The rain began sporadically in that uncertain season between winter and spring that can be delightful or perverse; for two weeks showers fell in fits and starts from thin gray clouds that rode quickly on the cold wind and barely hid the bright promise of the late March sun. Then, in the third week, the wind died; the clouds thickened and lay dark and heavy over the land. A cold relentless rain began that soaked the spongy just-thawed earth and, when the saturated soil could hold no more, the runoff rushed into ditches and creeks and, finally, into the river.
The river, clear and pristine when the rain began, awoke from its winter sleep and changed to a thick brown serpent that roiled and hissed as it swelled up through weeds and willows and slithered across bottomland fields into the oaks and hickorys that marked the start of high ground. It went about its work--caressing, consuming, overcoming all in its path.
The house stands safely back in the timber between the river and the road. There is no clearing--the house merely exists in the midst of the woods, squatting mushroom-like in the damp shadows, as if sprung from some wind- or water-borne spore. The unpainted clapboard exterior, weathered to match the surrounding forest, makes the house nearly invisible to all save those who know its whereabouts. Travelers on the road or the river, if they notice the house at all, sense a vague coolness--a whiff of mildew, earth, and cobwebs--as if they stand at the entrance to a cave.
Each morning at first light, Sam Higgins stands on the back porch peering through the trees at the river, the slate-gray sky, and the woods; and each morning as he stands there the rain continues--heavy some days so he can hear it drumming all around in the forest, some days light and misty, a cold dampness that penetrates his nightshirt and causes him to shiver as he turns back into the house with an armload of wood and kindling. He finds many small excuses to postpone the trip to town for another day, but today, Wednesday of the third week of rain, Lila, his wife, shows him the empty medicine bottle. It has been empty for two days now. He sighs and knows that he will have to go today. He does not own a car, and the thought of trudging to and from Cape May in this weather does not appeal to him.
After breakfast, he comes out and stands again in the shelter of the shabby porch. The river, plainly visible now through the trees, is higher than he has ever seen it. Lila comes to the back door.
"Reckon you'll be back afore dark?" she asks.
"I reckon," Sam says without looking at her.
They met in Tennessee during the war when he, a new soldier away from home and lonely, came on furlough to visit kin he knew only through hearsay. She was fifteen and pretty, his second cousin, and they watched each other shyly and smiled. She may have been mad, even then, but if so it was a shy harmless madness, somehow fetching in its innocence.
After eight months overseas, he returned on a stretcher, minus part of a lung. She wrote long letters daily while he recuperated in hospital, and when he was discharged he returned to Tennessee and married her. He brought her back to his Missouri woods and they settled there between the river and the road.
They were mostly happy in those early days. She complained some at first of homesickness for her family, and Sam felt guilty for having taken her so young. For a while, letters came once or twice a year, and she would cry over them and be out of sorts for several days; he learned to leave her alone in these times. When she occasionally mentioned going to Tennessee for a visit, he would say, "One of these days we will." It had a hopeful sound to it and he always felt a little better after he said it, but they never returned to Tennessee. After a time the letters stopped coming and she stopped mentioning it.
They had no children; they did not make a conscious choice to remain childless--she just never conceived. But whether the failure was his or hers they never learned.
"We'll see about it one of these days," Sam said when they were young. But they got used to being childless, and the years passed until it was too late to do anything.
Over the years she grew more reclusive and lost contact with everyone but Sam. She was content to depend on him. She cooked and washed and cleaned the house, and she seemed happy. But when she had a spell, she didn't speak for days, as if she were mute.
Other times she was bright and lucid and talked and laughed with him in the old way as if she had no recall of that other darker world she feared. But at night when the terror returned, she would be mad again. Those nights were when she became afraid and hard to handle, when she saw and heard things out in the darkness that normal folks couldn't, terrible things that made her moan and roll her eyes and cry. On those nights, he would draw her close to him on their narrow bed and shush her like a child with soothing words and caresses.
