“What can I do first?” I said, pulling an apron off the hook.
“Grab the flour and sprinkle a good handful on the counter, then start rolling out the lump of dough. I’ll find the cookie cutter and get the baking sheet ready.”
I picked up the recipe card, bent at the edges, dots of brown stain on the back, and filled with Mr. Pop’s block lettering. Mother never put away her recipe cards until the recipe was completed. It was a “quirk,” Mr. Pop said, but one of his favorite things about my mother.
One of my favorite things about Mr. Pop was how handy he was in the kitchen. Not only was he a good farmer but a good baker as well. This molasses cookie recipe was his, or had been his mother’s actually. She’d never written it down, but as a boy, he’d baked beside her and memorized it. After she died, he wrote it down, afraid to lose yet another piece of her.
This recipe was not only my favorite, but it was often requested when we had potluck suppers at church. Mr. Pop said it was the love everyone could taste in them. But love wasn’t the only thing I felt when making them; sore arms certainly played a role. It took a little elbow grease to get the refrigerated dough rolled into a big round circle a half inch thick before using the cookie cutter. Then I had to pull the scraps together and reroll it a couple of times to use all the dough up. I wasn’t about to waste one bit. I couldn’t wait to smell them in the oven.
“What was that?” I asked after Mother and I jumped.
“Paul, did you hear that?” Mother was shouting through the kitchen door toward the living room. Mr. Pop came at a run.
“Sounded like a big branch off the oak tree in the side yard.”
We didn’t have a clear view of outside as the upstairs shutters were closed and the first floor windows obscured by the boards Ellery had nailed over the windows. Mr. Pop, however, was able to see out the living room window enough to verify what he thought to be true. Mother and I got the cookies in the oven then retired to the living room with Mr. Pop.
“This is looking just as bad as the weatherman predicted,” Mr. Pop said.
“I’m scared for Mick,” I said. “And Ansley and Mr. Socoby and …”
“You have reason to be scared,” Mr. Pop said. “All we can do at this point is watch and pray. For all of us. To be honest, everyone is at risk with the way the wind is gusting, not just those on Hungry Hill. We’ll know more in a couple of days.”
Outside we heard more sharp cracks and dull thuds. The wind was snapping and throwing whatever got in its way. Our shutters rattled, the roof creaked and moaned, and the very walls of our home worked to resist the push of the wind. The rain continued to pulse down. We heard its persistent tap on the roof and the porch; we hoped when we couldn’t hear it against the ground that it meant the soil was keeping up with the downpour, sucking in every drop that fell. But we wondered how long that would last.
The timer in the kitchen rang, though we didn’t need it to tell us the cookies were done. Mr. Pop rose from his chair and went into the kitchen. The sound of the trays sliding across the racks and clacking on the counter was a nice bit of familiar for my ears, now accustomed to trying to discern the troubling sounds coming from outside.
Mr. Pop returned with a plateful of warm cookies next to three glasses of cold milk on a tray. As he passed out the milk, Mr. Pop raised his own. Toast-prayers were his speciality. “To our mighty Creator,” Mr. Pop said, “the One who controls the wind and the rain and who holds us all in His hands. We thank Him for this blessing of a dry home and warm cookies and one another. We pray for those who need His hand more than ever and that He will use this for His glory.”
“Hear, hear and amen,” said Mother and we all took a sip and reached for a cookie and waited as Edna roared. As she would for the next two days.
The nice thing about living on a knoll was the view it offered. And while normally this view meant we could sit on the porch and look north and south and survey the beauty, after a storm or blizzard, our knoll gave us quite the vantage point to assess the damage.
After Edna had finished her brutal beating, we stood on our porch and gasped. Though our home had been rather miraculously spared, our trees had taken a beating. We could see up the road to Widow Nason’s house, where great punches of roof were missing. In fact, the shingles were blown clear off and her clothesline and the now-splintered poles were leveled below it. Down the road where Silas Engalls lived, we could see most of his house. Where two days before, it sat on dry ground, this day it sat in the middle of a small lake. He drove a truck for Dead River Company and was gone much of the time. But we could see him home that day trudging through the water in hip waders. Mr. Pop said we’d take him our canoe later. Who only knew what was floating in that water, especially since it appeared that his outhouse didn’t survive the storm.
