Stand Tall (18 page)

“Ladies and gentlemen. No one expected to be here tonight.”

The people nodded, that’s for sure.

“The weather bureau says we could get a lot more rain. That could wipe things out by the river. The sandbags haven’t held the way we’d hoped.”

Worried looks.

“It’s going to be a long night, folks. Whatever you’ve learned about getting through hard times, I hope you’ll share it with the people around you. I’ve seen so much today that’s encouraged me. The bravery of the rescue workers, neighbors helping each other get to safety. It’s easy at a time like this to remember all the things we’ve left behind, but what this town has—the most important part of it—is sitting right here in this place.

“I don’t know why these things happen. But I’m asking you to hold on. We’ll keep you updated. We’ll keep praying. We’ll keep looking for it to be over.”

Mayor Diner nodded at Inez, the ministry intern at Ripley Presbyterian Church. “Would you lead us in prayer?”

Inez smiled weakly. This flood had her scared stiff. She’d rather have a braver person pray.

But she took the hands of the little girl and the old man next to her; closed her eyes.

“We feel scared, Lord—give us courage. We feel lost—stand beside us. We feel weak—give us strength.”

Mrs. Clitter had just visited McAllister in the basement. She didn’t much like the makeshift cage, but she knew her cat was safe. She had thanked Mr. Cosgrove, gave him some of the homemade fudge that she kept frozen in blocks in her freezer. She’d grabbed pounds of it when the sirens first blared.

You just never know when someone might appreciate something homemade.

A squawk in the hall.

Eli Slovik, completely drenched, was holding a large cage with Fred the parrot inside.

“Back off, Buster,” Fred shouted to the policeman who was telling Eli he had to take Fred to the shelter.

“He can’t get wet!” Eli screamed.

“There are parrots in the jungle,” the policeman shouted. “It gets wet in the jungle!”

Fudge extended, Mrs. Clitter stepped forward.

The officer crumbled, took the bribe.

Mr. Cosgrove ran by; Mrs. Clitter grabbed his arm tight. “Could we ask you to help just one more of God’s creatures?”

Eli was praying Fred wouldn’t say “Back off, Buster.”

“We’re full up.”

“Not even for this beautiful, rare bird?”

“
No more.
”

Mr. Cosgrove looked at Fred, who looked back and said the words that would save him.

“You’re a genius.”

Mr. Cosgrove’s eyes went soft.

“Now, isn’t that something?” Mrs. Clitter marveled.

“You’re a genius.” Fred made sincere eye contact.

Mr. Cosgrove, struck by the parrot’s depth, said, “The bird stays. Make sure he’s warm and dry.”

“You’re a genius,” Fred repeated.

“Get him some food. Whatever he wants.”

Mr. Cosgrove ran down the stairs, feeling smarter than he had in years.

One man sows, another reaps.

They slept on mats brought by the Red Cross.

They slept in corners wrapped in blankets they had brought from home.

They slept and woke and wondered when it would be over.

Sophie hadn’t shown up yet, and Tree was so worried about her, he couldn’t sleep.

Cell-phone batteries were out.

Phone lines were down.

Grandpa rigged up a generator so they could watch TV news. The TV cameras captured the mostly flooded town.

“A flood is like a war,” Grandpa observed sadly, “because it can take so much with it.”

The rain stopped Wednesday morning.

The sun, bright and full, announced the new day.

Streets were flooded, cars were overturned.

They’d been in the shelter for two days—living in a time warp.

We just want to get home, the people said.

Home to what?

That was the question.

Grandpa, the Trash King, and Tree were working hard to make sure some of it would be positive.

The sign.

That’s the first thing people noticed. It made up for the smell, which was rank and persistent and hung over Ripley like foul gas.

Mildew. Piles of yuck.

It rose from the streets, infiltrated the nostrils.

But the sign.

Grandpa lugged parts of it from his workshop over the
garage; wired it. The Trash King stood on the ladder and balanced it on the roof of Temple Beth Israel—a roof most people could see coming back from the middle school—it overlooked the park, too.

Rabbi Toller turned on the generator.

