Chapter 21
Al was released Tuesday afternoon. Mary drove him home and then she returned to work. He spent the afternoon watching television and daydreaming. He could not stop thinking about Galveston.
Al had supper fixed when Mary got home, broiled rib-eye steak, baked potatoes, fresh peas, and Al's specialty, fried apples. The table was set when she entered the door.
“Oh, Al. I thought we could go out for supper. You should have rested,” she laughingly rebuked him.
“I get tired of eating out,” he said. “Now wash up so we can eat.” He shooed her towards the bathroom.
They ate quietly, making only a little small talk until Mary asked, “Did you call and make an appointment with Dr. Wes?” She did not look at Al when she spoke.
Al set his fork down on his plate. His meal was only half eaten, still he pushed the plate away from him. He laid his napkin down covering the plate.
“I guess it starts now? I didn't call him.”
“What starts?” Mary asked, naive like.
“The shit!” Al said harshly, emphasizing the pronunciation of his words. “You don't believe a word of what I say. You think I'm nuts!”
Mary continued to eat as though nothing was going on. It was not easy. “I don't think you're crazy Al,” she did not look at him as she talked. “Dr. Peters thinks Dr. Wes can help stop your blackouts. You want that don't you?” She raised her eyes to see his reaction to that.
“I don't know, maybe not really,” he said uncertainly. “I don't like being sick,” he frowned as he talked more to himself than to Mary, “But I feel fine right now and Galveston is so much nicer than Dallas.” He looked at Mary who shifted her eyes back to her food, hiding her watchfulness.
“Mary, let's go to Galveston.”
That surprised her! She looked up into Al's warm, wide eyes and saw he was very serious. Her tone altered, it became one of condolence, apologetic as though explaining to a child, “Al, I can't take off work right now. I don't get any vacation for another three months. You know that. And you're using yours up right now. How can we go to Galveston?”
“Who cares about work or vacation,” he said. It was like he was pleading to her, but she could not hear it. “We can both call in 'quit', sell this place, and move down there. I know we can do something there to make a living. If we have to we could commute to Houston. It's not that far.” Al stopped out of breath.
Mary carefully set her fork down beside her plate and looked kindly at Al. “Oh Al, it would probably take for ever to sell this place and get any money out of it. Look how long it's taken us to get where we are. We can't just throw it away can we?”
Al leaned back into his chair and crossed his legs at the ankles, “No. I guess we can't.” After a second he asked, “Where did you say that guy Wes was at?”
That brightened Mary and the effect was not lost on Al. “He's at Timberlawn, in the professional building. You know where that is don't you?”
“Sure,” Al replied ironically, “that's over on Samuel, by Grove Hill Cemetery.”
“Grove Hill Memorial Park,” Mary corrected missing his inflection in her happiness.
* * *
Al called Wes' office early Wednesday morning and got an appointment for that afternoon. Then he called Robin at work. He wanted to talk to someone who would listen to him.
“Al! I'm so glad you called.” Robin's voice was filled with joy. That alone made Al feel better. “How are you feeling?” she asked.
Al told her everything, about wanting to go to Galveston and his appointment with Dr. Wes.
“Al, that's terrible. There's nothing wrong with you. You should just pickup and go down there.” She left herself an opening for an invitation.
Al saw the opening and he thought long and hard about asking her. It was the real reason he had called. She believed him, even if she might be letting love blind her. Al needed the support. He wanted to go.
He decided. Important things need to be done right. If Mary would not join him he would leave her. He loved her but he would not let that love ruin his life. He did not want to look back on something undone for the rest of his life. Mary had her life's ambitions, and she wanted them badly. She wanted to be someone in the business world and he just wanted to relax and live a quiet, happy life.
And the flashes into the past had to be sorted out. He had to find out what they were about.
“But maybe Robin is the right woman for me. She is young, but that is not always bad. And, she is sure of herself.”
Al said, “Robin, I guess I can't go just yet. I'm just not ready. I'm just a weak ass for even bothering you with my problems. I'm sorry I called you.”
He hung up the phone before Robin had the chance to tell him she loved him. She dialed his number right back but he did not answer.
Al left early for his two-fifteen appointment. It was cool outside with gusty winds. He drove slowly, taking the 'scenic route' to Timberlawn.