Mr. Pop did a quick walk around the farmhouse, the shed, and the barn. But we could see the swampy mess that was the fields. My father only shook his head and said we wouldn’t know more until he saw the full extent.
“But,” he said, “if everyone’s fields are as bad as ours, there’s no way we can start harvesting potatoes next week. We’ll be lucky to be able to harvest in two.”
“But we’ll be out of school next week for harvest,” I said. “We’ll all be.”
“That’s good,” Mr. Pop said. “We’ll need everyone to help clean up. Starting now. Let’s get some gloves and start pulling the big branches out of the driveway, so we can take a trip into town and check on some folks. When we come back we’ll start sawing and stacking the branches that blew down.”
I did a quick check of the pigs, and they were all right though a little spooked. The girls were happy to see me. I fed them and let them out of their coop to stretch their legs a bit and so I could muck the coop.
I pulled and hauled branches for forty-five minutes and finally had the driveway cleared of debris. Mother brought out a basket of cookies and set them in the truck.
“Goodness knows someone is going to need just a little love,” Mother said. “Even if only in cookie form.”
Mr. Pop nodded and smiled. “Actually,” he said, “why don’t you come along too? We need to check on several people and your woman’s heart might be just what’s needed in town.”
I wondered a moment why Mr. Pop wouldn’t have thought my woman’s heart would be enough, and felt the familiar sting of being seen as the son he’d never had. But when I saw Mr. Pop wrap his arms around Mother and kiss her long enough to make her pull away and swat him, I realized he was merely flirting. Suddenly, I wanted to be alone.
Making an excuse, I ran inside to call Molly real quick and make sure she was all right.
I had tried calling her several times during our days holed up at home, to no avail. We’d only gotten reports on the radio that Watsonville and Presque Isle were hit hard, and that neither town had seen damage like this in more than a hundred years.
But as I stood in the hall, tapping my foot as I held the phone, I got nothing. Not even Mrs. Garritson. The phone lines were still down. I was still in the dark about how Molly and her parents, along with Mick and Joseph, and everyone I’d fretted about fared in the hurricane.
Our eyes could hardly take in the damage. I’d never seen a hurricane hit Watsonville in my lifetime, at least not more than with heavy rain. Mr. Pop and Mother had been through them before, but nothing like this.
Though debris was strewn everywhere, most of the houses we saw were intact. But many outbuildings were flattened; sheds and outhouses listed or lay on their sides in tatters. Coops and pens stood without livestock. Indeed, most fields were far worse than ours. While our fields could pass for swamps, now lakes and ponds puddled the landscape.
What wasn’t nailed down was blown everywhere. Branches snapped off trees and dropped like a game of pick-up sticks. The high-standing water compounded the problem. While we didn’t lose electricity, plenty others had, and it looked like phone lines were down everywhere.
As we rounded
the big bend to get into the heart of Watsonville, we saw that the town had been hit harder than where we were in the country.
“Oh my heavens!” Mother said. “Look at the IGA!”
My mother’s exclamation turned my head in a hurry to see the roof of our local grocery store rolled right up like a sardine can. It was good that people had stocked up before the storm, for surely water and roof debris now filled the store.
Mr. Pop drove slowly as we all gasped and pointed at the wreckage that lay ahead of us. A crack ran from top to bottom down the middle of the plate glass window of the bank, most likely caused by a large branch being hurtled toward it at high velocity. My father stopped the car completely when we saw Second Baptist’s steeple bent and dangling like a broken elbow.
“Lord have mercy,” Mr. Pop said, starting to drive slowly once again. “We’ve got to check on people.”
“Are we going to the Flats?” I asked. “Can we, I mean?”
Mr. Pop nodded. “Yes, but I thought we ought to drive through the town square first. See what the damage is there before heading toward the dump.”