Once when she got sick and delirious with fever, he had to go to Cape May and bring Doc Pierce back to tend her. After he had treated her, the doctor turned to him and said, "Sam, you should get some help with her. She's getting to be too much for you. You're not young anymore."
Sam had nodded and said, "I know. One of these days I'll have to." But he had nursed her back and when she was well they had gone on as before.
The rain is coming hard again, and he waits, hoping it will let up. But it continues to beat on the roof and windows, rattling the old house, and just before noon he begins donning the heavy yellow slicker that smells of sweat and rubber.
Lila watches him getting ready and there is concern in her expression.
"'Spect you'll be back here by dark?" she asks again. He hears the worry in her voice and knows what she is thinking.
"Oh yes. I'll be back early. I'll catch a ride sure at the bridge." The trip is two hours one way if he has to walk all of it, but if, as usually happens, he catches a ride at the bridge where the county road crosses the river he can make the round trip in just over two hours. "You just stay here and keep dry and have me some supper ready," he says, to reassure her.
The road, like the river, follows the path of least resistance. It is little more than a short cut, a narrow winding track that connects the main county road up on the ridge to the state highway bridge that crosses the river to Cape May. It began years ago as a convenience for men who invaded the woods with wagons and cross-cut saws and broadaxes in search of timber suitable for railroad cross ties that could be converted to cash money at the depot in Cape May. Later, after all the cross-tie timber was gone, they came again with their implements, this time in search of what was left that could be sold as stave bolts for making barrels. Later still, the county, as a favor more than an obligation, legitimized the road's existence by making an annual swipe at it with a road grader--once down and once back--to smooth the ruts and accommodate the occasional tourist or pickup full of fishermen. The road would have soon disappeared in weeds and regrowth without this annual renewal. Of those who use the road, as many are lost as know where they are going.
Sam walks on the grassy center strip between ruts that feed torrents of cold brown water into the knee-deep ponds that stand in the low places. In some places the timber grows together over the road, forming a dark tunnel, but the emerging leaves and vines don't keep the rain out, they merely concentrate it into larger drops that splash coldly on the rubber slicker that feels like snake skin where it touches him.
The hat makes him uncomfortable. In the woods he depends as much on hearing as vision to stay aware, and now, with the rain hat covering his ears, he cannot hear. It is like being blind, he thinks. Sam doesn't like or keep dogs, an unusual circumstance in these hills. To him, dogs are noisy stupid beasts that blunder about disturbing and obscuring the natural voice of the woods. He has been accused by some of killing dogs that he found running loose, chasing deer, but nobody has proved it.
When he reaches the bridge, cars and pickups are parked at both ends, and crowds of people are watching several men out on the bridge trying to dislodge drifts from the pilings. The river is within three feet of being over the bridge, and the men use long poles, trying to pry and nudge the drifts loose.
As Sam crosses the bridge, he feels a low-pitched vibration, almost an audible hum, through the soles of his boots. He nods to the men working with the poles. "Sam, if you want to get back across today, you'd better hurry," one of the workers says. "She ain't gonna last long at this rate."
A few minutes later, in Cape May, Sam visits the post office, where he picks up the brown envelope containing the government check, the bank, where he cashes the check, and the drugstore, where he buys the medicine. The small disability pension covers most of their expenses. In the summers, to supplement their income, he hires out as a fishing guide for eight dollars a day plus tips. He spends most summer days on the river, guiding city people on river float trips. He is the best guide on the river, and he is always in demand; but he only accepts one day floats. He never stays over night. In the winters he sets and runs a trap line along the river, making additional money selling mink and fox and bobcat hides.
