Selections from: THE HANGING OF LITTLE TIMMY TIPTOE

CHAPTER 19 - Flood

Axle Jackson awoke to utter darkness and the sound of a ringing phone. Panic seized him when the light would not go on. He leapt blindly toward the sound, colliding violently with a forgotten chair.

"Axle, that you?"

He recognized Mayor Badget's voice.

"Yes," through gritted teeth.

"Need your help. Big flood's comin'."

"What?"

"Been rainin' all night on top of that snow. Gonna hit the flats hard. Need you to call out your people, save yourselves, get every boat you can, then..." the Mayor hesitated.

"Then what?"

"Born-Again Baptists are gonna need help."

Jackson blew disparagingly between pursed lips, "I thought they liked water."

"Your people are much more prepared than they are."

"That's what they get for relying on God."

"Please, Axle."

"I'll do what I can," he snapped. Sticky fingers confirmed the violence of the blow to his leg. "Now hang up, I've got to make calls!"

As details of the militia's emergency plan played through Axle’s mind he felt wetness under his bare feet. ‘Must of knocked over a glass of water,’ he thought. 

Minutes later, candles lit, and three phone-calls down the list, the floor was under an inch of water.  

People in "the flats" were the first to loose power and communication next came the poor who occupied the shacks and shanties along the river behind Minnie's. By Two PM the first snowplows pushed their way into the soggy darkness. By Four, Delicious Avenue had been cleared and rescue vehicles were moving along the street. By six the relief effort was well underway -- police, the volunteer fire department, the lady's auxiliary, both churches, Axle Jackson and his Patriots, even the Appletown chapter of the BSQAA (Barber Shop Quartet Association of America) had been alerted and mobilized. Refugees began to arrive at first light.

Hundreds of candles flickered in the drafty, old stone church. Father Fundle smiled. The smell of tallow in the chill, dank air and the shadows cast by his busy volunteers fueled a sense of excitement. The insane weather was a massive stroke of luck, a little help from the Almighty when most needed. Not that he really believed in a higher power. It didn't matter. Either way it worked in his favor. The flying boy would fall.

In his mind's eye, Fundle shouldering a 12 Gauge shot gun, took a measured lead and as Timmy flew past, squeezed him from the sky. The fantasy ended with a resounding boom when the front door blew open. Accompanied by a rainy gust of wind, a new group of parishioners entered, laden with contributions.

Fundle called out. "Blankets on the left, food on the right, Niles get more candles from the Rectory!" A well placed pat sent the alter boy scurrying.

He felt a growing enthusiasm for the night. Fear and storms always titillated him.

An anxious parishioner approached. "Strange father, so much snow and now so much rain!"

"Leads one to think," the plump priest nodded seriously.

"Like Noah and the flood?"

"Or Moses and the plagues."

"Why would God visit us with plagues, father?"

Stepping up beside the alter, Fundle raised his voice above the wind: "'Why would God visit us with plagues?' this good man has asked!" 

The little church fell silent. 

"I don't have the answer, but I urge you all to think on it. Pray on it! Why are we being so - visited? And how did it begin?"

Murmurs from the still figures...

"The dreams."

"The night of dreams."

Fundle nodded, "Is it possible that evil has come to our quiet, little village? Is this a sign?" His dramatic gesture was accompanied by a serendipitous howl of wind in the bell-tower.

"There is something that as good Christians we must never forget..."

Silence.

"Satan was always an angel."

A small, collective gasp... 

For a moment he pictured himself as the cast-out angel tumbling slowly toward a green and sensuous earth. Far more appealing than clouds, he chuckled inwardly. How he relished the effect of voice and the power of the word. They were his now.   

Rain continued to knock against the darkened stained-glass images.

On the other side of town, Rector Spector took notes for a sermon and exhorted his busy volunteers. "Get those boxes packed, people. The RC's are planning to take in fifty refugees, we can do four times that if we put our backs into it!" 

He underlined a favorite sentence several times. Beware evil that comes dressed in the raiment of innocents for it is the most dangerous of all. Good stuff, good stuff, especially those words like raiment and beware. 

Byleth Scarp sat in snow-caused darkness at the mouth of his cave listening to sounds of rising water. It had begun as a rushing that grew to a roar which began to lessen, growing softer and softer until now it was no more than a hiss and he knew that the river had over flown its banks. 

