The Work and the Glory (467 page)

Without a word to her niece, she turned the chair and wheeled it to the window that looked out to the northwest. When Carl and Melissa built their second house, a larger two-story structure, Jenny and Matthew moved into their first house. It was on the east side of Granger Street at the corner with Mulholland. Because there was no building on the opposite corner, Kathryn’s view was unlimited, and she could see that the sky was much darker out across the river than it was above her. She returned, saying nothing, but her mind was now only partially on the make-believe conversation Betsy Jo was creating.

When the first low rumble came she whirled and rolled to the window again. Now she saw what Jenny and Alice had seen from the bluffs. She pulled her chair around again. “Betsy Jo, will you go shut the doors to the house?”

Betsy Jo, three now, and looking very much like her father, except for the thick dotting of freckles across her cheeks and nose, looked up in surprise. “Why, Kathryn? It’s hot.”

She fought to keep her voice from betraying any sign of concern. “There may be a storm coming. We’d better shut the doors.” Without waiting for a response, she turned, gave one last look at the gathering clouds, and pulled the window shut. She reached up and pulled the drapes shut as well. While she rolled from window to window and shut each one, Betsy Jo went to the front door and closed it. As Betsy Jo went to the back door to check it, another clap of distant thunder rattled the windows softly. Kathryn gripped the arms of her wheelchair to stop her hands from trembling. A moment later there was a faint flash. She visibly jumped, keeping her eyes from clamping shut only by a huge effort of will.

“Aunt Kathryn,” Betsy Jo said, her eyes filled with concern, “what’s the matter? Why is it so dark?”

Her fingers dug into the wood of her chair as she forced herself to smile. “I pulled all the drapes, Betsy Jo. If the wind blows we don’t want the rain to come in.”

She looked puzzled, but Kathryn didn’t feel like trying to explain. “Let’s go in the bedroom now. It’s about time for Emmeline to wake up.”

“All right,” Betsy Jo said cheerfully. “Can I bring Molly?” She picked up her doll.

“Of course,” Kathryn said. She swallowed to combat the sudden constriction in her throat. She swallowed again. Her heart was pounding like that of a rabbit cornered by a hound. As Betsy Jo trooped past her and into the hall that led to the bedroom, Kathryn closed her eyes.
Oh, please, Father. Let this pass by me. Let me be strong.

The last few nights had seen a series of dry thunderstorms that shook the ground and blazed across the sky. They had left her trembling and pale, even with Jenny and Matthew there beside her to help steady her. About two weeks before, a man walking along Parley Street, just a few blocks from where she now was, had been struck by lightning and killed. It was a grim contradiction to what everyone—including herself—kept saying in order to try and allay her fears. Her reserves of strength, both physically and emotionally, had been tapped too often. She was trembling visibly now.

She jumped slightly as she saw that Betsy Jo was watching her with large grave eyes. “Kathryn? Come on!”

“Yes, dear,” she said with a flick of her hand. “You go in and I’ll be right there.” As Betsy Jo complied, there was another flash of lightning, brighter this time, barely dimmed by the drawn curtains. She dropped her head into her hands, her body shaking violently now. “Jenny!” she whispered desperately. “Hurry! Oh, please! Hurry!”

Matthew caught up with them just as they reached the bottom of the bluff. The wind had started now. In a matter of three or four minutes, it had gone from the first stirrings of a breeze to stiff, noticeably colder blasts that tore at their clothes. Matthew’s head was uncovered. He had either left his hat back at the temple or lost it as he raced down the hill after the two women. Either way, he paid it no mind. To Jenny’s surprised look he only said, “This is going to be a bad one. I’ll come with you.”

She nodded grimly, and they hurried on. There was no question about his assessment. The leading edge of the storm was just a mile or two away now, coming out of the northwest. The whole western horizon looked as if it had been draped with a filmy black curtain. They could still see some of the buildings of Montrose, Iowa, across the river, but beyond that, the prairie was taking a terrific pounding with what promised to be torrential rain. Lightning crackled and shot downwards every two or three seconds now, and the cracks of thunder followed one right after another.

By the time they were off the bluff and to Durphy Street, the wind was hardening, blowing straight into their faces, making them bend into it. It tore at their clothes, at the trees and bushes, stirring up clouds of dust and debris. Alice’s bonnet was snatched off her head, and was saved only because she had tied it beneath her chin. The dresses of the two women were pressed against their bodies, like sails, and made walking an effort.