Tree held the ladder as King fixed the big sign in place.

“
Plug her in, Rabbi.
”

“Let there be light,” Rabbi Toller announced.

Pow.

WELCOME HOME, FOLKS
WE’RE GOING TO MAKE IT

People were honking their horns in their trucks, cars, and vans when they saw it.

The Trash King, Tree, and Grandpa grinned as the photographer from the
Ripley Herald
took photo after photo of that sign.

“Why’d you do it?” the reporter asked. “What made you think of it?”

The old soldiers smiled. “We wanted to encourage the town,” Grandpa said. “Give people something good to come home to.”

They didn’t mention the most important part.

You’ve got to welcome people back when they’ve been through a war.

Nobody understands that more than a Vietnam vet.

The shock of loss was everywhere.

A flooded-out house is a ghastly sight.

Especially when it’s yours.

They’d called the insurance company.

Turned off the electricity.

Tree, Dad, and Grandpa stood on the muck-covered hall carpet wearing white masks passed out by the Public Health Department.

No one spoke.

The couch was soaked and dirty, the stereo was turned upside down, lamps lay broken on the floor, tables upended.

Brown watermarks three feet up on the first-floor walls. Lower kitchen cabinets opened, soaked cereal boxes, broken dishes, piles and piles of what could never be used again.

Tree’s clothesline invention hung untouched from the ceiling, casting shadows.

Tree stepped across the mushy rug. He could hardly stand the fumes.

He’d lived in this house most of his life. And now this, too, was going to be a memory.

Grandpa said, “We rebuild with what we’ve got left.”

But there wasn’t anything left except the second floor.

The basement windows had popped out.

Five feet of murky water sat in the basement with dirty clothes, empty paint cans, basketballs, and footballs floating on the surface.

Grandpa steadied himself, Old Ironsides.

But Tree wasn’t built of such strong stuff.

He couldn’t take any more.

He leaned against the dining room wall and started to cry.

“I know what you’re thinking,” Grandpa said.

Tree sniffed. It’s hard to cry when you’ve got a white mask over your face.

“I bet you’re thinking this whole house will have to be torn down.”

Tree shrugged. He was, sort of.

“I can see why you’d think that, having never built a house before.” Grandpa studied the wall. “See, floods leave clues. We can see how high the water went on the first floor. Everything above the waterline is okay. The mirrors, the hanging lights. We’ve got a whole second floor in mint condition. Now, inside the wall . . .” He put an arm on Tree’s shoulder to steady himself and kicked a hole in the wall with his good foot. He stuck his hand in, pushed past insulation. “We can see that the plumbing pipes still look solid. I’ll have to rewire where it got wet, but we haven’t lost the farm. Not by a long shot.”

“We haven’t?”

Grandpa handed Tree a hammer. “Ram that there.”

Tree hit the wall, made a hole.

“Rip it out.”

Tree did.

“Stick your hand in there until you feel the frame.”

Tree pushed through the insulation. “I can feel it.”

“Knock on it.”

Tree rapped strong. It was solid.

“We’re going to lug this mess out of here, strip this Sheetrock down to the frame, and build her back up again.”

Tree sighed. “You make it sound so easy, Grandpa.”

“It’s not going to be easy. It’s going to be worth it.”

They stayed in a hotel that night. Bradley, too.

Tree was so tired and sore from cleaning up.

Dad called Curtis and Larry at school. Both wanted to come home in a few days to help.

They sure could use the extra hands.

Then Tree called Sophie’s house and finally got an answer.

He almost shouted for joy when he heard her voice.

“I tried to call you, Tree, for the last three days, but I couldn’t get through. Aunt Peach got us a room at a motel. We were all shoved in there with cots and cats. It was torture. But the apartment’s fine. The flood didn’t touch us. I guess there’s something good about a fourth-floor walk-up.”

He told her about Dad’s house and how hard they were working.

“I’m sorry you lost out. But it’s good you’re not average
size, Tree. It’s good your dad and grandpa have a really big guy to help take care of business.”

Tree squared his shoulders at that one.