by Martin Borden

It has rained for a month - a steady, incessant downpour. There is no wind. Trees stand in silhouette like dark skeletons, each twig beaded with bright drops. Small rivulets twine through the weeds to join larger streams. Channels carved through the muddy bank heave into rivers that in turn spill out into a wide plain of pale water, mirroring the vast, grey sky.

I stand at the window. There has been no word from John. He set out in boots and raincoat in his four-wheel-drive three days ago, after the phones stopped working. The electricity went out the day before. There is no service or signal of any kind here now. 

I’ve found chores to keep me busy - making a list of all the food left in the house and moving vital supplies into the kitchen. I catch rainwater in a cluster of clean containers on the patio. I make a flag out of white cloth to hang outside, like I’m surrendering. I start to write SOS on it, but it seems like something in a cartoon. It hangs from the back of a chair for now. 

We came here four years ago, to escape the noise of the city and the fact that neither of us were getting any work done with all the distractions and obligations. John was laid off from his job teaching at an art college and I was going nowhere fast with a string of editing gigs and the occasional night-school class. The white clapboard and sparse interior of this house seemed right to both of us, set well away from the road on the edge of a dairy farm, behind a screen of alder trees. We could afford the rent, at least for a while. We furnished it from the Salvation Army shop in the nearest town. When I threw the garish, polyester afghan my grandma crocheted over the back of the gold, nubbly couch, I knew we were home. 

Today there is standing water close to the house. Larger pools have merged in the distance and some of the alders stand on small islands. It looks like one of John’s paintings, the grey series, where he’s differentiated forms merely by changing the direction of his brush dragged in the thick paint. I envy his brevity, the poetry of his surfaces and textures. His pallet is so reduced as to question its very existence of colour. Occasionally, one of these works sells to hang in a boardroom or lobby of an office building. The size needs to be just right: horizontal format, not so large as to dwarf the folks in meetings. Nothing oppressive in tone; certainly nothing challenging in terms of subject matter. He’s long since moved away from figurative work - too psychologically heavy. Most of those canvases are painted over now. I’ve held my tongue as they have disappear under thick slabs of grey, though a few remain in the basement, stored in a rack he built to better organize the space. There is one in particular I peer at from time to time and pray it escapes recycling. It depicts three figures on a beach, standing facing away towards a body of dark water. A woman and two children in swimsuits, one of whom, a boy of about eight or nine, stands apart from the others - narrow shoulders, legs like sticks. It reminds me of vacations long ago and days coming to an end, when the sun sinks below the horizon and blankets and towels are gathered up. 

John put the finishing coat of varnish on his latest piece some weeks back and then built the sturdy plywood crate in which to send it. He does this all himself now, saving money rather than hiring someone else. He’s handy using tools and confident with materials. I’m afraid of cutting things the wrong size. Thankfully, editing words is somewhat easier. I can spot grammatical errors from across the room and I know all about past participles and the subjunctive tense. John left to drive over to Owenstown where there are outlets for two shipping companies plus the railroad. The rates are steep, so he shops around for the best deal once he gets there. He can’t do any of that online since we don’t have internet service at home. It’s another of the reasons we moved here.

I should be using this time to write, not wasting it standing looking out the window. I’ve started working on ideas for short stories, roughing out possible scenarios and characters that might lead to a first draft. I think of this as a kind of excavation process, scratching through densely packed earth for clues. I’m trying to construct a series of inter-linked stories about people in a small town. I’m listening for their voices, searching for buried artifacts. So far I’ve found a woman in her forties, single, living in what was once the family home. A young niece comes to live with her. There is also a landscape - dry grass on rolling hills dotted with pines; a deep lake surrounded by cottonwood trees. There are cicadas in the summer. It’s not much to go on yet, but these images float in the back of my mind, slowly taking root. 

