl fails,
weaker by the hour.
No cure for typhoid—
just let it run its course.
Even if there was a medicine,
we wouldn’t have it
here
.
The plan:
  Keep her clean.
  Offer food
  and water.
  Bring down the fever
  if you can.

No supplies
for even these simple tasks.

The boy makes arrangements
with a family in the hills
who will take them in
so she can die in a bed at least.

Want to say,
Do they know it’s contagious?
But something stops me—
never hesitated to speak good sense before—
I just nod
and he goes off
to find a length of wood for a stretcher.

Maybe something exists beyond good sense,
something about
love,
loss,
dignity
even in death.

Then the trains arrive.

Train cars bring food and water,
donated clothing,
volunteers,
even medicine.
Supplies arrive
before the fever takes her,
before the boy takes her to the hills.
Now, with clean water,
she has at least
a fighting chance
to outlast the illness.

Fate?
Luck?
Not long ago
I would have said that
I
saved her
with knowledge and the strength of my will,
that I saved the boy,
but now I believe they saved each other.
With hope.

If they’re alive,
they have hope,
a chance at happiness.

Early has guided my steps
to be here now,
to show me this.

Peter

There are pieces out there
of the house I was born in,
the school where I learned to read,
Mama’s books,
my childhood.
Shards.
All still out there
but unrecognizable.

Can’t believe I lived through all this
to get back to Celestia
and now I might lose her to fever.
Just before she became insensible,
she whispered, “Your father …”
But I knew.
Kate’s silence confirms it
and she points to the schoolhouse.

When I get there the men tell me I’m too late.
They had to start the burying right away
to prevent disease.
Like typhoid.
I don’t tell them
it didn’t help.

I couldn’t save him.
Guilt
gives way to rage—
who is responsible
for all this
devastation?

I want to blame the Club.
I’m surprised by how easily
hatred comes to me.
I want to hate them:
pantywaist cowards
hiding behind their big fat pocketbooks.
Why don’t they come out and face us?
Tell us why their dam failed.
Tell us why our town disappeared.
Tell me why Papa died.

I want to hate Club members,
but Celestia is one of them
and I can’t get far in hating her.
It twists me all in knots.

The object of my anger
appears:
Mr. Whitcomb is
relatively clean,
dry,
but rumpled
and unshaven.
Maybe someday I will forgive
negligence,
a careless inattention
to the upkeep of an earthen dam,
but I will never understand
the soul
of a man who could turn his back
on his own child.

I will never forgive Celestia’s father.

Last time I saw him
I stood helpless in the shadows
as he wedged an ocean between
his daughter and me.

I can’t imagine how he’ll try to separate us this time.
I stand my ground.

He barely looks at me.
“Where is she?” He sizes up each huddled form.
Celestia’s not one of them.
Finally I see his eyes,
red,
wet.

They bore right into me.
“Is she…?”
His throat quivers.

I don’t know how I have any pity left in me—
he just looks so broken—
and I know how much I wish my papa was looking for me.

I nod toward the tent.
He rushes past me.

Kate

The girl’s daddy
carries on awhile,
like you don’t expect from a grown man.
I just give them some privacy.
Then he comes out of the tent.
I tell him we’ll know in a few days
and he says to me, “How can I ever thank you enough
for tending my daughter?”
He takes out his wallet.

If I live to be a hundred,
I will never understand rich folks.

Still, what’s left of my pride
would like to chew on his gratitude for a bit,
but I hear myself saying, “The boy here’s the one.”
The daddy just stands there,
mouth open,
wallet open….
What now?

Peter

I’m not sure I hear right—
I saw Kate take care of Celestia with my own eyes.
Kate stares me down and nods.
“He didn’t leave her side.
Set up with her all night.”

Well,
that
I did.
Told stories
and what I could remember of the old songs
Mama used to sing
when I was small
and had a fever.
I just did what I thought Mama would do.

“He watched over her every breath.
You couldn’t have done better yourself.”
Kate has a way,
so matter-of-fact—
you can’t disagree with her.

“I’ve ordered a train car”—
Mr. Whitcomb checks his pocket watch—
“to take her home.
I’ll get her the best doctors in Pittsburgh.”
He’s going to take her away!
I can’t lose her again.
I start to say that she belongs here,
that she chose to come here,
but
here
is such a bad bet.
Better that she lives.
I nod. “Just let me say goodbye.”

“I need your help getting her to the train”—
Mr. Whitcomb scratches the new whiskers on his chin—
“and later.”
I half wonder if my hearing’s been affected.
Kate nudges my shoulder.
“Okay.”

Kate hands me the stretcher.
“There’ll still be plenty of work to do
when you get back.”
What’s that flicker—
is Kate about to smile?
But I see
it is the fighting-back-tears kind of smile.

Celestia is safe.

Clean dry blankets,
velvet-cushioned seats,
a private train car.
The fever breaks.
She sleeps.
Her father and I stare at each other.
He motions to sit.
Does he really mean for me to stay?
It’ll be a long ride to Pittsburgh.

Porters hurry in with silver trays:
hot tea,
hot biscuits,
cream,
meat.
“Eat.” He jabs a fork in the direction of my plate.
I don’t want to accept his food.
I don’t want to be beholden,
but my stomach has other ideas.
I had forgotten my hunger
until I smelled food.
My knees buckle
and I sit without meaning to.

He reacts the same way.
Dives into the food
and signals the porter for more.
I must look shocked
because he stops and wipes his chin.
“I haven’t eaten for days either.
As soon as the dam went out,
I knew that I wouldn’t stop until I found her.”

The words fly out
before I can stop myself: “She thought she was disowned.”

Mr. Whitcomb swallows and nods,
pushing his plate away. “On the way to Johnstown,
not knowing if she was even alive …”—
he inhales deeply—
“whole towns were…demolished,
families separated.
I helped them look
for the…bodies,
their children.”
Mr. Whitcomb covers his face,
rubs his eyes,
and goes on.
“What would any of those parents give
to have their child back?
Would they trade obedience?
Money?
Power?
The good opinion of their friends?”
He looks directly at me now.
“Absurd to even ask, right?
They’re just words.”

He looks like he’s waiting
for me to agree,
or maybe to forgive.
I look away,
but with a nod.

We look down over Johnstown
from the train
as it crosses the stone bridge.
He shrugs in the direction
of the destruction below.
“So much senseless loss …
how could anyone
choose
to lose someone he loves?”

Kate

An older woman marches
into my camp.
She is neat,
compact,
all business.
She sizes up my work.

Strangers trail behind her.
From the horrified looks on their faces,
I gather they have just arrived in Johnstown.
The woman waves her hand
and the strangers begin passing boxes
and stacking them.

I step into her path,
but she already has me in her sights.
“I assumed you were a folktale,” she says. “I’m pleased
to see you with my own eyes.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Miss Barton, Red Cross.” She nods
and clasps my hand briefly. “Stories of your courage
and hard work have reached every city in the United States.”
“People shouldn’t be wasting their energy
talking about me
when there’s so much work to be done.”
“That’s what I said.
But I can see”—
she folds her hands over her skirts—
“you have done quite a bit already.
We brought you some supplies.”
I return her stare. “I have my own way of doing things.”
“No strings attached, of course.
I’ll let you get back to work.”
She turns and waves her group onward.

At the edge of my camp,
she calls over her shoulder, “My office is a railcar.
Come by when you’re ready to talk about combining our efforts.”

I wait until she is out of sight
before I rip into the boxes.