Secret Hearts

by J. L. Jarvis

  Chapter 26

  Maggie clung to her crude raft as the water slowed. She was better able to look about her. Houses, buildings, trains, all were broken and brown. There were no more colors, no more feelings but cold. Her dress had been torn from her. Her underclothes hung in tatters from her miry body. Wreckage piled up against overturned buildings. Something bumped against her. She looked to see an old woman float by with her eyes wide open. She had no legs. Maggie shuddered. It was the end of her world. She wanted to cry, but the tears wouldn't come. It was too much. No more. Let the water carry her where it would.

  Voices grew louder. Voices. Maggie looked up to find she had drifted alongside one of the few buildings standing. Amid the rows of dark windows, people waved and called out to her. One of them threw her a length of rope. Again and again they threw the rope. It landed short, then wide. After three tries, she caught it and was pulled in through a window, where she collapsed on the floor in a puddle of watery mud.

  Alma Hall had withstood the flood and now housed over two hundred and fifty people. Maggie lay drained of feeling or thought, except to rest. When she woke, she remembered Jake. The nightmare was real. Was Jake gone? How could he have survived? Beth and Robin. She had to look for them. She dragged herself to her feet and wandered through the building, looking at face after face blank with horror, and none of them Beth or Robin or Jake. Bruised and battered, she crawled to a corner. Then the chill set in. Wet to the bone, she shivered along with the others. Strange, bewildered faces and half-naked bodies sprawled all about in the dark room. The injured lay at one end, in agony. There was no medicine to ease the suffering, no blankets for the cold. Hopelessness hovered with the patience of death. There was nothing to do but wait the night out.

  Outside, the water was slowing. Only muted sounds drifted in through the window. An eerie hush cloaked the valley where only an occasional flame from a spilled oil lamp or leaking gas flickered against its ghostly reflection in the lapping water. Maggie leaned numbly against a wall and stared through the window at the static night sky. Underneath her frayed senses was a heart that would rip in two as soon as it was able once more to feel. But she couldn't feel yet, not when everyone and everything around her had touched death and still smelled of destruction. So she curled up against a wall and blocked her ears from the gentle moaning and whimpering in the hollow room. She closed her eyes to the memories of the day, and she rested in the void of the sleepless night, content to feel nothing. Bleak as the night was, numbness was better than the feelings that would follow.

  Beth smelled soap and felt the warmth of a wet cloth against her face. She heard voices.

  “When is she going to wake up?”

  “I don’t know. We have to be patient.”

  “Mommy, please wake up.”

  “Robin?”

  She couldn’t see, and was only beginning to move.

  “Robin’s here. She’s okay.”

  “Eben?”

  “Yes.”

  “Am I going to die?”

  “No, you’re not going to die,” Eben said. But how close she had come.

  “Will I see you again?” She fell asleep before he could answer.

  Eben Wakefield smiled and stroked Beth’s forehead. “If you want to.” He smoothed the blanket around Beth’s shoulders and watched her rest.

  “Robin?” Beth looked about.

  Eben took a cooking pan off the fire and hurried to her side. He said, “Robin, look who’s here.”

  His voice sounded so loud. Light shone from the window behind him and framed his face with an aura.

  Robin rushed inside and knelt beside her mother. “Mama?”

  “Robin.” Her name was a sigh and a smile as she slid back into her dreams.

  She later awoke to find herself in the only bed inside a small rustic cabin. Her leg ached terribly. She was wearing a man’s shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

  “Hank?”

  “We don’t know yet. When you’re better, we’ll make inquiries. For now, let’s just get you well.”

  The memories came back in flashes, out of sequence. A face in the water. Cold gripping fingers. The fear.

  A person who’d come so close to death should have been glad to survive. But the feel of the other side was too close. It clung to her like a reminder that death was never far away. Of course she had faith that Heaven was waiting, but she wasn’t quite ready to prove it. She had too much to do first.