He drove through the Swiss Avenue - Munger Place area. Two generations ago it had been the “in“ area of town. Many of the old large homes were broken down into apartments renting to the poor and often illegal Hispanic population; the people that built the roads, laid the sewer lines, and mowed the lawns around Dallas. The area was full of small, tough bars, a scattering of strip joints, porn and pawnshops, and XXX theaters.
Al followed Beacon Street until it turned into Samuel Blvd. at East Grand. Driving down Samuel he had Tennyson Memorial Park on his left and on his right some of the lowest dives in town. Bars that were good places for a fight, good places to get your ear bit off.
Just below the bars and liquor stores he passed under Interstate 30. Then he could see Grove Hill.
An old cemetery, Grove Hill set on a ridge and ran down the slope toward Al. He drove up the incline of the hill looking at the park. It is a park, he thought to himself. The plots were well kept, many of them with large bushes planted beside the headstones. The mausoleums looked comfortable.
He topped the hill and there was Timberlawn Psychiatric Hospital on the right and Timberlawn Professional Building on the left, wedged in between the interstate and Samuel Blvd. The hospital had pleasant grounds, a happy environment. Behind the white plantation style house there was construction going on. A new, ugly building was being added on in the rear.
The professional building also was being added onto, a growing business this psychiatric place. Al turned into the parking lot, but did not stop. He circled around and pulled back out onto Samuel and headed back down the hill to home.
Chapter 22
That evening Mary got home a little after six. It was dark. There were no lights on in the house. She fumbled with her keys in the dark trying to unlock the door, dropping them twice and dropping her briefcase once before she got the door opened.
“Al,” Mary called hesitatingly into the dark living room. “Al?” She had expected a call from him after he saw Dr. Wes, but that never came. She was worried. She had seen his car in the lot so she knew he was in the house, somewhere, in some condition.
The light switch for the living room ceiling light was by the door. Mary flicked it on. It was not a bright bulb but in the transition from the dark to the light it flooded the room with a harsh white light. The images in the room leaped out at Mary's eyes. Al was on the couch, the light not stirring him.
“Oh, Al,” she whispered softly, setting her briefcase and purse down. She pushed the door to unseeing, until she heard the mechanical click stating its closure. She walked over to Al.
He lay on his left side facing the back of the couch, his feet towards the door. Mary bent over him and touched his shoulder. The flesh beneath his shirt was warm to her fingers.
“Al?” Mary gently called. “Al?” she repeated a little louder as she shook his shoulder slightly. “Wake up darling.”
He moved. His eyes opened. He rolled his head upwards to look at who had awakened him. Seeing Mary, Al rolled over onto his back and said, “Good morning.”
Mary smiled broadly in relief, “It's evening silly. Now wake up so we can go get something to eat.”
Al dropped his feet off the couch and sat up rubbing his face with both hands. Seeing him stirring Mary headed for the bedroom to change. Over her shoulder she asked, “Would you like some fajitas tonight? I thought if you did we could go over to El Chico's in Lakewood. They do make the best fajitas there.”
Fighting to get the sleep out of his brain Al answered, “Sounds good to me. What ever you want.” He got up from the couch and went to the kitchen. From one of the upper shelves he pulled out a box of tea bags. He got a cup from the cabinet and filled it with water. Dropping a tea bag in he set the cup in the microwave and turned the machine on. While the water heated Al stood and watched the time click off the timer. He was sipping the tea, sitting on the couch, when Mary reentered the living room.
“Having some tea? How are you feeling?” she asked.
“Just tired. Fell asleep about five and I don't really feel like waking up,” he answered.
“Some good hot Mexican food will wake you up,” Mary said standing happily before him.
The happiness was real for Al. He gave a weak grin back and said, “I'm ready if you are,” and he stood up. They left the apartment. Mary locked the door and Al sipped on his cup of tea.
The Lakewood section of Dallas was a ten-minute drive east of down town. The streets were torn up from construction and street widening in the area. A small parking lot had been made out of the old, bypassed street. It was hard for Mary to get the BMW into the lot, but once in, she had no trouble finding a spot to park. They parked in front of Lim Yee's Cantonese Restaurant and walked up to El Chico's.
