Isaac's Storm - Erik Larson [74]
If a train had crossed the ceiling it could not have made more noise. With most of the slate shingles gone, the rain struck bare wood. Driven by the wind, it penetrated deep into the plaster. It grew cysts in the wallpaper, which popped like firecrackers. At 7:00 P.M., a gust of wind blew out the front door and its frame. The blast effect caused everyone’s ears to pop.
Palmer estimated the water in the yard to be seven feet deep; in the parlor, two feet. He was downstairs monitoring its progress when the big plate-glass window at the front of the house exploded, along with its frame.
Palmer lit a kerosene lamp and placed it near the window of the frontmost bedroom. The window shattered; the blinds disintegrated. Everyone retreated to the back of the house. Palmer brought the lamp. Here too the windows shattered. A chunk of plaster fell from the ceiling and crushed the lamp. Palmer closed a pair of big sliding doors. He suggested prayers and hymns. His son said, “I cannot pray,” then reconsidered. “Dear Jesus,” he said, “make the waters recede and give us a pleasant day tomorrow to play, and save my little dog Youno and save Claire Ousley.”
Rain poured into the room. More plaster fell.
GARRY BURNETT RECOMMENDED everyone squeeze into the bathroom, arguing it was the strongest, safest place in the house. George Burnett believed no room would be safe if the house collapsed into the sea. He crawled out the bathroom window onto an upended roof that had floated against the house, and persuaded his mother, wife, and child to follow. They sailed off into the storm. The Palmers joined Garry Burnett in the bathroom. The Boecker family stayed behind in the bedroom. What the black couple did is unknown.
The water rose high onto the second floor. Gusts of wind moving at speeds possibly as great as 150 miles an hour—perhaps much higher—penetrated deep into the house. Palmer held tight to his son and braced his back against the bathroom door. His wife, Mae, hugged his neck with all her strength.
Beams fractured. Glass broke. Lumber ricocheted among the walls of the hallway outside the bath. The front half of the house tore loose. The Boeckers stood in their bedroom holding each other close as the wind peeled the house away. The bedroom disintegrated.
The water rose. The Palmers climbed onto the lip of the bathtub. Judson clamped his left hand to the shower rod and held Lee circled in his right arm. Youno was gone. Mrs. Palmer grabbed the rod with her right hand, and with her left held on to her husband and son.
The house trembled, and eased off its elevated foundation. It settled in deeper water. The water was up to Palmer’s neck. He fought to keep Lee’s head clear.
And Lee asked, “Papa, are we safe?”
Judson could not even see his son, for the darkness. He felt the boy’s small hands holding tight. His hands were cold. Maybe Judson did have time to offer his son some reassuring lie; more likely he could not speak for the great heave of sorrow that welled up within him after his son’s question. He drew his son close, but could not draw him close enough.
The roof stood up and fell upon the family. They went under the water together. Palmer came up alone. He had swallowed a great volume of water. He coughed, vomited. He saw nothing of Lee or Mae. There was no light, only motion. He could not think. His mind dimmed, came back.
And he was outside, free of the house. Treading water. He felt what seemed to be ground beneath his feet but could not get purchase. A wave threw him onto a mass of floating wreckage. Window shutters—many of them, all tied together. Someone else’s raft, but it was empty now.
He called for his son and wife.
25TH AND Q
Isaac Cline
THEY ARGUED. JOSEPH wanted everyone to leave at once and head for the center of town. Isaac had faith in his house, but also argued that conditions outside had grown too dangerous, certainly for his wife, who was pregnant and ill in bed. “At this time