Just before 3 o'clock someone passes the word for everyone to get off the bridge. Sam, trudging down the shoulder of the road, sees the men leaving the bridge; drifts and uprooted trees pile against it in such mass that the few daring or foolish souls who wade out to dislodge them, can't keep them free. They can see the structure swaying now, and the bow is quite visible when you squat on the bank and sight along the downstream rail. The upper railing is so clogged and covered with drifts that it is hidden. Water moccasins cling impassively to the brush out there, trying to escape the insane water that is normally their home. The drifts are out in the center of the current, a sure sign that the river is still rising. Each time a new log or drift strikes, the bridge shudders.
By the time he got there, even the stumps at each end of the bridge that had not been washed away were covered. The road disappeared at a gentle angle into the muddy soup that didn't boil or flow fast close in, and it reappeared at the same angle far across on the other side as if it had reflected from a mirror.
Sam walked down to the water's edge and waded a ways out toward the last sign that was above water and still marked the entrance to the bridge. Some people on the bank squatted and eyed him quizzically. When he came out again, one of the onlook ers said, "She's still on the rise, Sam".
He watched a huge sycamore roll up from the depths out of the flood and stand almost upright, before it slipped and crashed back to disappear again.
Sam didn't look at the speaker. He nodded and stared off down the river to where it swept in under the bluff and then swung back to the west out of sight behind the willows and the sycamores.
Sam turned and started back up the road toward Cape May.
"Whatcha gonna do, Sam?" one of the watchers asked.
"I'm agoin' acrost," Sam said.
"I hope ye can fly."
The others chuckled at this show of wit and Sam walked on.
He found old man Hardaway at home. Mrs. Hardaway smiled at him through the screen door when he knocked, but he could see the distaste behind the smile. She was a fancy woman and didn't approve of him and his ways.
"What can I do for you, Sam?" Mr. Hardaway asked.
"Well, Lila is acrost the river by herself and I need to get over there to be with her tonight, and I was wondering if I could borry one of your boats to get acrost in? I'd bring it straight back soon's the river goes down a little."
Mr. Hardaway stepped out onto the front porch, closing the wooden and glass door behind him as if what he was going to say was not fit to be heard by those inside. He dug at something far back on his lower jaw with a wooden toothpick. Occasionally, he extracted the pick from his mouth with a sucking sound and examined the end of it.
"Well now Sam, I don't know. I don't think that river's in any condition to be out on. Why don't you wait till along about dark and see if it hasn't crested and tamed down some. She ought to drop pretty fast, once the crest comes."
"She ain't going to crest till after dark, Mr. Hardaway. I hear they got a real bad rain up north of here. I've got to cross now. The longer I wait, the worse it'll be."
"Don't you think Lila,...your wife could make out one night by herself? I mean it's like committing suicide going out on that river when its like this. We could get you a place to spend the night with some folks here in town and tomorrow you can go across. Don't that make more sense?"
"Yes sir, it does, but I got to get acrost now. I can't leave her alone over there. She gets scared you see, and I just can't let her down. Could I borry the boat?"
Mr. Hardaway smiled a little smile as he removed the tooth pick noisily from his mouth. He shook his head, as if in disbelief.
"Sam, them boats cost me a hundred dollars apiece when they was new. Now if you want to risk your neck out there, that's your business, but if I give you a boat and you don't make it, I'm, out a hundred bucks. See what I mean? Lordy, man, I'd like to help you but I make my living with those boats, and I can't just throw them away like that because your cr--because she gets scared of the dark."
Sam looked steadily at Mr. Hardaway now, not being deferential. "Will you sell me one?" he asked levelly.
"Sam, I..."
"Will you sell me one?" Sam repeated.
"I don't know. I guess so."
"I'll give you a hundred dollars for a boat right now. That way if it goes down, you can buy another one. Tomorrow or next day when the water lowers, I'll bring it back good as new and you give me my money back. How's that?"
Mr. Hardaway spat out over the porch railing and thought for a moment. Finally he cocked his head and looked up.
"Tell you what. I'll give you eighty back when you return it."
