Russell was missing. Dancer had filled his food bowl out on the deck and whistled sharply. That was usually all it took. Russell would often be gone for hours, tagging along with Ozzie. The younger dog would romp in the river while Russell would doze under the willow tree on the bank. But Russell never missed a meal.
Dancer had been calling him for ten minutes and was now officially worried. The sky had a freakish yellow cast like something from another planet, and the air had an eerie feel that made Dancer’s skin prickle. The wind raced through the gorge in fierce bursts, roiling the river and flexing the pines that lined the ridge. The sound of thunder rumbled down the valley.
In the silence between the gusts and the thunder, Dancer heard a dog barking. But it wasn’t Russell’s slow-cadenced throaty tenor. It was higher pitched, more snarly. That had to be Ozzie. That dog could bark for hours if something had his attention.
Dancer started down the river trail. He remembered all the times he had gone down this path with Clayton in the last ten years. Dancer hadn’t been there for Clayton or Jim while the boys were growing up. He had wasted more than a decade trying to drink away the memories of the accident that destroyed his reputation. Then when he finally got his act together and rejoined his family, Dede died. Those river walks with Clayton had been one of the best things in his life.
It started to rain. No warning drops, just sheets of rain, drenching him. The footing, already difficult, would now be treacherous. It was foolish to trek down to the river in these conditions, but Clayton loved that dog and Dancer couldn’t let something happen to him.
He forged ahead, slipping and sliding down the trail, but pushing the pace nonetheless. He could hear the raging current of the swollen river well before he saw it. Know-it-all Ted Landis was confident the river had flushed out all the storms. But he was wrong. The water was more out of control than it had been ten hours ago.
Beyond the tree line, the trail sloped gently toward the riverbed. The soil was rocky and dotted with scrub bushes and doomed saplings. Dancer grabbed hold of one of the saplings and started to back his way down the short embankment, like a mountain climber descending with a guide rope. He worked his way down, grabbing one sapling after another. Ten feet from the riverbed, the tree he was holding un-rooted itself and Dancer toppled backwards, skidding down the bank headfirst on his back. He hit a rock with the back of his head and his bifocals catapulted off his face. Lights flashed in the corners of his eyes.
“Fuck! Goddammit, Russell!” He lay there cursing and waited for the ground to stop spinning. The torrential rain eased to a gentle misting and then stopped altogether. He rolled onto his side and then on to his knees, but it took a few more seconds for the dizziness to pass. He finally got to his feet and retrieved his glasses. One of the lenses had popped out, which sent him into another cursing tirade. He almost wished something had happened to that damn dog to justify all the misery he was putting himself through. He didn’t want to think about climbing back up that muddy trail without his glasses.
He felt the back of his head. It was tender to the touch and there was a lump forming. His hair was matted with mud and rain, but no blood. The pain was dull, not shooting like when he caught a punch to his nose or jaw. He felt like he had been drugged.
Ozzie’s staccato barks brought him back to reality. The trail that normally flanked the river was now completely under water. Dancer walked along the edge of the swollen river and headed around the bend toward the basket ladies’ cottage.
A floating tangle of uprooted trees, pieces of washed-away docks, and garbage had formed an island in the middle of the raging Caledonia. Perched shakily on a large log was a whimpering, bedraggled Russell.
Ozzie stood rigid, like a sentry, next to the shed where Phoebe and Lucy stowed their lawn chairs. As Dancer approached him, he stopped barking. He looked at Dancer curiously, as though he were trying to figure out if this old man could save his friend.
Phoebe emerged from the shed with a tow rope, wearing the leotard she always wore for her yoga workout. She pointed at Russell. “He got caught out there with Ozzie, but Ozzie swam back,” she said, shouting to be heard over the river.
“He’s afraid of the water,” Dancer said. Russell didn’t like to even get his head wet. The river was continuing to rise. Soon the shaky island of debris would be swept downstream. Dancer looked at the rope Phoebe was clutching. “What are you thinking?”
“That junk is all hung up on a sandbar. It’s not that deep. I can wade out to Russell and put the leash on him. I’ll guide him back. He can dog paddle, can’t he?” she asked.
Dancer admired her guts, but she’d never get Russell off the island by herself. “If Russell freaks out, he could pull you off the sandbar. You’re not heavy enough. That current is powerful.”
Phoebe frowned and her forehead furrowed. “We have to do something,” she said.
Dancer felt guilty about all the times he had made fun of her complaining nature. When the chips were down, she had guts to spare. And no drama.
“I’ve got more ballast. You hold on to the end of the tow rope and when I hook him up, pull him in.”
Phoebe squinted at him, her frown intensifying. “You’re bleeding,” she said. “Your elbows. They’re both bloody.”
He hadn’t noticed. “I slipped coming down the bank. That’s mostly water. I’m okay.”
“I don’t like your plan. You’re not a very good swimmer,” she said.
“Don’t plan on swimming. Walk out, walk back.”
Phoebe sucked on her bottom lip. Her eyebrows peaked. “Hold on.” She disappeared into the shed and returned with a much longer tow rope. “Clip both ends to your shorts and I’ll hold the middle of the line so if you fall off that ridge I can drag you back in.”
Dancer nodded. “I’m not planning to fall, but that’s a good plan.” He clicked the hooks into the belt loop in the back of his shorts and handed the rope to Phoebe. His head throbbed. His vision was blurry, which made him feel vaguely nauseous. “When you pull Russell in, hold on to him. I don’t want him dragging me off the sandbar.”
They walked to the edge of the river. The ridge that led out to the island of debris was about three feet wide. It wasn’t really a sandbar. The surface was rocky and irregular.
Dancer stepped into the river, tensing his whole body, anticipating icy water. It was cold, but bearable.
