Authors: Laura Pedersen
The two look awfully cute lying there together. Gigi has a thick, full head of hair now, rather than the short punk-rock do she sported when the girls first arrived.
“I'd hire a sitter, but Rocky is amazing with the children,” says Bernard. “And you don't have to worry about coming home to him on the phone with his girlfriend.”
“How is his girlfriend, by the way?” I refer to Lulu the Great Dane, who lives next door.
“Didn't I tell you?” asks Bernard. “She had puppies on New Year's Day. Sometimes we get all the kids together for a play date.”
“Is Rocky still desperately in love with her?” asks Craig.
“I believe they're just good friends nowadays,” says Bernard. “As in most relationships, things change after the children arrive.”
“Having recently found myself in the family way, I can certainly see how that's possible,” I reply.
After glancing back toward the sleeping child, Bernard whispers, “Gigi can already say the alphabet. I'm quite certain that she's a genius.”
Craig and I both nod vigorously, as if this is undoubtedly the case. Taking another look around, it appears that all the children's toys are indeed educational ones. Not exactly like our basement playroom, the place where homemade sock puppets go to die.
Bernard wakes Rocky by tapping him on the shoulder.
Rocky is excited to see Craig and me, and after placing big smacking kisses on both of our cheeks, he gently lifts Gigi without waking her and heads out the door with the sleeping child in his furry arms.
Once they've exited Bernard says, “It's no use trying to take her away from Rocky.
He
gets angry and
she
starts screaming. I had to bring him with me to the pediatrician one day.
That
made for an interesting waiting room experience.”
“I'll bet,” says Craig.
“Why don't I ask Gil to read the girls a story while I fix us some hot chocolate?” suggests Bernard. “I have a wonderful new creation called orange zest hot cocoa—it sounds
terrible
but tastes
magnifique!
Especially with a pinch of cinnamon and fresh whipped cream.”
Looking down at my feet, I mutter, “Craig just arrived back and I was wondering if maybe the two of us could just sit and talk out here for a while.”
Bernard gives an expressive, “Oh,” to indicate that he gets it. “Yes, yes, of course. Why don't the two of you catch up on all the local gossip. I have a lot of work to do on my new weekly antiques newsletter—
Decorators Without Borders.”
Once Bernard is gone, Craig and I stand awkwardly in front of each other.
I finally say, “Remember when you came over before leaving for school and—”
“And we kissed on the couch and then made love on the bed,” Craig finishes the sentence for me.
“I never could have made it through these past two months without you,” I tell him. And it's the truth.
“Sure you could have,” says Craig. “You're strong.”
“No matter how bad things got I always knew that at the end of the day I could call and you'd be there for me.”
Craig kisses me. His lips are smooth and cool, and I feel that old tingle all through my body. I kiss him back hard. We shed our clothes and climb under the covers. He rubs my back with those big strong hands and it feels so good. I close my eyes and release a deep breath.
“Hallie, wake up!”
“Huh?” I have no idea where I am.
“It's almost eleven o'clock!”
“Oh my gosh, I crashed. I'm so sorry.”
Craig laughs. “Me too. We slept for two and a half hours! I guess I was tired from all that driving.”
We crawl out from under the covers and quickly dress. “I meant to ask, why
did
you drive home rather than fly?”
“I had a lot of stuff to bring back.”
Craig drops me in front of the house, promising to come by tomorrow so that while the kids are at school we can finally get a chance to be together—just the two of us.
Pastor Costello is lying on the couch reading and doesn't hear me come in. When he looks up and sees me, he quickly shoves his book behind the couch pillow as if it's pornography.
“Sorry I'm so late.” I pretend not to notice that he deep-sixed the book.
Only it was so obvious that he removes the book and shows it to me. “Mystery novel,” Pastor Costello explains sheepishly. “Guilty pleasure.”
I laugh. “What's there to be guilty about? It's not as if the church has banned reading novels.”
“I know. It's just that … well, I feel as if people expect me to be perusing the Bible or something more high-minded.” He nods toward the cover where a bloody knife rests atop a hand mirror and next to a heart-shaped bottle of spilled perfume.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I say.
