The Rescue

The Rescue

By Marcia Calhoun Forecki

           I had not eaten all day, except for half a sandwich. One of the volunteers at the rescue staging area handed me a sandwich as I ran past her. I thanked her with a wave of my throw bag without stopping. My partner was already in the boat. A car went into the water upstream off a collapsed bridge. I bit off as much sandwich as I could without choking and threw the rest into the spate.

           As I chewed the sandwich wad in my mouth, I saw the captain run toward our boat. “I’ve got another team on the car. I need you guys on the other side. Old man and his blind dog are on the roof of his cabin.”

           My partner Rafe looked up the hill as far as he could. “He can’t be under water up there. What’s up, Cap?”

           “The soil is completely saturated. It’s like my abuelita’s black bean soup up there. Enough trees come down at once, or a big house, and the hill comes down. I’m already moving people across to this side of the river. Can’t you hear the old guy screaming?”

           What was the captain talking about? The sound of a flooded river is a roar with a bass line of explosions from the collision of cars, roofs, doors, and trees with root balls the size of a small trailer.

           “I heard him. I thought it was a guy in the water. We’ll get him and his dog, Cap,” Rafe said.

           “Leon, you’ve heard of this guy. He’s lived up there for years,” the captain said. He turned to Rafe and said in a condescending huff, “This old guy claims to be some kind of minor storm god. He wanders through these mountain villages, looking for a wife. I guess everyone needs a little love. But, when the lady has had enough of him and gives him the cold shoulder, he comes back to his little cabin and cries. Then, we get this mess. Sucks to be him, right? Rafe, I’ll let Leon fill you in on the rest of the story. Now, grab a boat and get going.”

           The rescue boats were tied at a temporary dock. As untied it and threw in our gear, Rafe asked me, “You have a history with this guy?”

           “Like the Captain said, Thornton – that’s his name – is a god, albeit a minor one.”

           Rafe sniggered, “’Albeit?’”

           “You want the back story or not?”

           “Yeah, can’t wait for it.” Rafe was a smart-ass, but he handled a boat like Noah.

           “Like the Captain said, he’s kind of an ‘incel.’ Do you know what that means?

           “It means ‘involuntary celibate.’” There was that sniggering again.

           “Anyway, the man cries and screams and basically throws a tantrum when he gets rejected. No shame in a man crying, but when Thornton sobs, he makes a storm: winds and rain. This rejection must have been a doozy to make this gully-washer.”

           Rafe was a heck of a pilot, getting that boat across the river without ending up miles downstream. When we tied up, Rafe said, “If he’s a god, why can’t he find a lady?”

           “A minor god, which in his case includes a heaping helping of ugly.”

           “Why don’t we just send him a lady. Volunteers, of course. I’m sure someone would take him on, if the price was right.”

           I ignored his suggestion. “You got a sister, maybe? Stay with the boat. Too many boots stirring up this ‘bean soup’ and you’ll think you are on a waterslide at Six Flags.”

           As I started up the hill, I actually gave Rafe’s idea some thought. Where do we advertise for a strapping old maid with a heart of gold who can control a minor god. I wondered if a mortal who marries a minor god, especially a warty old crank like Thornton, would receive the gift of immortality. I had to chuckle at my own absurdity. I was talking about a human sacrifice scenario. 

           The climb up the hill became more difficult as the hill got steeper. The ground was as thick as my granny’s lentil soup. Between the incline and the sucking mud, I was exhausted before the cabin was even in view. As my leg muscles were beginning to petrify, I regretted my cavalier tossing of half a sandwich.

           I saw a small clearing off to my right. There sat a small, roughhewn cabin. Every bride’s dream, I thought. Thornton was sitting on the porch roof, hunched forward.  The gutters, full of leaves and twigs, formed a dam, causing the rain and his tears to pour over the trough. There was a good-sized pond in the yard below.

           “Oh, Mighty Thornton, may I approach?” I shouted. The old guy looked at me and made a weak little wave of his hand in response to my greeting. I climbed a rickety trellis onto the roof. I tossed a throw bag at him. He caught it and I secured my end of the line to my belt.

           For a minor god of storms, he looked more like he had answered a casting call from hell and failed the audition. He was a pitiful, sodden mess, clutching his poor dog under his open coat. Thornton’s copper curls were stuck to his forehead like little worms. The poor guy was sniffing and blubbering. His old black lab kept jerking his hind legs, trying to find a more secure position. I crawled toward Thornton. He scooted to his left causing Diablo to howl to break your heart.

           Once settled on the roof, we had a view of the full horror below. The roaring, racing water below was the sound of destruction. Sometimes we heard crashes as parts of houses smashed against each other in the waves. The shouting of the rescuers below us was inaudible. Most frightening for me was feeling the tremors of the house beneath us, signaling its inevitable glide down the hill and into the river.

           I decided to focus on Thornton rather than my imminent death. “Come on, now. You know me. We’ve talked before. You should have contacted me.” I pointed toward the tops of the hills behind us. “I live just over those hills. You could have sent a signal or note. Let’s get off this roof and talk inside. Do you have any dry clothes you could change into? Maybe a towel for the dog?”

           Thornton did not turn his head in my direction. His chest expanded periodically and then contracted with an unexpected high-pitched sigh. He shrugged a few times between giving me the side-eye. I waited for him to make his display his martyrdom, aware that the rain had slowed down. What was falling on us now was dripping from the trees.

