by Ralph Walker
The Toxicity of Water
By Ralph Walker
Everything was damp again. Nothing had soaked all the way through, but the wet parts would bloom into mold or worse if he let it go. He pressed a dry sponge against the base of the wooden toolbox, soaking up what he could. The color faded a shade with each pass. Inside the open top, the Ziploc seals were tight, but the metal had gouged the bags too many times. Moisture would get in again soon.
“Is there any more saran, Dot?”
“Not for metal, Sherman. I need it for the cheese, and the herbs.” She called back.
“We shouldn’t preserve them if they don’t have any flavor left.” He said it loud enough she might hear him, if she bothered to listen. It was an old fight. She wanted to save the basil and the tarragon. He wanted to save the Philips heads and the Allan keys. They were both right.
Sherman left the tool box in a slice of sunlight and shuffled back across loose pallets to their main house. It pained him use that word to describe their dwelling. The stand of tent poles he had lashed was working pretty well. High over the wheels the truck bed was cramped but dry. Dot had rolled back their quilted roof of tarps to let things air out for the afternoon. The potted plants were doing fine on the ground, but he needed a better place for his toolbox. Once the rain returned, he couldn’t leave the metals out in the elements. All too soon they’d surely rust.
Maybe he shouldn’t be concerned. They’d have to be moving along again before too long, looking for higher ground. No matter what Dot thought they couldn’t resettle, not here. It wouldn’t matter if the rains came or not.
Sherman climbed onto the steel bumper and sat on what used to be his old nightstand. King James was still stuffed in the top drawer along with his will and a Smith and Wesson he had never learned to shoot. He pulled off his boots and socks and dropped them onto the welcome mat Dot had grabbed in the panic. He pulled a dirty towel off the igloo cooler and dried his feet. The wrinkles of age and wet were impossible to discern.
Dot worked a roux, shaking flour over the shallow pan. He paused at her shoulder. “How much do we have left?”
“Enough to have a decent meal with your grandson.” She worked the shredded bacon in between the cattails and cabbage. From the bite in her voice Sherman knew they wouldn’t need any pepper, at least not tonight.
“I don’t like him coming here.” He said.
“Why, because you are embarrassed? This will be his someday too. Besides it isn’t your choice. I invited him.”
Sherman grumbled as he crossed the flatbed and sat on a dining room chair to rub his corns. Dead skin peeled under his thumb. The itch felt good.
#
Hunter climbed over the third felled tree and got back on the asphalt. He strode up Rose Glen Road alongside the guardrail. The tree’s shadows were long but the sky was still a day tone of blue. A dozen wooden pallets fitted together into a makeshift deck, bordered by potted vegetables, an unlit lantern, and Sherman’s wooden toolbox. Two plastic deckchairs waited, vacant in the center. The truck was parked on the uphill side, straddling a wet stone gutter. The cab was dark, but the curved plastic roof glowed. Slices of lantern light poked out between the outer wall of book shelves and dressers. He could hear the action inside.
The fry pan sizzled and popped while Dorothy stirred. A metal canister snapped like a snare drum as Sherman dropped in hardware and plucked it back out again. Hunter ducked his head under the tarp.
“Hi Nana.” The boy’s smile was wide as he hopped up to the bumper. The flat bed tow truck had been a blessing. Solid engine, high wheelbase, large bed, it had mostly kept them out of the wet and made it easy to move, but there really wasn’t enough room to bring everything. They had a little extra elbow room when they could make camp and spread out.
He dumped his deflated dry pack next to their boots. She put down the spoon and wrapped an arm around her kin’s neck, kissing him on the cheek from behind. “I have an extra pair for you.” She pulled a knot of frayed white athletic socks from the leg pocket of her over-worn fatigues.
Hunter smiled over his shoulder. “Thanks Nana, but I brought my own.” His skinny arm held up a pair of grey woolies. He dried his feet and donned the socks.