“Amen to that.” Pastor Costello rises from the couch in the way that middle-aged people do, slowly and checking to make sure everything still works before applying too much pressure. “How was your date?”
“Great,” I say. I'm tempted to add that the best way to achieve abstinence is not with a pledge, but through extensive child care.
“The Larkins are a nice family—longtime members of the Methodist church, though Craig's father was raised Lutheran.”
“I wasn't aware that you preachers kept score.”
“In a town this size you eventually get to know just about everyone. Besides, most of these trains are heading for the same station. We're on slightly different tracks is all.”
As Pastor Costello gets his things together, he says, “It's nice to see you with a little color back in your cheeks.”
Yeah, nothing like a good nap with your boyfriend, I think.
“I thought I'd go home tonight, now that you're better,” says Pastor Costello.
I assume it will be a nice change for him to wake up in his own bed, except something in his tone makes me say, “Either way is fine.”
“I'll be back in time to make breakfast. And the lunches are in the fridge,” he says. “Call if you need anything. We're open twenty-four hours a day, just like heaven.”
S
OMETIMES THE RAIN IS SO LOUD DURING THE NIGHT THAT IT
wakes me up with a start. Water gushes from the gutters and cascades off the roof onto the driveway and back porch. At one point I find little Lillian trembling at the edge of my bed and open the covers so she can crawl in beside me.
When I look out the window in the morning, the downpour has let up and steel-gray clouds scud across the sky heading toward Cleveland. What I
don't
see are any big yellow buses. By sixty-thirty
A.M.
the high school is normally picking up the early birds who practice for swim team, work out in the gym, or volunteer for safety patrol. Also missing are cars. I soon realize there's a good reason for this: There don't appear to be roads anymore.
Water swirls in the street while the lawns are a marsh with only the tops of bushes poking up like scrubby little islands. Big green garbage cans and plastic planters bob along the surface, accompanied by plastic toys.
There's no point in waking the kids for school. I check the basement for water and discover some trickles here and there, but nothing major yet. When we used to complain about needing
a bigger house, Dad always said that we were lucky to be in this one because it's built on high ground compared to the rest of the neighborhood.
Swinging open the front door I'm hit with a powerful but unusual smell—a combination of raw sewage and spring. The air is about twenty degrees warmer than it was yesterday. At the end of the street I hear a buzzing sound, as if a large mosquito is approaching. Zipping around the corner in an inflatable boat comes Officer Rich and Al, both wearing blue caps with gold badges on the front. Al must have been deputized for the emergency. A rowboat emerges from between the two houses across the street. And at the other end of the block a kayak glides into view.
I step out onto the front porch and Officer Rich pulls his boat alongside as if the stoop is a dock.
“Ship to shore,” Al calls out to me as he grabs the iron railing.
“Guess you don't need your snowplow today,” I say.
“We reached the high-water mark about two hours ago,” explains Officer Rich. “It's starting to go down.”
“But there's no school, right?” I ask.
“Roger that,” says Officer Rich. “Spring break is starting a day early. But don't let the kids out to mess around in the water. It's not all that clean.”
“And don't let them touch any wires in the basement,” says Al. “Call me if it doesn't drain by tomorrow and I'll bring the electric pump over.”
“So far it's mostly dry,” I report.
Al looks up and down the street to survey our chances of being flooded. “You're lucky, because on the other side of Main Street water is sloshing around in people's living rooms.”
Mr. Cavanaugh waves as he floats by in an old beat-up tin horse trough. Then he returns to scanning the surface of the water while holding a crab net over his shoulder.
From behind my house seventy-year-old Mr. Blakely from the hardware store comes bobbing along in a washtub, using a broom to propel himself through the brackish water. His eyes are also fixed on the swirling surface.
“What's everyone doing out here so early?” I ask. “It's not even seven o'clock.”
Officer Rich smiles. “Cappy's father had a secret stash that the flood brought up.”
I don't know if it's the early hour or the mist, but I don't get it.
“You know that Cappy's father was a legendary bootlegger, right?” asks Al.