As they crossed Partridge Street, the first rain started to fall—huge, slashing drops that splattered like eggs on the dusty street. “You run ahead, Matthew,” Jenny yelled into the wind. “Kathryn will be terrified.”

Matthew shook his head quickly. He had already considered that. Though he said nothing, his eye kept searching the western sky. The blackness was so deep, the huge masses of clouds scudding rapidly even as he watched, that he half expected at any moment to see the dark clouds start to coalesce, curling round and round even as they started to drop toward the ground and become that most dreaded of all sights, the funnel cloud of a tornado. He dared not leave the two women alone in something like that. “We’ll find shelter first. Then I’ll go.”

As if the sluice in a dam had suddenly been pulled, the skies opened and the rain poured down, whipped into great sheets in front of them. In seconds they were soaked to the skin. Water poured from the roofs of nearby buildings. What had been thick dust just moments before was now a river of thick, gooey mud that stuck to their feet like binder’s glue. They were half running, half stumbling now, fighting the rain and mud, struggling against the tearing wind, raising their hands up to their eyes to keep the rain from blinding them.

Less than a minute later, the first of the white pellets came streaking out of the sky. Almost before they could comprehend what had happened, the sheets of water turned to curtains of hail. The ground danced as though it were suddenly alive, the pellets bouncing like popcorn kernels on a hot griddle. The roar of the wind and thunder was now joined by the steady rattle of hail. There was a blinding flash, followed almost instantly by a thunderous crack that nearly knocked them off their feet.

Jenny gasped and nearly tripped, but Matthew scooped her up and steadied her. He raised one arm to try and cover her head. “Carl’s brickyard is just ahead. We’ll go there.”

“Ow!” Alice cried, throwing her hands above her head. Matthew winced too as his arms were suddenly peppered with stinging blows. The hail was no longer just snow pellets but hard little ice balls, about the size of a pea. It was as though a thousand little devils were cracking tiny whips on the surface of their skin. Matthew looked up, trying to see how far they were. And then he saw the round dark shape off to their right. “There!” he cried, pointing. “We’re here! Take cover!”

“No!” cried Jenny. “We’ve got to get home. Kathryn will be—” Her words were cut off by a cry of pain. A larger hailstone struck her directly on the bridge of her nose. One hand flew up to grasp the spot. Tears of pain sprang to her eyes. When she withdrew her hand, her nose was bleeding from a shallow scratch.

“Run!” Matthew exclaimed, taking Alice by one hand and Jenny by the other. There was no protest on Jenny’s part now. It was as though the gods above had emptied their buckets of the pea-sized gravel and had gone to the next larger size. Hailstones the size of marbles were drumming around them now, cutting leaves from the trees above them, turning the puddles into violent, churning cauldrons. Already the ground was whitening with a layer of summer “snow.” Every blow stung sharply now, even through their clothing.

They ducked behind the shelter of the nearest brick kiln, but it provided only marginal protection. A few feet away was one of the drying sheds. The hail on the wood shingles sounded like the roar of a great waterfall. Matthew reached it in three great leaps, threw open the door, and dragged the two women inside.

They leaned over, gasping for breath, water streaming from their hair down into their faces. Alice’s bonnet hung around her neck like a child’s washrag. Jenny’s was gone completely. Matthew was standing at the door, staring out in dumbfounded amazement. “Look!” he commanded.

The women came to stand beside him. What he was looking at was hailstones the size of hen’s eggs. Now it was not the rattle of a hundred drummers on the roof but that of a thousand rifles blasting off all at once. Limbs were stripped from the trees and whipped away by the wind. Across the street, through the hail, a cornfield looked as though it were being shredded by invisible hands. Above the roar he heard the terrified neighing of a horse.

He moved forward a little, putting one hand above his head. “You stay here,” he said to Jenny. “Don’t leave until it stops.” But before he could move, there was a sharp crash behind them. They whirled to see one of the windows along the north end of the building shatter and spray glass along the floor.
Crack!
A second window exploded inward, followed by a large hailstone which bounced off the low counter and onto the floor.