  Beth said, “I need to go home.”

  “You will. But you need to rest now.”

  “I can rest at home.” Her eyes dropped. And then she remembered. “I don’t have a home. It’s gone.”

  Mr. Wakefield said, “The only way out of here is on foot, and you’re not going anywhere on that foot,” he said, nodding toward her splinted leg. So you might as well relax; you’ll be here for a while.

  “It’s too much. I can’t ask—”

  “You’re not asking. I’m telling. Now lie back and rest and I’ll bring you some breakfast.”

  He had gentle eyes. Beth felt almost at home here.

  “Good then. It’s settled,” he said. He set his hand over hers and squeezed it, then rose and returned to his cooking.

  “Mr. Wakefield?” Beth’s eyes filled with tears. “Thank you.”

  He turned his gentle eyes toward her, and she felt his compassion. It comforted her as she sank into sleep.

  The days in the cabin were peaceful. Safe in the mountains above the devastated valley, Beth rested. Robin played quietly outside. She made dolls out of pinecones and seemed to forget the horror of what she had survived. Sometimes she would ask about her father and Maggie. Beth didn't lie, but she let her hang onto hope.

  But she worried, as well. What if Maggie was looking for her? And Hank, too. They wouldn't know if she was alive or dead. And then the thought came to her. It seduced her. If she were dead—if Hank thought she was dead—she could leave him. She could walk away and keep on walking, away from Hank, and he would never know to look for her. Oh, the freedom of life without Hank! The idea enticed her. To be free from Hank. Then Robin walked in and the dream turned to vapor.

  On the third morning, Mr. Wakefield left for town on foot. In the late afternoon, he returned with clothing, milk, bread, cheese and a small collection of canned goods.

  Beth watched him walk inside but did not give voice to her question. Bad news would wait.

  “Maggie’s alive,” he said.

  A tiny, choked sigh came from Beth’s throat. “You’ve seen her?”

  “No, but they’ve set up a Registry Bureau near the schoolhouse, where they’re gathering names of survivors. Her name was listed there. I’ve added yours and Robin’s.”

  “And Hank?”

  “They’ve only just begun collecting names. Give it time.”

  Beth’s face grew dull. “What about Maeve, and Jake—the O’Neills?”

  Mr. Wakefield’s voice was even and direct. “Their names weren't on the list.”

  Beth nodded. Not Maeve and the children. No more grief. She couldn’t bear it. She could only feel weary. She curled up facing the wall and went to sleep.

  Evening fell. Beth awoke. Robin was tucked into her blanket on the floor. Beth slowly rose and hobbled over to join Mr. Wakefield where he sat by the fire. He leapt to his feet and circled her waist with a supporting arm. With his hands under her arms, he eased her gently to sit down. The trees outside were but shadows against a darkening haze. Inside the tiny cabin, Beth felt nothing. For now that was a relief. She leaned back and watched the fire with Eben.

  “I wanted to leave; just leave Hank here, leave everything and let him think I was dead.”

  Eben turned his head sharply but watched her with interest.

  She lifted her eyes to meet his. “But I couldn’t do it.”

  His mouth turned up only a bit, so it couldn't quite be described as a smile. He got up and stoked the fire. Beth studied him when he couldn't see her. His hands and ar
ms were lean and strong enough. He moved with facile assurance. He needed a shave, but his sand-colored hair was straight, starting to thin, and quite orderly.

  “I did it.” He glanced back over his shoulder, and then got up. “I ran away once,” he said, as he dusted his hands off and sat back down in his chair. He watched the fire. In that steady gaze, Beth saw what looked like disappointment, which she understood too well.

  “And here I am,” he said.

  “I suspect there is more to that story,” she said, wanting to know but unwilling to pry.

  They smiled at each other and lapsed into easy silence. Beth did not press for more. She wouldn't stir up his sorrow just to satisfy her own curiosity. It was enough to sit here and stare into the flames together. It was peaceful and warm.