The rain pounds down. It takes an effort to distinguish the different sounds it makes on the deck, the roof and the ground outside, each surface producing a unique tone. The gutters rumble, fine drops spray the window. The combined wall of sound accompanies my activities day and night. The timbre changes slightly from room to room, or opens in a wide surround when I step onto the covered side porch. I detect a new scent in the air, something mineral and cold. After sniffing each of the drains and bathroom fixtures, I open the door to the basement. There is water down there; the smell is unmistakeable. Wet concrete. Two inches stand at the bottom of the stairs. The largest of John’s paintings are just above the waterline. Any deeper and the canvases will become wet. I step down into the water and search for the source, a floor drain or crack in the foundation. In the farthest corner I see a disturbance on the surface, like a jet in a swimming pool. Water is bubbling up from beneath the floor. I quickly run upstairs and outside to find that the house is now submerged, almost to the narrow basement window. The paintings are in danger and I run back inside. Water is now touching the bottom of the rack. I slide each one out and carefully maneuver them up the stairs and prop them against the living room wall. They are not heavy but their size makes them awkward to move. I’m careful to avoid banging the corners on doorways and ceilings. Each trip, the water is deeper. The last one I bring up is wet along the bottom edge, as are my pants and shoes. At first I’m sweating with exertion, then I’m cold. I light the wood stove for the first time in days. It’s almost four and outside the light is dying. I pull the ugly afghan from the couch over my shoulders and slip off my shoes. I hunch close to the stove until it begins to warm the room.

John uses the dinning room as his studio. I work in the spare bedroom at the front upstairs, sitting at a small table with the window behind me for light. We both revel in the silence. Sometimes I walk in the late morning after a few hours of writing. The words come easily at first, like they have been bottled up during our life in the city. A novel pours out of me the first year, about a couple trying to carve out time for themselves and the family they begin to assemble, first with a dog and then with a loud, unhappy baby. It all ends badly. An excerpt is published in a small literary journal but the whole novel has bumped around from one publisher to another without much interest. I still do editing work and am a reader for several publishing companies. My combined income is minimal but predictable. John is the opposite, selling multiple works in rapid succession, followed by long, fallow periods. He works steadily, up early in the morning and after a long nap at noon he is back at it until late, sometimes past midnight. We respect each other’s space and time and only rarely do we share our comments or invite criticism. Sometimes I read a short passage to John as he sits after lunch or he asks my opinion on whether a painting is finished. Mostly, we are independent, working on solitary pursuits.  

The night is long and dark. With candles and batteries running low, I retire early, though sleep is elusive. The white noise of rain and the profound darkness keeps me awake. The house creaks as gutters overflow into the lake that slowly rises on all sides. Animals scramble across the roof in search of shelter and I fear the attic will not withstand their prying.

“I’ll be back by dinnertime” John says. “There’s only the one bridge between here and Owenstown. If there’s any problem, I’ll turn around.” We make a list together of all the supplies we are running low on. He holds it in his hand as he suits up in his heavy black raincoat. 

“See if anybody knows when the power will be back on. And the phone.”

“It’s probably on in town already” he reassures me. “We might be the last to get our service restored out here. Anything special you want?”

“Just be safe” I say and watch him run out to the truck, his coat dark and slick like a seal. Four days ago now. The bridge must have washed out once he crossed to the other side. With no phone, he’s been unable to reach me. It’s simply a matter of waiting until the rain stops and repairs are made. I need to relax and use this time constructively. When it is finally light outside, I go directly to my writing room and sit, determined to work without distraction until at least eleven. I sketch out the flow of stories in a two-page treatment and I make a list of characters. The niece who comes to stay with her aunt will be the first narrator, and will maybe come back again in one of the later stories. Then the mother of the local priest will tell the story of his troubled faith as he confronts some outside force, maybe a lover from his past. Then the shopkeeper and the lonely young man who labours on the dairy farm. I give them names and map out their back-stories, how they come to be living in this small town, staying when so many others move to larger centres. I write a long passage about the town itself, the short stretch of shops and the courthouse, the winding river and the path that follows it. The motel next to the highway and the valley dotted with small farms. I give it some history: a flawed founder, Richard Owen and the family that still bears his name, the fire that burns down the library and the new building that replaces it. The project is taking shape when I stand to stretch out my back, turning to look out the window. Water is now covering all the ground around the house. It lies calm in a grey sheet, dotted with points of rain that spread out in expanding circles. I stare in fascination. 