Hunter half stood, half crouched under the arched tarp and picked his way toward the dining table that dominated the flatbed. Careful to stay on the knotted carpet, he ducked under mason jars hanging from the bents and high stepped over plastic milk crates on the floor. Sherman kept every version of grinder and screwdriver and bowsaw he could find. Hunter wasn’t sure what he was saving the hand tools for, but he seemed to have one of every type should some need arise.
“How far have the waters receded?” Sherman never waited to ask the most important question.
“Not far enough.” Hunter stretched out a hand to his grandfather.
The smaller man shook hands with his grandson and pulled the boy in for an awkward embrace. The kid had grown long, like his mother. His features were flat; ears pressed back, hands like paddles, too thin around the middle. Dot always tried to ply him with scrapple or pork roll when they could get it, but he always pushed it back to them. He never did eat enough meat.
“Not far enough.” Sherman repeated as he let the boy go. “Where are you working?”
Hunter straddled a crate with a pillow top and pulled up to the dining table that doubled as Dorothy and Sherman’s bed. “Got a dive gig out of Pennsauken. They’ve taken half a dozen of us.”
“Dive gig?” Dot smiled back. “Sounds like you’ll need seconds.”
“Based on what I smell, I might need thirds.”
#
The meal didn’t last long. Dot stretched the bacon and cattails as far as they would go. Everyone ate enough. After plates were cleaned Sherman fished a gallon jug from behind his chair. He poured three shots of cloudy clear into Dot’s favorite teacups.
She raised the cup to her nose and let the moonshine touch her lips. She smiled adoringly at her husband and pushed the cup to her grandson. “You need the hair on your chest more than me.”
Hunter, mid-sip, almost spit at his grandmother’s statement. He gulped down his drink. “I’m not fifteen anymore Nana. I’m pretty well done growing.”
“I hope so, or I’m going to have to raid some highlander’s pantry before you visit anymore.” She reached across and mussed his hair.
Sherman sipped his drink. Hunter slowed himself down, watching the older man. The space heater splashed a warm orange light across the plastic and hung glass. Their shadows danced on the checkerboard tablecloth.
“I’m working on the peninsula.” Hunter watched his grandfather’s face.
“Oh?” He took another sip. “North end?”
“No. The Schuylkill.”
Sherman’s eyes found Dot’s. He tipped back his teacup, finished his drink and folded his hands. “Are they diving the west side of Philly again? We heard the water has been too fast.”
“They’ve been dropping temporary eddies. The water is shallower too, not receded, not yet, but shallower. Besides, north Philly has been picked over.” Hunter said.
“You best be careful.” Sherman frowned. “Those temporary eddies just make the water go faster, other side of the structures.
“I know Grandpop.” Hunter’s lips flattened.
“Do you think you’ll be going down Twenty Fourth Street?” Dot asked.
“They have to do the whole city Dorothy. Don’t get your hopes up. Every block is swamped.”
“They showed us new maps today. Rooflines are emerging for some two story buildings north of Grey’s Ferry. Tidal water isn’t getting past Reed Street any
more. Everything is still swamped, but it’s a pool, not a river.” Hunter focused on his grandmother. “I don’t know what there will be to recover, but I have to go down Twenty Fourth Street each way. It can’t hurt to look.”
Sherman muttered under his breath.
“It is as much his as ours.” Dot’s eyes were on her husband.
Sherman licked his top lip, feeling the chapped skin. “Diving a wreck isn’t anything like salvage. You’ll do more damage than good. You should wait for the waters to drop.”
Hunter expected this argument. “And if they never recede? I can’t do anything if there is nothing left to salvage.”
“So why go? The buildings are surely unstable. The water might be toxic. Don’t put yourself at risk. You are more important to us than anything else.” Sherman flipped his teacup upside down.
