Little Klein Part 8

There was only a small gathering left: Reverend Clambush because he knew that Cornelia would be managing at home just fine and Widow Flom because she didn't have anyone at home. Mac Gamble stayed on because Officer Linden was his cousin, and Muriel the librarian was too frightened of storms to be alone in her apartment above Tim and Tom's Market.

"Mac and Muriel, go get Mrs. Klein and bring her to the police station. Stay downstairs until the storm's over and we find those boys," said Officer Linden.

"Flom and Clambush, let's go." Officer Linden turned on the squad car's light though no one else was out driving, and they sped away.

Farmer Filmore, hurrying to town to check on his widowed sister Dora Flom, had left sheets drying on the line. This got him to thinking about his late wife and how she would not have left sheets on the line in such precarious weather. In fact, she would not have been doing laundry on a Sat.u.r.day. It was her Monday task. And on Mondays she always fixed him bacon for breakfast. Farmer Filmore was so lost in Mrs. Filmore thoughts that when he came upon a dog wrapped in a dead bush running toward him, he had to brake fast.

Why, it was the Klein dog. He put his truck in park there in the middle of the road and hopped out.

"Come here, boy! Here, boy!" He crouched down and called LeRoy, who barked and came up to Farmer Filmore whimpering.

"What is it, boy?" Farmer Filmore released LeRoy from the bush, but LeRoy was not satisfied.

He yapped and ran down the road a ways, looking back at Farmer Filmore to follow. He ran into the brush, barked, and looked back.

"Okay, okay, boy! I'm coming." Farmer Filmore left his truck where it was and waded into the brush, into the hush of the forest floor, while up above, the trees groaned under the growing weight of the wind.

When Harold realized he was not to be a dumpling in the river's soup and it was up to him to go for help, his limbs flew into action, rewinding his body across the rock wall a" fingers grasping crevices, feet grabbing firm steps. He traced his mind's map as he went: How close was the nearest house? Would someone be home to help him? On this return trip, the wall wasn't as steep as Harold remembered, the ledge not as narrow, the river not as wide. How long would the Bigs be all right in the cave? Two knee b.u.mps, three elbow sc.r.a.pes, and an unfortunate whap to the nose later, Harold was standing on wet sand and then spread himself out like a contented b.u.t.terfly on the green gra.s.s, on the hard ground, a warm trickle of blood running from nose to ear.

But something was not right. Without moving, Harold looked around him. He listened. There were no birds, no chipmunks, none of the usual forest sounds. Instead there was a hush at the ground. Where were the animals? He rustled some leaves with his foot; he gave a sharp whistle. Nothing stirred. He looked up through the trees to an eerily green sky, then his head filled with a growing roar, like a train, but there were no tracks. What was it Dad always said? If you hear a train and there aren't any tracks, head for the cellar. Tornado.

Little Klein jumped up. He ran from tree to tree. The train was coming closer.

"Mark!" he cried. "Matthew! Luke! LeRoy! Ma! Somebody!"

A big wind was coming and the leaf was alone.

Little Klein looked at that tall wall of water and knew what stood behind. The tornado would come downriver and pa.s.s over the falls. There was no time for thinking. Harold Sylvester George Klein stepped back on the ledge. He climbed back behind the falling water and waited.

Mother Klein paced the bas.e.m.e.nt of the police station. The only places to sit were the beds of the two cells, and she'd offered those to Mac and Muriel. How could they sit at a time like this?

"Do you hear that wind?" she lectured. "The youngest weighs hardly more than the dog." Her whole adult life she'd spent raising these boys and now poof, they could be gone in a whoosh of wind. All the work she'd put into protecting her youngest boy, her baby, and then one day she'd just sent him out into the world because she was ornery? It was just like Stanley to be gone at a time like this. Well, she would find her boys.

She started up the steps, but Mr. Gamble stopped her.

"And the falls!" she continued. "They may be impulsive, but my boys would not do something so rash as float a raft above the falls. I told them to stay away from Wilson's Fork and they said they'd stay away from Wilson's Fork and my boys are nothing if not obedient. That Nora Nettle is forever stirring up trouble for my boys." She closed her eyes.

"Lord, get out there and do something to protect my boys. Use that dog if you have to a" just don't let them blow away or get smashed by a tree or . . . oh heavens, Lord, just get on now. Please."

Mac Gamble cleared his throat.

"Yes, Mrs. Klein. We all know Nettle. I'm sure she was exaggerating. I'm sure they'll be fine. Now let's just a"" but Mr. Gamble's voice was drowned out by Muriel's shriek, which was obliterated by the sound of a freight train pa.s.sing directly overhead.

