| It was on the twelfth consecutive day of
rain that signs of stress became evident. Sheila was cooking
breakfast when her daughter, Amelia, hopped down the stairs
and announced, with the satisfaction of a child who knows
something a parent doesn't, "there's a cop at the door."
The bell rang a second later and their Airedale terrier,
Velocity, jumped from the couch and slid across the hardwood
like airplane tires on a runway. Sheila turned off the stove
and hurried into the entryway.
"Morning, Ma'am," the officer said, wiping his shoes and
stepping inside. "There's a problem with the dam and an evacuation's
been issued." He was a young cop who chewed a wad of gum prudently
between phrases, and wore a jacket with a hood so deep it
made his face a slice.
Sheila held Velocity limply by the collar for the cop's benefit;
without her husband around the dog was positively indolent.
"We have to leave?"
Southern California took its mild clime for granted. But
winter storms could rush in like an offensive line, charging,
pushing, until the southland steadily lost ground. The dam's
integrity had been questioned for months; but it was an issue
every winter, and not one that would make Sheila expect a
policeman at her door.
"You need to vacate within the next two hours," the officer
said, his jaw bouncing twice before he pushed the gum to his
molars. "Best to start packing." His tone contained an ennui
that came from a morning spent persuading people in housecoats
that danger was imminent. Authorized to force them from their
homes, he'd advise that they take what's important because,
well, you just never know. But for the mandate to be followed,
it had to be given in person.
From the top of the stairs, Sheila's husband, Glenn, asked,
"What's going on?"
A chronically poor sleeper, Glenn was the last to rise in
the morning. It was a longstanding problem, and when he began
needing to clock out of work for a nap, he sought help from
a sleep therapist. Months of tests and nights in observation
beds revealed that his habit of sleep talking was more common
than either he or Sheila knew, and disrupted his sleep cycles.
The side effects of medication were unbearable so he managed
the condition with meditation, and in the mornings he'd lie
with Sheila, her arm over his chest, and they'd laugh about
his review of a movie he'd never seen, or a conversation with
the American President.
But then there had been Sheila's affair. Although it was
brief, the marital patch-up was even briefer (a three-session
therapist package and four nights in Hawaii). It was then
that Glenn's nighttime ramblings degenerated into diatribes
fraught with thrashing limbs and nasty curse words. Sheila
stopped filling him in on his mutterings, but the cat-claw
wrinkles around his eyes showed that he recollected. The subject
matter varied, from a critique of the hardships the communist
government of Russia had inflicted on its people, to his dead
mother's habit of reusing gift wrap. He took issue with past
issues. Much to Sheila's dismay, he never lashed out at her.
Velocity pulled from Sheila's grip and met Glenn at the bottom
of the stairs where he sniffed his pants then sat deferentially
beside him. Having disengaged from the conversation, Amelia
was doing a series of pliés with her arms rounded in
front of her; she would practice dance positions anywhere—while
standing in the lunch line or brushing her teeth. This current
drill, earnest though it was, made her look like a chicken
carrying its own sack of feed.
Sheila told her husband they were being evacuated. "Something's
wrong with the dam."
The cop gave a quick rundown while Amelia snapped her heels
together, angled out her toes and pliéd. Her first
dance recital was next week.
Sheila thanked the officer, who left to continue working
his wet way through the neighborhood. The rain that was uprooting
families was also filling gutters and running off soils that
could take no more. News stations named their broadcasts "Storm
Watch" or "Winter Tempest," or in the case of one particularly
callow outfit, "The Winter of Our Discontent."
By diverting water to hydroelectric generators, the dam had
precipitated development of the valley below. The Freemans
purchased their house without credence in the risks, and any
residual worries were washed away by 10 years of drought.
The last time Hartstone received news coverage was for a major
fish die-off; an algae bloom robbed the lake of oxygen and
suffocated tens of thousands of tilapia. The shiny, limp bodies
that washed ashore made the city stink for a week.
Sheila didn't know where they'd evacuate to, but they weren't
leaving without a proper breakfast. She whisked eggs into
a foam and poured it into a skillet.
"Good thing we have flood insurance." Glenn took a glass
from the kitchen cupboard. "The premium has been killing us
for years, but we might finally see a return on our investment."