Inside, it was warm and filled with good smells and the clatter of busy waiters. The small cantina, off to the left, was full of drinkers. The table area out front was busy but not full. Al and Mary were quickly seated.
They were brought hot sauce, chips and water while they looked over the menu already knowing what they were going to order. They did not talk as they waited for the waiter to return.
He was a tall, slim Mexican man in his sixties. With neither pad nor pencil in his hands he stopped before their table and with a curt little bow asked, “If you are ready I shall take your order.”
Al ordered, “Fajitas for two, coffee for me, and a peach daiquiri for my wife.” Mary loved their daiquiris.
“Will that be all sir?” the old man asked.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Thank you very much sir,” the waiter replied as he turned to leave. Al watched him stop just before he went back into the kitchen and write the order down. It was nice to be waited on by someone with a memory Al thought.
In the middle of the meal, during what was more a polite conversation than an animate one, Mary at last asked, “How did things go with Dr. Wes today?”
The coffee cup was at Al's lips when she spoke. He lowered the cup and answered, “I wouldn't know. I didn't go.”
“Al?” Mary started but Al interrupted.
“I'm not crazy Mary,” he stated solidly. “And I will not let anyone try to convince me that I am. I know what I saw and it was real, I was really there. I don't pretend to know how or why this is happening, but it's up to me to figure it out, not some shrink.”
Mary wanted to speak but Al continued, “It could be I've got some brain tumor they can't find and my head is fixing to explode. If so, I've got enough insurance to cover the loss.”
Again Mary tried to speak but Al would not allow her. “It could be something bigger than that too. All I know is I find it exciting going back there and it's my problem, no one else's. I'm sorry, but that's the way it has to be. If you feel burdened by it, maybe we should separate.” Al called the waiter over and asked for more coffee.
Mary did not comment for several minutes, when she did speak it was with obvious pain and conciliation, “Al, you're crazy.” He smiled at that.
It was after eight when they returned home after supper. Al sat down at the kitchen table to look at the paper. Mary changed into her nightgown and robe. She came in and sat opposite her husband.
“What do you want to do for Thanksgiving?” she asked, surprising Al, who was expecting a big fight.
“I don't know. I hadn't really given it any thought,” he said. “I guess we could visit your folks and mine like usual. Why?”
“I just thought that with the long weekend you might like to drive down to Galveston. It only takes about four hours to get there.” She seemed shy as she spoke.
“I'd ...” Al was interrupted by the doorbell. “Damn,” he set the paper down and pressed Mary's shoulder lovingly as he passed her. “Be right back.”
When he opened the door he saw a disheveled Mark Edwards. “Hello Mark,” Al said hesitantly. He had only met Mark a few times at office functions and Mark had never been like this. The man was wasted. You could see the alcohol in the dirty whites of his eyes.
“What can I do for you?”
“Get out of the way asshole,” the big man slurred. Then he pushed Al out of the doorway and let himself in.
“Hey buster!” Al said flaring into his own rage. “You had better watch yourself.”
“Fuck off, asshole,” Edwards swore standing, weaving slightly, in the middle of the living room. “Where's that god damn little wife of yours? I need to see her.” Edwards straightened up and stopped swaying. “I bet I see more of her than you do anyway, Bubba.” It was the leer more than the words that angered Al. Mary came in from the kitchen.
This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.
“There you are you sweet little piece. Let's go dancin', Bubba'll be okay by hisself.”
Mary was frozen in disbelief. How could this be happening?
“Get out of here you drunk son-of-a-bitch!” Al swore. His voice was filled with rage. Mary was more frighten by him than for him. She had never seen him like this.
“You gonna make me,” Edwards taunted. Al was not a small man, but he was no physical match for Edwards.
Coldly, Al said, “Yes.” He stepped over to the coat closet near the door and reached up to the top shelf. Edwards watched drunkenly as Al turned around from the closet and leveled a 9mm PPK Walther at his head, the collector's pistol Al had worried over for years. He held the automatic solidly in his right hand, his arm fully extended.
“Get out of here before I let the vacuum out of your head you stupid bastard.” There was no hate in his voice as he talked, just truth.