Farmer Filmore and LeRoy were nearing the river when they heard the train. As he was a veteran of such storms, Mr. Filmore's heart rate did not change a beat. He simply lifted the dog like a sack of wheat, ran his long-legged run to the bridge, and nestled the two of them on the far side of the cement wall.

Officer Linden and his crew heard the warning, too. They pulled over next to a pickup left in the middle of the road.

"That's Fred's truck!" shouted Widow Flom as they ran for the ditch. "Lordy, lordy. What is Fred doing out in this weather?" The rescue team flattened themselves in the ditch and covered their heads with their arms.

Harold listened to the thundering water. He'd scooted far enough to find the small place where he could sit, draw his knees up to his chin, and grasp ahold of the ledge next to him. The water was now a whisper compared to the greater cry of the wind. The rocks around and under him shuddered, poking like angry fists. Thud after thud, the world trembled. Later, Harold would discover that those thuds were trees coming down in the storm, but at that moment, he felt the earth was breaking apart, leaving him on an island. Water sprayed his face and drenched his clothes. This time he did not cry for help because he knew help could not come. He held fast and waited.

As fast as the train came, it pa.s.sed, and the world was suddenly still, the water's roar again the largest sound. Harold stood up slowly, touching the back of his bruised head with one hand to make sure he wasn't bleeding. The ledge was slipperier now, and he crept along slowly to the spot where he'd seen his brothers and looked over the edge. There they were, just below him in a cave of sorts, their heads visible at the edge, nearly at the bottom of the falls.

"Guys!" Harold called. "You okay?"

"Little Klein!" Mark called back. "How did you get up there?"

"Walked. Well, climbed a little, slid on my sitter and . . . are you okay?"

"I am, but I don't know about those two. They keep falling asleep like when they conked heads that time. They're breathing, but . . ."

"Can't you get out?" asked Little Klein.

"I'm not sure," said Mark. "It happened so fast. We went over the falls and under at the bottom. We popped up so hard we landed in this cave but barely. I had to drag them in; they were hanging over the edge."

"Is there another way out?"

"I crawled back a ways. There's a sort of tunnel but then more water. We can't slide into the river, and even though we're close to land, I don't see anyplace to step on this side. I guess we'd go your way."

"Stay there," said Harold unnecessarily. "This time I can go get help."

"Be careful!" called Mark.

Again, Harold retraced the now familiar path to sodden ground, whistling his loudest whistle as he went. The forest was not the same forest he'd left not half an hour earlier. Where there had been a small meadow for picnicking, tree carca.s.ses piled atop each other like oversize toothpicks. The top of one old oak lay across the river like a spent dandelion, the remains of the raft caught in her fluff. Harold was an ant moving among these fallen beasts.

He tried whistling for LeRoy, then crawled through the web of roots at the base of some trees, skirted others, and as he scrambled atop the back of a younger oak, his dog came winding through the debris, a soggy cap between his teeth.

"LeRoy!" Harold slid down to the ground, burying his head in LeRoy's damp and smelly neck. "You came back." LeRoy barked and dropped his offering. "Look here," Harold exclaimed. "You found Luke's cap! Good boy!"

"There's one!" cried Widow Flom, and one by one the rescue crew descended on him.

"Put me down," Harold insisted as Widow Flom scooped him up. She squeezed him, then set him down and wiped her eyes.

"You're not too big to be pampered by a relieved old lady," she scolded with a playful pat to his head.

"Come on," Harold continued. "My brothers are back there and need help." He led the way along the cluttered riverbank, stopping at the edge of the falls.

"There," he said, pointing with one hand, his other petting LeRoy's insistent snout.

Officer Linden rubbed his bald head, his beloved police hat long gone with the wind.

Harold stepped closer to the falling water.

"Don't!" cried Reverend Clambush and Widow Flom, grabbing for him at once.

But they were not quick enough. Just as Nora Nettle arrived, leading Mother Klein, Muriel, Mac Gamble, and Mean Emma Brown, he disappeared from view, LeRoy yapping wildly at the water.

"Where are my boys?" demanded Mother Klein. "Why are you all standing around? What's being done?"

Harold stepped out on the gra.s.s next to the falls and LeRoy. There was a collective gasp.

"Come on!" he shouted. "There's a cave in the wall behind the falls. My brothers are in it."

The adults stood with mouths gaping, but Emma Brown didn't hesitate. She scrambled up next to Little Klein, and soon she disappeared as well.

Mother Klein grabbed Widow Flom's hand and the two of them followed Emma's steps. They planted themselves next to LeRoy, peering into the water.

"I'm going in," said Mother Klein. She pulled at her shoes without unlacing them.

"Oh, no you don't, Esther." Widow Flom took Mother Klein's arm, then held her close. "Sing yourself a st.u.r.dy song, but you'll help 'em more by staying on dry land. Here, I'll start. Shall we gather at the river . . ."