Earlier he had been hungry, with no way to hunt and nothing to feed on but the dried remains of a crow picked clean days earlier. Now that half a dozen refugee mice had made the mistake of entering his cave, he felt better. Soon, despite the snow, he would have to leave. Spring was like that, unpredictable, a time of urges.   

Scarp scratched absently at his thinning hair. Had the snow not fallen he would be looking to satisfy one of those urges. Children were better than animals. They could be kept alive. This year he would find another child. This time he would not kill it, he would feed it and keep it with him. These thoughts came easier now that the dark thing that shared his cave was not fully present. He didn’t like the dark thing. It took too much from him.

The sound of the flood changed. Time to leave. He began digging upward through the snow. Cold, very cold...  Above, on the cliff, things would be lighter. Sometimes earthworms and salamanders could be found under the moss that grew on the finger-sized ledges of shale. He was not as hungry as before, but the tastes would be nice.

Twenty minutes later, pelted by rain, he looked out over the biggest flood in the history of the Apple Valley.

Scarp's ascent carried him toward a secret, dry cave located high on the face of the cliff.  Whenever he came here he thought of the tall man in black. They were friends he and Armpt. Back in the days when he could still talk like one of the people, he'd been twice hired by Armpt, both times to kill. The first time he'd cut the throat of a man who lived in the flats and brutalized his wife and five children. Bad man, Armpt had told him. Hurts wife, hurts children. The law can't reach him. The law is wrong. Justice must reach him. Scarp is justice. And for a handsome new rifle and a case of shells, Scarp became justice. He didn't like the rifle, but had no trouble using it. In the days when he was one of the people, before growing together with the dark thing in his cave, he'd been very good with a rifle. Now, along with other keepsakes, it lay in the dry cave halfway up the face of the cliff. It was a place he seldom visited. Keepsakes, like the people in the valley, were of little use to him. 

Wilbur had no idea where the word "Charlie-horse" came from but lying on his side, after his super-human snowshoe trek, he felt very much as though a horse named Charlie had walked on every muscle in his body. Movement seemed impossible, so he shouted, "I'm dying!"

No one answered. 

Again he called. "Is anyone within the sound of my voice?"

Gonzago, a gray tabby of advancing years gurgled, leapt up on the bed, and made himself comfortable on Wilbur's hip.

"Get off!" said the ex-mail pilot. 

"Wilbur, are you finally up?" It was the voice of Charlotte, Minnie's second in command. 

"I can't move," he called.

"Well, you'd better. We need you for the relief effort. Minnie's been asking where you are." 

"What relief effort?"

"Major flood. People on the lower hillside are completely under water." 

"Water?  What about the snow?"

She was gone. Slowly Wilbur forced himself to a sitting position. Gonzago slid down and curled up on the warm spot. He grabbed a soft handful of the cat’s belly. Gonzago took the shape of a large, furry prawn and purred. So adaptable, he thought, pet them they love you, reject them, they deal with it - no hung-head guilt, no pouting like a dog. Much to be learned from cats... Then, he saw Ed Moppit's two way radio and Dhalia Bascomb's headset laying neatly on the chair.

Wilbur hobbled into the hall, still in the blue work shirt and briefs he'd worn the day before. The girls rushing by barely took time to acknowledge him.

"Hey Wilb."

"You look like shit."

"Minnie wants you."

Carrie, double jointed and sufficiently voluptuous to have a reputation for being able to kiss her own ass, passed closer than the others and said: "Yuck, Wilbur take a bath!"

"How bad's the flood?" he called after her.

"Real bad!" 

Ordinarily, nothing save fire could get the girls out of bed before noon; but Wilbur knew how obsessive his boss could be and this was clearly one of those times. The fact that Minnie was looking for him suggested a major work detail. Not good. Number one, because he could barely walk number two, because he felt the need to visit Timmy. Too much time had passed since their last meeting. Things were happening way too fast.

He needed to get to a phone without being seen so the payphone was out, but there was one behind the bar. Not everyone knew that a secret doorway in the broom closet opened into a bar cabinet under the big mirror where the expensive stuff was kept. As long as no one bothered to look behind the bar, he was safe.