He scuffed a shoe on the Pergo floor and added, "I never much
liked this anyway." His eyes twinkled as he poured a glass
of orange juice, drank, then refilled. Velocity watched in
earnest.
Sheila was put off by his insurance quip, and told him so.
"It's just a joke. We could lose the whole house and you
have to cope somehow. Dark humor is my way."
Humor was what initially attracted Sheila, but she no longer
reacted the same way to his quips. Had the jokes always been
a bit off-color, or had her sensibilities changed? It was
something she'd thought about more than once without reaching
a conclusion. She scraped the thickening skin of egg from
the pan's bottom.
"Besides," Glenn continued. "We'll be just fine. The city's
taking extra precautions. Nothing's going to collapse, especially
not the dam."
Amelia was sitting beside him, her feet swinging into the
table legs. Sheila dished up the eggs and her daughter popped
them blithely into her mouth.
They decided Glenn would pack Sheila's station wagon then
head to work. He had offered to take the day off, but Sheila
insisted he continue as if everything were normal. He was
an engineer for a nanotechnology company; he took things people
didn't know they needed and made them so small those same
people didn't know they existed.
"What about me?" Amelia asked. "I have school."
"Honey, I think it's closed today." Sheila poured herself
a second cup of weak coffee (too strong and she got the shakes)
and turned on the local news. After file footage of other
dam breaks, the feed cut to a reporter who listed closures
that included Amelia's school, with a footnote that it was
accepting evacuees as a shelter.
Glenn put a hand on Amelia's crown. "You might get to go
after all, kiddo."
Sheila sighed; the police could make you leave, but weren't
required to provide anywhere worth going to.
While walking home from the bus stop last week, Amelia had
told her mother about her Language Arts lesson on the card
catalog. Shifting her armadillo shell of a backpack between
shoulders, Amelia had chattered about the shelf list catalog
and tall-legged boxes. There was no mention of a library computer
database or electronic file storage. By the time Sheila tried
asking about other research methods, they were home and Amelia
had dropped her backpack and run upstairs.
Sheila had brought the matter up with Glenn that evening
after dinner. "She explained the limitations of the subject
index. I'm glad that school is stressing the library as a
wellspring of information, but they're behind the times."
"I was taught the card catalog. And look how I turned out."
He gave a top-producing realtor's smile.
Sheila's eyes widened. "That was 30 years ago. Instead of
learning about the Internet, Amelia is studying the card catalog.
The card catalog, Glenn. Pull-out drawers and the
Dewey Decimal System and index cards with little notches.
I'm afraid tomorrow's Civics lesson will cover our 48-state
nation."
"Amelia will be fine," he consoled. "You worry too much."
"Someone in this house has to."
Amelia's library lesson was the last straw for an enervated
institution that lagged behind other schools. Last week's
discussion had occurred in the living room while Amelia used
their bathroom towel rack as a barre because they didn't want
to needlessly alarm her. Sheila couldn't bring it up this
morning while Amelia hummed and ate her toast crust-first,
but she wasn't through discussing the matter. Glenn said she
could make the decision and she knew he meant it, but it wasn't
enough. She wanted him to agree with her. She wanted so very
badly for them to see things the same way.
They finished breakfast quickly then disbanded to pack. Amelia
put her teddy bear and Muppets picture book in her ballet
box then filled the gaps with candy bars. Without enough room
for her ballet shoes, she removed her tennies and put on the
pink leather slippers.
Glenn moved milk bones and cans of wet food, bags of dry,
blankets, toys, a brush, a comb, shampoo, and rawhide treats
into the front hallway while the thin dog watched on. The
Freemans got Velocity and Velocity got his name when the local
news showed him loose on an airport runway. The shelter would
receive hundreds of calls, but Glenn's had been first; he'd
said he felt compelled to protect the animal. Officially the
dog was his but Sheila quickly grew attached, although he
was indifferent to her. Not toys, nor intense scratch-fests,
nor treats could sway the dog's loyalty.
