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Authors: Kate Southwood
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threw aside a piece of wood. Paul even saw a woman sitting on a piano stool on top of a flattened house. He had imagined if heâd walked up and asked the woman, she would have told him,
Yes, the storm set this stool right here on top of my house. So Iâm sitting on it.
The daylight had been unforgiving. There was no longer even the sense that it had all just happened; it seemed as though it had been this way for the longest time and that everything would stay this way for years.
Paul says, âI can hardly believe it myself, but thatâs what happened. I just took hold of that pole and somehow or other I managed to hang on and here I am,â wondering how many times heâll be telling this story again in the coming days, how many more incredulous faces heâll have to meet and convince. He sees the faces before him, rapt, while they try to picture him out there, belly to the sidewalk, riding out the cloud by just wrapping his arms around a pole, amazed that heâd been out there the whole time just feet away when theyâd taken it as read that heâd been carried off in that first moment. Heâs beginning to see himself that it is all astounding, not just the telegraph pole and the lumberyard. Theyâre still fixed on the image of him hanging onto the pole and havenât remembered he must also still have a house if heâs said itâs already full of people. How strange, Paul thinks, heâs the only one of them standing here who hasnât lost a single thing.
Someone has contrived to make coffee on the heater and odd bits of food are shared around while they finish the job of clearing the floor of bedding. When Ireneâs mother, Mrs. Dower, finds the broom, Paul knows better than to stop her giving the floor a going-over. They all seem perfectly normal to him, aside from the timidity theyâre still trying to banish because he came in and found them standing among their bedrolls. Their homes are gone, and yet they seem pleased to be here and pleased to see Paul. Not one of them looks as tired as Paul feels, although they must certainly have spent yesterday in much the same manner he did. Paul finds that he feels timid himself, having interrupted their rough housekeeping when he walked through the door and turned it all back into a place of business. He finds he hasnât the words to ask what they did in the first moments after the storm or in the long hours that followed, because asking will take them back to those very moments when they didnât know, when they couldnât know yet who had survived.
Flatter than flat
, Clarence had said. You canât ask a man for details when those details will leave him standing in front of his ruined house again in his own mind, when heâll be forced, then, to say something about it and you will be forced to reply.
He wonders how long they can continue with this kind of chatter. How long they can smile at the fact that theyâre all still there, that thereâs hot coffee and that Ireneâs mother pulls a quick broom. None of them will be the one to break this mood, Paul is certain. The bell on the door will be the thing to do it, because when it rings, when the next person opens the door and comes in wanting something, that something will be wood for a coffin. Paul needs to ask Lon and Clarence both what they think, how they should go about it, but he canât force himself to ask them into the backroom with him to do it. Theyâve sold lumber intended for coffins before, though never so many as they will need now, and never so many for children. But what he canât do for himself, Lon and Clarence are doing for him. He sees first Lon, then Clarence moving toward the backroom, slowly, with their hands in their pockets and their mouths gone into thin hard lines, because the reason for it is unpleasant. Clarence looks up at him before he goes through the doorway, waits for Paul to show that he will
Yes, the storm set this stool right here on top of my house. So Iâm sitting on it.
The daylight had been unforgiving. There was no longer even the sense that it had all just happened; it seemed as though it had been this way for the longest time and that everything would stay this way for years.
Paul says, âI can hardly believe it myself, but thatâs what happened. I just took hold of that pole and somehow or other I managed to hang on and here I am,â wondering how many times heâll be telling this story again in the coming days, how many more incredulous faces heâll have to meet and convince. He sees the faces before him, rapt, while they try to picture him out there, belly to the sidewalk, riding out the cloud by just wrapping his arms around a pole, amazed that heâd been out there the whole time just feet away when theyâd taken it as read that heâd been carried off in that first moment. Heâs beginning to see himself that it is all astounding, not just the telegraph pole and the lumberyard. Theyâre still fixed on the image of him hanging onto the pole and havenât remembered he must also still have a house if heâs said itâs already full of people. How strange, Paul thinks, heâs the only one of them standing here who hasnât lost a single thing.
Someone has contrived to make coffee on the heater and odd bits of food are shared around while they finish the job of clearing the floor of bedding. When Ireneâs mother, Mrs. Dower, finds the broom, Paul knows better than to stop her giving the floor a going-over. They all seem perfectly normal to him, aside from the timidity theyâre still trying to banish because he came in and found them standing among their bedrolls. Their homes are gone, and yet they seem pleased to be here and pleased to see Paul. Not one of them looks as tired as Paul feels, although they must certainly have spent yesterday in much the same manner he did. Paul finds that he feels timid himself, having interrupted their rough housekeeping when he walked through the door and turned it all back into a place of business. He finds he hasnât the words to ask what they did in the first moments after the storm or in the long hours that followed, because asking will take them back to those very moments when they didnât know, when they couldnât know yet who had survived.
Flatter than flat
, Clarence had said. You canât ask a man for details when those details will leave him standing in front of his ruined house again in his own mind, when heâll be forced, then, to say something about it and you will be forced to reply.
He wonders how long they can continue with this kind of chatter. How long they can smile at the fact that theyâre all still there, that thereâs hot coffee and that Ireneâs mother pulls a quick broom. None of them will be the one to break this mood, Paul is certain. The bell on the door will be the thing to do it, because when it rings, when the next person opens the door and comes in wanting something, that something will be wood for a coffin. Paul needs to ask Lon and Clarence both what they think, how they should go about it, but he canât force himself to ask them into the backroom with him to do it. Theyâve sold lumber intended for coffins before, though never so many as they will need now, and never so many for children. But what he canât do for himself, Lon and Clarence are doing for him. He sees first Lon, then Clarence moving toward the backroom, slowly, with their hands in their pockets and their mouths gone into thin hard lines, because the reason for it is unpleasant. Clarence looks up at him before he goes through the doorway, waits for Paul to show that he will
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