  One by one they climbed out of Alma Hall, Maggie and the others, over a pathway of sometimes shifting debris to higher ground. Maggie’s eyes took in the vast destruction, but her assaulted senses had ceased to respond with emotion. Buildings that used to be homes were overturned and tossed aside and covered with the cold and the damp, which she felt to the bone. And the bodies—she couldn't allow herself to think of the bodies—that used to be lives. Parents and children and futures lay lost. And lovers.

  Maggie spent days looking for Jake, searching, questioning. Others were finding each other. But not Maggie. She was alone. Beth and Robin were on the list of survivors, but they were nowhere to be found. With so many bodies, so many lives lost, mistakes were made. She was afraid to believe they were alive without seeing them. Temporary hospitals were set up in several locations, and Maggie visited every one and found no one. After five days of searching, despair engulfed her.

  Dressed in donated clothing, Maggie handed a note to a volunteer at the registry office, in case someone came by and inquired about her. She headed for the station, to take a train to Pittsburgh, where she’d heard there were places for flood victims.

  She stood on the platform as the Pittsburgh train approached. The sound of the train whistle jarred her. The same whistle had sounded before the flood came and tore her life apart. What sort of survival was this, to be left to grieve all alone?

  The train was coming into the station, slowing and nearing, its rhythm drawn out. Steel beating steel grew louder. It filled her ears, drowning out her own silent cries. It drew closer, and she did the same. Her toes met the edge of the platform. She turned toward it. The looming engine was almost upon her. And she knew in that instant her grief could be ended. Her heart could stop its raw, painful pounding with one easy step.

  Chapter 27

  Strong hands clamped onto her arms and held her back as the train pulled into the station and hissed to a stop.

  “Are you alright, Miss?”

  Maggie turned to find a porter eyeing her with a troubled demeanor. She looked blankly at him. “Yes, I’m fine.” She spoke softly. She knew she was not. He released her arms but continued to watch her with concern. She felt as though she were lost.

  “Are you sure, Miss?” He searched her face.

  She regarded him. “Yes.” She wasn't herself, and she knew it. The porter had just saved her life. She was suddenly grateful. Only then did she know that a lost part of her still wanted to live. She looked at the porter but couldn't find the right words. She said only, “Thank you.”

  He looked at her, this stranger, and seemed to understand even if she did not. Something in her satisfied him. With a heartening nod, he turned away and resumed his duties. Maggie boarded the train.

  Six Days Earlier

  * * *

  Jake burst to the surface of the dark water and gulped for air. A shadowy mass skimmed by him as he fought to stay afloat. Grabbing hold of a broken plank, he rode the angry current on a collision course with a jagged mountain of ruins backed up against the Stone Bridge, more than thirty acres in size. With death all around him, Jake knew his time could come, and this seemed a likely place. People were trapped by accumulating rubble, their mouths open in screams he couldn't hear for the roar of pounding water and burning wreckage.

  He braced himself to meet death, but the water swerved and sucked him through an opening in the mass and on down the river. Helplessly tossed about by wild waters, Jake was pounded and jabbed by objects and bodies. He used every bit of his strength to hang on and not get sucked under the water. He clung to the board as the wild current swept him twelve miles down the river to the town of Nineveh. There he was pulled to shore half conscious, arm broken, ribs battered, and a throbbing knot on his head.

  Folks from the nearby hills had gathered all along the river to do what they could, pulling one after the other from the cresting water of the Conemaugh River. Jake was one of the lucky ones pulled out alive.

  He awoke the next day on the porch of a shack sheltering a handful of other survivors. A woman with wiry gray hair and a smile missing teeth offered Jake a tin cup of oily coffee, which he drank, only peripherally aware of the hot liquid as it warmed his throat and chest. He looked about at his companions, all dull-eyed and shivering in this dank new world in which they found themselves. He didn't remember falling asleep, but he must have, for he was told he had slept two days before he awoke and tried to leave.

