“Ah, shoot!” says David, as we turn and watch it pop out from under the bridge on the other side, its straw-stuffed legs flopping this way and that. Even Shiloh’s been fooled—runs across to the other side and barks.
“What was that?” Dara Lynn demands, hurrying over. She and Becky got their shoes on, but the laces are flopping, and Becky’s jacket’s inside out.
“It wasn’t nothing—just somebody’s Halloween dummy,” I say. “Go on back to the house, I said!”
“Don’t have to!” says Dara Lynn, sticking out her chin. “Ma didn’t say I couldn’t come down here. I can walk on the bridge same as you.”
“We’re all goin’ back,” I tell her.
But David’s mad at Michael Sholt. “Bet he knew it was a dummy all along,” he’s grumbling. “Maybe he and his cousin dropped it in the creek themselves!”
Becky goes over to the edge of the bridge where the railing makes a diamond pattern. She’s lookin’ at a spiderweb strung in one of those openings. It glistens silver from the rain. I’m thinking that this water is rising faster than I ever seen it before, as though a couple more creeks have suddenly emptied into it up the way, and it’s all of them together rushing under the bridge now.
“Come on,” I say again, stopping to tie Becky’s shoes for her. “We’re goin’ up to the house. Mrs. Ellison’ll be along, wonder where we went.”
Becky starts off again, Shiloh trotting ahead of her, and David catches up with me, talking about what he’s going to do if Michael starts a story around that he saw a dead man in Middle Island Creek.
“Look at me!” sings out Dara Lynn behind us. I turn and see she’s worked her head through one of those diamond openings in the railing, acting like she’s a bird, going to sail out over the creek. Her big puffy jacket on one side of the opening, her head on the other, she looks more like a turtle. Girl can’t stand not having all the attention on her.
“Dara Lynn, you cut that out and come on,” I say. “Get on up to the house.”
She just laughs. I grab her by the arm and pull her back through the railing just as the Ellisons’ four by four turns in our drive and moves on up to the house.
“I got it!” says David. “If Michael says there was a dead man in the creek, we’ll say we saw him, too. Only we’ll make it different. Say it was a man with red hair and a blue shirt on.”
I laugh. “His face all swole up. . . . ”
“And he looked like he’d been shot in the heart!” says David. We both laugh out loud, thinking of Michael’s face if we turn that trick around.
“ ‘What’d I miss?’ he’ll be thinking,” I say, “and . . . ”
“Who-eeee!” I hear Dara Lynn whoop. I turn around and my heart shoots up to my mouth, ’cause right at our end of the bridge, Dara Lynn’s climbed up on the railing, her skinny legs straddling it, one foot locked behind a metal bar to keep her balance. Both her arms are in the air, like kids do on a roller-coaster.
“Dara Lynn,” I bellow, my voice cracking. “Get off there!”
She laughs, and in her hurry to climb up where I can’t reach her, wobbles, grabs at the rail to steady herself, but misses. There’s this short little scream, and then . . . then she’s in the water.
“Dara Lynn!”
Stomach feels like I’m on a roller-coaster myself. Can’t even swallow. I’m hanging over the rail, but Dara Lynn’s too far down to reach. She’s lookin’ up at me with the wildest, whitest eyes I ever seen, her arms straight out at the sides like the cold of the water has paralyzed her. And then, just like the straw man, she disappears beneath the bridge.
David’s shouting something, I don’t know what, and Becky’s run screaming up our driveway, then turns around and screams some more. I can see Mr. and Mrs. Ellison running down the drive toward her. David is running over to the railing on the other side of the bridge, his face as white as cream.
“Where is she?” he asks, turning to me. “She didn’t come back out.”
I am running around the end of the bridge, slipping and sliding down the bank toward the high water.
“What happened?” Mrs. Ellison calls.
“Dara Lynn fell in,” I yell, and it’s more like a sob.
“Oh, Lord, no!” cries Mrs. Ellison in the background, offering up a prayer for all of us.
