Vengeance

Jamison, a small thin graying man of 56, lived in the grand old three-story house at the end of the road, near the sharp bend in the Bull River. He had never lived anywhere else. The house, like Jamison, it had a pretentious, arrogant persona. The house had a commanding view of the surrounding terrain.

Jamison had no love for his neighbors. Even as he stood on the bank this windy spring morning, with pregnant clouds hanging overhead, he was silently cursing his neighbor for not taking measures to stop the river from gnawing away at the land he was sure he would be getting back. Jamison had started to riprap the bank with large boulder to keep the river from claiming more of his back yard. The riprap being too costly for one year had been scheduled over a two year period. Next year he planned to finish the last half. The house with its' pillared porch was impeccable taken care of. Like Jamison, the white walls and black trim of the building stated how matter of fact it stood, proud of its past, its endurance, even though there was an uneasy relationship between it and the demanding river.

The Bull River, full of debris and small ice chunks, was high and boiled past him. The worst he had ever seen. The neighbor, McMathers, also was walking to the bank to check the water level. Though the river hadn't flooded in years , it was always a springtime worry. There had been heavy snows and thick ice just fifty miles up stream. McMathers, with his unfastened overcoat sloppy blowing in the wind, saw Jamison and waved. Jamison ignored him. 'The man can't even dress right,' he thought. Frowning, he turned and headed back to his house with its warm kitchen and the pot of coffee that waited there. He would call Mrs. Anderson and tell her not to come today to clean. Then he must call his lawyer to see what kind of offer he should make next for McMathers' run down house and five acres. McMathers and his wife liked their home, at least that had been their answer when Jamison had made the first offer. Jamison had thought him a fool, for the money offered had been enough to buy a nice little new house in town.

During the tough years of the '20s and 30's his grandfather had sold off the beautiful river lots from the begining of Jamison Lane to within eight hundred fifty feet of his house. Jamison's father had worked hard to buy back most of the lots, carefully tearing down the houses and using the materials to put up a barn and do other improvements on their domain. There were only three lots left when Jamison's father died, leaving him the task to finish. He had managed, with little difficulty, to buy back two. No one wanted to live down the lane that had huge potholes and ruts the whole distance. It was a private road with right-of-way for residents. Now there were only two and Janison wasn't going to do a lick of work on the road until the was only one, him.

The McMathers were lower income folk, living off asmall pension and social security. Their house was built close to the road with no front yard. The misses gardened and McMathers keep the lawn in back mowed but the house was deteriorating year by year. It was a modest two-story house built with ample attic in which the grandchildren loved to play if it was raining when they came to visit. The back yard was battlefield, castle, or zombie killing field if the the sun was shinning. Jamison hated when they came, with their bikes and hollering and playing in the mud holes in the road. Jamison had never had children; he had never found a woman who meet his standards.

Jamison, back in the comforting confines of his home, filled his cup with bitter black coffee and went into his study to take care of buisness. First he would call Mrs. Anderson. Picking up the phone, he dialed and listend carefully. The line was full of static.

"Mrs. Anderson?... Yes, this is Jamison... Can't hear you well... Yes, the weather is bad... No, no don't come today ... What is that you say?" Click, the line went dead.

'Damn,' he thought, 'I should get me one of those cell phones. But that is a lot of money each month when I hardly even use the land line.'Looking into the bowels of his empty cup, Jamison frowned and went into the kitchen for a refill. He filled his cup and stood at his kitchen window. He watched as McMathers backed his rusted blue jeep out of their garage. McMathers and his wife hurried down the lane, the jeep rocking this way and that as it maneuved through the ruts. Slowly it dawned on Jamison that he should check the river again. Maybe that had been why McMathers had been in such a hurry.

With anxious steps Jamison hurried to his back porch. The water was up over the bank and moving quickly toward his house. Fear filled his heart and excaped through his mouth with a loud sound like that of a cornered snarling dog. Darting back into the house he grabbed his jacket and car keys. By the time he got to the garage the water was up to his ankles. He started his car and headed down the lane, but it was hard to see where the road was. The ruts and potholes were hidden by the cold murky water. When the waterlevel reached the middle of the car door, the car gurgled and quit. He had not gotten far, just past McMather's home. Jamison fought his way against the water gushing through the open window of his car and grabbed ahold of the roof carrier. He pulled himself up.

Standing on the roof of his car, dripping wet, the wind and rain pelted his bare hands and face. A huge knot of fear twisted his stomach and as he looked back. 'What if it keeps rising?' he thought. Now not only was rushing water coming over the bank in the protion not riprapped but slabs of ice. Like a mad raging bull it water dug into the dirt around the foundation. It was then he saw the huge chunks of ice coming in a massive jumble toward his house.

"No!No!No!" he screamed over and over again into the biting wind. The raging Bull River payed him no notice. His unblinking eyes watched in horror as the ice mass careened into his house tearing at its' base. With wailing, mournfuls sounds its walls were crushed, and as if in slow motion, the grand old house began to shake and then topple. The river was claiming with interest what it had loaned years before.

The cold water filled Jamison's shoes. The river had now claimed the car. Jamison stood like a pillar in the wind, not moving, not swaying. A boat came up beside him. He didn't notice. Hands reached out pulling him into the safetyof their company.

"McMathers called. Is there anyone else? Are you hurt? You gotta put on the life jacket." Jamison heard none of their wrds. He just stared at where his house, his life had been. The boat turned, giving wide berth to the car, it headed up the lane.

The rescue crew deposited Jamison at Milltown Hospital, totally unresponsive. Ther he sat, not talking, not moving, not blinking, just staring into nothingness...........

"Totally catatonic. He has been this way for months now. He could come out of it anytime or be this way till he dies." The doctor spoke in his usual hushed tone.

Jamison's lawyer looked grave but inwardly smiled, thinking, 'Serves the cranky old bastard right." As there were no relatives to consult, he would have to manage the estate, for a nice fee.

"Well... I will have to pay the neighbor to look after the land and remaining buildings. McMathers is retired, nice fellow. He could use the extra income," the lawyer said as he and the doctor closed the door gently on Jamison's sterile room.