There was no hesitation in Edward's now very sober eyes. He did not care to save face, he wanted out. It did not take him long to exit. Al followed his movements, unwavering, with the pistol.
Mary ran to Al when Edwards was gone and hugging him tightly cried, “I'm so sorry Al, I'm so sorry!”
Al held her close and stroked her hair soothingly saying, “It's not your fault. Don't worry.”
Mary did not say anything else, she just cried on her husband's shoulder.
Chapter 23
Mary lay awake in bed. She had awaken much earlier and sleep would not return. She lay waiting for the alarm to sound. It was Friday morning, the week before Thanksgiving. Al slept quietly beside her.
The alarm sounded. Mary waited for Al to wake and turn off the alarm like usual. He did not stir, the alarm had no effect on him.
“Al,” she nudged him. “Al, the alarm.” Then she remembered he was not going to work. It was his last day off, his last day of vacation.
Mary turned, sat up and reached over him to silence the alarm. Al still did not moved.
“Al?” Mary shook his shoulder. “Oh shit,” she said to herself. His body was warm to her touch. She felt his wrist seeking his pulse. “Al!” she hollered. She shook him savagely. “Wake-up!” He did not move.
Mary got out of the bed and walked around to the phone on the nightstand and dialed Baylor Hospital.
Al was back. He was standing in the isle of a streetcar filled to overflowing with men, women and children.
Looking around he saw it was raining heavily outside the car. He was dressed as before with the addition of a rain slicker over his clothes.
The people on the car were festive. They laughed, joked, and enjoyed the weather. They were mirthfully delirious when the car stopped to let them off at the beach.
The wind blew hard. Al stepped off the car and it nearly sent his feet out from under him. Several women opened their umbrellas only to have them turned inside out and torn away from their hands by the wind. The rain fell heavily, drenching everyone. The day was warm, everyone decided to enjoy the weather, they were already wet anyway. Al followed the crowd to the Midway as more and more streetcars emptied their passengers into the throng.
The Midway was a ten-block stretch of beachfront filled with ramshackle frame buildings catering to tourists. Souvenir shops on end, hot dog stands, and gaming areas crowded the beach. Thousands watched the spectacle of the huge sea rising up and rushing the beach, breaking heavily upon it. The Midway was taking a terrible beating from the ocean. Many stores, already filled with the tide, stayed open for the benefit of the crowd and the profit.
Out over the ocean, set on strong pilings, were two bathhouses and the large circular arena used for dances and concerts. The waves roared around the piles, leaping to reach the buildings lying safely above the foam, safe only by the fewest of inches.
The rain continued to fall, heavier if that were possible. The wind rose higher and higher, still the fascinated, drenched, crowd ooohed and aaahed as the waves bashed, steam roller like, against the Midway. Buildings were smashed and thrown against others by the waves.
The “Pagoda“ the largest of the bathhouses, nearly two blocks long, was being shaken by the forces. At one end a photographic stand was torn loose and crashed into the sea. The crowd loved it.
The streetcars continued to run, though the tracks were becoming covered with water. The crowd refused to dwindle. The streetcars poured their contents out into ankle deep water. The wind and the rain increased.
Buffeted by the storm Al roamed through the crowd, watching their faces. They were loving the spectacle. Some were dressed in bathing suits. They seemed oblivious to the power they watched.
Al bumped into an old man, he looked like a poor, drowned rat, his ragged clothing getting its first cleaning in a long while.
“Is it safe around here?” Al screamed to make himself heard above the wind and rain.
“Sure it is,” returned the old man. “This don't happen every year. Last time was '86. Enjoy it. I heard that they are evacuating some of the low parts of town; the whole town.” The old man laughed at his own joke. Several others who overheard what he said laughed too. “If you're scared you could head up to Broadway. That's high ground.” He pointed back toward the heart of the town.
The crowd's attention was drawn out to the “Pagoda“, the waves and wind ripped at it. The building moved slightly. The crowd cheered for it to hold its ground, but it could not. The beating waves tore it from the driven piles and sent it crashing into the last of the Midway. The crowd was shocked. They never thought the storm could beat the “Pagoda.” Rapidly the crowd thinned, in fear they rushed for home.
Al walked a long distance through water that, at times, was waist deep, as he headed to higher ground. The storm grew.
