by Jaime Maddox
Chapter Five
Total Devastation, June 30, 1972
A week.
Seven interminable days of waiting for the river to recede and the roads to be cleared. One hundred sixty-eight hours, give or take, of watching television accounts of the flooding on the news, wondering what blows the river had dealt to their home, what had become of their friends and neighbors. From the safety of her grandmother’s childhood home in the mountains they watched the devastation that Agnes brought to the Wyoming Valley. The city of Wilkes-Barre was buried, with eighteen feet of water on Public Square. Sandy had been there with Jeannie just a few days earlier to see A Clockwork Orange. They had snuck into the Paramount Theater and then treated themselves to a slice of pizza at the lunch counter at Kresge. Across the river in a cemetery in Forty Fort, two thousand coffins had been unearthed and bodies were seen floating, coming to rest on rooftops and inside homes. It was thought these bodies would never be identified again, for if dental records had existed before the flood, there was a good chance they had been washed away, too. Bridges were washed out, their massive steel frames twisted and bent like toy models. Up and down the valley, from Pittston to Shickshinny, the destruction was unimaginable.
On the news they saw helicopter footage of the flooding and knew what they would find upon their return home would be awful. Just how awful remained to be seen. Congressman Dan Flood promised help to the citizens whose homes and businesses were destroyed, and President Nixon toured the area, avoiding questions about the break-in at the Watergate Hotel as he focused on his mission to help the two hundred thousand homeless people Agnes had left behind.
While Sandy watched the television constantly, she kept her ear on the phone. Jeannie hadn’t called. Many phone lines were down and the calls she’d placed to Jeannie’s aunt’s house hadn’t gone through. Pacing and pulling her hair, Sandy thought the waiting would drive her mad.
For days after the water receded, they had been warned to keep out. The safety of bridges had to be verified, debris blocked roadways, power and phone lines were down. Spilled oil and gas and sewage created further trouble. There was concern for disease from typhus and tetanus and whatever grew in the blanket of mud that cloaked the Wyoming Valley. Finally, after days of worry, sleeping and eating just enough to survive, they received a call from Joe Sneck, West Nanticoke’s fire chief. Her grandparents had both been active in the community, and raising money for the local fire and ambulance squad had forged a friendship between the elder Parkers and the chief. He’d promised to call Nellie when it was okay to return home.
Sandy was frantic to speak with Mr. Sneck. Perhaps he had some news of the Bennetts. The fear that something was wrong had taken hold of Sandy, and with each tick of the clock her anguish intensified.
Watching closely as her grandmother listened to the chief, Sandy could tell the news was bad. Even so, she couldn’t have imagined the devastation that had occurred in her hometown. She took the phone from her grandmother when it was proffered and introduced herself. “How’s our house?” she asked.
“It’s gone. Your house is gone,” the chief responded. He sounded indifferent, but Sandy later realized that he was in shock from all he’d seen. Even though she’d been watching news of the flood on their television, Sandy couldn’t comprehend what he was telling her. “What are you talking about?”
“The house was torn from the foundation and washed away. There’s nothing left.”
“You’re joking, right? That can’t really happen.”
“I wish I was, young lady. This is something the likes of which I’ve never seen.”
“What about the Bennetts’ house?”
“Gone. I don’t know how Helen will get through this without Paul.”
Her heart seemed to stop and Sandy felt light-headed. She slumped to the floor, for the phone in the farmhouse was on a wall in the kitchen a good distance from the table. His words rang in Sandy’s ears. Without Paul.
“What happened to Mr. Bennett, Chief?” Sandy knew instinctively that the answer to that question would solve the mystery of why she hadn’t heard from Jeannie.
“A car accident. The rain, I guess. They hit another car head-on. Paul was killed instantly.”
“Chief, what about Jeannie?”
“One of the girls was hurt pretty bad, I’m not sure which one.” He might not have known, but Sandy did. It was the only explanation for Jeannie not calling her. She pressed him for more details, but he didn’t have any.