He relaxed and raised his right foot to take a step. The current pushed his foot downstream and his left foot slipped out from under him. He fell sideways into the river. Pain shot through the back of his head and the light flashes in the corners of his eyes returned.
Phoebe helped him to his feet. “Are you okay?”
Dancer gritted his teeth. He tried to smile. “I need more weight. I’ve got to keep my feet on the ground.” He bent down and grabbed a handful of small stones from the riverbank. He filled the front and back pockets of his cargo shorts.
Phoebe watched him, a studious look on her face.
Russell had spotted Dancer and crawled toward him, as far as he could. He was in his down position, whimpering and pulsing, like he was planning to fly across the river.
“Hold on, Russell. Be there in a minute,” Dancer called.
He waded back into the water, this time with a shuffle step, keeping both feet in contact with the riverbed. His progress was excruciatingly slow. He kept his eyes focused on Russell. He tried not to look down at the swirling water. It took him almost five minutes to cover the first fifteen feet. The river was above his knees and getting deeper with every step. He was still at least twenty-five feet from Russell. Every muscle in his body was tensed as he struggled to maintain his balance. His heart pounded like he had run a mile uphill. His vaunted cardio conditioning was failing him.
Inch by inch, he shuffled closer. Halfway to the island, he ran into a large rock when he tried to shuffle his foot forward. He had to take several short sidesteps, upstream, against the current to get around it. He was no longer on a direct path to Russell.
“You’re doing great, Dancer,” Phoebe shouted.
Dancer had never experienced the upbeat, encouraging version of Phoebe. He was grateful for her help. When he was ten feet from the logjam, the rocky riverbed turned mushy and sloped downwards. He curled his toes as though he could grip the surface through his shoes. The water was up to his chest, the current severe. He strained to maintain his footing. A stumble would send him down the river. His thighs burned and his calf muscles were starting to cramp, but then the riverbed leveled out and the footing improved. Several seconds later he grabbed hold of a long, smooth log. Russell was perched at the other end, fifteen feet away.
“Stay, Russell!” Dancer shouted. He held up his hand like a stop sign. For once, the dog obeyed him. Dancer worked his way down the log, hand over hand. When he was five feet away he paused to catch his breath. He was cold, but he was sweating. His heart pounded and his head throbbed. Everything looked slightly out of focus. He hoisted himself up on to the log, straddling it like a bull rider.
Russell started scrabbling towards him. Dancer reached back and unhooked one end of the tow rope. “Down, Russell,” he said. Russell hunkered, his whole body quivering. Dancer reached out and hooked the tow rope to his collar.
“Pull, Phoebe!” Dancer yelled. He grabbed hold of Russell’s collar and tried to lift him off the log, but he couldn’t budge him. The dog weighed over sixty pounds.
Phoebe pulled the line taut, but Russell dug himself in. He wasn’t coming off that log without a fight. As Phoebe tugged on the rope, the log wobbled. The current and the tugs on the tow rope were breaking it loose from the pile. Dancer released his grip on Russell’s collar and grabbed hold of the log to keep from slipping off. He held his breath. The log stopped bobbing. At least for the moment. He needed to get better leverage.
“Don’t pull again till I give you the signal!” he shouted. Phoebe’s okay was barely audible over the roar of the river.
Dancer sat up higher on the log, squeezing it with his knees. He was just about to reach over to grab the loose fur around Russell’s neck when a bolt of lightning struck one of the pine trees on the ridge, electrifying the sky. Russell yelped and jumped off the log.
“Pull him in!” Dancer shouted. His command was unnecessary. As soon as Russell hit the water he started dog paddling and Phoebe dragged him to shore. It had taken Dancer fifteen minutes to make it out to Russell and the dog made it back in less than thirty seconds.
Phoebe pulled him out of the water, hooked him with the other tow rope, and tied it to the dock. “Okay, Dancer. Your turn.”
Dancer raised his hand and gave her the OK sign. He was too tired to yell. That was a great idea she had, using the other rope to tie up Russell. Dancer shimmied his way back down the log to the sandbar. The log wobbled but didn’t break free.
Maybe because he knew what to expect, it was easier going back. Dancer was over halfway to shore when a pine tree came barreling around the bend in the river. The trunk barely missed Dancer, but the network of branches caught the tow rope and yanked him off the sandbar.
“Dancer!” Phoebe yelled. She quickly let out the rope, but there was nothing she could do. In seconds she ran out of slack and the rope was ripped from her hands. She ran down the riverbank, shouting at Dancer, “Unhook! Unhook!”
Dancer was being dragged down the river, bouncing from his back to his side to his belly. He flailed at the rope hooked to his shorts but couldn’t reach it. Then the belt loop ripped off. He was no longer being dragged by the tree, but now he was careening headfirst into the rapids. The current whipped him toward the shore and he flailed at the stumps and outcroppings and reeds, trying to grab hold of anything. He got a grip with his good hand on the branch of a fallen willow and with all his strength torqued himself into an upright position, his feet pointed and scissoring like a ballet dancer as he stretched to touch bottom. But the current was too strong and it swept his legs out from under him. Dancer clung to the branch, his body extended feetfirst downriver. He willed himself to not let go, but the river’s will was stronger. One by one his fingers were pried loose.
Dancer’s forehead struck a submerged rock as the swirling waters spun him facedown. A log rocketed past, filleting his legs with its rough bark and flipping him on to his back. Dancer gasped for air. There was no time to think about the pain. He tried to flutter kick and slap the water with his hands, but his arms and legs refused to move. The stones in his pockets were dragging him down. His strength was gone.
He could hear Russell barking on the shore.
Clayton’s dog was safe.
Not perfect, but good enough, Dancer thought as his head slipped below the surface.