Sheila packed photo albums. Weren't they what people saved
in these types of situations? It was an act of improvisation;
she needed notice, she needed lead time, someone to lay out
the rules. She was piling albums and boxes of unsorted photos
in the front entry when Glenn propped a bag of chew toys against
the wall.
"There's nothing wrong with wanting the best for your child,"
she said, her eyes on the stack of memories.
"I never said there was. The decision is yours. I just don't
see the point of isolating her from her friends. Besides,
how much damage can her school do in seven hours a day?" He
winked.
The night after Glenn had a particularly stressful workday,
Sheila awoke to a tirade against his brother. Glenn was on
his back, hands gesticulating wildly. As best she could discern,
he was angry about an accident with the family car for which
he'd been blamed. Glenn proceeded to roll over, prop himself
up on his elbows, and argue with the headboard. Sheila wanted
to tap his shoulder and ask why he hadn't protested their
parents' punishment. But she didn't, and instead listened
to a rant he'd never wage against his brother, wishing he'd
direct some type of anger, conscious or not, at her.
Glenn loaded Sheila's station wagon and left for work. The
Freeman women, with Velocity and the best of their belongings,
pulled out of the garage soon after.
"I want to go to McDonald's." Amelia crouch-sat with her
feet on the seat, plucking the elastic bands of her ballet
slippers.
"You just finished breakfast."
"They have a big slide." She raised a hand to indicate height,
then resumed fiddling with the slippers. "And Ballerina Jane
dolls in the Happy Meal."
Sheila said they might go there for lunch, then moved into
a turn lane because she had an idea.
Located at the bottom of the Hartstone Dam was a city park
nicknamed the lookup. Under the backdrop of an awesome
view of the dam's cement wall, teenagers came here to make
out. Glenn once took Sheila on a date night, a weekly event
where they hired a babysitter who could fix grilled cheese
and stay past midnight. It was after an opera and drinks that
Glenn turned off the paved road and bounced their family-sensible
station wagon down 500 feet of dirt into the parking lot.
Heading home afterwards, they agreed it was the best sex since
their relationship's beginning. Sheila had never understood
the allure of sex in public places, but being in a car behind
a row of trees felt more intimate than their bedroom.
But then work became greedy for Glenn's time and Sheila became
room mother for Amelia's class. The date nights stopped. Briefly
resurrected after Sheila's affair (the therapist's idea),
they didn't last outside of a month. Going out like new college
grads felt silly when they were in fact middle-aged parents;
they'd had Amelia later in life, and closing down rooftop
bars seemed inappropriate.
Sheila took Amelia's hand to duck under the caution tape.
The rain had abated for the moment, but the ground felt like
a polyurethane running track. Amelia jumped on it and asked
what they were doing there.
"If this dam's going to destroy our home, I want to see it
for myself."
Sheila wasn't the only person wanting a firsthand look; the
prospect of losing an entire town to something as awesome
as a flood had attracted people from surrounding cities. But
the sight, a small trickle from the spillway, disappointed;
the dam appeared fine. Not that Sheila expected water spurting
through holes, wide jagged cracks, or a pressure-laden cement
bulge. Still, though, things looked so normal.
Amelia must have thought everything was normal, too, because
she was hopping from one outstretched slipper to the other.
"Watch, watch!" She yelled then took off running and leapt—it
was really more of a hop—then landed on the other foot.
A few more paces and another hop. She nearly slipped once
but recovered with a dramatic bow and continued her skittish
run-hop.
Sheila turned back to the dam and murmured, "Who'd ever imagine
the damn thing could burst? It looks fine."
A man in a golf cap turned to her. "That doesn't mean a thing;
the whole thing could blow right now. There's all this stress
you can't see."
In his breast pocket were rectangular pencils and a small
ruler. "Are you an engineer?"
"No," he answered, "I'm a pessimist."
Amelia ran up to Sheila and, unable to stop on the saturated
sponge of earth, directly into her thigh. The man chuckled
and walked off.
Glenn worked with people like this stranger, people who were
certain the worst would happen. They were in quality control,
and Glenn was assigned to solve their worries. Which, as far
as Glenn was concerned, were ridiculous. "A one-tenth of a
percent failure rate is not a failure." But he always gave
QC what they wanted.