Chapter 24
Al entered Ritter's Cafe, nestled safely in a great, heavy, two story brick building, to get out of the storm. He shook the rain off of his slicker and hung it up on the rack by the door. It was a relief to be out of the wind and rain. He sat down at a table and ordered a whiskey from the black waiter. Al sat quietly at his table and listened to the other men in the cafe as they talked over the storm raging outside.
“I heard that they've evacuated over six thousand people from around the beach.”
“Don't matter none. This one won't do any harm. Just a big scare. This town's built to take this.”
In another area he heard, “Cline measured the barometer at less than 29 degrees. Can you believe that?”
“You bet I can. The tide's already over nine feet. The whole island is under water now. I waded through it up there on the hill. It's incredible!”
Another, “Most businesses are still open. If there was anything to worry about, you know the shops would close.”
Al drank four rounds listening to the talk. He could not believe the calmness, which pervaded everyone. This was just a little rain to them!
In the late afternoon Al saw the streets boiling with water. The wind, he had heard, was measured at over eighty-four miles an hour before it broke the gauge. He was working on his fifth drink when one of the patrons said, “Hey, did you know that there's thirteen of us here in the room?”
That drew laughs from nearly everyone. Al got up and walked over to get his slicker. He did not like the score.
The terrible sound of breaking beams, snapping in two, carried above the sounds of the storm and the patrons. Al looked up to see a large bulge form in the ceiling and then it ripped wide open. In a shower of plaster dust, paint, torn and broken wooden beams, and screams; the roof fell in on the cafe. Huge printing presses from the second story fell into the room. It was devastating. The storm poured through the demolished upper floor and rained down into the cafe.
Al was unscathed. The ceiling by the doorway had held. The slicker in his hands fell to the floor. All about him was destruction splattered in rain. Several men had jumped under the oak bar when they saw the roof coming down, they began to emerge through the plaster and wood that had been the upstairs floor.
“Oh god, help me,” a terrible voice cried out over the sound of the storm. “God help me!”
Al saw the half exposed form of a man protruding from beneath a press. Only his head and right arm extended out in view. His hair lay slicked back on his head from the rain. His body was so positioned that he had to strain his neck terribly upward to keep his face out of a pool of water so he could speak. The rain fell so fast it would drown him easily. Near the crushed man Al saw a foot pointed defiantly at the sky. The shoeless foot also came from beneath the press. Al wondered if the foot belonged to the one man or to another. The air was filled with cries of pain. Al was at a loss for a moment then picked up his slicker and rushed over to the press. Squatting down beside the press Al held the slicker against its cold metal with his left hand and extended it out with his right above the pinned man. The rain beat down, the wind howled.
“Help me... Help me...” the poor man moaned out. Al knew that the man was all but dead, still Al called for help.
“Someone come help! We've got to get this man out from under here!” Two men, near the bar, crawled over the wreckage to where Al stooped over the moaning man.
“One of you,” Al ordered, “Get one of those beams and slip it under here.” He indicated a spot where there was an open area under the press.
“Be careful, careful!” he shouted as they forced the heavy beam under the press. “There could be someone else under there!” Al cautioned. “On three, put your weight to it and I'll pull him out!”
“One! Two! Three!” The two men pushed their weight down onto the beam. The press raised slightly. Al grasped the man under the arm and tried to pull him free. He stuck fast. The press needed to be raised higher.
Al dropped the slicker to one side and added his weight onto the beam. The press raised higher.
“Now try and hold her here!” Al shouted. He eased his hold on the beam. The press did not lower, they had it counter balanced. Al hurriedly stooped to withdraw the injured man. He pulled him free.
Al looked at the crushed form of the man, bones protruding out of the body in a score of places. Nausea swept over him. He pulled the slicker over the man and covered the destroyed body. While Al looked on there was a slight convulsion in the man's body. He was dead.
There was no time for Al to stare at death, too many others cried out for help. Over near the door he heard a man calling, “Boy! Run get the doctor! And hurry!”
The black waiter opened the door, and clinging to the door facing, he stepped out. The wind tore him away from the door throwing him into the torrent of floodwater that was now the street. He screamed for help.
Al raced to the door seeing the waiter washing away down the street, unable to swim in the current. Al jumped out into the storm.