The lounge was the loudest he'd ever heard it at ten AM filling up with locals from the rained-out community down river. Luckily none of them was ordering drinks. Having squeezed past Minnie’s prize bottles of 50 and 100 year old Cognac, Wilbur settled down on his back with the phone on his stomach and admired the faux-Florentine mural of ill-behaving angels that adorned the domed ceiling. Ironically, it was the one room in Minnie's establishment where nobody had any particular reason to look up. As such the complex painting went somewhat unappreciated. Viewing it now, while the phone rang at Timmy’s house, he noted the compelling quality of the artwork which depicted a broad collection of heaven's residents engaged in a carnival of earthly delights.

The phone clicked and Edna Appleseed's very angry voice snapped, "I told you not to call me again Waldo, it's too late!"

Before he could protest, the receiver slammed in his ear.

Overhead, a female angel giggled while a pursuing admirer's wingtips tickled her backside.

He dialed again.

Standing on the back of the sofa with the phone at her ear, Edna, peered out across the melting snow. Beyond the mound on her lawn she could see Betsey Tremble's house and the remains of a collapsed tunnel leading from her front door to Betsey's, where her now-contrite, lawyer husband made call after call. 

"He thought he might loose the case, so he didn't want to take it! Now he's telling me it doesn't matter!  He's such a hypocrite!"

"He's always been a hypocrite," said Wilbur.

"I know," she said sadly, the anger draining from her voice.

"Do you want him to come back?"

Before she could answer, a chunk of snow crumbled from the unfamiliar mound on her lawn exposing what seemed to be a piece of wood. "My God, there's something out there, under the snow."

"Where?"

"On my lawn, something wooden." 

When no more snow fell, she turned from the rainy scene, sat on the arm of the sofa and shook her head, sadly. "I don't know if I want him to come back. Not really, just so I could yell at him, he's such an ass." 

"He’s always been, Edna."

"Really?"

"Yeah, really."

She felt a lump growing in her throat and suddenly her eyes were welling up, "So what does that make me, Wilbur?  A prize fool."

Wilbur shifted his view from the lusty ceiling to a half empty bottle of Old Crow.

"Endings are hard," he muttered lamely.

"I don't know if I want it to end."

It was increasingly difficult to concentrate. He hadn't even broached the subject of Timmy and for some inexplicable reason the sound of Edna's trembling voice was making him horny. The teariness in her tone vanished.

"Oh, my God!"

"What's the matter."

"Ohhh, my GOD!"

"Edna?"

"Oh, my Goooood!"  Snow fell in chunks from the mound on Edna's lawn, revealing a bizarre tableau eerily reminiscent of the flag raising at Iwo Jima. A heavy cross, half-erected, was being held up by a semi-kneeling man while another, clutching a red gasoline container, struggled to raise it upright. They were frozen solid, their act of defiance captured for the ages -- or at least for Edna Appleseed -- by the plunging temperatures of the freak snowfall.

"They were going to burn a cross," she whispered.

"I'm coming over," said Wilbur.

"How? Everything's flooded."

"I don't know, but I will. Is Timmy all right?"

She sighed, "He's going stir crazy. He keeps saying he wants to go outside for "a fly." He got very high handed with me yesterday, so I shut in his room. This morning he was so cranky he started smashing into the door. I thought he'd give himself a concussion so I let him out. Now he's flying all over the house, terrorizing Shelley Ann and threatening to go outside alone if I won’t go with him."

"I'm coming, Edna. Don't let him go out ‘til I get there. You hear me? Tell him I'm coming to give him flying lessons but don’t let him go out! " 

“I will,” she replied, in a soft voice, adding, “I’m glad you’re coming." 

Now he was very horny. 

Sneaking out of the broom closet into the hall, Wilbur backed straight into Minnie. She wrinkled up her nose and said, "Eau, Wilbur, take a bath and get your work clothes on we've got big problems in this valley!"

"I've got to go over to the Appleseed's," he said lamely.

"It's going to have to wait."

"It can't."

She looked at him strangely, "Do you know what's happening out there?"

He nodded uncomfortably, "I know. But the kid needs me. He's going stir crazy, he's..." 

"Stir crazy? People are drowning in their homes. They're stranded on roofs. It’s a disaster! They need help!"

Wilbur squirmed, “I know Minnie, it’s just… I… I can’t, I… "

"You're the only man in this establishment, and we're the only place offering help to these people. They're last on everybody's list -- you know that!"

"I know."

"Forget the boy for five minutes!"

"I can't!"

"Is his life being threatened!"

"It may be."

Minnie shook her head in slow disbelief. "My God, Wilbur, what's happened to you?"