Sheila asked if Amelia would like to go shopping. That children's
educational store in the mall came first to her mind. Amelia
shook her head with a movement that overtook her whole body.
"I want to go to school."
Sheila was almost sorry Amelia had forgotten about McDonald's.
She'd rather dine on indurate burgers than go to her daughter's
school. "School's closed today, sweetie."
More body paroxysms. "Daddy said it was open. He said we
could go."
Sheila sighed; would its evacuation center be equipped with
a telegraph? Until last year, she'd been Amelia's room mother.
But each time the school loosened its learning standards,
she infused her activities with more educational value. Valentine-making
became a geometry lesson, and cupcakes would be dispensed
with a chemistry primer. It created friction with the teachers.
So when Sheila asked the children to finish a series of Christmas-themed
word problems before having a cup of cider, Mrs. Brands thought
the position needed new blood. Brad Wallace's mother—a
woman who referred to the act of taking a cat home from the
pound as "adaption"—took over. God bless those malleable
little minds, Sheila thought.
The rain was starting back up so Sheila and Amelia fled to
the car. Halfway there, Sheila noticed their rear window was
broken and took off at a run, thinking of everything that
could very well be gone. Hands cupped in a half moon, she
put her face against an intact window and saw that things
were in place.
Amelia leapt up to the car and asked, "Where's Velocity?"
Sheila turned around. She'd forgotten about the dog.
Tucked under a windshield wiper was a note. In block script,
a police officer explained the dog had been rescued out of
fear for its health and could be claimed at the nearby shelter.
Included was a $200 ticket for animal endangerment.
Sheila surveyed the cool, wet weather. "How could a dog overheat
in this?"
"Maybe he looked hungry." Amelia spun a series of wobbly
pirouettes.
Sheila tossed the note in with the family memories and screeched
out of the lot.
*
Animal control had white walls and linoleum that highlighted
dirt and scuff marks. The entry's front desk was staffed by
a high school girl with an energy drink can. Sheila flashed
the note and the girl disappeared behind a curtain.
Glenn was really going to lecture her for this. He might
not have argued when she brought home that $600 Coach bag,
or objected to her insistence on all new wallpaper (redecorating
select rooms would have fractured the house, and she wanted
continuity). But losing his beloved dog wouldn't escape acrimony.
The energy girl burst through the curtain with Velocity.
"A little lethargic," she said and set the animal down. He
took one sad lick of Amelia's saturated ballet slipper then
stared at the floor. Sheila picked him up and squeezed until
he let out a defeated yelp.
A man in a lab coat with an administrative title embroidered
on the pocket appeared behind the desk girl. "Mrs. Freeman?
We need to talk."
Abruptly she rushed in with, "It isn't hot out."
He said city code mandated that animals not be left in a
confined space without proper ventilation. "Your windows were
closed."
"We were evacuated this morning. I grabbed the photo albums.
Have you ever been forced from your home?"
The fine was waived after some pleading. "The evacuation
center won't allow pets so we're caring for them," he said.
"You have to sign in there to verify ownership. Let me get
the address." He disappeared before Sheila could say that,
regretfully, she knew its location.
She considered fabricating a story about staying with relatives,
but couldn't risk him finding out and reneging on the overlooked
ticket and dropped charges. She wanted her husband mad at
her, but she didn't want a court appearance.
When the man returned Sheila folded the address and tucked
it deep in her purse. "You can collect your dog once everything's
resolved."
"But it's fine," she explained. "Nothing's going to collapse."
He motioned to the girl who hurried around the desk. Velocity
was dead weight her arms, and made no acknowledgement while
being taken away.
*
The evacuation center was set up in the cafeteria, its rows
of tables folded and propped against a wall. In their place
were military-issue cots, used as tables and chairs rather
than for sleeping—the wobbly green fabric putting checkers
in precarious positions. In low tones, people recounted their
experience of choosing what was important enough to take;
this was the city's biggest incident since fish began dying
en masse. This time around, suffocation came courtesy
of the threat of disaster.
Amelia spotted friends on the stage and ran over. Not tall
enough to jump up, the girls pulled her up by the arms. She
removed her slippers, now ruined by rain and mud, and fell
in with their dance steps.
