Down in the Flats, houses groaned in response to the punishing wind and rain. Just before midnight, Mickey ran through the apartment blasting his silver pea whistle. “The river’s coming!” he yelled. Daisy sprang up from the couch and ran out to the second-floor porch. Under the glow of the streetlight, the neighbors stood in a few inches of water, watching Mr. Secoolish coax his old DeSoto to life. Daisy glanced at her watch, wondering if it was too late to call home to let them know where she was, and then remembered how she’d stormed out in anger.
“Granny!”
“Stop blowing that thing, you’ll wake the dead.” Mickey’s grandmother hurried out to the parlor and asked Daisy, “What’s it looking like?”
“I’d say groundwater, Mrs. McCrae.” Daisy stretched over the railing to see better. “Backed-up storm drains, most likely, but we better not take any chances.” She stepped inside and slipped into her sandals. “Let’s see if you and Mickey can go with Mr. Secoolish. I’ll walk up the hill to the studio.”
“That’s a mile away,” Mrs. McCrae said. “Your shoes’ll get soaked.”
“Least of our worries.” Daisy ushered them toward the stairs.
When they reached the street, Mr. Secoolish had the car running. “Mrs. McCrae,” he said, “I was just coming up to get you two.”
“I knew you wouldn’t forget us,” Mickey’s grandmother said as she slid in next to his wife. Several other neighbors immediately crammed into the car.
“We won’t make it up the hill with all this weight.” Mr. Secoolish eyed Bertie Heerman, the local drunk with the crooked nose, wedged against a back door. “I’ll drop them off and swing around for you.”
Bertie gave a thumbs-up and tumbled out of the car.
“Wait,” Mrs. McCrae shouted, “where’s my Mickey?”
“I’ll take the next ride.” Mickey slapped the trunk, signaling for Mr. Secoolish to drive.
“No!” Mrs. McCrae screamed as the DeSoto lurched up the hill.
* * *
A couple of miles away, the Ron-Da-Voo’s owner hopped up on the stage and took the microphone. “Sorry to stop the party, folks. Looks like Hurricane Diane is coming for us after all. Dumped a foot of rain already, and she’s not letting up. Time to go home and check your cellars.” Overhead, the lights started blinking. “And stay away from the bridges, they could give out any minute.”
Johnny jumped up from the piano and dashed over to the pay phone near the men’s room. He dialed the studio, praying Daisy had changed her mind and gone back up there. After letting the phone ring a dozen times, he decided to call Mickey’s house in spite of the late hour. “Operator, I need the number for a Mrs. McCrae on Birch Street.”
“Connecting,” the operator said.
Johnny tapped his fingers on the wall as he waited for the phone to ring.
The woman came back on the line: “I’m sorry, sir, that number seems to be out of service. Is there another call I can make for you?”
“Violet Davies on Spring Street,” Johnny said, “and hurry.”
* * *
“Johnny’s on his way to get her,” Violet said to Stanley. “Daisy’s Johnny. His buddy is driving him over.”
“And where did you say this Mickey lives?”
“Somewhere down in the Flats, near Roaring Brook.”
“But it hasn’t flooded so far.” Stanley’s voice lifted with forced optimism.
“Not yet. I told him to bring everybody here, but I don’t know if she’ll come.”
“But she’s safe.” Stanley nodded at Violet, as if to get her nodding too. “That’s what counts. And he knows where to find her.”
“Yes.” Violet rubbed her worry into her hands.
“Tell me what you want to do,” Stanley said. “My car’s across the street. I can try to find her right now if you get me an address.”
“Let’s wait to hear what Johnny has to say,” she said, turning on the television for news. “He promised me he’d call.”
* * *
Daisy and Mickey stood on the second-floor porch watching for Mr. Secoolish to return. “I wish you’d gone with your granny.”
“I wanted to keep you company,” Mickey said.
Daisy studied Bertie Heerman standing near the streetlight. The man had to be six feet tall, and he stood calf-deep in water. “We better start walking while we still can,” she said as calmly as she could.
“No!” Mickey screamed. In front of them, Roaring Brook heaved over its banks, flooding the streets, plunging Bertie headlong into the angry torrent before carrying him away.