He didn't know. The silence was brutal. Her disapproval hurt far more than all the years of drunken self-pity. Finally, she drew the line.

"Do you want a job here or don't you?"

She was his best friend, for years his only friend, and now in a situation where he knew she was right, he was denying her. He felt like a spider, a mote. "I guess I have to quit," he said.

"Wilbur!"

The shock in her voice hurt worst of all.

"I'm sorry, Min... I'm sorry."  Unable to look at her any longer he wheeled, ran down the hall and up to his room. He tore off the rancid clothing and scrubbed away the dirt with a soapy towel, all the while expecting her to walk in at any moment. How flimsy his purpose seemed. He knew how desperate the poor on Minnie’s side of the hill were and how dangerous the flats could be in a flood. If anyone suffered because of him he would never forgive himself.

Dressed in clean clothes, he packed the two-way radio and finalized his list, then, dodging groups of refugees and ignoring the girls' requests for help, he ran to the costume room.

The police uniform and harness were easy to find, the flight goggles and leather aviator's cap eluded him until, in a moment of inspiration, he checked under "S" for Snoopy. Everything else was in Props. An ocean fishing rod with a full reel of 60 pound test line, an airsick bag, and, across from past the thumb screws and articulated Hobbit, the artifact that had made Riley Mentz's father a legend at Minnie's -- Nanok-of-the-North's Kayak. Like all the brothel's props it was 99% authentic, from the seal-gut lacing binding leather to frame, to the bona fide whale bone blubber holder. It was a two-holer of course, and only a hinged centerpiece deviated from traditional design. Here the wealthy owner of the Jar and Box factory, Taylor Mentz III, explored his Innuit fantasies about a pretty Eskimo girl named Baby Seal. Together they would paddle imaginary seas until the fur clad factory owner announced "Narwhal" whereupon Baby Seal, who always rode on her knees facing her amour, would flip up the centerpiece that separated them, bend forward and make "tusk-tusk".  

Wilbur stood on the kitchen porch and stared at the downpour as sheets of water swept across the hillside turning the top layer of snow to slippery ice. The thought of venturing out in it was dismal. After securing the police uniform, radio parts, goggles and helmet in a waterproof bag, he stowed them, along with the fishing rod, in the bottom of the Kayak. He donned his parka and stepped out into the rain. Slipping and sliding, he dragged the small craft around to the side of the house. Again and again the slick crust gave way, plunging his leg deep into the snow. After three breakthroughs his pants and feet were soaked. He'd reached the hillside. The Kayak bobbed in a trough of runoff. He was ready to launch.

Holding firmly to a young, gray birch he wriggled into the larger of the two holes. At first, his weight held the kayak fast, but as he maneuvered into a sitting position it suddenly shot forward. Down the icy hill they slid, like an out of control bobsled, gaining momentum geometrically 'til the gray-barked trees had become a blur.

What a rush! Thought Wilbur as he leaned into a turn careened round a corner, and accelerated directly toward the base of 200 year old Elm.

What a way to die! He thought, as he jabbed with the paddle, lunged with all his might and cleared the tip of the kayak just in time to carom off the ice coated trunk, sail twenty five feet through the air and plunge deep into a run-off filled hollow. 

The drawbacks of being a single paddler in a "two-holer" whose second hole you forgot to lace shut became immediately obvious.

On the bank, he emptied the kayak of water and inspected for damage. A short walk down stream brought him to a much larger body of water. Shivering, he re-entered his craft and paddled off between the trees. 

Mist began to rise, and soon it was thicker than lies at a fisherman's convention. Things were not proceeding as planned. He was lost and shivering uncontrollably. The only sound came from his paddle monotonously stroking the water. Traveling like this it could take hours, maybe days to reach Timmy. In the meantime, how many people might suffer or die because of his failure to help Minnie? A great weight descended upon him, and for the first time it occurred that he might never find his way out.

A mournful cry drifted through the mist. A water bird, he thought, a loon, except there were no loons in the Apple Valley. As he paddled in the direction of the sound the rain began again. Soon the only sound was water upon water. He welcomed it. The falling drops were much warmer than the stuff on which he traveled and they stilled his shivering. 

Mist retreated and the day grew brighter. Then, in the distance a horizontal shape emerged. He recognized the roof of a submerged home. On the far side, still shrouded in mist, a small figure huddled, the source of the mournful sounds.

