BY STEPHEN BRAYTON
Copyright is held by the author.
DAVE WAS getting antsy. For nearly two days we’d been cooped up in the apartment while it rained and rained, flooding downtown Montpelier.
We lived on the third floor of a big old brick building on Main Street where we’d moved a year earlier, right after we got married.
Since we’d both been living at home, we had to apartment-hunt on top of planning the wedding. We heard good things about Montpelier from my friend Annie, who had moved there a few years before. Fun and funky, she said. So funky it got the nickname “Montpeculiar.”
Dave and I both grew up out in the sticks in Marshfield. So we were ready for a change. Montpelier was not only a city but also the state capital. An easy commute to our jobs and not that far from our families. And the idea that it was somehow “funky” intrigued me. A funky state capital?
Once we started looking, it didn’t take long. On the second day we found this nice big apartment above State Pizza. Done deal, we were moving to Montpeculiar.
Well, several adjectives came to mind to describe the mess outside our place that August day, but funky wasn’t one of them. Main Street was underwater, the sidewalks gone.
No matter to Dave, though. He wanted out. And I’d learned that Dave could be mighty stubborn when he set his mind to something.
Hey, I wanted out too. But having just watched the mayor on TV call the situation “extremely dangerous,” I was more than a little reluctant. Even when the rain eventually let up, he warned, it would still be a while before the floodwaters began to recede.
Still, Dave kept working on me. “C’mon Jen, we’re outdoor people. We know how to handle this.”
He was right; we spent most of our free time outdoors. Hiking, kayaking, skiing, fly-fishing. So we knew how to handle ourselves in different conditions. God knows we’d hiked in the rain enough times.
But the argument that finally won me over was different. “This is an historic event, Jen. We’ve got to get out and experience it.” How could I pass up an historic event?
We’d walk three blocks to the Winooski River dam. No further. The dam, said Dave, “should be one helluva sight.”
As we tugged on our waders, Dave said jokingly, “Just like getting ready for fly-fishing, right?”
Right.
Clomping down the stairs, I gave silent thanks that the lights were still on. From behind apartment doors came the familiar sounds of TV and music.
From the second-floor landing we got our first look at the flooded entryway below. “Yikes,” exclaimed Dave. Carefully descending the last two water-covered stairs, we set foot into the flood. It came to just below my knees, not so bad. Still, Dave had to yank hard to pull the door open against the water.
Once outside I relaxed. The outdoors invigorated me even in the rain. And Dave was right. It didn’t feel that much different than wading in the river fly-fishing. To the dam and back . . . no problem.
Then came the chair; then the trash barrel, and another bin. No, this wasn’t fly-fishing after all. It was more like an obstacle course.
The Main Street dam is normally a 10-minute walk for us. But between the water and debris, it took 20 minutes just to reach Market Street, less than halfway. As I checked the scene up Market toward the post office, an idea came to me.
“Let’s go the post office instead of the dam,” I suggested to Dave. “It’s closer and we’ll get a good view of the dam from the top of the P.O. steps. Plus we’ll be under the portico,”
No stubbornness from Dave this time. “Good idea. I was thinking the same thing.”
Halfway to the P.O. I realized something was missing — the sound of water tumbling over the dam. Climbing the post office steps, I saw why. The dam had all but disappeared, drowned by the floodwaters.
Under the portico, I pulled out my phone and started taking pictures. A wide shot of the whole scene upriver. A shot of the nearly drowned gas pumps at the Cumberland Farms across the street.
I was zooming upstream when something in the viewfinder caught my eye. A dark blob bouncing in the current. Something looked different. I looked again. My God, the blob was alive, flailing its legs.
“A dog!” I cried, handing Dave the phone. I pointed, “Up there trying to get out of the current.”
Dave took one look and said, “C’mon, maybe we can grab it when it goes behind Cumby’s.”
I looked again toward the Cumby’s. Even with floodwaters everywhere, the river’s course behind the building was still evident. The water there looked plain scary, running faster and wilder than anything yet, And my husband was going to wade into it to save a dog?