  He finished his coffee and stood, but dizziness overpowered him, and he had to sit down. His head felt like the throbbing would break it, and his ribs were a jagged vise about his lungs. With shallow breaths he sat and willed the pain to leave, but it wouldn't. He gathered his strength and braced himself to endure another effort to stand, but he lasted mere moments, and then sank to the porch. Walking was beyond imagining. And so he stayed on the porch of this shack, along with a handful of other survivors, determined to gather strength for the journey back home.

  For three days he slept and rested and thought through each step of the twelve-mile journey home, how he would follow the tracks of the Pennsylvania Railroad like the tramp he now appeared to be. His clothes had been torn off in the water, and he now wore an old pair of trousers and a worn flannel shirt from a pile of clothing his hosts had collected from neighbors. Though they continued to smell like the previous owner, he was grateful to have any clothing at all.

  Five days after the flood, Jake stepped off the porch and began to walk away from Ninevah. Each step demanded attention. One step, then the other, each one set waves of pain through his head. His body grew weak, but his will was relentless. And so he moved forward. Even one step was progress.

  Along riverbank, and then the railroad tracks, the scene grew brighter as sun tried to shine on unspeakable sights he would wish to forget. The unlikely sound of laughter crackled through the air. Gathered around a half dozen barrels were some men, perhaps a dozen, drinking from pails, tin cans and cupped hands. Their eyes glowed with pickled contentment as they drank whiskey from barrels that the flood had fortuitously washed up.

  A ruddy-faced man squinted at Jake and eyed his bruised face and stooped posture. “Where you from?”

  Jake took a proffered drink. “Johnstown.”

  The man eyed Jake and said, “Carried all the way down here, were you?”

  Jake gave a somber nod and took another gulp. The whiskey warmed his chilled body and dulled the pain. He could have stayed here, warm and numb, but he willed himself to stand. After another drink, he walked on, through the pain and fatigue, thinking only of taking each step that would bring him to Maggie. She had to be there. He refused to think otherwise. She would be there, and he would find her.

  He walked. A breath, a step, a stabbing pain. The rhythm repeated. Mud soaked all that had not washed away. It filled the water and covered the land and everything on it. Downed telegraph lines and splintered poles blocked his path, but he climbed and stumbled and trudged through the brown sludge and over debris until he found his way to the railroad tracks that had been cleared of obstructions left by the flood. From far down the tracks, a train whistle sounded. He flinched at the sound—the same sound he had heard just before the flood hit. But the
storm was over. This was only a train.

  Maggie sat at her train window seat and stared at the valley that was no longer her home. Home was now refuse, washed away into piles of oozing filth, mired in the mud with the lives now gone. She observed people bending to scrounge for remnants of their own or other people’s lives, salvaging what objects they could. How could they toil in the bleak world before them when she could barely move?

  Another survivor plodded alongside the tracks back toward Johnstown. Maggie was weary of seeing them, destitute souls in their ragged clothing. She wanted to be in a world where the flood had not happened. She wanted to cry out to him, “There is nothing back there!” Then she was passing beside him. He lifted his eyes to the train. Unshaven and beaten as it was, one glimpse was enough.

  “Jake?” she whispered, pulse racing, and repeated it until she was on her feet, leaning against the window and pounding. She ran back through the car, leaning over passengers, pounding on windows, trying to see him and call out to him. The door to the next car stuck at first, and then opened. Rushing to an open window, she leaned her head out and screamed back to him, but she could scarcely hear her own voice above the clattering train as it rumbled away. The wind whipped loose strands of hair against her face.

  “Miss,” said the porter.

  Maggie whipped her head toward him. Her eyes were wild. “Stop the train!”

  He spoke gently, as if to a child. “We can’t do that, Miss.”