Rock Island Line by David Rhodes (most life changing books txt) 📗

way to the oak two-by-twelve laid across the top—and from there to the side where the mixture of clay and water could be dug out and the bucket lowered back down. The rope grew slippery with the clay. Darkness finally sent them tired and hungry back into the house, where they ate a silent meal of pot pies and milk and went straight to bed.

The following morning brought with it a great setback. During the night the water had resumed its natural level, two feet from where they’d stopped digging. Essentially they had dug a small well. So the first job was to take the water out by bucket. Great slabs of clay fell from the sides of the hole, splashing into the water, making the cavity swell out at the bottom like a bell. “I think it’s too dangerous down there,” called Mal. “If something were to happen I could never get you out.”

“There’s no danger. Besides, we’re almost deep enough.”

On they went until noon, jumped into their Chrysler and drove into Iowa City and bought a black treated-metal septictank for $40.75, the shape of a giant bean can with a lid over the top, five and a half feet in diameter, five feet high, 250 pounds in weight, put it with help on top of their car and drove home at ten miles per hour.

From the bottom of the tank to the inlet opening measured thirty-nine inches. All the instruction booklet said was to make it level. They had another foot to go. Three hours later they lowered the round cylinder with a fence stretcher from a scaffolding of oil drums and lumber. It fitted into the mud hole as snugly as if it’d already been lying there twenty years. The inlet and outlet were right in place—lined up both vertically and horizontally with the tile. They cemented the connections with ready-mix, and ran laughing upstairs to take a bath as the piston pump banged away.

They ate a long dinner, complete with a bottle of wine, and woke the next morning in horror to find that the water in the ground had forced the tank upward, breaking it away from the tile and raising it a foot higher. July began to swear and throw clods of dirt down on the lid.

“Can’t we just fill it with water?” asked Mal. “That’ll make it sink down again.”

“No we can’t!” screamed July as though the whole thing were her fault. “Because more clay’s probably fallen off underneath. It won’t fit right. Now we have to take all that water out, pull up the tank, take the water out from the ground and dig another foot down. Jesus, I’d’ve thought we ran enough water in there. Wouldn’t you think that? God damn it!”

“Well, obviously we didn’t.”

Taking off the lid proved to be extremely difficult, there being nothing to grab hold of except the thin edge of the inch overhang—and of course one couldn’t stand on the very lid he was trying to lift up. The hole was not any larger than it had to be to fit the tank. Old pieces of pipe, metal fenceposts, many other things were tried to probe down with, grab and lift, before they came upon the idea of using a garden hoe and got the lid up out of the hole.

The next difficulty after getting the water out was that, though the tank had floated upward, it was nevertheless still a foot and a half down into well-packed mud and clay, and their little scaffolding collapsed under the unbelievable strain of the fence stretcher, to which July had attached a longer rope so he could pull it from a second-story window in order to get the right leverage angle when the rope was let into the ratchet holder. The plank lurched to the side. The middle frame piece and the glass from both windows flew out into the yard with a great crash, the tower of oil barrels tumbled, Mal was nearly crushed by the falling two-by-twelve, and the tank eased down another inch into the clay.

“I said to hold it!” yelled July.

“I couldn’t!” yelled back Mal. “This is one of the stupidest ideas I ever heard of! Putting in a septic tank!”

She’s right, thought July, clumping down the stairs. Absolutely right. The broken window casing was a terrible thing to look at up close. The very house seemed to scream at him, Hey, watch it, will you!

“You were right,” he said. “It was a stupid idea: I should’ve had the bigger oil drum on the bottom. I knew it would be more stable that way, but it seemed like they fit better the other way around.”

“No, no! The whole thing was stupid. Nobody does this kind of work with the tools we have. People have equipment for this kind of thing.” She walked out to the barn. The Chrysler’s motor roared and she drove out, heading for the road.

“Hey, where are you going?” shouted July.

“Somewhere to take a shower. If I have to break in a house or rent a motel room, I’ll do it. Come if you want to.”

“No, I better think this out. Don’t go now.”

“Sorry. I’ll be back in an hour—then we can do anything you want to.” And she was gone in a cloud of dust and gravel. July found a cigarette inside, smoked it and tried to figure outhow he’d make the scaffolding stronger. Then an idea flashed to him: if he hurried and worked as fast and skillfully as he possibly could, he might be able to piece the windows back in—everything except the glass, of course—before she came home. And he could assure her that glass wasn’t very expensive and could be gotten easily and she wouldn’t feel so bad about everything. While he was working he could think up a way to make the scaffolding stronger. Perhaps she could pull from the second floor and he could hold.

When Mal returned she found him working on the