All I can think of is havin’ to tell Ma that Dara Lynn drowned. Of having to remember every last awful thing I ever said to her, like wishin’ she’d fall in a hole and pull the dirt in after her. I am praying to Jesus that if he will save my sister I will never say a mean thing to her as long as I live, even while I know it’s not humanly possible. “Just don’t let her die, please, please!” I whisper. She’ll drown without ever knowin’ I gave her a kitten.
I squat down, lookin’ under the bridge. I see that Dara Lynn’s been snagged by the small trees and bushes sticking out of the water near the first support. At that moment she feels herself caught, and her arms come alive, floppin’ and flailin’ to turn herself around, and finally she’s holding on, screamin’ herself crazy.
Mr. Ellison’s beside me now, and he’s shouting instructions to Dara Lynn to pull herself hand over hand toward the bank, to grab on to the next branch and the next, and not let go on any account, while he wades out into that swirling water as far as he can to meet her.
It’s when Dara Lynn pulls herself close enough for us to grab her that I think maybe the thumpin’ in my chest won’t kill me after all. But then it seems my heart stops altogether, for I see Shiloh out there in the water, the current carrying him farther and farther away. I know right off he jumped in to save Dara Lynn, and now he’s got to save himself.
Twenty
All I hear is my scream.
We’re haulin’ Dara Lynn out, her clothes making a sucking sound as she leaves the water, but I can see my dog trying to paddle toward us; the current’s against him, and he can’t even keep himself in one place.
Most times Shiloh could throw himself into Middle Island Creek, chasing a stick I’d tossed, and come right out where he’d gone in, the water moves that slow. But when the rains are heavy and the creek swells fast, the water just tumbles around the bend, and Shiloh’s never been in nothing like this before. He keeps tryin’ to turn himself around in the water and get back to us.
“Shiloh!” I’m yellin’, while behind me, back up on the road, Becky sets up a wail of despair.
“Oh, Lord Jesus, that little dog!” cries Mrs. Ellison, praying again, while her husband takes off his coat and wraps it around Dara Lynn. Dara Lynn’s crying, too—huge sobs.
Is God puttin’ me to some kind of test, I wonder—saving my sister and drowning my dog? Did I trade one for the other? Lord knows I can’t swim. Oh, Jesus, why didn’t you make me go to the park in Sistersville and take lessons with Sarah Peters? Why’d I get to sixth grade and not even know how to float?
My mouth don’t seem connected to my head. Can still hear it screaming. “Shiloh! Shiloh!”
All he’s doin’ is tirin’ himself out tryin’ to swim back to us.
I slide farther down the bank, one foot in the water.
“Don’t you try to go in there, Marty,” Mr. Ellison shouts.
I claw my way back up the bank, eyes stretched wide, thinkin’ how I can make better time up on the road, maybe get myself down to the place where the creek narrows, and Shiloh might be close enough I can reach out to him somehow.
David’s running beside me. I know I’m cryin’ but I don’t care. One foot squishes every time my shoe hits the pavement. Run as fast as we can.
And then I see this pickup comin’ up the road from Friendly, and I’m like to get myself run over.
Judd Travers stops and leans out the window. “You want to get yourself killed?” he calls, right angry. And then, “What’s the matter, Marty?” Sees Mr. Ellison comin’ up the road behind me, thinks he’s chasin’ me, maybe. He gets out of the truck.
I’m gasping. Point to the creek.
“Shil
oh! He’s in the water, and we can’t reach him!”
“Marty, that dog will have to get himself out!” Mrs. Ellison calls from far behind us. “Don’t you try to go after him, now.”
But Judd crashes through the trees and brush, half sliding down the muddy bank, and I point to the head of my beagle back upstream, out there bobbing around in the current. Once, it looks like he goes under. Now David’s cryin’, too, squeaky little gasps.
Judd don’t say a word. He’s scramblin’ up the bank again and grabs that rope in his pickup. Hobbles down the road, fast as his two bum legs will carry him, goin’ even farther downstream, me and David at his heels. Then he ties one end of that rope to a tree at the edge of the water, the other end around his waist, taking his time to make a proper square knot, and I’m thinkin’, Don’t worry about knots, Judd—just go!
He’s plunging into that cold water—all but his boots, which he leaves by the tree. I see now why he went so far downstream, ’cause if we were back closer to the bridge, Shiloh would have gone past us by now.