I nod my head. I'd heard stories, but never really asked him about them. Being that we live so close to one of the Great Lakes and Canada had looser regulations during prohibition, there'd certainly been a lot of action around here in the 1920s and ’30s.
Officer Rich holds up a brown bottle with no label while Al continues, “Things got pretty hot near the end, and he was constantly changing hiding places right up until the minute he was shot.”
Shot? I definitely didn't know about that.
“There's always been a rumor that Pappy Cappy had fifty or so cases of whiskey made by a distillery in Canada in 1932, really good stuff, not the rotgut they sold to the public,” says Al.
“The flood opened up the hiding place, which appears to be around Main and Swan streets. At least that's where most of the bottles have been found,” says Officer Rich. “Probably in a back room or basement of one of the old buildings along that stretch.”
From his horse trough Mr. Cavanaugh lets out a huge whoop and hauls something in with his net. Mr. Blakely looks over from his washtub with envy. Up the street I can see cheap old Mr. Exner paddling along in an old birch bark canoe.
I look down and count three bottles lying in the bottom of Officer Rich's boat. “So are you guys confiscating it?”
“Hell no!” says Al. “We're
collecting
it. This is almost hundred-year-old hootch!”
“I talked to Cappy this morning,” says Officer Rich, who always does the right thing in such circumstances. “He said finders keepers.”
Some men outfitted in waders and yellow slickers ride by in an inflatable pool toy shaped like a giant lobster, obviously drunk from the way they're shouting and stumbling about.
Pastor Costello paddles up in the rowboat that's always been used for the Sunday school production of
Noah's Ark.
It still has some of the cardboard animals in front and a giraffe neck leans out over the side. His cheeks are flushed from rowing, and he's trying to catch his breath enough to speak. “I just wanted to make sure that you're okay.”
I see a bottle tucked under a cardboard cutout of a squirrel in the middle of the boat.
“There's trash everywhere,” he explains. “Just trying to do my part.”
Inside the house the phone rings. I wave to the brave seafarers and wish them luck as they cast off again.
When I answer it, Craig says, “Would you believe me if I told you that the reason I can't come over and make love to you is because of a flood?”
“You don't expect me to fall for that old excuse again, do you?” I ask.
“Sorry, Hallie. We must be the only family in town without a boat. I was going to swim over, but my mother put a stop to that. She insists that I'll die from typhus.”
“It doesn't matter since school is closed.” Our big plan had been to drop Lillian at the Stocktons’, send the twins over to Mrs. Muldoon's, and then have the house to ourselves.
“Officer Rich says the water is starting to go down and so maybe you can come over later,” I say hopefully
“Did you hear about the whiskey?” asks Craig. “My uncle Joe called at five o'clock this morning. He's out there on his son's surfboard and wanted my dad to join him.”
The twins start making noises in the other room, and I hear the scuffle of pajama-clad feet on the stairs. “I have to get the twins ready and make breakfast. Come over as soon as you can.”
Francie skids into the kitchen, yelling, “Uncle Lenny made the whole world flood!” Then her eyes grow wide and searching as she looks up at me. “Is it because we've been bad?”
My own theory is slightly different—that someone up there is trying to keep Craig and me from being alone together.
A
FTER TWO DAYS THE WATER RECEDES ENTIRELY, LEAVING BEHIND
a bitter springlike smell in the air. The earth has once again performed its miraculous annual ritual of renewal, with bright green buds almost everywhere. Off in the distance spring sunlight threads through soft, fluffy clouds. And soon there will be prairie dog-sized mosquitoes dive-bombing us from every direction.
Bernard has invited the whole family over for Easter dinner, but I decide there are too many of us. Eric and I agree to take Pastor Costello up on his invitation to be part of the church supper. No one mentions that it's for the parishioners who don't have anyplace to go.
On Friday I finally call Louise to see if she's coming home for the holiday. As Eric had said when we talked about it, “She's still part of the family.”
Louise informs me that she has a job waitressing at a catering hall and that working on Easter Sunday will pay time and a half, in addition to big tips. Apparently the Resurrection of Jesus is a cause for great generosity among the brunch crowd. From the hours she claims to be working it's obvious that