The sight of these people before me in the river was so disturbing that I didn’t have full control of my thoughts. Someone’s glasses were in the mud, and I thought, Those are my glasses. I thought this even though my glasses were right there on my face! Some corpse must have gone into the water clutching a cane, because the horn of a walking stick poked from the mud. I thought, I know that cane, that’s Peabody’s cane; then some of the bodies started to resemble Peabody. If you looked close enough, some of the bodies seemed to move slightly, maybe in the corner of your eye, like they were barely breathing and needed you to blow more life into them. When you looked straight on, they were dead, but sideways, maybe, just maybe, they were alive! But I didn’t care. I wasn’t wading into that mud! Then I heard them breathing — very light, then stronger, then it turned into a shh sound.
Shh, it said. Shh.
In my mind, this sound mutated into the hushing skids of Gerry’s Pomeranian team, the one I’d heard that night at the prison, mushed on by the hand of a ghost driver. That’s how strange I felt. That’s how your mind can play tricks on you when the Ultimate is unrolled before you like a rug.
I clapped my hands on my head. How could the river have left us?
Dad kept asking practical questions, just talking to the air. “Why would they close the spillways?” he asked. “If they wanted to take the dam off-line, why wouldn’t they just open the gates and let the turbines spin free?”
Who cared? The river was gone. Soon, I knew, it would be gone in places like Kansas City and Baton Rouge. I pictured those places without their rivers. I pictured them strewn with bodies, and only then did it come to me that those cities were gone, too. Only then did I nod my head at the knowledge that Florida was perhaps gone, as was Paris. Only there, beside an empty river, did I realize that, wherever in the world my mother was, she was dead.
That shushing, sledding sound came again, like a vibration in my ears.
I put a hand on my father’s shoulder.
“I know,” he said. “I know.”
I bent over and lost my stomach in the snow. It made my face shudder. Saliva ran from my mouth. I ate a handful of snow. My nose was dripping, and my eyes were wet and out of focus. When I closed them, I saw nothing. Now, all these years later, I understand that what made my shoulders heave, what made my hands grip the fabric of my pants, was a welling sense of relief: I finally knew what had become of my mother. So the pain I felt wasn’t grief occupying me, but the beginning of its eviction. Ease — peace, even — had begun.
Dad put a hand on me. “Breathe,” he said. “Remember — steady and even.”
I exhaled as deeply as I could, then drew in sharp air.
When I stood, Dad dusted me off. “That’s better,” he said. He kicked some snow over the vomit, then turned me from the river. The two of us stood there, staring at the white lawns of a university. “Big breath,” Dad said.
I inhaled till it rattled.
“Much better,” Dad said.
“I’m okay,” I told him. “I can do this.” Backs to the river, we began walking, our snowshoes following the trail they’d broken before.
I’m not one to believe in signs. If there is a grand blueprint to existence, our lives are no more than the little round shrubs with which the Architect adorns the corners of the plan. Still, I won’t try to lessen what happened next.
We heard motion and panting. There was the hiss of skids, and then, as if out of an old movie, several dogsleds raced through the haze at the edge of our vision. They were merely dark outlines against the snow, but there was no mistaking the swatting sounds of paws plunging through crusty snow. Your mind can’t make up the cracks of a mushing whip upon the backs of dogs.
“Ahoy,” I shouted.
The lead sled stopped, and the others followed. The figures, for they were only figures through a drifting veil, set their snowbrakes and, turning our way, lifted dark goggles to observe us.
I don’t know why I’d shouted “Ahoy,” but, stupid as it sounded, I shouted it again.
Dad and I began to trot toward the drivers and their steaming dogs.
In the distance, an arm waved, large and sweeping.
We began to run, a high-kneed gallop to keep our snowshoes from snagging in the powder. The main sled was harnessed with six dogs, and had piled on its litter coils of rope and all the nets from the campus volleyball courts. The little sleds were rigged with two dogs each, and they were packed with dog toys, things like Frisbees, squeaky balls, and tugs.
“Gerry,” I shouted.
“Hanky,” Gerry called back.
Running toward me, Gerry shouted, “Dogpile.” When he’d closed the distance he sprang high, and once again tackled me. I went back into the snow, then one, two, three, four children jumped on me. The point of the exercise seemed to be to smother people experiencing acute respiratory distress, especially by way of rubbing snow up your nose and then having children set their smelly little butts on your face. When this greeting was over, they helped me stand.
“How?” I asked Gerry. “How is it possible?”
Gerry was so happy that tears streamed down his face. “See?” he told the kids. “See, I told you there were people still alive. I told you the radio wasn’t lying.” He rubbed all the kids on their heads. “I told you your mom’s okay,” he said to them. “I told you she’s just fine.”
“Where are you guys going?” I asked Gerry. “Where are you headed to?”
Gerry and the kids had racquetball racquets tied to their feet. We were in a circle, all our snowshoes toe to toe. “I knew it,” Gerry said. “I knew it. Tell them, Hanky. Tell them how things are going to be okay.”
I looked at the kids, all bundled up in their winter gear. Which were which, which were boys or girls, I couldn’t tell. They just stared at me.
“Things are going to be okay,” I said, but it was so feeble, so lacking in feeling, that I attempted a cheery “Don’t worry” to bolster things.
“You hear that?” Gerry asked them. “That’s a professor talking. He’s a very smart man. If he says things are going to be okay, things are going to be okay.”
The littlest kid started crying.
“What’s going on, Gerry?” I asked, trying to ignore the children. “What are you doing out here? What’s with the nets and ropes?”
Gerry looked at me. “Tell them how their mom’s going to be okay.”
Everything got quiet.
“Gerry,” I said, “it’s time to stop pretending. You’ve been by the hospital, haven’t you?”
But Gerry didn’t flinch. His sharp blue eyes didn’t even flinch.
“Go on,” he said. “Tell them how people at the dude ranch are okay. You must have heard that people at the dude ranch are just fine. I know you did. Tell them how their mom’s just fine.”
“Come, now, Gerry,” I said.
“Don’t keep it a secret,” Gerry said. “Go ahead and tell them.”
I looked to Dad. He shook his head, No, don’t do it. Then Gerry locked in my gaze. For a long moment, we looked at each other. When his blue eyes flashed to the river, I knew what he meant. He meant, Look at all the death around us; help me keep this death from penetrating these children.
And then there were the kids. They cocked their heads, waiting for my answer.
“She’s okay,” I told them. “You mom’s gonna be A-okay.”
“See?” Gerry said. “You heard it from the professor. You heard it for yourself.” He passed out some candy bars to the kids, then started talking about his dogs. “You’re wondering about the Pomeranians,” he told me. “Well, the Pomeranians didn’t work out. Given enough time, maybe. In a couple more months, we might’ve really made it work. There’s no more capable canine, you know. No dog is more cunning. But on short notice, we simply needed stronger dogs.” Here Gerry nodded at the Akitas, shepherds, and mastiffs harnessed in the traces. “It was not for lack of vision. We had the breeding camp. The training system was in place. Show me finer studs.”