The water was up to his armpits, there was no way to stand in it. The Gulf of Mexico filled the streets of Galveston, driven there by a 150 mph tropical cyclone. Swimming with all his strength Al made good use of the current and caught up with the waiter. He grasped the man by the shirt collar and pulled him along, forcing a passage through the lethal mass of flotsam littering the water, driven blindly by the powers of nature.
Al pulled the waiter up into a stairwell seeking shelter, he shook and shook the man trying to revive him! The man was dead, drowned within a few short blocks of the cafe. The wind and the rain strengthened.
From the stairwell, with the body of the dead waiter next to him, Al watched as the water continued to rise. Already bodies floated by in the sea.
After a brief rest Al moved back out into the storm. The stairwell was no place to end his life. He found himself among a small group of people working their way toward the higher ground of Broadway. He clutched small children to his chest and pulled fathers along, saved mothers pulled into the ocean that was the street. They made progress, the water was less deep as they moved up the hill. Within the storm there came a whirling sound Al had not heard before. He stopped and looked around for the next wave of horror.
Chapter 25
Al led the shattered group out of the still deepening waters and up the marble steps onto the wide porch surrounding a two story Victorian house.
Out of the pelting rain, Al took stock of the group. A young couple, brother and sister, well dressed, huddled together two steps away in tears, having lost their mother and father in the hail of roofing tiles. A teenage girl, her dress torn to tatters, so she was more unclothed than clothed, stood tearfully in the grasp of a black woman whose own half grown daughter clung to her dress with one hand while with the other she held onto her little brother. The boy looked no more than five years old. This was what was left of a group that had been more than twenty in number.
Al began hammering on the locked front doors of the home for entrance. They were tall doors, over ten feet high and four feet wide. They were sectioned so that the top could be opened in the hot weather while the bottoms stayed closed to keep out dogs. They were solid wood with no glass in them, truly, storm doors.
The wind howled through the porch, the beaded plank ceiling swayed up and down. The sounds of Al's knocking were blown away before he could hear them. The door opened inwards, just wide enough to squeeze through, admitting the group. They were in a small area between the storm doors and the main doors, which were carved oak with beveled crystal windowpanes. A very old man, straight backed like a ramrod, led them into a long hall. The end of the hall was filled with a massive spiral staircase. To their right, as they were led down the hall, Al saw an ornate sitting room and further behind it, through open sliding doors, he saw a dining area that must have easily seated thirty. The old man led them in silence to the end of the hall; there he opened a door and spoke.
“If you will all be so kind,” he pointed into the room. They filed in; he closed the door and the sounds of the storm were now almost nonexistent to their ears.
They were in a large ballroom. The hardwood floors shined to a glare, its ceiling rose nearly two stories above them. The electricity was out, the three electric chandeliers in the room rendered useless by the storm. Over a dozen candelabras were placed around the room. The room was bright and warm with more than forty people in it.
They were wealthy and poor, well dressed and some nearly undressed by the storm, blacks, Mexicans, whites, some injured, others weeping. Everyone tried to comfort each other as best they could. The old man, apparently the homeowner, turned to leave the room. Al spoke to him.
“Sir? What can I do to help?”
The old man looked about searching for an answer then he quickly responded, “Come with me!” He left the room and as Al followed he heard him say, “Damn door's getting too hard to close.”
They stopped behind the two ornate inner doors. The storm's fury here made conversation almost impossible. Neither spoke for a long time until the dapper old gentleman commented, “Haven't ever seen it this bad before. I heard tell that over at the weather station the wind measured 100 mph before the gauge broke.”
Al made no comment, just nodded. The old man was not really speaking to receive a reply. He just needed to talk. The old man leaned back against the wall beside the left door and pulled a silver cigar case from his inside coat pocket. Before he took one he offer them to Al. Al shook his head no.
“Where you from son?” the old man asked. He selected a cigar from the case and returned it to his pocket. From his pants pocket he withdrew a small knife. He nipped off one end of the cigar. Once the cigar reached his mouth the old man twisted it slowly around, wetting it. He set his jaw heavily into its end and searched about his exterior jacket pockets for a light. He began to pat his other pockets. He did not have a light.