“No, Matthew!” Jenny cried, turning back to grab his arm. “You can’t go out in this.”

Matthew started to pull away, then looked at the devastation being wreaked all around them. He stepped back, staring out at the storm. “What about Kathryn?” he asked.

Jenny just looked away, shaking her head.

“I’m scared, Kathryn,” Betsy Jo whined, burying her head against Kathryn’s shoulder. Outside, the storm was raging. The almost constant crash of thunder now was virtually drowned out by the roar of the hail on the roof.

Kathryn didn’t dare touch Betsy Jo with her hands. They were shaking so badly she was afraid it would frighten her all the more. “I know,” she said, “I know. It’s all right, Betsy Jo. It won’t hurt us. It’s just loud and noisy.”

She turned again to the trundle bed, steeling herself to reach down and pick up the baby, who was wide awake and starting to whimper. There was a sharp crack and then the sound of shattering glass. Betsy Jo screamed in terror. Kathryn jerked up so violently she nearly turned the wheelchair over. Instantly the curtains were dancing wildly and a blast of cold, wet air swept through the room. The baby started to shriek.

Kathryn threw her arms around her body, hugging herself fiercely to try and regain control. Tears streamed down her cheeks and she wanted to fall to the floor and roll under the bed. She forced herself to straighten. “It’s all right! It’s all right!” she stammered. She had to shout to make herself heard over the tremendous noise of the storm. “Help me get the baby up, Betsy Jo! Come on, help me!” She didn’t realize that she was sobbing, walking the very edge of hysteria herself.

But the sharpness of her voice was enough to pull Betsy Jo out of her own terror. She stepped up to the bed and together they leaned over and lifted the baby up and put her into Kathryn’s lap. It was almost more than Kathryn could do to hold little Emmeline on her lap, her body was shaking so badly.

Though it was still an hour or so from sunset, the house was as dark as though it were eventide. Suddenly, every room in the house was lit brightly by a terrible flash. Instantly there was a tremendous blast of sound and the house shook from rafter to root cellar. Betsy Jo dropped to her knees, screaming at the top of her little-girl lungs. Her face was contorted and twisted in sheer terror. But Kathryn couldn’t help her. She was clutching the baby, fighting her own blind panic, and it was taking every effort of will not to drop the baby and throw her hands over her eyes. “Help me, Jenny!” she cried, her voice sounding much like that of Betsy Jo’s. “Please, Jenny! Please!”

In the next room the front door crashed open. Kathryn started, thinking the wind had blown the door open. There was another blinding flash and she clamped her eyes shut tightly, fighting to stop from screaming out herself. One more paralyzing flash and she would be undone, leaving these two children to fend for themselves.

She opened her eyes again and gave a little cry. There in the doorway to her bedroom stood Peter. He was soaked to the skin, his shirt stuck to his chest as if it had been dipped in paste. His hair was wildly disheveled and dripping water. His boots looked twice their normal size, so plastered with mud were they. In three leaps he was across the room and dropping to his knees beside her. He put his arms around her. “It’s all right, Kathryn. I’m here. I’m here.”

She stared at him as though he were an apparition; then, with a racking sob, she threw one arm out to him. “Peter! Oh, Peter!”

“It’s all right. It’s all right,” he soothed. “I’m here now. Everything is all right.” He moved around the chair and scooped up Betsy Jo. “It’s me, little Betsy Boo! It’s Peter.”

Peter came to the house to read to Kathryn or just to visit two or three times a week now. He and Betsy Jo were the best of friends. At three now, she wouldn’t stand for the nickname she had been given as a child—except from Peter. With a look of pure joy, she threw her arms around his neck and thrust her face against his shoulder.

“Are you all right?” Peter asked, reaching out with one hand to lay it over Kathryn’s trembling arm.

“The window,” she started, pointing numbly, wanting to act as though there was at least some semblance of control still left in her.

“I know. The hail broke several windows at the printing office too. But it’s all right. I’m here now.”

And then for the first time, she really looked at him. There was a small cut just below his left eye. Another one on his forehead. A third lower on the opposite cheek. The blood had been half washed away, but a fresh trickle was starting down his cheek. And then she looked down and gasped. His arm looked as though he had thrust it into a rosebush. There were half a dozen cuts, all bleeding and mingling with the wetness of his arm.