Three Times a Lady

Chapter 31

Banks of the White River – Tichnor, Arkansas – 1 a.m.

‘Get some more sandbags over here on the northwest side! It’s starting to give!’

Covered in full plastic flood-gear from head to toe, Nicholas nodded to the man who was holding the bullhorn and scrambled to take his new place in the relay line. Torrential rains fell down from the heavens, making it seem as though God Himself had emerged from a long, leisurely bath before pulling the plug on His celestial bathtub without so much as second thought for the insignificant human insects darting around below.

Rivers of storm-propelled water streamed into Nicholas’s eyes and made it difficult to see. Lightning zipped across the pitch-black sky and fought for dominance with the pounding thunder. The sticky brown mud beneath his feet threatened to suck off his boots with each slow, plodding step he took.

Nicholas twisted at his aching hips and took the forty-pound sandbag from his fellow volunteer who was stationed on his left before twisting at his hips again to hand it off to the portly man on his right. Twist, hand off, repeat. On and on this went for what seemed an eternity, until Nicholas’s back had been turned into a pretzel, until the muscles in his arms sang with exquisite pain. But what else could they do? Stop? Wasn’t an option now with the Montgomery Point Lock & Dam this close to bursting.

The bullhorn cut through the cacophony of pounding rain once more. ‘That’s it, ladies and gentlemen! Keep up the good work and keep those sandbags coming! Don’t give up now! We’ve worked too damn long and too damn hard to just quit now! We’ve almost got it shored up! Just a couple hundred more sandbags to go!’

Nicholas ran his stare over the washed-out landscape as he continued to work away with every last ounce of energy left in his exhausted body, which wasn’t much by this point. The flashing lights of dozens of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances lit up the night sky like a giant pinball arcade – the entire town’s emergency-response force. Down here on the ground, it seemed as though every last resident of Tichnor, Arkansas, had showed up to lend a helping hand.

Every last resident, that is, except for one.

Nicholas shook his head in disgust as yet another heavy sandbag slammed into his arms. Twisting at his hips, he handed it off to the man on his right before immediately twisting at his hips again to receive the next load. The most prolific storm in Arkansas’ history – a storm of apocalyptic proportions – didn’t appear likely to abate anytime soon and if nothing else, Amber Knightly should have been out here helping them avert certain disaster. If she didn’t want to participate in the grunt work maybe she could do something else. Pour some coffee for the exhausted workers. Pass out dry clothing. Offer a little bit of encouragement. Something. Anything.

She should have been out there suffering with them.

Nicholas took another sandbag in his bruised and battered arms and handed it off. No doubt the famous pop singer who’d put the tiny town of Tichnor on the map for all the wrong reasons thought she was above this sort of menial work. But while the rest of them were out here trying desperately to save her backwater town, the head-shaving, lesbian-kissing, out-of-wedlock-baby-having slut who’d made headlines every bit as much for her train wreck of a personal life as she had for her singing talent (which didn’t seem much, to Nicholas’s ears) – was nowhere to be seen. What did she care? She was rich. She wasn’t one of hapless commoners who’d lose everything should the dam happen to break. She was on high ground. She was untouchable.

Or so she probably thought.

A tap on his right shoulder pulled Nicholas out of the wonderful fantasy where he was using his sharp knife to pluck out Amber Knightly’s vocal cords strand by bloody strand. The man with the bullhorn.

‘Go on home and rest up for a bit,’ the man shouted, squinting against the unceasing rain. ‘You’ve been out here longer than anybody else already. We’re going on four-hour shifts and you’ve already been out here for six. That’s enough.’

Nicholas took another sandbag and handed it off. ‘You sure?’ he yelled back. ‘I could probably go another hour or two if you need me.’

The man with the bullhorn shook his head. ‘Go!’ he ordered. ‘We don’t need you collapsing out here. We need all the emergency responders we have to help out with the sandbagging. If they have to stop working to take care of you, they’re not available to me. Come back after you’ve warmed up and gotten some sleep.’

The man cast his stare up to the stormy heavens above. ‘I’m sure we’ll still be out here.’

Nicholas nodded, breathing out a grateful sigh of relief as he stepped out of the relay line. Behind him, the line immediately tightened up to compensate for his absence. It was a work of art, really. A well-oiled machine that did whatever it took to get the job done. ‘OK,’ Nicholas said, his mind continuing to perform the endless twist, handoff, twist routine even though his aching muscles had now stopped the maddening repetition, ‘but only if you’re absolutely positive you don’t need me.’

The man pointed to the makeshift parking lot a hundred yards away. Four hundred muddy cars and pickup trucks dotted the drenched landscape. ‘Go,’ he said. ‘Get the hell out of here before I change my mind and put you back to work.’

Unsticking his boots from the mud that had formed around his feet while he’d been talking with the man holding the bullhorn, Nicholas trudged through the primordial muck toward his rental car, pausing to take one final look back at all the dedicated workers behind him. Seemed like every last resident in Tichnor, Arkansas, had showed up to lend a helping hand.

Every last resident, that is, except for one.