           Finally, he picked up Diablo and jumped, landing knee deep in his pond. I grasped a cedar shingle on each side of me, in case the weight displacement sent the house sliding into the river.

           “Jump,” Thornton yelled to me, stretching his trunk-thick arms up to me. He linked his fingers together to form a small landing spot for me. I jumped, believing he would catch me which he almost did.

           “Come on inside,” he said. “You can help me rig something up to carry Diablo down the hill. I’ll make coffee.”

           I was getting antsy to get down the hill while we could still do so under our own power. Rafe would have my ass for having to wait so long without a word. We had to get off the hill. This wasn’t a visit where we chat and share cups of coffee. But I didn’t want to make him mad and start the heavy rain again. “How about tying Diablo in a blanket and we carry him down between us?”

           “Look on the back porch. There’s probably a piece of tarp in one of those boxes. We can loop a rope through the grommets and tie him up snug.”

           I hurried to the back and started digging through the mess Thornton had stored over the past thirty years or so. When I returned with the tarp, there was a fire in the sooty, pot belly stove and something boiling in an ancient coffee pot. The old man poured a cup for me. A big drop of water fell from the leaking ceiling and plopped in my java.

           “Wish we had a snack,” he said to himself. “Last time we met, you shared your wife’s snickerdoodles with me. Delicious. Does still bake?”

           “Linda has been sick,” I answered.

           Thornton sat down across from me at his table, which I swear was listing. Was the earth sliding out from under the house? “Is it serious?”

           “I’m afraid so. Breast cancer. She caught it early and got through the surgery. Chemo was hell, but she never complained.”

           Thornton brushed the table with his hand. “I hear radiation is the worst,” he said without looking up.

           “We were lucky. She didn’t need it,” I said.

           “I’m glad for her.”

           I lifted the mug to my lips and decided to blow on it instead of drinking. “Thornton, buddy, you can’t do this to yourself or your neighbors. Love is always painful, but usually not catastrophic. Tell me about this lady. Let me be a friend.”

           “I deserve a chance to be loved,” he said. His eyes welled up.

           “If it’s sex you want, that’s just a transaction,” I said.

           Thornton lifted head face to me in indignation. “Back off, Leon,” I told myself.

           Before I could offer an apology, lightning crashed to the side of the house. It split a tree down to the roots. We opened the front door, ready to jump away from the house if necessary. Two half-trunks slid down the hill, pushing mud and branches in front of it. The logs hit the river, barely missing a floating picnic table.

           Thornton kept his eyes on the river. “It’s not a party on this mountain. Most of the time, I wander around, checking on the little creatures, sweeping up the leaves and pieces of bark under the tree. I weed the berry bushes for the birds. They seem to appreciate it.”

           He stopped talking and began sniffling. “That’s good. You’re doing a service for your community,” I said with a fake smile and too many head nods to be credible.”

           “Not exactly splendid even for a minor god. It’s not like the god business is a meritocracy, but a god can only be what he or she is born to be.”

           “You could do something creative. I bet this place is gorgeous in good weather. What about painting?”

           Thornton ignored my suggestion. He rose and poured the rest of the coffee onto the fire. He went into his bedroom for a couple of minutes and returned with an old duffle bag only half full. I had finished getting Diablo ready for his travois ride down the hill.

           “Let’s get going. The rain has stopped. That’s good.”  

           I took Thornton’s duffle bag, and we lifted Diablo between us.

           “How are we going to get across the river?” he asked suddenly.

           “My partner is waiting with a boat. Let’s not rush and think positive.”

           Rafe had moved the boat when the tree came down the hill. He waved and me and whistled. I walked toward him. The ground was a filthy sponge, the river still a torrent full of trees, parts of houses, and even a few coffins bobbing in the waves.

           When we reached the boat, Rafe was seriously annoyed. I tried to defuse his hostility for all our sakes. “Is something burning? Do you smell smoke, too?” I asked.

           Rafe pointed over our heads to the top of the hill. I expected to see dark rain clouds, but this was billowing smoke. “There’s a big fire behind the hill on the other side of the river. That’s where we’re headed now. Good thing the rain slowed so we can get a chopper in to pick us up. Let’s get back across the river and gear up to fight a fire.”

           Diablo poked his head out of the tarp bag. He sniffed in every direction, but didn’t make a fuss. I was glad Thornton had him. Maybe with therapy, Thornton could find outlets for his anger and use his power for good, I thought.

           On the other side of the river, I admitted my exhaustion. The captain came down to meet us. “Helicopter is on the way,” he said.

           “Can’t a man catch his breath?” I asked.

           “Your house is on that side of the hill, isn’t it?” Thornton said.

           I introduced Thornton to the captain. “We have another volunteer,” I gave Thornton’s enormous biceps a squeeze.

           “I don’t know how much help I might be,” he said.

           Rafe and the Captain were losing patience. I heard the chopper approaching.

           “Thornton, don’t you know all the ladies love a fire fighter. Don’t you know that? Keep that temper of yours under control and you’ll probably end up in a calendar. I can just see you with a big hose nozzle in each hand, no shirt and short shorts.”

           Rafe patted Thornton on the back. “You’ll be great.”

           Thornton nodded. In the helicopter, he said, ““How about this for the caption on my centerfold? ‘Thornton, minor god of storms, makes water on canyon fires.’ Great, huh?”

           “Better run it through grammar check, but you have the right idea.”

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