“Because some salvager is going to get in there sooner or later. We both know it is better if it is me. Besides, I know what to look for.” The man-boy stood up and gathered his dry bag from the rear of the truck. He pinched the compressor seal letting the bright orange rubber expand with new air. Reaching inside he pulled out a rolled towel, still damp. Tenderly he unrolled the cloth across the table and motioned to his grandmother. She leaned in close to see. Dozens of large seeds were revealed.
She picked at a seed with a crooked finger. “Pumpkin?” she asked hopefully.
Hunter nodded. “We found them two days ago. There was a bushel that hadn’t burst. We each took one.”
She silently counted the seeds. “Those are worth-“
“They aren’t worth anything if you can’t plant them.” Hunter interrupted. “I figured you’d know what to do with them better than most.” He turned back to his grandfather. “The pilots think the water rose calmly on some streets. When the sea wall broke the river’s inflow balanced against the tide somewhere around Passyunk. Most of Center City is probably a big swimming pool.”
“Doesn’t mean anything survived. There are only six steps from the kitchen to the street.”
“I should still look.”
#
Dot rinsed the plates, stowing them in the nightstand. Sherman folded up the table leaf, widening the surface so he could lay with his wife in their bed, such as it was. Hunter walked with the lantern and tucked down the hem of the tarps outside. The three met at the bumper. Sherman hopped down in bare feet.
“They say the rain is coming hard next week.” Hunter said.
Sherman nodded.
“Are you going to stay here?”
Sherman looked back at Dot, out to the woods, then down the road to the felled trees. A few electric lights tried to peak through the foliage. “She’d like to, but we can’t stay long. Someone is going to clear those trees eventually.”
Hunter looked back to his grandmother. She was sitting close to the lantern, counting the seeds again. The two men moved towards the edge of camp. He clasped his grandfather’s shoulder. “Don’t go far.”
“We won’t. If we go, you’ll find us on higher ground. We’ll leave our mark.” He put out his hand for a shake.
Hunter felt the metal pushed into his palm.
Sherman leaned close. “Your grandmother is right. It is as much yours as ours. Be careful.”
#
The next morning Hunter traversed a cable bridge to the 676 platform. The onramps had all washed away, but there was more than a half mile of elevated concrete road that remained stable. Private salvage crews had set up to work off the platform. A dozen slips and a pair of small cranes were enough to handle their operation.
Three flat boats were still docked. Hunter followed the others onto a steel hulled salvager and found a spot on the bench. Tesso climbed on after the last diver, and marched back to the open cabin. She started the gas engine and let it rumble, while she stalked the deck; checking hoses, compressors and the winch. Her face hid behind oversized sunglasses and a ball cap. She didn’t make eye contact with any of the divers. She threw off the bow rope and pushed the boat out from the slip, before returning to the captain’s chair.
Hunter stared at the river. They were floating fast along with the brown blue water. He couldn’t see bottom.
Without warning, Tesso turned the wheel and gunned the throttle.
Hunter reached for the steel bench, but couldn’t stop himself from slamming into Roy, a muscle bound diver next to him. Moesha, in her three point subway stance, snickered at him from across the way.
“Sorry.”
Roy shrugged it off.
Moesha was still laughing. Hunter turned to her and shouted over the engine. “Do you know how many streets we are doing today?” She wore the same hot pink tiger stripe swim shirt he had seen her in the on the last five dives. Her flippers were cut short and tipped with neon green electrical tape. On their first dive together she had joked it was the closest thing she’d had to a pedicure since the waters rose.
“Panama, Pine, Waverly, maybe Lombard.” She shouted back.
“That’s it?”
She looked at him sideways while she wrapped her spool. “We aren’t making it to South Street yet.”
“I don’t care about South Street.”
She squeezed up her face and looked at Roy. “He doesn’t care about South Street. I told you this kid is a tourist.”
Roy considered Hunter again.
“I’m in this for more than money.”
Moesha raised her eyebrow. “Oh? You’re a Samaritan huh? If you want to drop concrete boxes or pull bodies the Feds are looking for volunteers. They could use a nice boy like you. You could swim down and try to find some of those babies still strapped into their car seats. You look like the kind who wants to be a hero.”