“Okay,” I said. “I want to check on Molly.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Watsonville looked like the pictures that had filled the newspapers during the War. Except unlike back then, when I was real small, Mr. Pop and Mother didn’t try to shield my eyes from it, and we saw this wreckage in living color.
Few people ventured out yet, though plenty mingled and commiserated on their front sidewalks. Mr. Pop had to turn after the first block of the square because glass, shingles, and roofing tin, as well as branches, littered the road. The scene was overwhelming to take in, as was the thought of cleanup. Mr. Pop was right, that if we didn’t harvest next week, we’d be available to help, but where would we even start when everyone needed so much? But before I could get too far into this thought, Mr. Pop turned another corner and I saw Fulton’s. We all did and were startled into stillness. The back end had completely collapsed.
“Oh, goodness!” Mother said. “The entire storage area is gone! After all the Carmichaels have been through, they’ll have this mess now. But Nelson’s looks like it weathered the storm okay. I’m sure Joseph is fine.”
We all shifted our eyes from the disaster at Fulton’s to Nelson’s, right across the street. It looked like it had more than simply weathered the storm. It looked bright and cheerful and welcoming as always. I breathed a sigh of relief.
“Can we head to Molly’s now?”
We’d barely gone four blocks when Molly shot across the street ahead of us.
“Wait!” I said. “There’s Molly!”
Mr. Pop slowed as I rolled my window down with lightning speed to shout to Molly.
“Molly! Molly, wait!” She turned her head to see who was yelling. As soon as she realized it was us, she made a U-turn and continued at a gallop toward us.
“Mr. and Mrs. Millar, Mercy!” Molly said. “My dad never came home last night. I mean, he was home when things were really sounding bad, but during the eye, when things settled, he thought he should go check on the store. He said he could make it back before it got bad again, but he never came back. Mom and I have been worried sick, but we promised him we would stay put.”
“She sent you alone?” Mother asked. “Where is she?”
“Back home. She’s a wreck. She’s been praying nonstop. But she won’t leave because she’s worried what Dad will do if he finds out she didn’t listen to him.”
“But she let you go?” Mother asked.
“No, she doesn’t know I left. But I couldn’t stand not knowing. We’d been sitting there for hours, just wondering.”
“Hop in, Molly,” Mr. Pop said. “We’ll turn and head back.”
Molly scooted in next to me, and I wrapped an arm around her. Her body quaked next to me.
“I tried calling you so many times,” I said. “But the phone lines have been down.”
“Yeah, I know. We tried calling the store so many times I lost count.”
We drove back toward the square, at an angle that highlighted the collapsed warehouse portion of the store perfectly. Molly reacted just as we had.
“Oh, oh no! Stop!”
“Hang on, Molly,” Mr. Pop said. “We’re almost there. I’m going with you.”
He slowed the car along the street, looking for the safest place to pull over. Just as Mr. Pop and Molly jumped out of the car, the door to Fulton’s opened and we could see someone backing out the door, lugging something behind him.
“What’s he doing?” Molly’s shaking voice betrayed her nervousness.
Then we saw. It was Joseph. As he stepped backward onto the sidewalk, we saw he had a hold of Mr. Carmichael. As soon as they were both outside, Joseph started hollering for help. As though we’d rehearsed this, our car doors flew open, and we all shoved out of the car. Mr. Pop took off at a run with Molly right on his heels. My stomach knotted up. All I could think of was those weeks ago when Mick and Old Man Stringer were on that same sidewalk.
Mr. Pop knelt beside Frankie and put his head to his chest. Molly heaved great sobs at his side.
And once again, Mr. Pop looked up at me and told me to go. “Hospital,” he said. “And Geneva, take Molly home to get her mother.”
We all took off. Behind me I could hear Molly crying and Mother’s soothing words—straight from her woman’s heart.
“Mr. Stringer went home before Edna struck,” the receptionist said as soon as she saw me.