Another car stops up on the road. I hear voices.
“What happened?”
“Who’s out there?”
And Mr. Ellison’s giving the answers: “Judd Travers is going after Marty Preston’s dog.”
Mrs. Ellison and the girls have reached the spot now. Dara Lynn is dripping water, but she won’t hear of going home. Every muscle in my body is straining to keep me as close to the water as I can get, my eyes trained on that muddy yellow surface, looking for Shiloh. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe I should have stayed back where we saw him last, kept my eye on where he went. What if he’s pulled under? What if his strength just gave out, and he can’t paddle no more?
David gives a shout. We can see Shiloh now. Looks for a time like he’s found something to crawl up on out there in that water, a tree limb or something, but while we watch, he’s swept away again.
Judd’s treading water out in the center of Middle Island Creek, fighting the current himself, and Shiloh’s about twenty feet upstream from him. But then—as I stare—I see him turning away from Judd! I wonder if my dog knows how much danger he’s in. Wonder if he figures that between the water and Judd Travers, he’ll take the water.
“Here, Shiloh! Come here, boy!” Judd calls, his hair all matted down over his eyes.
Shiloh seems spooked. He’s lookin’ straight ahead, neither to the right nor left. I see his eyes close again, the way he looks lyin’ by the stove at night when he’s about to fall asleep.
Judd’s working his way out farther and farther, trying to get out in the middle of the creek before Shiloh goes by. He’s got his head down now, his arms slicing through the water, but it seems like for every three strokes he takes forward, the creek carries him one stroke sideways.
“Don’t give up, Shiloh!” I breathe. And then I begin yelling his name. “Come on, Shiloh! Go to Judd. Come on, boy! Come on!”
I wonder if Judd can make it in time. What if Shiloh’s too far out and sails on by? What if the rope’s not long enough for Judd to reach him? My breath’s coming out all shaky.
Judd’s out now about as far as he can go, and that rope is stretched taut. One hand is reaching way out, but seems like Shiloh’s still trying to paddle away.
“No, Shiloh!” I plead.
Just then Judd gives this whistle. I know that when Shiloh was his, he was taught to come when Judd whistled. Come or else.
I see my dog start to turn. I see Judd’s hand go out, and I hear Judd sayin’, “Come on, boy. Come on, Shiloh. Ain’t going to hurt you none.”
And then . . . then my dog’s in his arms, and Judd’s shoulders go easy. He is just letting that current swing him on downstream and back to the bank. The rope is holding, and Judd don’t have to work much—just let the creek do all the carrying.
I slosh along the bank down to where I can see Judd is headed. The Ellisons are going there, too, and a couple of men up on the road.
“Anybody got a blanket?” I hear someone say.
“I got one in my trunk,” a man answers.
Arms are reaching out, hands ready. Somebody puts an old blanket around Judd’s shoulders soon as he climbs out.
And now Shiloh’s against my chest, his rough tongue licking me up one side of my face and down the other, his little body shaking. With Shiloh in one arm, I reach out and put my other around Judd.
“Thanks,” I say, my voice all husky. “Thank you, Judd.” I’d say more if I could, but I’m all choked up. I just give him a hug with my one free arm, and strangest of all, Judd hugs me back. It’s a sort of jerky, awkward hug, like he hadn’t had much practice, but it’s a start.
• • •
I won’t repeat what-all my folks said to us later. Dad does the yelling, Ma the crying, and David’s got to sit and listen to the whole thing. That me and David went down to that swollen creek in the first place! That we left the girls alone! That Dara Lynn was reckless enough to climb up on that bridge railing. . . .
“Isn’t it enough I have the worst toothache of my life without having to come home and find one of my daughters almost drowned?” weeps Ma.
I keep sayin’, “I’m sorry”—David, too—but Dad tells us “sorry” wouldn’t bring a dead girl back to life. Neither of ’em says anything about Shiloh. That ain’t their worry right now.
Dara Lynn hangs her head like the starch has been knocked out of her. Just sits all quiet by the potbellied stove, arms wrapped around her middle. Becky’s on the couch, suckin’ her thumb. We are the sorriest-looking family right now, but my dog’s safe in my arms, and I can’t ask for more. Every time he wriggles to get down, I just hold him tighter, and finally he gives up and lays still, knowin’ my arms’ll get tired by and by.