She did not hear him approach, and he worried that his sudden appearance would frighten her. He was framing words of comfort she when she sensed his presence and turned.

"Phoebe?"

Peering uncertainly through her tears, she withdrew to the center of the roof.

"Phoebe, it's me Wilbur!"

She recognized him and returned. The kayak floated to the roof and Wilbur disembarked. As he reached to embrace her, she wrapped her arms around his neck and began sobbing wretchedly. 

While the little body shook against him, he wondered how she came to be here, alone, in this desolate place. Suddenly, in his minds eye, he saw the thin, drawn face of her mother. Then answers came in mental pictures timed to Phoebe's sobs. Her mother was below them, trapped in the house, drowned in the darkness. 

"She wouldn't come, I couldn't lift her," sobbed the child.

Maybe there was still time, maybe if he dove...

"She's not there anymore," wept the girl.   

"Where is she?" 

"In heaven." 

She wept bitterly, and her trembling smallness made him think of the fat priest. And he hated him. 

"I loved her."

"Of course you did."

"The water was coming..."

"Phoebe, it's not your fault."

"I couldn't lift her," she wailed, "I couldn't lift her."  

She dissolved again into tears, and he held her, rocking gently and told her it would be all right.

She sat in front of him, straight as a reed, like a ghost or a fairy, otherworldly in her silence. 

"That way," she said softly, pointing between the trees.   

For an hour he followed her directions, and the two of them took in the awesome strangeness of Apple Valley under water. Chunks of snow floated by like icebergs, twigs, logs, assorted jetsam -- bits of paper, the arm of a doll, a rubber sandal. How Phoebe decided where they should go was a mystery to Wilbur, but she seemed to know, and he trusted her. During the entire trek they saw no people, though they occasionally heard rescue efforts. Sound seemed to carry great distances over the water. Only once did he see anything familiar, the top of a street sign reading Mentz Lane. He knew then that they were on the South side of the island.

It was noon when they nosed ashore at the base of Apple Hill and the sun was making sporadic appearances between a sky-full of fast moving clouds. 

After hiding the kayak under some brush, Wilbur exchanged his shirt and pants for the borrowed police uniform, shouldered the fishing pole, and along with Phoebe began slogging up the muddy grade. 

It was slow going. Clogged culverts spread gravel fans across the roads and the accompanying sheets of rushing water soaked their shoes and froze their feet.

When they at last turned onto Timmy's street their eyes were met by the eerie strangeness of the cross-raising tableau. 

"They're frozen," he whispered to Phoebe.

"I know," she replied.

Beyond the bizarre sculpture, the remains of Waldo's tunnel lead from the Appleseed front door, past a snow-covered police car. Leaning against it, one of Appletown's finest soaked up rays of the fickle sun. 

"What are you going to do?" whispered Phoebe.

Wilbur pointed to the stripes on his shoulder and answered with a grin. "Take charge. I'm a sergeant!"

They set a brisk pace toward the sorry looking police car. Wilbur pulled the hat low over his eyes and barked at the dozing cop.

"Officer, are you on duty or sunbathing!"

Rookie Ned Karp jerked to attention then stared at the approaching couple in open-mouthed disbelief.

"Maybe you're deaf?" Wilbur snapped.

"No sir..."

"I'm your relief. Why isn't that car cleaned off?"

"Well..."

"Why are those bodies still on the lawn?"

"I'm waiting for backup."

Wilbur shook his head contemptuously.

"Sir, my radio's out. Mr. Appleseed went into town a while ago and said he'd send backup. Sir!"

"So you chose to leave two bodies on Mrs. Appleseed's front lawn?" Wilbur pointed at the young man's head. "Do you use that to think with officer or just for something to rattle at the Apple Fiesta?"

The young rookie blushed and stared at his feet.

"Why haven't you gone for help?" demanded Wilbur.

"I'm out of gas," he whined.

Wilbur pointed to the red can still clutched in the hand of the would be cross-burner. 

"And that is?" He demanded.

Officer Karp winced. 

"Officer, those bodies in this car now! And you on your way to the morgue in two minutes! Is that clear?"

"Yes sir!"

It took a little longer. 

Getting the frozen stiffs into the car required some creative maneuvering and since the big guy's hand was frozen around the gas can’s handle, before they stuck him inside, they had to hoist him in the air at an extremely awkward angle while Phoebe filled the tank.  

