Troubled Waters
By
Larry Buege
“We have to leave,” I said. “The river’s rising.” Standing in two feet of water, I was
explaining the obvious.
The woman stared at me as if she did not
hear. Judging by a few gray roots in her
otherwise brown hair, I assumed she was in her late thirties or early
forties. Not all her hair was gray,
just enough to justify trips to the hairdresser. She did not bother to introduce herself nor did I. My name was embroidered on my fatigue jacket
if she really needed to know. This was
day three with little sleep, and I no longer cared whom I was rescuing. She was one more warm body, one more piece
of baggage to load into my johnboat and drag back to the armory for three
squares and a cot. Some day—when I look
back through the warped prism of time—I may remember my actions as passionate,
perhaps even heroic. Today, I only want
sleep. The sky was dull and opaque, giving
no indication of time; although my watch confirmed the lateness of the day. By the time the woman joined the host of
other refugees with no place to go, it would be too dark for further rescue
efforts. Then I would sleep.
The current was mild in the two feet of water in
which I now stood, but the drag on the johnboat strained against the rope I
held. The boat was painted in a
confusion of greens intended to render the boat invisible, but it looked silly
against the brown river water. The only
identifying mark was the battalion designator painted on the bow. I pushed the boat against the front porch
where the woman stood ankle-deep in water.
She had her jeans rolled up to her knees, but they were still wet. Behind her, through the open door, I could
see water covering a brown shag carpet.
It might have been a different color on a different day, at a different
time. Now it was ruined. There was no way to remove the mud and silt
that would remain after the river receded, providing the house was still
standing. The current had eroded much
of the foundation, and the house was on the verge of collapse. I assumed it would be gone by morning. It would be unsafe for occupancy even if the
water were to recede.
“Ma’am, do you need help getting into the
boat?” I asked.
My question was met with silence. The woman stared into the distance as if
discerning some speck on the horizon, but her eyes transmitted no images to her
brain. I had seen it before—during the
war. Educated people called it the thousand-yard stare. The rest of us called it shell-shock, burn
out…hitting the wall. The woman’s brain
was in sensory overload and blocking further input. It was the equivalent of an ostrich placing its head in the sand
in hopes the world would go away. If
her brain were a computer, we would say it crashed and needed to be
rebooted. Other than her upright
posture, the only evidence of life was the slow undulating motion of her hands
as she washed away imaginary stains.
Her fingers were chaffed from long hours of physical labor. Large veins protruded from the backs of her
hands. They were covered with skin
thinned with middle age. Perhaps she
was older than I had originally presumed, or maybe life’s misfortunes had aged
her prematurely. I really didn’t care. I had a job to do. I needed sleep.
“Ma’am, we need to leave. The river’s washing away your house. It’s no longer safe.” I said it louder than need be. It was almost a yell, but it got her
attention. She looked at me as if she
had seen me for the first time. “Your
house can’t last much longer. It’s
washing away. We need to leave.”
“I have to stay with my quilt. I can’t leave my quilt. My husband gave it to me.” She spoke softly, almost a whisper. Her voice was void of inflection and
emotion, and she refused to look at me as if she were talking to someone else.
I looked at her hand and found a simple wedding
band. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed
it earlier. “Where’s your husband?”
“He left to find work. He’s coming back. I
promised to care for the quilt until he returns. He gave me the quilt.”
“You won’t need the quilt. I’m taking you to the armory. They’ll have cots and warm blankets and hot
soup. You won’t need the quilt.”
“I can’t leave my quilt.” She looked at me as if I were the one
insane.
The rain had stopped, but it was only
temporary. I looked up at the sky,
which remained uniformly gray and shapeless.
I could see no clouds, but I knew they were there, somewhere above
me. That could be three hundred feet or
three thousand feet. There was no sense
of depth, just grayness.
If I were physically capable, I would have
carried her to the boat just to get on with it; I had other houses to
check. But I couldn’t steady the boat
and carry a struggling adult even if it were a woman. She was breaking no laws.
I had no right to force her into my boat.
“Ma’am, where’s your quilt? If I get your quilt will you leave with me?”
“I can’t leave my quilt. My husband gave it to me. I promised I would care for the quilt.”
“What does the quilt look like?”
“It’s very pretty. It’s pink and soft and cuddly.
My husband gave it to me.”
With the water eroding the foundation, I
couldn’t leave her. The woman and her
house would be gone by morning. Neither
could I waste time. There were others
in need, and it would be dark soon. The
johnboat had no oars or motor and was meant to be towed. That was fine when the water was low, but
there were already areas waist deep in water, and the force of the current was
increasing. The river wouldn’t crest
for another two days. I needed to leave
now.
“Wait here.
I’ll get your quilt.”
“I can’t leave my quilt.”
I tied the johnboat to the porch railing hoping
it would hold. The woman, oblivious to
my actions, returned to her thousand-yard stare, tuning reality out of her
sphere of consciousness. I headed into
the house. It stunk with the odor of
damp mold. The electricity had been out
for two days, and the house was dark even though the sun, somewhere beyond the
storm clouds, had yet to set. I turned
on my flashlight and began a search for anything pink and resembling cloth. It occurred to me that its existence was in
doubt. I found nothing on the ground
floor, but it was now covered with a foot of water. If the woman had left the quilt on the floor, it would not be
found. Leading off from what had been a
living room was a staircase. The
railing was still intact. Even in the
dim light, I could appreciate the fine craftsmanship of the cherry
woodwork. At one time—perhaps last
week—this had been an attractive house.
I started up the steps and found them solid although warped from the
listing of the house. If I didn’t find
the quilt during a cursory exam of the bedrooms, I would leave—with or without
the woman.
The bedrooms were capacious and decorated with a
feminine touch. Pictures of landscapes
hung on the walls. Lacy curtains, now
soggy and smelling of mold, draped the windows. In the first room—I assumed to be the master bedroom—I found a
wedding picture taken not many years ago.
A woman dressed in a white wedding gown stood in front of a late model
car, smiling up at her new husband. I
studied the picture for a moment before convincing myself that the bride in the
picture was the same woman now standing in six inches of water on the front
porch. Maybe she was not as old as I
had thought, or perhaps she married late in life. She looked happy, ready to take on the world—how quickly our
dreams shatter.
The second room was smaller but still large by
most standards. A double bed made up
and prepared for company was the cynosure of the room. The bedspread was hand embroidered in reds
and yellows, but that was not what drew my attention. Lying wadded up on the bed was a pink quilt. It looked soft and cuddly, as the woman had
described. This, too, appeared hand
embroidered—not a typical store-bought gift a husband would buy. I had assumed the quilt, if found, would be
neatly folded consistent with its obsessive-compulsive owner; but then, she was
a study in inconsistencies. I scooped
up the quilt and prepared to leave. It
was heavy—too heavy for a quilt. I
pealed away at the quilt layers until I stared into the inquisitive gray-blue
eyes of a young infant—the gift from her husband.