Free Three Rivers Rising by Jame Richards Page B

saved what I could,
what matters:
I look further uphill
to my babies,
who watch with interest
but without understanding.
Kind neighbors
and the helpful stranger
hold them safe,
but their wide eyes
and outstretched arms
say they want only me.
And Joseph.
The town below
is beyond their concern.
    We work our way toward them.
I reach for them
with a need to kiss every inch
and cling
and weep
and rejoice
that we all made it out alive.
And that we’re together.
    Kate
    3:45 p.m .
    It’s a thirty-foot wave when it hits,
taking apart section one of the Day Express .
The cars swirl off with the water;
some catch fire.
    The big roundhouse where trains are stored
deflects the flood
for section two of the Day Express .
The flood moves the train cars forward
and back on the track,
fills and empties them of water,
but no one from section two is harmed
except for those
who tried to run.
One man has a cane and a limp.
    Another fellow carries him
for a stretch,
but drops him
to make the hill
with only a second to spare.
    The mail train itself
is trapped under a fallen telegraph tower,
which keeps it from being swept on down the valley.
    The baggage master doesn’t make it to the hill,
but climbs on one of the train yard’s engines.
When the water moves on,
the one he chose is the only train yard engine left standing,
the others toppled,
or strewn about.
Everyone from the mail train survives.
    Maura
    3:53 p.m .
Joseph and I form a circle
around the children
on the muddy slope.
I check every limb for soundness
over and over again,
count every finger and toe
the way I did when they were born.
The baby sleeps.
The girls hide their faces in their father’s shoulders.
The oldest can’t stop crying and hiccupping.
His face is hot and streaked,
but his eyes are fresh out of tears.
His open mouth against my neck,
he grabs a hank of my hair
too hard,
like he’ll never let go.
And I don’t want him to,
no matter how much it hurts.
Terror has broken my heart
in two:
equal parts
bitter and sweet.

    3:55 p.m .
When the beast has roared past,
the relative quiet
is too loud.
    Watching the tail of it
whip toward Johnstown,
we know it isn’t over yet
for our neighbors below,
where the population is greater.
    Those of us
so grateful to be safe on the hillside
are silent with prayer
for the people of Johnstown
in their last moments of not knowing.
    Kate
    3:55 p.m .
Looking back
at what is left of East Conemaugh,
knowing the need
will be greatest in Johnstown proper,
I hurry down the line,
up on the ridge,
quick as the mud and fallen trees allow.

Johnstown
    Celestia
    4:00 p.m .
Johnstown appears shut down
with rain.
I abandon my craving for fresh bread
and turn back,
empty-handed,
soaked to the waist.
    “Peter, the rivers are rising.
The streets are canals.
People are poling skiffs!”
I wring out my skirts and coat as I stand on the doorstep.
Peter grins. “Welcome to Johnstown.”
    “Some families are moving to higher ground.”
“This is how it is
to live in a valley
where three rivers cross paths.”
    “But your neighbors say it has never been this high before.”
“Water comes up to the front step
but it never comes in the door.” He takes my coat
and spreads it over the rocker by the fire.
    I rub my hands near the stove
but cannot shake the chill. “I have a bad feeling.”
“Are you thinking about
the dam?” Peter shakes out a blanket
around my shoulders and bundles it under my chin.
    “What if the dam really is flawed?”
“Didn’t you say yourself they’d fix it
if it needed fixing?” Peter smiles and studies my face.
    “What if they just don’t know very much about dams?”
“They’d hire somebody that knows about dams. Right?”
“Well, supposedly they did .” I shrug the blanket tighter.
“Club members are powerful men,” he says.
“They wouldn’t be who they are
if they didn’t handle their affairs responsibly.”
Peter wraps my hands
around a hot mug of broth.
Twists of steam sting my cheeks
and cloud my eyes.
I