“Dave, look at the current!” I cried. “We can’t go into that mess; we’ll never get out!”
But he was already on his way down the P.O. steps. I followed.
Crossing Bank Street I looked upstream to see where the dog was. A surge of hope ran through me when I spotted it much closer than I’d expected. Yes, we were in a race to see who got to Cumby’s first, and I prayed to God the dog would win.
Then we could go home.
Reaching the front corner of Cumby’s, we started inching our way back, sticking close to the side wall for support. Suddenly Dave cursed. “Dammit!” His foot had snagged on some underwater hazard. As he bent down to free himself, I glanced ahead — just in time to see the thrashing pooch shoot past and disappear behind the building.
“The dog!” I cried. “It went by. I saw it.”
His foot clear, Dave rose and exhaled. “Bummer … but we tried.”
I replied firmly, “We did. And now let’s go home. I’ve had enough of this.”
Dave hesitated. “OK, just let me take a quick look around back. You stay here.”
Now I was pissed. “C’mon Dave!” But he was already moving forward against the wall. Right after he disappeared around the corner, I heard a loud whoop from him. Reappearing, he waved me forward. For chrissakes, what now?
All I could do was mutter the F-word when I saw what the whooping was about. For there was the wet, bedraggled dog clinging to one of Cumby’s car vac towers.
Dave was standing a few feet away at the edge of the river current. I could see his mind working on how to rescue the pooch.
“C’mon Dave, you can’t reach it; it’s too far. We need to go home.”
Ignoring my plea, he turned and held out his hand. “I can do it with one step. Hold onto me . . . tight.”
I was scared shitless. How had a quick outing to the dam suddenly turned into a life-threatening situation?
“Are you crazy?” I yelled over the roiling water. “What if you fall in?”
He paused, looking from me to the dog and back. I saw doubt on his face and took my chance.
“No, Dave! We gave it our best. There’s nothing left to do, so I’m going home . . . NOW!” I turned and started back, praying he would follow.
One step, two, three, four steps . . . I looked back and screamed.
“Dave!”
There he was in the raging current, holding onto the vac with one hand and reaching for the dog with the other. But it was too far. And as I watched Dave struggle, another movement caught my eye: the vac tower was wobbling.
Seconds later the vac tower crashed into the water taking Dave with it. I screamed again, louder.
“Dave!”
Frantic, I pulled out my phone and called police. Just as they answered, I saw Dave disappear under the Maple St. bridge, still holding onto the vac tower. The dog was gone.
I couldn’t get my story out fast enough. “He got swept way … My husband! . . . I don’t know where . . . He’s gone.” Officer McAllister asked me to slow down.
I apologized. “Sorry . . . sorry, I just . . .” And I broke down sobbing. The officer asked where I was.
“In the back of the Cumberland Farms, you know, on Bank St. near the Maple St. bridge. Where he just went under . . . I can’t see him anymore. Oh please help!
“OK, we’ve got a cruiser on the way now; we’ll try to catch him at the Wyatt St bridge.”
“Thank you, officer. . .Thank you.”
“What is your situation?” he asks. “Are you safe where you are?
“No, I’m headed home — 430 Main. No sense staying here. My husband’s gone.”
With those words I totally lost it and screamed into the phone, “Please find him. I don’t want to lose my husband. He has to be way downstream by now.”
“We’re on it.” Officer McAllister said calmly. “We’ll call as soon as we have anything. Hopefully, your husband was able to hold on to the tower and get out of the current.”
Hopefully.
Next I started to call my parents but aborted it when a huge timber beam floated by, much too close for comfort. Stuffing the phone back into its plastic bag, I resolved to keep my focus on the only goal that mattered at the moment: getting home to 430 Main.
The word became my mantra. Focus, I told myself after narrowly avoiding a menacing spike. Focus, after stubbing my foot on a curbstone hidden beneath the water. Focus, after a quick torso twist sent water sloshing over the top of my waders.