Three hours later, Sandy was standing in a foot of mud next to a hole in the ground that was once the cellar of her home. She had pleaded hysterically for her uncle Arthur to take her home, and when he refused, she’d grabbed his car keys from the hook by the door and essentially stolen his car.
She didn’t have a driver’s license, and she’d never driven on a road, but she understood the principles since Chaz Grabowski had let her drive his car in the church parking lot a few times. She had no money, no purse, no wallet. None of that mattered. She needed to get information, and for that, she needed to get home.
The children in the backseat don’t have to memorize the route the driver takes, but luckily Sandy had. The drive from Arthur’s house to her own home seemed to take hours under normal circumstances, and today was even worse. She had no map but knew enough to wind her way south through the mountains, staying high up above the area where flooding had occurred. News reports warned of blocked roads, washed-out bridges, and treacherous driving conditions. They had warned all unnecessary persons to stay out of the flood zone.
Sandy felt it was necessary for her to be there. She drove Route 904 through Lake Ariel and followed it all the way to White Haven. She weaved through Mountaintop, down Alden Mountain, and into Nanticoke before she found any signs that Agnes had been there. Concentrating on driving gave her a headache, and her grip on the steering wheel caused her hands to cramp so badly she was forced to pull over to rest for a few minutes. This driving wasn’t as easy as she thought it would be.
She didn’t notice the traffic or the roads or the trees, but when she reached Nanticoke, she couldn’t help notice. The road was covered with mud and debris, and was nearly impassable. Lower Broadway was in chaos, with homes knocked off their foundations and toppled. Sandy’s grandmother owned a dozen houses here, and since her grandfather’s death it had been Sandy’s job to collect the rent. During the warm weather, she would ride her bicycle, knocking on doors and walking away with the rent money—all in cash. It was a wonder no one had ever robbed her. Now all of these families would be without homes, and from the destruction she witnessed, it would be a long time—if ever—before Lower Broadway was restored.
Mud was everywhere, with national guardsmen walking along roadsides piled with the debris they’d cleared so cars could squeak through. People scurried around, talking to neighbors and guardsmen, beginning the impossible task of getting their homes and lives back in order.
Allen’s Scrapyard didn’t look so bad—it always looked muddy to her. Spencer’s Junkyard was filled with muddy cars, and the windowpane at Swither’s Gas Station served as a marker for the floodwater. Three-quarters of the way up, the glass was coated in mud, and then the glass became clear. She was afraid of what she’d see if she looked inside.
Across the bridge, it was even worse. West Nanticoke, once a beautiful town of quaint houses beside the Susquehanna, was destroyed. From one end to the other, houses had been knocked off their foundations. The ones that still stood were without windows, doors pulled from their hinges, awnings and porches swept from the dwellings by the swift current of river water. In the heart of town, water had reached the second story of these homes and businesses. Norm Faux’s service station was still standing, but with windows and doors knocked out. The Parembas’ and Grabowskis’and Deemers’ and Starks’ homes were still standing, but in filth. Bevan’s Furniture Store no longer had windows, and inside gas ranges were piled upon soggy sofas, the ceiling hanging down on top of it al
l. Across the street, the huge Victorian that overlooked Harvey’s Creek had burned from the roof to the waterline above the first-floor windows. Price’s Gas Station pumps were ripped from the ground. A huge plastic tire, at least ten feet tall, once beckoning customers into the garage for car repair, had been washed through the plate-glass window of the office.
The entrance to Canal Street was barricaded at the north end, and as she drove farther to approach from the south she couldn’t believe her eyes. The giant ice-cream cone that had beckoned customers from the roof of Farrell’s had been been washed away and was caught in the branches of a tree. The ice-cream shop itself was a pile of rubble. She pulled over next to it and parked, for the southern entrance of Canal Street, across Route 11 from Farrell’s, was closed as well.
