Three days and two nights of rain rose the river within ten feet of the top of the levee. The city sewer system backed up. Concrete streets in low-lying neighborhoods became swales for the runoff from higher ground. In the downstream roadways, water rose above the floorboards of cars until some of them lifted with the current and spun around like a fallen leaf until they smashed into another car or a telephone pole. At the tops of inclines, police cars parked at angles. Policemen in yellow rainslickers swung red-coned flashlights to guide confused drivers away from the submerged subdivisions.
Benjie’s house shared a hillock with a transformer substation at the end of a dead-end street. When the high-set electric company trucks passed the house, knee-high waves crawled halfway up the front yard. The family car sat useless but safe in the sloped driveway.
Six inches of water already covered the entire basement floor. Benjie’s dad unplugged the sump pump to keep the motor from burning out. Benjie’s mom spent an hour with a wet vac she would fill and dump into the swamped backyard. She left the cord plugged into a ceiling light socket adapter when she cussed the rain and fixed herself a pot of coffee. Benjie brought his Guinea pig to his parents as they sat at the kitchen table with cups. Benjie held his open palms even with the floor and his elbows at his side, in the same position as when he made the offertory at Mass. Only the overhead kitchen light was on. The living room was dark.
“It died.”
Benjie’s dad rubbed his eyes. His mom sighed.
“I petted it too hard.”
“You didn’t pet it too hard.” His dad shook his head.
“They don’t live long.” His mom took a stained towel from a kitchen drawer. “Let’s wrap him up.”
She opened the towel on her lap and folded and tucked the corners snug enough to keep the little body tightly held. She handed it back to her son.
“Tight as a mummy,” his dad said.
“I want to bury it.”
“It’s too wet. The ground is all mud. I couldn’t dig in it if I wanted to.”
“Your dad’s right. We can wait a few days.”
“I want to bury it today.”
His mom brushed her hand over the taut towel. “Maybe your dad can figure something out.”
Benjie’s dad took a deep breath and slowly blew the air out. A thunderous blast shook the house. A blue then orange light lit the inside of the house. All three grimaced at the smell of burning oil. The overhead kitchen light and the light from Benjie’s room went out.
“The transformer not only blew but it’s on fire.” Benjie’s dad looked out the living room picture window. “All the streetlights are out, too. The parking lot lights at the stores are on. Must be a different circuit.” He looked up the dark flooded street towards the sound of distant sirens. The flames from the blown transistor reflected like a shimmering rainbow on the water.
Benjie’s mom took an empty shoe box from the hall closet. “Let’s put the little guy in here.” She offered the open box to her son. She nodded and he put the wrapped towel in the shoe box. His mom closed the lid. “We can take care of this tonight, can’t we?”
Her husband looked at the dark street then turned towards his wife and son.
“Go get your rain boots and coat,” he said. “I know where we can take him.”
His boots were caked with concrete from work. The water was too high for Benjie’s boots, so his dad sloshed across the back yard to carry the red toy wagon to the driveway. Benjie and the box bounced across the rough concrete as the rubber tires created miniature versions of the wake from the electric company trucks. By now a fire truck and electric company truck parked near the blown transformer. The fire had died. Firemen chatted while electric company workers evaluated the destroyed equipment. Benjie’s dad led them in the opposite direction.
At the turn into their dead end, he moved onto the sidewalk, which was slightly higher then the street, so the water reached lower on his boots and the wagon tires. A few people stood on their stoops. Occasionally cars slowly parted the center of the street. The man and the boy crossed the raised parking lot of an apartment complex. A few spots were above water. Benjie’s dad stopped in front of a fast flowing drainage ditch behind the trash dumpsters. He squatted and motioned for his son to join him.
“Let’s say a prayer for Fuzzie.” Benjie’s dad held the shoe box above the water. “Jesus, this is Fuzzie. He was a good guinea pig and Benjie loved him a lot. We are going to put Fuzzie into your care.” Then he began the “Our Father.” Benjie joined him. They both made the Sign of the Cross.
The shoe box stayed motionless upon the water. Benjie’s dad reached to give it a tap but before he touched the shoe box the current took hold and it spun around and around until it fastened on a clump of grass extending into the ditch. The shoe box wavered in sensuous curves then broke away from the bank. By then, the flow was strong and the shoe box rushed towards the opening of a corrugated metal pipe that ran beneath the street. Benjie and his dad stood for a better view. When the shoe box disappeared into the darkness, the father looked at his son. He smiled and brushed his hand across the boy’s head. They held hands as they sloshed back to the house.
Richard Stimac lives in the St. Louis, Missouri (USA) area. He has published a poetry book Bricolage (Spartan Press), two poetry chapbooks, and one flash fiction chapbook. In his work, Richard explores time and memory through the landscape and humanscape of the St. Louis region. He invites you to follow his poetry Facebook page: “Richard Stimac poet”.
Modern Flash Fiction 