"Sheila? My God, how are you?" Natasha Benchmann came up
behind her.
Sheila had known Natasha since their kids started preschool.
She said they were fine, and asked if she'd been evacuated,
too.
"Nope. I was supposed to teach watercolors to the fourth
graders, but stuck around to help." She led them to the sign-in
table where Sheila added her contact information and a note
about Velocity.
"I don't know why we're here. Amelia wanted to come. I lost
Glenn's dog." Quickly, she added, "I found him. He's at the
shelter for the night." She explained what had happened, then
said, "Glenn loves that dog more than, well, anything."
Their conversation drifted and morphed, and soon Sheila was
explaining their argument over Amelia's education.
"He thought I was over-reacting. As long as no one's molesting
the children, he figures the place is fine." Sheila asked
what Natasha's husband thought of their son's education. Dyslexic
with an attention deficit hyperactive disorder, he had never
been in a normal classroom.
Natasha said there wasn't much for her and her husband to
decide because public school was the best choice. "If your
kid has a problem, this is the place to be."
"But if they don't," Sheila began.
"If they don't, they might develop one."
A young couple squeaked across the floor in wet-soled shoes
and Natasha handed them a clipboard. In blue ink, the woman
told the Red Cross why she and her husband needed emergency
assistance. On her own form, Sheila wished she'd listed an
unequal partnership and sleepless nights.
Amelia's education had kept her up the previous evening,
and once asleep she was quickly awoken by Glenn's outrage
at suspicions of fraud in the 1960 presidential race. Sheila
lay awake another hour, wondering why he cared more about
the decades-old voices of a couple hundred in Chicago than
his wife's.
The young couple took a packet of emergency information and
wandered off. Sheila picked one up; it contained a list of
items for an emergency car kit, instructions for creating
a notification phone tree, and other useful information that
was only useful before a crisis; FEMA didn't realize that
people never foresaw such disruptions.
As Sheila talked with Natasha, she kept an eye on her daughter
who'd transitioned from dancing to checkers to red rover to
a game involving dice and a repetitious chant, each with a
different group of kids.
Sheila had never been good at making friends. But she was
faithful to the people she did have relationships with. Except
for once.
Perhaps Glenn's lack of attention explained her affair. He
had been working long hours and refused to discuss the stress
once at home. Talk of traffic, the weather, and nothing of
any consequence made their interactions so superficial that
Sheila started to feel single. She met this man at a gas station
two years ago while they were both filling up; he helped her
with a sticky gas cap after the attendant ignored her. Two
days later, Sheila told Glenn she had a PTA meeting and met
this man at a comedy club. They went out once a week for the
next month, a different activity each time (indoor rock climbing,
surf lessons, a sushi-making class, a strawberry festival).
It gave her a euphoria she hadn't felt since college. On the
fifth week he rented a hotel room.
Sheila was immediately uncomfortable after the sex and asked
to leave. He took her to a diner where they were halfway through
burgers when Glenn walked in to place a take-out order.
Glenn took her home where they briefly argued, then he went
to bed and berated the UN's inability to save Somalians. Sheila
stayed awake that night, waiting for his anger. She wanted
him to rant, thrash, steal her covers, her pillow, her dignity,
take something from her. He never did. The next morning
he said that it was a single mistake, that everyone made one,
and that they would move on. Sheila felt like they'd been
in an auto accident and both walked away. She didn't think
she deserved such a lucky break.
As the evacuation moved into late afternoon, Natasha and
Sheila helped prepare dinner: lasagna, salad, gingerbread
cookies, and milk in pint cartons. The cookies were Sheila's
idea, something she used to make as room mother. She was measuring
the sugar when Amelia appeared in the kitchen and asked, "Mom,
what's microfiche?" In her hand was a stapled packet of papers.
Sheila dumped a cup of sugar into the mixing bowl then poured
another. "It's a machine that records old newspapers. Why?"
She was working ahead in her assignments. "I have to use
it in a sentence." She'd already circled the term in a word
search and written it phonetically (MAHY-kruh-feesh).
"A long time ago, libraries used them to preserve newspapers
and documents."
"Why don't people just look at them online?"
