*
It’s 4:30 A.M. by the time Tomasetti and I pull into the driveway of my old house in Painters Mill. We’ve spent twelve hours responding to calls, assisting the injured, searching for the missing, assessing damage, and reporting downed power lines and gas leaks to the proper authorities. The last four hours were spent at the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park, helping firefighters with their search-and-rescue efforts. Casualty information has begun to trickle in from the ER departments of Pomerene Hospital as well as Wooster Community Hospital. So far the two hospitals have reported twenty-six injured, with eighteen hospitalized in serious or critical condition. There have been two confirmed fatalities so far: Sixty-two-year-old Earl Harbinger’s vehicle was flipped by the tornado. He died at the scene. And thirty-seven-year-old mother of two, Juanita Davis, was found dead in her trailer at Willow Bend. She was DOA. All but one of the missing have been accounted for. Twelve-year-old Billy Ray Benson was caught in a flash flood, sucked into a culvert, and washed into Painters Creek. Over thirty volunteers—many of whom had their own homes damaged or destroyed—joined Holmes County Search and Rescue. Because of rough terrain, flooded conditions, and darkness, HCSAR called off the search until first light. I can’t imagine what the boy’s parents are going through tonight.
The damage is shocking, but in light of the loss of life and serious injury, it’s easier to keep in perspective. Homes and businesses can be rebuilt. A life lost is gone forever. The east side of Painters Mill—mainly the Willow Bend Mobile Home Park—was devastated. In the Maple Crest subdivision, nine homes were damaged. Two were leveled, reduced to piles of brick and wood and the broken pieces of people’s lives.
Tomasetti and I are beyond exhaustion. Facing another grueling day that will begin in a few hours, we thought the smart thing to do was to stay here in town and grab showers and a couple hours of sleep.
I unlock the door, and we step into a living room that’s quiet and cool and smells of a house that’s been shut up for a long time. I put the house on the market a couple of weeks ago. I’ve had several showings but no offers. There’s no food, and in the seven months I’ve lived at the farm with Tomasetti, I’ve moved most of my personal belongings and some of my furniture. But my bed is still here, and I keep some old linens in the hall closet. Since I’ve never had the electricity shut off, we have light and hot water for showers.
“Kate.”
I’m standing in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen. I glance over at Tomasetti, and for the first time I realize I’ve tracked mud across the living room.
“Shoes.” He motions toward my feet, and I notice he had the forethought to leave his at the door.
“Oh.” I try to laugh, but it’s a strained, tight sound. Mud on the rug is the last thing on my mind.
Clumps of it fall from my boots as I cross back to the door and kneel to remove them. “I feel like I need to be out there, doing something.” I have one shoe on, one off, and I shrug. “Anything.”
“I know you do,” he says.
“There are people who don’t have a place to sleep. They don’t have dry clothes. They have nothing to eat or drink.”
He frowns at me. “You’re not going to do anyone much good if you don’t get some sleep.”
I toe off my remaining boot. “You know, Tomasetti, I really hate it when you make more sense than I do.”
“So sue me.” Giving me a reassuring smile, he walks into the kitchen.
As I peel off socks that are wet and brown with mud, I find myself thinking of the infant girl we rescued from the overturned mobile home earlier this afternoon. I’ve thought of her a dozen times throughout the day but never made the time to call and check on her condition.
I hear Tomasetti moving around the kitchen. Water running. Cabinets opening and closing. Pulling out my phone, I go to the sofa and sit, punch in the number of Pomerene Hospital from memory. I’m put on hold several times before I finally reach the ER. In most cases, hospital personnel will not release patient information to non–family members. But because the circumstances are far from ordinary and I’m a public official with a need for statistics, I’m hoping someone will talk to me, at least in general terms.
“Hi, Chief Burkholder. This is Cat Morrow. How can I help you?”