The Family Who Lived in the River

The Family Who Lived in the River Philip Gerard This story was told to me by a friend who lives in the mountains west ofTucson, Arizona, and used to walk to the university across the dry bed of the Santa Cruz River. Like most rivers in southern Arizona, the Santa Cruz rarely has water in it—it's a hardpan chute a hundred yards wide in most spots, spiked with boulders and clots of paloverde. When it rains hard in the mountains upstream, a rare event, the water piles up at the faU Une, then courses downstream in a solid waU, tumbUng before it boulders, trees, and an occasional pickup truck. One day as he hiked across the river, my friend was hailed by a young Mexican man living in a makeshift house concealed in a thicket ofpaloverde right in the middle of the river bed. The man invited him in for a drink of water, and my friend foUowed him into the shade of cardboard, plywood, and roofing tin. A whole extended family was living there—a couple with their children, some grown cousins, brothers and sisters. A dozen or so people in all. They were a cheerful and energetic bunch. They spent the cool hours of the morning and evening scavenging for discarded furniture and utensils or working to buy groceries. Odd jobs, a doUar here, a dollar there. In the afternoon they relaxed in the shade oftheir home, a Uttle island of paloverde on a gravel plain. They played music, told stories, drank soda pop and beer. They weren't beggars, these people. They'd made a home in the river. They were clean, self-reliant, sociable, and happy. They were old-fashioned nomads, transients by choice, waiting out the northern winter in a warm place. When my friend told me this story, I asked him whether they understood the danger of the place they were living. 86 Philip Gerard87 Yes, my friend said, but it wasn't the season for rain, and the river had been dry for many months. He continued to visit them each day on his way down to campus. A thoughtful guest, he'd sometimes bring a loaf of bread or a bottle ofbeer. Then he went out of town for a couple of weeks. When he returned, he found out that there had been a big storm up in the mountains. When the water came roUing down the Santa Cruz, it carried away everything. The cardboard and tin house was gone. The paloverdes had been uprooted and swept away. Ofthe people who had been living in the river, there was no sign. Not much of a story, because my friend didn't know the ending. The ending may be this: that last afternoon, the young man sniffs the breeze and smeUs water. The hairs on his neck prickle with the static charge of the air. A siren is howling away offin the city, the siren they always blow before the water comes. He gathers the others. "Pronto" he urges. They do not hurry. They carry away only what is at hand—a water jug, a rucksack full of canned beans, a hat, a guitar. They leave the broken sofa, the end table with three legs, the dented nest of pots. Holding hands with the little ones, they head for the western bank, away from the city They climb up and settle in among the rocks and scrub cactus and watch the water boil toward them, a black stew of uprooted trees, boulders, and debris. Without a signal from anybody, every member of the family makes the sign of the cross. There is another ending: The storm comes at night. The siren is the ghostly howl of a Sonoran gray wolfin the old man's dream ofMexico. On the western bank, coyotes have gathered in silence, afraid for the first time in months to cross the river. The old man wakes to a rushing in his ears. Something trembles way down deep. The coyotes turn and, one by one, trot back to high ground. By now, the rest of the family can hear the river in their bones. Then they are carried...