Next day, though, after Mr. Howard comes for David, my folks are quiet. Seem like every time they walk by one of us, they squeeze a shoulder or pat a head or stroke somebody’s hair.
That night after Becky’s had her bath and has gone around givin’ everyone her butterfly kiss, battin’ her lashes against their cheeks, I go out in the kitchen where Dara Lynn’s having her graham crackers and milk, and say, “Well, pretty soon you’re goin’ to have to be sharing that milk with someone else, you know.”
She looks at me suspicious-like. “Why?” she says.
“ ’Cause we’re gettin’ another member of the family, that’s why.”
Dara Lynn’s eyes open wide. “Ma’s having another baby?”
I laugh. “Not this kind of baby, she ain’t. It’s gonna be your birthday present from me, Dara Lynn. Somebody brought in a litter of kittens to Doc Collins. You want to come with me some Saturday and pick one out, it’s yours.”
Dara Lynn leaps off her chair and, with graham cracker crumbs on her fingers, hugs me hard. I hug back—a little jerky and awkward, but it’s a start.
• • •
Everybody’s talkin’ about Judd Travers. Michael Sholt thought he was going to have the best story of all—that Halloween dummy he and his cousin dumped in the creek to fool us—but it’s Judd everyone wants to hear about.
After David told his dad what had happened, Mr. Howard drove up to Judd’s a few days later to write a story about him for the paper. But then, everyone from here to Friendly could tell it—how Dara Lynn fell in the creek, how Shiloh jumped in to save her, and Judd went in for Shiloh.
Asked what he was thinking about out there in that rushing water, Judd said, “Well, I guess I was worried some but I was more scared of not saving Shiloh, on account of that dog once saved me.”
Once that newspaper story come out, someone even asked Judd if he’d like to be a volunteer for the Rescue Squad down in Sistersville. He’s thinking on it.
We talk about it some in school—how dangerous a flood can get—and on the way home one afternoon, sittin’ there beside David Howard, I say, “If you’d asked me last summer if Judd Travers would be a hero, I would have bet my cowboy hat it couldn’t happen.”
&nbs
p; “I’d have bet my new Nikes,” says David.
“Not in a million years,” I say.
I eat the snack Ma’s put out for me, and then—with Dara Lynn and Becky playin’ out on the bag swing—I head over to Judd Travers’ place. His pickup’s not there—he’s still at work—but I got a hammer stickin’ out of one pocket, pliers and wire clippers out of the other.
His dogs bark like crazy when they see me comin’ around the trailer, but they know me now, and I let them sniff my fingers before I unhook that wire fencing and start to work on the gate. Me and Judd almost had it done. I see how he got one of the hinges around that pole, and I set to work on the other. What’ll it be like, I’m wondering, not to have to worry anymore about Judd Travers hurting my beagle? To visit him and not have to worry is he drunk? Pretty nice, I reckon.
Gettin’ the gate to swing right ain’t—isn’t—as easy as it seems. You got to get the hinges on straight up and down, or the gate will hang crooked. I see I got the pin shafts turned to one side so the gate’s tipped. Got to loosen the bolts and start all over again. But finally, when I give the gate a push, it opens in and it opens out, just the way Judd needs it to do.
I clip off the extra fencing, put it back behind Judd’s shed. And then, makin’ sure that gate’s latched the way it’s supposed to be, I go back up the road to where Shiloh’s still waiting for me at the bridge. I scoop him up in my arms and let him wash my face good—beagle breath and all.
I’m thinking that someday, maybe, when I cross that bridge and head down this road to Judd’s trailer, Shiloh might come along, sure that he’s mine forever and nothing’s going to change that.
Don’t know if a dog—or a man, either—ever gets to the place where he can forget as well as forgive, but enough miracles have come my way lately to make me think that this could happen, too.
Phyllis Reynolds Naylor grew up in Indiana and Illinois with a springer spaniel named Pepper and a number of cats. She has never lived in West Virginia, but her husband grew up there, and they went back regularly to visit friends and relatives.