*
Glenn appeared in the kitchen as Sheila was pulling a baking
sheet from the oven.
"What happened to the car?"
"What do you mean?"
"The window. I saw it in the parking lot." His eyes searched
the room. "Are you both okay?"
She'd forgotten about the broken window. After assuring him
that she and Amelia were safe, she added, "I forgot Velocity
in the car at a park, and the police broke in to rescue him."
"Is he's okay?"
She explained their trip to the animal shelter while transferring
the gingerbread to a rack. "Are you upset?"
Glenn's wrinkles evaporated and his shoulders relaxed. "No,
you're both fine. Velocity's fine. We'll fix the window. What's
the latest on the dam?" As though he were asking for a football
update. He wheeled around for a look at the kitchen. "Not
such a bad place, huh?" He grinned. "And you want to deny
Amelia all this."
Sheila gave a stony stare then threw her spatula at the wall.
"Why is everything a joke to you?"
Glenn looked at her expressionless, his only movement a rapid-fire
eye blink. He'd spent the day at work hiding things, making
sure procedures were done to the satisfaction of a committee
not easily satisfied. Sheila was about to pass a hand through
his field of vision when Amelia burst through the swinging
doors, the plastic seals squeaking each time they met. "Can
you watch me dance? Me and my friends?" The words came in
one breath.
Glenn picked up a pastry bag and inserted a dotted Swiss
tip. "Mommy will," he said. "I have some things to do here."
Amelia skipped out the kitchen, arms above her like a nimbus.
Sheila's voice was low. "Things aren't fine. They aren't
fine and you know it. No matter how much you smile, how many
jokes you make, things aren't fine. You better find some worry,
and fast." The doors swung alternately in her wake.
Sheila took a seat in front of the stage, and Amelia looked
at her friends and said, "One, two, three…" The girls
kept time by singing a pop song under their breath. Sheila
knew Amelia would end up like her father—personable,
easy-going, able to move into any social group. She only hoped
she wouldn't be careless with her relationships. If they could
be established so easily, Sheila thought, perhaps their value
was less. Not that her approach was any better.
Sheila stood to applaud and Amelia said, "We're working on
another one. Go back to the kitchen and I'll tell you when
we're ready."
Inside, Glenn was standing behind the pastry counter. His
head jerked up when she entered, his jaw working through a
mouthful of food. Without saying a word, he walked past her
and into the dining room.
On the counter was a tray of gingerbread, six-by-four rows
of little men and little women, bite marks severing each of
their necks. Sheila picked up one headless body and said,
"Finally!" She snapped it in half then dropped both pieces
in the sink. "Finally."
It was a tray of cookies, two dozen naked people she'd cleaved
from a cloth of dough with a rusty cookie cutter. And Glenn
had decapitated them.
It was something.
Sheila burst through the kitchen doors to have it out with
him, but was stopped by the presence of a cop. It was the
same officer from the morning, the one who'd told everyone
to decide what was important and take it with them because
things were changing. Now he'd returned to tell them what
to do next.
Glenn was talking to a woman who looked a lot like Brad Wallace's
mother, the woman who'd become room mother by hostile takeover.
Amelia and her friends scurried off the stage as the cop came
up. He stared out at the room until his audience was attentive,
all the time working a piece of gum in his teeth. Finally
he said, "All clear, folks. The dam's been declared safe so
everyone can return home."
A murmur crept through the room. Some evacuees began gathering
their things, while others quickly shoveled spoonfuls into
their mouths before returning their trays to the dish window.
No one asked follow-up questions; the cop's announcement was
proof enough that everything would be okay.
Glenn picked up Amelia and carried her to Sheila. "Good news,
huh?" He bounced Amelia on his hip and asked if she'd like
to celebrate with a banana split.
Sheila walked past them and when the cop hopped off the stage,
asked, "Isn't it possible the whole thing could collapse?"
"No, Ma'am. Engineers have verified the structure's integrity."
"But that pressure has to be relieved."
He assured her there was no need to worry, then added, "You
and your family will be fine." He called these words over
his shoulder, and before she could insist that the whole thing
would rupture, he was out the door and striding to the parking
lot, his form a ripple in an ocean of night.
***
|