“I'm from Dallas, sir,” Al answered and seeing the gentleman's problem he reached into his pant's pocket and pulled out a box of matches. Though most of them had gotten wet Al did get one to light, at last. He held it out for the old man's use.
“Thanks son,” he said drawing deeply on the cigar. He released a large bluish cloud out into the hall and watched silently as it disseminated, drifting upward.
“Dallas, huh?” he said at last, more smoke rising and snaking away from his lips. “Nice town, Dallas. Been awhile since I seen it. Still growing?”
“Yes, sir. It's growing like a weed,” Al answered thinking about the fields sprouting apartments and sub-divisions everywhere, the houses, from start to finish, completed with the new family installed, in less than a week. Yes, Dallas was still growing.
“Good,” the old man nodded. “A town needs to grow.”
The house was buffeted by a terrible blast of wind. The house creaked and groaned on its foundations. The old man peered out through the glass in the doors into the small entrance space between the double sets of doors. Al heard him curse lowly, “God damn it, the water's coming in the door.”
And it was. It was a small trickle that had wormed its way beneath the outer doors, but as the two men watched the small water pool grew. It worked its way past the two men standing behind the tall doors and toward the hall. The water was in the house and the wind and rain, if anything, increased their fury to Al's mind.
The huge house moved several inches on its foundations. The old man calmly continued to smoke his cigar. He seemed to be enjoying the smoke a great deal.
Al comprehended the situation and excitedly tried to explain it to the old man.
“The water has gotten under the house and it’s trying to float! If we don't do something it's likely to collapse on us!”
The old man smoked and watched as the exhaled smoke rose toward the ceiling where it had created eight inches of wafting, fog-like layers.
Al grabbed him by the shoulders; they were thin, bony shoulders; and shook him savagely.
“We've got to do something!” he shouted over the storm. Water eddied about their feet as it worked its way further into the hall.
“What ever you say son, it's fine with me.” The man seemed to have lost whatever fight he had. The storm raged against the doors.
“Have you got an ax or something in the house?” Al screamed. The old man nodded yes.
“Well where the hell is it?” Al demanded. The old man pointed toward the back of the house. Al shoved him in that direction and shouted, “Show me!”
Al was led into the kitchen at the rear of the house. Its windows were smashed and the wind and rain forced themselves in at every opening. Next to the combination gas and wood stove there was a small box of firewood. In it was a hatchet for making kindling. Al scooped up the hatchet and pushing the gentleman on before him, they returned to the ballroom.
Al stopped outside the ballroom doors and asked, “Is there enough room upstairs for everyone here?”
The old man nodded yes. Sometime during the visit to the kitchen the cigar had been extinguished by the storm and with its loss of fire he seemed to regain his own. He said, “I'll lead them up!” He understood Al's plan.
They walked into the ballroom. Everyone watched them as they entered, looking to them for their safety.
“All of you,” the old man roared, “follow me upstairs! The water will soon be in here!” They followed the commanding voice, there was no panic until Al dropped down to the wooden floor near the entrance and began to chop at it. Everyone began hurrying as they followed the old man up the circling stairs.
Al chopped and chopped at the flooring stopping only to remove pieces of wood. The young couple that had arrived with Al stood near him. The three were the only ones still down stairs.
The young man, blond with very pale blue eyes and frail looking hands, held his sister close to his breast.
“I don't know what you're doing but if there is anything I can do to help, I will.”
Al looked up from his work for only a second. Their eyes met and Al liked what he saw. He went back to his chopping. Between blows, he said to the man, “The water is under the house trying to float it. If we let the water in, the added weight and diminished buoyancy should stabilize the building. Maybe it won't wash away then. You can help me make a hole in floor.”
“Let's just open the door,” the young man volunteered.
Without looking up Al stated, “The water is two or three foot higher than the floor right now. Only some damn good fitting doors have kept us safe this long. If we open those doors all that water will come rushing in and do who knows what kind of damage. This is our safest bet.”
A hurried exchange between brother and sister ended with her following the others upstairs. The blond man started prying at the boards that Al had loosened. Soon a small amount of water filtered up. Then it was a small spring and quickly a fountain. The room was knee deep in water after only a few seconds. The two wet men waded to the staircase.