LeRoy howled.

Behind the falls, Harold navigated with Emma right behind him. He studied the distance between their ledge and the cave.

"Mark, can you stand up?" Harold called.

"I think so," he answered. The mouth of the cave jutted far enough out that his head cleared the rocks above him. "It's wet, though, and slippery. If you're coming down, you should take off your shoes."

Emma slid down to sit beside him on the ledge and said, "I'll get your shoes."

Harold yelped and sidestepped away.

"Give me your foot, runt. I'm trying to help you," Emma growled. Harold considered his options. He was behind a wall of rushing water with Mean Emma Brown on one side and a slick shelf of rock on the other. He stepped back and closed his eyes. Emma unlaced his shoes and held them down while Harold lifted out his feet.

"Now what are you waiting for?" she demanded.

Harold glanced down at Emma Brown. She hadn't yanked his shoes out from under him. She hadn't pushed him over the edge. Actually sitting there next to him, holding his shoes, puzzling over their dilemma, Emma Brown looked a lot like a regular girl. Harold tried to remember what it was that made her so mean, but aside from his brothers saying so, he couldn't come up with anything. Still, a fellow had to be careful.

"I'm fine," he squeaked. "You can go back."

Without a word, Emma stood and edged back to land, carrying his shoes.

"Okay," he called to Mark. "What now?"

"Ask for the doctor. But first, come down here," Mark answered, "and we'll figure out how to get Matthew and Luke out." Mark pointed out b.u.mps and ledges for stepping and holding.

"That will work," Harold said, crouching in the cave. "I'll go get help." He scuttled up and out, where he met the waiting rescuers.

"We need Dr. Dahlke," he said, then added hastily, "Nothing bad, Mother. They're okay. Really. Matthew and Luke b.u.mped their heads. We figured out how to get them all out."

"Are they screaming in pain?" asked Widow Flom.

"No," said Harold.

"Are any of their limbs hanging off in unnatural directions?"

"Uh . . ."

"They're moving around, right?"

Harold nodded. "A little."

"We don't need Dr. Dahlke. They've probably got themselves a heap of bruises and a couple of mild concussions.

"Are you okay in there, Mark?" she bellowed, but if he heard her, his response was lost in the falling water. "Harold, you and Mark keep those other two awake. Soon as they can get up without being dizzy or throwing up, you start showing them the way out."

And so they waited. Mother Klein, LeRoy, and Emma on the gra.s.s; Mark and Harold back in the cave, shaking Matthew and Luke whenever their eyelids fell. They splashed muddy water on them to hurry the process along, then started slowly out of the cave, Harold leading the way. He showed his brothers which rocks to step on, which k.n.o.bs to grab for support. One by one the boys emerged on the gra.s.s and everyone rushed to them.

Harold slipped out of the sea of arms that was hugging and holding up his brothers. Mother Klein turned and caught his elbow, spinning him back to the group.

"Here's the biggest of the Kleins today," she said.

LeRoy sniffed through the a.s.sembly. His boys were all there. He brushed between and around Matthew's legs, then circled Luke around and around with a triplet of barks. He jumped up on Mark's chest and licked the face Mark bent to him. LeRoy bounded up to Little Klein and back to the Bigs.

"Shiner!" exclaimed Luke, putting his hand up to his bruised face.

"My baby," crooned Mother Klein as the whole party started their parade through downed branches and trees to the road.

Harold and Emma lagged behind. As they pa.s.sed the bridge, approaching a fallen tree whose branches nested a jumble of broken boards, Harold drew up his last sip of courage. "Can you help me with something?" he said to two large brown boots.

"What do you want, Little Klein?" Emma Brown boomed.

"Harold," he objected, and, when met with no bodily harm, looked up at Emma Brown's face, its hard surface softening nearly into a smile.

"What do you want, Harold?"

"There's a raft in that tree. Will you help me get it down?"

"What are you going to do with a broken-down raft, Harold Klein?" she asked.

"I'm going to use the boards to build a tree house."

I am grateful to the McKnight Foundation and the Loft Literary Center for their generous support and to Caitlyn Dlouhy for her vote of confidence. Many thanks to Frank Felice, who asked for this story and discovered LeRoy, to Uncle Don, valued reader and St. Paul's "Little Ylvisaker," and to my editor, Deborah Noyes Wayshak, an artist.

The Inkslinger years nourished me, week by week, word by word bucket. Olives to Lauren Stringer, Jill McElmurry, Deb Kruse-Field, and Annie Mingo.

Special thanks to Maria for her patience and optimism, to Darren and Carey for expanding my life, and to my posse and my family for their care and encouragement.