Chapter 4 - THE ICE STORM
The childcare center sat half a mile beyond the blocked road.
Fire crews couldn't move their largest vehicle past the downed lines.
The power company had to confirm the lines were dead before anyone approached.
Wind chill dropped.
Children inside had coats.
But no reliable heat.
The county established a response point near the intersection.
I arrived with Bus 42 because somebody needed a heated vehicle capable of holding more than twenty people.
Javier arrived in Truck 18 because sanitation crews had chainsaws, debris equipment and a truck heavy enough to move large limbs once the utility company cleared them.
Preston was already there.
Expensive coat.
No hat.
Terrified.
He recognized me.
“Vance.”
“Mr. Vale.”
“My daughter is in there.”
“I heard.”
“Can you get through?”
“Not until the electrical crew clears us.”
He looked toward the road.
“Can't we go around?”
“Soft shoulder. Ice underneath.”
“I have an SUV.”
“So do half the people who end up in ditches.”
He didn't argue.
Fear had removed whatever status usually lived in his voice.
Javier approached.
“Utility says fifteen minutes.”
Preston looked at his uniform.
“You're sanitation?”
“Yes.”
“My daughter—”
“We know.”
Javier wasn't rude.
Wasn't triumphant.
He was working.
“Once lines are dead, we're cutting enough clearance for the smaller fire unit. Bus follows only if road surface holds.”
Preston nodded.
Then whispered:
“Thank you.”
Not because he'd learned a social lesson.
Because his child was cold.
Sometimes gratitude begins selfishly.
That's still a beginning.
The lines were cleared.
Crews moved.
Javier and two public works employees cut branches.
A plow pushed debris.
A firefighter walked the road first checking ice.
I followed in the bus at seven miles per hour.
When we reached the center, children were bundled in coats inside one classroom.
Preston's daughter ran straight past me toward the door.
Her father wasn't there yet.
No private vehicles allowed through.
She started crying.
“Daddy?”
“He's waiting.”
I knelt.
“We're taking you to him.”
The kids boarded.
Twenty-three.
One teacher.
Two daycare employees.
I counted three times.
Bus drivers are obsessive counters.
Halfway back, a little boy asked:
“Are we gonna crash?”
“No.”
“How do you know?”
“I don't.”
Bad answer.
He looked terrified.
I corrected myself.
“But I know exactly how slowly I need to drive.”
He nodded.
“Okay.”
We reached the staging area.
Preston climbed the bus steps before I could stop him.
His daughter launched into him.
He held her so tightly she complained.
“Dad, I can't breathe.”
“Sorry.”
He did not let go much.
When he finally looked at me, his eyes were red.
“Thank you.”
“Thank the road crews too.”
He looked through the windshield.
Javier was dragging branches toward Truck 18.
Preston stepped off the bus.
Walked across the ice.
Extended his hand.
I couldn't hear the conversation.
I saw Javier shrug.
Then Preston hugged him.
Javier looked horrified.
I laughed.
The storm knocked power out to nearly six thousand homes.
For forty-eight hours, schools became shelters.
Cafeteria workers cooked.
Custodians kept bathrooms functioning.
Electricians restored circuits.
Nurses checked elderly residents.
Police directed intersections.
Firefighters handled carbon monoxide calls.
Grocery employees unloaded emergency shipments.
Bank employees helped customers access funds after electronic systems failed.
Grant Holloway, the banker from Career Day, came to the middle school shelter.
Not wearing his expensive suit.
Jeans.
Sweatshirt.
He helped people contact relatives because First County Bank's emergency communications system still had power.
He also arranged fee waivers for customers whose payments were disrupted.
I noticed that.
Important.
When I had spoken to Maelle, I had told her all honest work mattered.
The storm proved it.
Not that bankers were useless.
Not that executives were useless.
That dependence runs both directions.
Grant needed roads cleared.
Javier needed banking systems to process his paycheck.
I needed mechanics to keep Bus 42 running.
Everyone needed everyone more than pride usually admits.
The lights came back gradually.
By Saturday afternoon, only a few rural homes remained dark.
At the shelter, Principal Price found me sweeping spilled cereal near the bleachers.
“You're a bus driver.”
“Observant.”
“Custodian is ten feet away.”
“He's fixing a toilet.”
“Fair.”
She smiled.
Then handed me an envelope.
“What?”
“Maelle's revised essay.”
“Why revised?”
“She added something.”
I opened it.
At the bottom:
> Mr. Vance told me every job matters. I didn't understand because I thought he was just trying to make me feel better.
>
> Then the ice storm happened.
>
> My dad worked nineteen hours. Mr. Vance moved people to the warming center. Bank workers helped old people get money. Teachers slept at the school. Electric workers climbed poles in freezing rain.
>
> I think a town is like a body.
>
> Some jobs are hands.
>
> Some are eyes.
>
> Some are the brain.
>
> Some are the feet.
>
> It would be stupid for the hand to laugh at the foot.
I laughed.
Principal Price did too.
“Hard to argue with anatomy.”
Then she said:
“We're rescheduling the forum.”
“Good.”
“I want Maelle to read this.”
“Ask her.”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She said only if her dad sits on stage.”
I grinned.
“Oh, Javier is going to hate that.”
He did.
May you like
Which made it even better.
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