Downstairs, I open the cellar door. In the dim light I see only the top three steps are clear of water, on which floats various objects: my gardening sunhat, an empty jar. I close the door. Outside on the porch, I find the woodpile has disappeared, chunks of wood drifting in the gentle current. Frantically, I race into the water, grabbing the closest pieces that I dump into the kitchen. I bring a laundry basket out and fill it several times, tumbling each load onto the floor. Most of the wood is gone, and I can’t believe I was so stupid to leave it in the path of the flood. I wade over to the shed and find John’s car-top boat that he goes fishing in every few months. I pull it out, determined to hunt down my escaped firewood. I can’t find oars but grab a kayak paddle and flop onboard like a clown taking a pratfall. Following the drifting wood, I haul in piece after piece as the boat floats between alder trees in the direction of the farm. Normally, this would be a gentle slope as the land dips into the green valley where the milk cows are set out to graze. The water is deep. Trees are shorter as I pass, with only their top halves visible. In one, I see a wet eagle that has clambered onto a branch, soaked through. A family of racoons are bunched together in another. The view opens up and I see the roofs of several buildings: the dairy farm. Around me float dead cows, bloated like inflatable toys, their eyes wide and cloudy. The water line is high on the boat, weighed down by the firewood. I start casting some of it out when I catch sight of a man on the roof of one of the small houses behind the main farm building. As I draw nearer, I see he is naked, crouched low against the chimney where it meets the roof, his feet inches from the lapping water. He is not moving and his skin is pale. A sudden jolt of fear runs up my spine and I paddle away through the drowned cows toward the cover of trees. I rationalize that my boat is too full to accommodate another person. Mostly, I am afraid he is dead, propped in place where, in a moment of crisis, he was able to shelter.

On the way back I become lost. With no landmarks I can recognize, I drift through a maze of tree-tops. Branches brush my face as I navigate tight spots and see that buds are swelling at their tips. Catkins are forming. Despite this deluge, spring is pushing forward. I realize I’ve passed the house when I see the radio tower that stands next to the small gas station and motel about half a mile down the road. The church steeple protrudes in the distance. None of the buildings are visible, though I see there is a large oil slick blooming on the surface and smell diesel fumes. Nearby in a cluster of fir trees, I find a green canoe floating. Empty, in perfect condition. I tie it to the back of my boat and with my bearings reestablished, paddle back to the house. Now the main floor is covered, and I see the futility of chasing down firewood, as the stove will be wet soon. I swing round to the side door and bring the boat and canoe onto the porch. I float the canoe into the kitchen and tie it to the handle of the oven. Everywhere things are floating and the house smells of wet wood and furniture. It is no longer habitable. I grab what food and clean water I can find and carry it up to the second floor bedroom. As best I can, I pack everything into a couple of duffle-bags and a suitcase. I change out of my wet clothes and climb into bed to warm up. 

I wake in darkness. The house shudders and groans and I bolt upright. Shining a flashlight down the stairs, I see the water has risen to above the door handles. I drag the bags down, bumping over the steps until I reach the water and wade into the kitchen to fetch the canoe, floating it into the hallway where I load everything and then aim it back to the door. The prow bumps the top of the doorframe and I panic. Fumbling with the flashlight, I stand for a moment, chest deep and try to calm myself. A stray thought comes to me, the librarian in my fictional town and how she imagines each person as a book. I rush back upstairs and grab my journals and laptop and stuff them into a plastic box I use to store sweaters. I float it beside me as I struggle to tilt the canoe at an angle so that it will pass thought the door. Quickly I toss the firewood out of the other boat and tie it to the stern of the canoe. I’ve packed some of John’s clothes and a blanket into a garbage bag with some food. The rain pelts down as I gently paddle away from the house, ducking my head until I’m free of the covered porch. The sky is dark but I sense that dawn is close. The aluminum boat bangs against the canoe and I fend it off with my paddle. I see the light of my last candle burning upstairs, dimly illuminating John’s painting of the three figures on the beach. In a minute, the house disappears behind a screen of trees. 

By the time I’ve found the farm, it is light enough to see that most of the buildings have disappeared with only the ridge of the house still visible. The naked man is there, standing, looking out over the vast lake that surrounds him. Hearing my paddle, he turns. He’s tall, maybe in his thirties, wet hair plastered over his face. His feet grasp the sharp angle of the roof, white and boney. When I’m close enough, I untie the boat and use my paddle to push it in his direction. His eyes are wide, like he’s not sure if this is a hallucination. The boat bumps into the roof and a hollow metal sound rings loud. Squatting down, he reaches to grab the gunwale. I pull hard on my paddle, backing the canoe away. From a distance I watch as he tumbles into the boat and tears open the plastic bag. He’s managed to wrap himself in the blanket when I aim the canoe away towards the horizon, in the direction of Owenstown. If there’s nothing there, I’ll keep going. There has to be dry land somewhere.