* * *
Johnny hung up the phone and turned to Kenny. “I have to get to Daisy.”
“Let’s go.” Kenny bagged his trumpet, tucked it under his arm, and pulled out his car keys.
“Roaring Brook just went over!” the Ron-Da-Voo’s owner shouted, his ear pressed up to a radio at the bar. “The river’s still holding, but not for long.”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Ferdie said, waving a hand at the band. He looked around at the diehards finishing their drinks. “There’s a girl needs saving. Who’s coming?”
Twenty men piled into four cars and followed Kenny through the pouring rain toward the Flats. They got as far as Anthracite Plate Glass and parked at the top of the hill. That side of the road sat up higher than Mickey’s house and was safe for the time being.
“There.” Johnny pointed to a house on the corner of South Washington and Birch. Daisy and Mickey stood on the second-floor porch beckoning for help.
The men moved carefully on foot, and by the time they reached the middle of the four-lane road, the water was knee-high. “You can’t just go in there,” Kenny hollered, “the current’s too strong!”
Johnny eyeballed the waterline against the house. Four, maybe five feet high.
Each man grabbed the wrist of the person in front of him, forming a human chain. At the lead, Johnny pushed through the swell, pulling the men behind him into the straightest line they could muster. As he neared the house, he saw Daisy guide the eight-year-old over the banister to a lip of porch on the other side. With the railing between them, the pair held tight to one another, waiting. Johnny pressed on as the rain fell harder and the water inched higher. A couple of feet away, he plunged forward and grabbed hold of the half-immersed porch post and looked up. Mickey let go of the railing with one hand while he fished his whistle out from under his shirt. The whoosh of rushing water kept Johnny from hearing what they were saying, but he saw the boy hand his prized possession to Daisy. She slid the chain around her neck, gave the boy a squeeze, and watched him scramble down the post and onto Johnny’s back.
The water started rising faster, and Johnny felt a tug from the tether of men. “Climb down!” he screamed to Daisy, knowing his words would be lost to the punishing winds. Mickey reached his arms up as if to catch her.
Alone on that porch, shrouded by the raging storm, Daisy blew them each a gentle kiss.
Suddenly, Johnny was yanked back through the water, half walking, half drowning, with Mickey holding on. As soon as they hit Anthracite Glass, someone shrieked, “Get to higher ground!” Drenched to the bone, the men raced up to their cars.
“Take the boy!” Johnny hollered to Kenny. “I’m going back!”
“Not without me!” Mickey shouted, locking his legs around Johnny’s waist.
Just as Johnny was about to object, he felt the ground rumble under his feet. Over near the slaughterhouse at the far end of Birch, the Lackawanna River thundered over its banks, uprooting trees and telephone poles, dragging trucks and streetlights in its wake. Crackles of electricity from swinging wires lit up the night as an uncoupled boxcar smashed sideways into Mickey’s house, sending it flying off its foundation. “Hold on tight, little man!” Johnny yelled as he outran the rushing water.
When they’d made it to safety at the top of the hill, Johnny lowered the boy to the ground, took his hand, and turned back around. The pair squinted through the curtain of rain and the unlit sky in search of the familiar. Instead they found a neighborhood half-drowned, rivers for roads, buildings as islands. Johnny’s eyes swept past the empty spot where Mickey’s house once stood, hoping to find it lodged up against another house or an embankment. He knew he’d never see Daisy again. He knew this the moment they’d started running, yet he kept searching all the same. “We have to find her.”
“She’s gone,” Kenny said, gripping Johnny’s shoulders. “She’s gone.”
Johnny dropped to his knees and wailed.
“You don’t know that!” Mickey stared up at Kenny. “And anyways, what about the others? There must be others.” He grabbed hold of Johnny’s arm and started to shake him. “I saw Bertie Heerman get washed away. The guy’s a louse,” he cried, “but his poor wife needs him.”
Johnny wiped his nose with his wet sleeve. “We’re not giving up, little man.” They locked eyes. “You have my word.” He took a few deep breaths and sprang to his feet. “Let’s round up some boats!” he called out and started leading the men uphill.