Hands Across the Water

I lift and dump 100 buckets. Straining with the weight of every load.

I sit with Trinket. She walks around me leaning on me as she does. A sort of hug.

I lift 100 more.

I sit with Trinket. Sweating. She climbs in my lap.

I lift 100 more. I collapse next to Trinket on the step wondering if I have the strength to ascend the steps to dry land. And swearing a little, too, wondering if Trinket knows they are fightin' words.

At last I pull off my Wellies, grab Trinket with one arm and the lantern with the other and go up to lay across my bed. I need an hour of rest or I'll be toast when the sun rises and I need to make some competent decisions. I see my reflection in the mirror in the unflattering underlighting. Pure horror movie. Frizzies, pit stains, sweaty face, bags under my eyes, no bra. FEMA better not be coming. I'd need to shower first.

I call Scott. Tell him my plan. He asks if the bailing is helping. I am sure it is, though I can't see the fruits of my labor. The basement is the entire floor plan of the house. I can't begin to guess at what it would take to notice an appreciable difference when the water stretches across that much square footage. Maybe I removed 500 gallons? It's like a deck chair off the Queen Mary.

He tells me things are beginning to calm there.

How odd. Ninety miles closer to the storm and he's fairing better than the inland states. Further proof that is Mother Nature's vendetta against me. I am going to give some thought to composting. I swear.

I sleep fitfully for an hour. Or close to an hour. OK maybe 40 minutes. I awake to find Trinket on the radiator cover in her little pink plushy bed, leaning against the warmth of the lantern dome and watching the storm from the window. I sit up. She turns and leaps to join me on the bed at once. At the ready. Gonna help Momma bail some more.

We go down to the basement and I don't even bother to put on my Wellies. I can see that the water has risen considerably. It is at the top of the riser of the lowest step. Eight inches?

I return to the bedroom and assume a fetal position on the bed. I text Scott instead of ringing his phone. I have awakened him enough this night. It's not like he doesn't have a home and pets and other responsibilities. To say nothing of the nagging worry about his girls. They left on a Canadian cruise with their mother the day before. Visions of my first disaster genre movie, "Poseidon Adventure" flash through my head. I am sure he's gone there, too.

"Water is at the bottom of the second step. Scared a little. Will bail again when I have light. Hope you and the pups are still OK."

He texts back at once.

"On my way."