She ran from her car, across Route 11 and up the bank of the railroad tracks that shielded Canal Street from the main road. That bank and the trees lining it obstructed her view. Sandy labored up the muddy incline, slipping near the top, and looked up as she regained her balance. Then she dropped to her knees.
The chief wasn’t lying. Her house was gone. So was Jeannie’s. Someone else’s house was on the road near where hers once sat, collapsed on itself with such force that the chimney had disintegrated into a pile of bricks. Despite the fact that she’d lived on this street for fourteen years, she couldn’t tell whose house it was. It was white, but so were half the houses on the block. Trees were uprooted and lay broken in yards and on porches. Sitting on the railroad tracks she surveyed the street where she had spent most of her life and began to cry.
It looked like a crazy person had gone berserk and begun throwing things all over. Here clothing and a bicycle in the branches of a tree. There an overturned car. A sofa sat in a swimming pool of mud. Mud, mud, mud everywhere, with strange things sprouting from beneath, like warped plants in a horror film. Toys, furniture, appliances, books, unidentifiable debris—in some places scattered, and in others arranged in piles.
Sandy sighed. No way could she let her grandmother see this. Her grandmother couldn’t get through it. Yes, she was spirited. She was a hard worker. She had an unyielding faith in God. But she was approaching sixty years old, and she didn’t have the strength to clean up and start over, to rebuild a house that would be empty in a year when Sandy left for New York. Nellie would have been fine living here without Sandy, in the home she loved, with the memories of her son and her husband to keep her company. She had once owned a beautiful home, had nice neighbors, on a quiet, tree-lined cobblestone street along the river. And now it was gone.
The vision before her was so devastating that for a moment Sandy forgot why she’d come here. Then she wiped her eyes on her shirtsleeve and stood up. She needed to find Jeannie.
She saw people down the road, where homes still stood, and walked along the railroad tracks until she reached them. She paid no mind to the shoes on her feet that would be ruined as she made her way across the Hannahs’ yard. Mr. Hannah was there with some men who Sandy didn’t recognize. She greeted him and although she had known him her entire life, it appeared he didn’t recognize her. He, too, was in shock.
She had to introduce herself. “Have you heard about the Bennetts?”
He shook his head. “I can’t believe it. On top of this,” he said, gesturing at the destruction surrounding him. He confirmed Paul Bennett’s death, but knew no other details. He didn’t know how Jeannie had fared in the car crash that claimed her father’s life, or even what hospital she should check. Nor did anyone else who Sandy met.
She walked through the yards of her neighbors, back toward the place where her own house once stood. She asked everyone she met, from neighbors crying in anguish to strangers just there to gawk, but no one could help her to find Jeannie. Pausing at the hole in the ground that had been Jeannie’s house, she began to cry again. This was so very awful, and she was so very sad for all the people whose lives this flood had changed forever. She cried for all the things she knew Jeannie would miss in this place—the front-porch swing and the tree house, the widow’s walk along the front, the bedroom that afforded a view of the river and mountains. Jeannie’s quilt had been sewn by her grandmother, and together she and Jeannie had painted the room to match it. It was somewhat loud, but perfect for her. The court where they once played basketball in the backyard by the tracks wasn’t visible under the mud. The flowerbed where their friendship had blossomed so long ago was washed away with everything else.
With difficulty, picking up shoes and pants weighted down by mud, careful not to fall in this wasteland, Sandy walked another hundred yards to her own backyard and looked around. The debris she saw didn’t look familiar. A milk jug might have been theirs, but she didn’t recognize the coffee can or the toaster oven, the box of cereal or the record player.