At the corner of Main I stopped to catch my breath. I was exhausted, seriously out of gas. Three blocks left. Will I make it? Or will the cops have to rescue me tool?
At that moment I heard Dave’s voice inside me. “You’re almost there, Jen. Just keep moving. You can do it!
Damn right. Up ahead I saw a police cruiser with its lights flashing. Going to look for Dave? Nope, it was headed the wrong way.
Nearing our building, I prayed that the door was still open. No way I could push it against all that water now, way higher than when we left. I was almost close enough to see . . . and yes, there was the door still open.
Inside I sat down on the first dry stair, stripped off my waders, and slung them over the railing. Starting up the stairs, a weird thought crossed my mind — Montpeculiar. Talk about a bad joke.
Reality slammed me the moment I entered the apartment. An empty apartment without Dave. Empty armchair, empty kitchen, empty bedroom.
As I filled my tea mug into the microwave with one hand, I called police with the other. This time it was Officer Moody.
“Nothing yet. They’re still searching.”
I sat down on the couch with my tea and began sobbing. A calamity, that’s what it was. And Dave was missing in it. Oh pray to God, bring my husband back.
As if these thoughts weren’t enough, the “what-ifs” started coming to mind, demanding answers. What if I’d put my foot down and said No, we were not going out? Dave wouldn’t have gone alone; I know that.
I banished such thoughts for the moment by reminding myself I had calls to make. Dave’s parents came first, even before my own. His mother shrieked.
“Oh, no!”
His father, Richard, said they would call police right away.
Mom answered my next call. At my news she sucked in her breath and said, “Oh my God, Jen . . . No!”
She wanted to come to me right away. Whoa, cool down, Mom. I told her that wasn’t a good idea. When she argued, I put my foot down. “Mom, I’ve been out in this mess all day, and I know how dangerous it is. You don’t want to drive. You don’t even want to walk to the driveway.” Dad chipped in to support me.
“She’s right, Lyd.”
Reluctantly Mom agreed. They would come in the morning. And I’d let them know any news I got in the meantime. Which, I feared, would be none.
I tried police once more before crashing. Same officer, same answer.
Flopping down on the bed, I stared at the ceiling trying to ward off the “what-ifs.” When I closed my eyes, I saw Dave holding onto that vac machine as the raging waters swept them away.
My phone rang at 6:10 a.m. They found Dave’s body up against a chain link fence behind the feed store on Rt. 14. It was now on its way to the Lovett Funeral Home. Yes, I would get in touch with them.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am,” said the officer.
I didn’t know what to say. So I just said “Thanks” and clicked off.
I put the phone back on the table and rolled over onto my back. Looking at the ceiling again. I felt strangely calm. It was over. I knew what happened to my husband.
Dave’s funeral was at the Marshfield church we grew up in. His sister Elaine gave the eulogy, full of wonderful things about Dave. Though after a while, I stopped listening because it hurt too much. Instead, I focused on the nearby window and the weeping willow tree outside. Its long branches swayed gently in the breeze, soothing me.
***
Well, here we are — the day after the service, and I’m back working with my volunteer cleanup crew. It feels good to team up with others to help get the city back on its feet. I may be the only one to lose a loved-one, but everyone suffered some kind of loss — homes flooded, porches and decks washed away, pets lost … the list goes on.
It’s still hard when I get home at night. Alone. Sometimes my crewmate and new friend Liz comes over to keep me company for a while. She thinks I should get a dog to keep me company all the time.
I really like Liz. Her irreverent sense of humor is just what I need these days. But when it comes to getting a dog, I think . . . Well, if you’ve read through all this, you know what I think.
Maybe someday, but not now.
***
Stephen Brayton is a retired journalist and communications consultant. His short stories have been published in The Raven’s Perch, Fictional Café, and Flash in a Flash. This is his second story for CommuterLit. Steve is past-president of his hometown historical society in Dedham, MA and active in environmental causes.