“No! Not that. There’s a man hurt!” I could barely get a word out for breathing so hard. “Frankie Carmichael. At Fulton’s. We need help.” I had run as fast as I could, but navigating around or hurdling over downed trees and debris made the few blocks run from Fulton’s to the hospital treacherous and exhausting.
The woman pushed back from the desk and raced into the back. She returned moments later with a doctor who double-checked his black satchel for supplies and then told me to lead the way.
When we had reached Fulton’s, two police officers and a few bystanders now surrounded Mr. Carmichael. Chef Barone stood to the side comforting Mrs. Carmichael.
Molly rushed to me when she saw me.
“Father woke up,” Molly said. “For a moment, I mean. He looked right at Joseph and nodded. Looked like he was trying to thank him.”
I looked at Joseph. He stood with the officer, explaining the situation. For a moment, my heart sank and a chill settled in. No matter what it looked like Mr. Carmichael was saying, what good could ever come of Mr. Carmichael, a Maliseet, and a couple of police officers?
But then the officer patted Joseph. “You did good, son,” I heard him say.
Molly and I walked forward. Joseph’s eyes met mine and he headed toward me.
“Joe,” I said as I pulled him toward me. “So glad you’re okay. What on earth happened?”
“Chef and I were out checking on folks,” Joseph said. “Not sure how I missed it when we left Nelson’s, but on our way back, I noticed Fulton’s front door opened. Chef said to leave it. Probably the wind blew it open, but I don’t know. Something kept telling me to go in and see. So I did. I found Mr. Carmichael in the back. Would’ve missed him except for his shoes sticking out from under some shelves. The one was bent all wrong.”
Molly pushed past me to hug him. “You saved his life, Joseph. You’re a hero.”
“I don’t know that I saved his life.” Joseph shrugged. “Somebody else would’ve found him.”
“But that somebody else could’ve been too late,” Mr. Pop said, coming up behind Joseph to pat him on the shoulders. “Dr. Sahmby says he should be okay. But Frankie lost a lot of blood from a cut on his head. By wrapping that wound, you most likely saved his life.”
Joseph pointed to Chef. “He gave me his jacket and helped. Chef saved his life too, wasn’t just me.”
“’Course it was you!” Chef said as he walked up behind us. “This boy not only has the finest culinary instincts of anyone I’ve
ever worked with, he’s a hero too!”
Chef stuck his hand toward Mr. Pop.
“Wonderful to see you again,” Mr. Pop said. “Wish it were under better circumstances.”
“It’s always the way,” Chef said. “But right now, this boy needs to head home to see how his family is. I told him I’d drive him.”
“No need,” Mr. Pop said. “As soon as Frankie and Muriel and Molly get settled at the hospital, we’re heading to the Flats ourselves. We can take him.”
“That’d be wonderful. Just let me prepare a basket of food. And a note that tells them there’s more where this came from. You’ll be okay, Joseph?”
Joseph nodded. Although he looked less okay than he had since we’d seen him. The look on his face suggested somehow the idea of rushing into a toppling building to save a man was less frightening than heading home.
As we drove out of town and rounded the bend toward the Flats, I knew Joseph was right to worry.
Though once shacks and shanties of various shapes, sizes, and materials topped off the crest of the dump that was home to the people of the Maliseet tribe, not one structure had survived Edna’s wrath. Water ran down the sides of the dump in steady, filthy streams, carrying with it bits of waste. As Mr. Pop pulled up and shut off the engine, a basket rolled down toward our car.
“Lord on high,” Mother whispered.
None of us was eager to step out of the car. The damage was too great, the sight too overwhelming.
Mr. Pop turned to look at us. “You all should wait here,” he said. “I’ll go check on everything and see what needs to be done. It might not be safe with all this debris. And there’s no telling what this will do to Joe’s lungs.”
Joseph sniffled and breathed deep, as though the car contained the last good breaths he could take. As I watched him breathe in and out, suddenly struggling for air, I chided myself for not noticing how easily he breathed on the farm and also when he was with Chef. I wondered if it was the air quality of the dump or the stress of home that brought this on.
Shades of Mercy Page 21