"That was yucky," said Phoebe as they squished the last few paces to the Appleseed's front porch. 

"You were great," Wilbur assured her. He pressed the bell and screams erupted. A chill of dread went down his spine. Then Phoebe shouted, "around back!" They bolted.

Rounding the house they were greeted by the insane sight of Timmy floating like a helium balloon from a rope that ran out of the house, under the handle of the door and up to his ankle. Edna, holding the rope, was screaming at Timmy, who was wailing in terror while Shelley Ann bounced up and down shouting anything that came into her head.

As Wilbur started for the porch, the doorknob broke, the rope yanked out of Edna's hands and Timmy shot up five more feet coming to a wrenching stop that tore the tennis shoe from his foot.

"Help me, help me, help me!" he wailed.

"I'm here!" Wilbur shouted, leaping up for the rope. It barely moved. It felt like some unseen hand was pulling the 63 pound boy up into the sky. The rope put tremendous pressure on the Timmy's ankle. Another violent jerk would set him free.

"Gimmie a hand!" he cried. 

Edna added her weight. Face to face they pulled down with all of their combined strengths. It was not enough. Wilbur felt Phoebe climbing his back. She planted her feet on his shoulders. Her small voice was compelling.

"It's OK Timmy, you're foot's not going to slip, the rope's too tight!"

"I'm scared!" he howled.

"I've got you," she said, "we've all got you, you're coming down." The tension on the rope eased ever so slightly. "You see, you're coming down. Now stop being afraid."

"I can't!"

"Yes you can! You're coming down."

Phoebe's reassurances worked. Hand over hand they pulled him in. Wilbur grabbed an ankle, Edna a leg. There was brief panic when the slackened rope slid off, but Wilbur got him by the belt and muscled him under the doorjamb.

Timmy sobbed all the way into the living room. And when they let go, he shot up into the ceiling with a boom that shook the house. But, it was over.  

Edna looked up at her miserable son.  He'd wet his pants, there was a ring of scarlet around his ankle from rope burn, and his jacket was torn. At least he remembered to wear it, she thought. 

Shelley Ann pulled on her sleeve. "Is Timmy all right?"

"Yes dear, he's just fine now."

"Was he going to fly away?"

"No, no... He was scared."

"Can I fly?"

"No, dear, but you can help me get some cookies."

Shelley Ann said "goodie," and ran into the kitchen.  

Edna felt dazed. Timmie's condition had never before seemed dangerous, but now the threat was clear. He'd come perilously close to slipping off into the sky. She shivered and wished Waldo was there. He'd lived through the colds and flues, a broken leg and three late-night trips to the hospital. Even if he was a liar, a cheat and a fool, he had an investment in the child, and this flying-falling-anti-gravity disease called for an investment; more, it called for an iron constitution and a will stronger than Judge Armpt's – all things that she lacked. Somehow, it wasn't enough just to be a mother anymore. 

When her mind returned to the present, Wilbur was talking to Timmy in a calm voice. 

"Fear is fast," he was saying, "The best way to fight it is to slow down. When you're slow, it passes right through you like a breeze going through a doorway and you're not afraid anymore." 

"I could of died," sniffed Timmy.

"If you'd stayed afraid, maybe. But I don't think you would of. I think you would have taken a liking to the view up there and flown all over Appletown, just like I used to."

"How can you not be afraid of dying?" the boy persisted.

Wilbur remembered his crashes and near crashes and a half-smile crossed his face. "Thinking about dying is a trap," he said, "because being dead is not something you can really think about."

Silence followed, because no one knew what Wilbur meant. Then they heard Phoebe crying. All eyes were drawn to the front window where the small girl sat alone in a big chair with tears streaming down her face.

"Her mother died in the flood," Wilbur explained softly.

"Oh, my god," Edna gasped. She knelt beside Phoebe's chair and took the child in her arms.

Seeing his friend's grief, Timmy's heart went out to her. As he stopped thinking about himself, the pressure holding him against the ceiling relaxed and he began floating normally again.

Time passed. A fire was built. Edna made coco for everyone and, for a change, things in the Appleseed household seemed to be at peace. Timmy, in hover mode, talked with Phoebe, who by now had cried all the tears she could possibly cry.  Shelley Ann was on her tummy in front of the fireplace with a coloring book. And Wilbur, wearing a pair of Waldo's old Chinos, sat in the rocker next to Shelly Ann watching steam rise from his police uniform

Edna caught his attention and smiled. "Help me in the kitchen?"