Hunter had heard the story. A diver had found two twins still strapped in. The driver had crashed and drown, but the minivan floated. One baby survived, sucking on a pocket of air. The other – Hunter shivered. “I’m no Samaritan.” He wasn’t a hero either.
“Good, ‘cause I don’t got time for that. We need to get our shit done so we can get to South Street. That is where the money is at.” Moesha spat.
The chop calmed as they passed between two apartment buildings, each kneeling in the muddy water. Hunter said a silent prayer as they entered the city of brotherly love.
#
The early dives were short. There was barely a thing worth salvaging on Panama or Pine. The boat bottom was littered with sealed bottles of motor oil, scrap metal and garden hoses. Hunter grabbed some faucets and a shower head. One of the others found a wallet and a few dollars cash, still dry in a Ziploc. Tesso made him give her the cash and throw back the leather. No one was getting rich today. They would barely cover fuel costs.
Waverly had been a different story. They found a firetruck and an ambulance submerged under a collapsed building. The truck had been marked on the salvage maps a full block away, but it must have drifted. Underwater it was impossible to tell if the building had fallen violently from the impact or crumpled over in slow motion. Either way the brick had heaped on the truck. Most of the divers worked the ladder truck. Hunter followed Moesha and Simon to the ambulance.
“I got an air pocket in the back.” Simon called out over the two way.
Hunter swam down to find the hatch open. The gurney was gone. Most of the cabinets hung open. A pyramid of stale air was trapped in the top. Simon’s torso was above the water line stuffing medical supplies into his dry bag. Hunter stayed below and grabbed at anything that looked like it might survive.
Moesha swam in. “You leave anything for me crabs?”
“Closest to the door.” Simon said, pointing back into the water towards the defibrillator and the ready kits.
“Shorted out batteries and water logged gauze? Gee thanks.” She grabbed the bags anyway.
#
One by one the divers surfaced, chucking cinched orange dry-bags and loose hunks of metal over the side of the skiff.
“Anything worthwhile in the truck?” Moesha asked
, still treading water.
“Some meds and parts. Roy got the best stuff.”
The barrel chested black man was already aboard. He held a massive tool over his head and smiled. “The Jaws of Life!” He flipped a switch and the combo tool started right up. It looked brand new. “Air pockets in the upper cabinets. Everything was dry.”
Moesha pushed off. “I’ve got air left. I’ll go back down.” She wasn’t one to leave a cache for someone else.
“No!” Hunter said it too quick.
“I want to get paid off that truck. We should go back down.” Moesha looked at Tesso.
An oversized air bubble rose and popped on the port side of the boat. Simon stared at it. “Somebody left a door open. Things are shifting.”
Tesso logged what they had pulled up on her clipboard. “We got enough. Get on board Moesha. Nobody is swimming home.”
A pair of cut flippers with green electrical tape flew over the side.
Tesso stopped in front of Hunter. “You know something?”
“No. I just want to get further south.”
“Everybody wants to get to South Street.” Simon parroted Moesha.
Back onto the boat she shook off the water and shot a middle finger at Simon. “He doesn’t care about South Street. He’s not in it for the money. He is some fucking Samaritan.”
Tesso ignored the wet tigress. “Where?”
Hunter felt her gaze. He looked at the other divers. No one was here for sentimental reasons. They all had families to feed or debts to pay. Everyone had lost something. At the same time, with the take from the firetruck they had already made money. The sun was high enough in the sky. There was still gas in the engine.
“Twenty Fourth Street.”
“Twenty Fourth and what?” Tesso didn’t budge.
“Naudain.” Hunter regretted it as soon as he gave it breath.
“Oh come on kid. That is a waste of air.” Roy said.
Tesso pulled her cap down and returned to the cabin. She put a foot up against the wheel and pulled out her charts, letting them drift while the divers hashed it out.
“What is so special about Twenty Fourth and Naudain?” Simon asked.