"OK" Sam said without taking his eyes from the other man's. He took out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollars of the pension money. He handed it to Hardaway, who counted it slowly, feeling each bill between his thumb and forefinger to be sure two weren't stuck together. When he was satisfied it was all there, he went back inside and got his hat and the keys to unlock the boats.
Sam struck at the water with the paddle and the boat leapt out of the calm eddy into the current. The river was quiet, it's only sound a faint murmurous hiss among the trees that now stood deep and trembling in its path.
Sam entered the current at an oblique angle, not fighting against the force but going with it, letting the river work its will while he subtly maneuvered the boat toward the opposite shore.
The group of onlookers quickly receded and disappeared behind the tormented trees at the first bend.
He yielded the right of way to a huge log. As it swept past, a water moccasin...
It was easier then, by feeling his way carefully along the edge of the current, he was able to avoid disaster. The water still moved fast, faster than he liked as he marveled at how quickly the banks slid past, but he could control it.
The water was too fast and the boat demanded too much attention for him to try to get the snake out.
The snake expressed neither fear nor interest.
All went well until he approached the bluff. He heard the river change long before he rounded the last bend and saw what lay ahead. The channel cut in beneath the bluff in a long gradual bend that had eaten away half of a hill to expose the gray and white rock and form the three-hundred foot bluff. Now, he could see the current battering against the base of the bluff, raging in a thunderous voice as it slowly proceeded with its conquest of the hill. As he watched, a boulder big as a house, its support undercut by the seething flood, gave way and slowly plunged into the muddy torrent.
He could see the froth on top of the waves now where the water was tearing at the bluff. The waves were large violent things that thundered and crashed in a frenzy of destruction.
Somewhere near the middle of the stream, he nearly lost it. There was a crashing sound from deep under the surface, as if two gigantic objects had collided, and suddenly a frothing vortex appeared directly beneath the boat. The boat spun 360 degrees like a match stick; and his suddenly frightened strokes with the paddle, directed like blows against the river, were totally useless. Water slopped into the boat and threatened to swamp it. He didn't realize until after it was over that he had been moaning aloud.
He could see Lila on the other side. She was standing in the back door of the house. It was too far, though, he couldn't tell what sort of state she was in. He whistled once as loud as he could and waved an arm, but he couldn't tell if she had seen him. It was still so far away that he didn't see her disappear back into the house again. He just knew he was watching her standing there one second, and the next she was gone and the door was only a black rectangle. The electricity must be off, he thought. Otherwise she would have the lights on.
Then, as he watched, she came running out of the house into the back yard and down the incline to the wood pile. She was running wildly as if someone or something was chasing her. Her hair was loose and it flew out behind her in waves and ripples. Then he hears her screaming. He could make out the terror and the fear in her sobs and screams. She ran to the chopping block and tried to tear the axe loose from where it was embedded in the wood. At first it didn't come loose and she almost fell because it threw her off balance. But she recovered and yanked again on the handle. It came loose and she raised it above her head, staggering backwards as if holding a demon at bay. She swung it twice at the empty air and the force nearly caused her to fall again. He yelled as loud as he could, trying to make her hear, to realize he was there and she was not alone, but he was still too far. He whistled again, but it was no use.
He stops on the porch and peers into the pitch black room.
"Lila? It's me."
The only sound from within is a whispery, slithery sound. Something cold happens in his chest. He reaches around inside the door and turns the light switch. The sudden brightness from the single bulb hanging in the middle of the room blinds him for an instant.
Then he sees her.
She has pressed herself into the far corner of the room, her shoulders hunched forward to more closely fit into the space, as if she would merge with the walls. Her dark hair hangs in damp ropey coils over her heaving shoulders and breasts. She holds the shotgun rock-steady, though, pointed at the center of his chest, and her mouth, even twisted into her most engaging smile, cannot conceal the hatred in her bright feverish eyes.
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Copyright (C) 1998 by Roger L. Deen. All rights reserved.