Nothing else was there. Everything was gone. She thought of the furniture, some of it older than Nellie, given to her by her parents and grandparents. The brass bed that her father had slept in. The four-poster bed that had been hers, where she and Jeannie had explored their passion. The cuckoo clock that hung in the stairwell, driving Sandy crazy with its hourly cries. The hardwood floors and crown molding, pocket doors and the built-in ironing board in the kitchen. And the photographs. Her grandparents’ wedding photo, sitting proudly on the piano beside her dad’s graduation picture. The albums of photos chronicling not just her life, but the lives of generations of her family. She thought of the rooms of the house—the big kitchen and the formal dining room, the grand family room with a view of the river, where her grandfather had played the piano and her grandmother had sat beside him, singing songs they both loved.
How she would miss this house, but it would be so much worse for Nellie. For Sandy this had only been a stop on her journey, but for Nellie it had been the final destination. Her grandmother’s heart would be broken, and Sandy didn’t know what she could do to help her. The only thing she knew now was that she had to find Jeannie.
Chapter Six
The Hospital
Stopping at the bank looking like she did seemed inappropriate, but Sandy had no choice. Her upper half was okay, but her pants were splattered with mud and caked from the knees down. She felt uncomfortable until she saw the other patrons in the lobby. Half of them were in the same shape, and a line of them extended through the great marble-lined common area and nearly out the big glass doors. The manager, Mr. Kimble, was walking through the crowd, patting some customers on the back and nodding sympathetically as he listened to their tales of tragedy.
After Sandy explained about losing her passbook in the flood, the teller helped her fill out the necessary paperwork to withdraw her money. Apparently many other customers were experiencing the same problem and, having lost all proof of their savings, had come to the bank in fear that their money would be lost in addition to their homes and businesses. Verifying her identity was easy—Sandy knew everyone at the bank. Since her grandfather had passed away, she had not only been responsible for collecting the rent payments, but she had also been the one depositing them into her grandmother’s checking account at the bank. Her signature on the form was all the formality necessary to withdraw money. She took all of it, every penny she and Jeannie had been saving for their life in New York. Right now, New York was a long way away. She thought of her grandmother’s needs as well. A good amount of her cash was in this bank. How easy would it be for Nellie to get back here? Since Sandy’s name had been added to the accounts after her grandfather’s death, she had access to that money as well. After a moment’s debate, Sandy withdrew a thousand dollars for her grandmother.
She’d seen piles of money before—stored in boxes in her attic—but she’d never felt the weight of it in her hands. That she was carrying over two thousand dollars—practically the cost of a new car, and enough to pay her first year’s college tuition—was dizzying. How much more had been washed, in Buster Brown shoe boxes, down the river? The number was staggering.
Immediately upon exitin
g the bank she entered the building that stood beside it. The Leader Store was a small general store where she knew she’d find something suitable to wear. She dumped her dirty shoes and picked up a new pair, as well as a change of clothing. She couldn’t very well go traipsing about the local hospitals in search of Jeannie looking like she’d been playing in the mud. She cleaned up nicely in the restroom and tossed the dirty clothing into the trash can. Not looking good, but at least improved, she climbed into Arthur’s car and began the search for her lover.
Nanticoke Hospital was the first stop, the closest. They had been born there, but now the hospital had no record of Jeannie. The operator on duty was sympathetic and helpful. Two local hospitals had been closed, but Wyoming Valley and Wilkes-Barre General were filling the gap, and it was likely Jeannie had been taken to one or the other.
Staying on the high ground on the east side of the Susquehanna, Sandy found passable but congested roads. The entire valley was forced to travel this route. The logical first stop was at Wyoming Valley Hospital, since it was closer. The solitary building sat atop a hill in the Heights section of Wilkes-Barre, far above the flood zone, and it had been used as an evacuation center. Cars were double-parked all along the streets surrounding the hospital, and people milled about, talking, smoking, some just staring ahead, their blank eyes holding no focus.
She bummed a cigarette off two men talking on the sidewalk. She didn’t smoke often, and never would in front of Nellie, but she was feeling the need. The meter measuring her stress was about to blow.
“The mannequins from the Boston Store were bobbing in the water, like dead bodies. It was eerie,” one man said.