"Does he seem all right?" Wilbur asked in a low voice when they were safely away.

"He's not as scared as he was before," she replied and pointed to a cabinet. "There's soup in that cupboard, pick your favorite."

"He's got to be able to go outside," said Wilbur

"I don't see why. It's too dangerous."

"There are people who want him stopped, Edna."

"What can he do, he's just a child."

"You've seen what he can do."

After dinner, Edna washed, Wilbur dried, and as she bent over the sink he confirmed an earlier impression that her only garment was the long, loose-fitting, pullover robe. Hard to believe. He still thought of Edna as a proper PTA mother, not this sensual female who had all but devoured him in her bedroom two days before.

Edna glanced back at him and smiled.

"What are you looking at?" she asked.

He swallowed.

Her eyes twinkled. "After dinner. When the children are in bed."

Doc Waters walked into Mayor Badget's office in a foul mood.

"You look like I feel, Doc," said the Mayor.

Flopping into an empty chair Doc muttered, "I thought emergencies were supposed to bring people together."

The mayor continued pouring over his papers. "Spirit of brotherly love less than apparent in the temple of Hypocrites?"

Doc scowled. "ER's overflowing, refugees wandering the halls -- people ought to be exhausted, but I swear if you used a hornet's nest for a football you wouldn't have more bad tempers in one nasty place."

"Same all over town," replied the Mayor. "Riley Mentz sent over a truckload of apples. The Episcopals claim the Catholics got more, the Catholics say the Episcopals overstated their needs, there was a big scramble and now the parking lot's full of apple sauce."

The men fell silent and listened to the ringing of the phones.

Doc looked at the floor. "I swear I never thought I'd say this, but we need Armpt. Where the hell is Armpt?"

"Can't reach him," said the Mayor. "His outside gate's locked, so's the house, and he doesn't answer his phone or the bell."

"Should we break in?"

"Like to be a might salty if we damage that hand carved front door."

"What if he's ill?"

Mayor Badget groaned and walked to the small window that looked out over the parking lot, and asked, "when'd it get dark?"

Doc shook his head.

"You know there's a passage runs from the jail to Armpt's basement, doubt he'd care much about that door."

"I thought that was just a story," Doc said.

"Nope. I've seen the steps. Tell you what let's give folks a night to sleep this off. Things aren't better by morning, we'll go through and wake him up."

Doc slapped his knees with disgust and got to his feet, "Tell me something Shasty, why do we need him? Why can't we handle this ourselves?"

"We can. We are. It's just..." the mayor turned back to the little window. A gleaming crescent moon, sharp as a scimitar, hung in the night sky. "Don't know Doc, maybe its just habit."

Water dripped into the dozen or so pots spread across Fern and Dhalia Bascomb's upstairs hall, similar containers were in the bedrooms. Fern paced among them furiously.   

"You had no right!" She cried.

"I had every right," replied her sister evenly.

"It's my dream too!"

"I know."

"And you shared it in a note to a whorehouse madam?!"

"I see her as an expert."

"On what?!"

"Sexual fantasy."

Fern shuddered and put her hands to her ears. "Stop it! Don't say those words!"

"You need help, sister."

"I'll tell you who’s an expert, Doctor Wooly is an expert!"

"Doctor Wooly is a nearsighted, child psychologist. I wouldn't go to him with my personal problems for all the tea in China."

"But you'd go to that 'Marble' woman!"

"Would and did," said Dhalia. 

"I hate you!" shouted Fern, kicking a pot full of rainwater at her sister.

"You know what I think, Fern? I think you need a session with Mr. Ping!"

Mr. Ping was a disciplinary ping-pong paddle that had hung by the front door when the Bascomb twins were growing up. As far as either could remember it had never been used, though it stirred myriad unsettling emotions.

Fern cried out shrilly, "Dhalia Bascomb, you have gone too far!"

"Bite me," said Dhalia with a toss of her head.

Rushing the bed, Fern threw herself headlong on her twin and for the first time since they were six, began pulling hair with all her might.

Water Commissioner Ed Moppit reviewed his calculations. Based on estimated snow and rainfall and the known size of "the crease" through which the Apple River vacated the valley, it would take six to eight weeks for the flood waters to dissipate –  too long, much too long. Food stores in Appletown would be gone in a fortnight, after that people would be starving.