The Dragging
An empty canoe bobbed gently in the muddy current. Someone tied it to the bridge. Fire fighters and other volunteers scrambled frantically along each riverbank searching for its last occupant . . . Todd Bierman. No one saw him fall in. The overturned canoe and a bright orange life jacket were found floating nearby.
His mother stood alone . . . slightly bent over . . . trembling despite the unseasonably warm October temperature. Amber leaves swirled around her feet. Mrs. Bierman’s folded arms gripped her sides in a desperate attempt to hold back the dread that was beginning to shroud all of us. I watched the breeze ripple her white apron and noticed some flour on the brightly printed dress. She was probably making Todd some cookies when they came for her.
My brother, Doug, and I were a bit in awe with all the activity. Less than an hour earlier our Dad plucked us out of an afternoon football game at the sandlot in the neighborhood. Most of the players were from my sixth grade class. Although Doug was a couple of years younger, he could take a hit without screaming. We let him play center for both sides. Our faces and tee shirts were covered with dirt. Grass stains shined from the knees of our jeans. Normally incomplete chores or some other mischief would have caused such an intrusion. Our work was done and it had been too early to tease our sisters.
“Boys, I’ve warned you about messing around the river. We’re going to a very sad scene near Five Span Bridge. Hope you’ll learn something.”
‘Warned us?’ That was putting it mildly. He had beaten the hell out of us on several occasions! Our hometown of Defiance, Ohio was almost surrounded by two rivers. The Auglaize snaked out of Northern Indiana and came up the eastern side of the city. It flowed into the Maumee near the center of town before dumping into Lake Erie at Toledo. These brown arteries fascinated us throughout the year. We skated on their frozen surfaces. Fishing and canoeing drew us during warmer months. General fooling around occurred in between. Unfortunately, their calm dirty surfaces masked a strong undercurrent. Each year one or two area youths died after crashing through the ice or smacking their heads on sunken bridge embankments. Our dad was determined to save us from that fate . . . even it he had to kill us. Screaming, spankings and other punishments were not the cure. We were invincible. He drove toward the river in silence.
Doug had dark hair and was skinny compared to my red hair and ‘husky’ clothes sizes. Dad used to kid that he was the milkman’s son. Up until recently we hadn’t appreciated the humor. Doug and I stared at our dairy deliverer until he became nervously self-conscious. Our hair was buzzed to the scalp, courtesy of our Dad, in a makeshift barber chair on the back porch. Doug whispered to me as we stared out the car windows. “Do you think some speed boat crashed into the bridge or something?”
“Nah, Dad’s trying to make a point. We don’t drive boats.”
The fire department was launching a boat as we arrived. It was chalky white with red trim — enough room for a half-dozen rescue worker. It sliced into the river parting the murky water and soggy leaves with a loud splash. The Auglaize had been fed the waste of dozens of Indiana and Ohio communities and industrial sites. It’s color resembled a cross between dirty dishwater and day old coffee laced with curdling cream.
“Pee U!” I exclaimed as we got closer to the rank body of water. “If Todd didn’t drown, this sewer might have suffocated him.”
“You think there’s enough acid in the river to just dissolve him or something?” pondered Doug. My ten-year-old brother had quite an imagination.
“Nah, he’s down there somewhere. Probably trapped by a log.” Visions of a fiendish tree limb, pulling a screaming Todd under, flashed across my mind.
The rescue crew pulled the covers off a huge metal net. It was peppered with wine corks every three or so inches in all directions. Rusty weights were attached to the bottom. Like fishermen, the rescue workers carefully spread the net out and began carefully removing the corks. Underneath was sharp, long and jagged hooks, which gleamed in the sunlight. They jingled, like a sinister dungeon chain, as they were attached to the stern.
“Gees!” Doug stepped back. “What’s that for?”
“That’s what they use to drag the river bottom. The hooks snag the bodies.”
My expert commentary was based on our fifth grade class visit to the firehouse the previous Spring. I remembered Todd had been with us on the tour.
“Isn’t that going to hurt?”
“Todd’s been under at least an hour. He won’t feel them.”
Still the thought of those sinister hooks tearing away at poor Todd was unsettling. We looked away as they loaded them onto the boat.
“How long will it take,” asked Doug, already getting fidgety.
“Depends on the current. They still have a couple hours of light left.”
One of the rescue workers began to row as two others lowered the net at the stern. Slowly the boat crossed back and forth from bank to bank as thoroughly as you’d mow a lawn. More people came to watch. I half expected vendors to show up selling popcorn and soda to the onlookers. A priest attempted to console Mrs. Bierman. Her gaze remained fixed on the boat. My dad stood alone, occasionally looking at us and then at the water. Everyone was so quiet that you could hear the water splashing with each stroke of the oars.
“Maybe he’s down river . . . Maybe he’s been pulled over the Power Dam.”
“Not likely,” I replied. “That’s a couple miles from here.”
“Well, what if they don’t find him right away?”
“They’ll try again tomorrow . . . maybe in another place.”
“Has anyone ever stayed ‘drownded’ and never come up?”
That hadn’t been covered during the firehouse trip. What if they never found him? Would his mother stand there forever? How could she go home? How could any of us leave knowing Todd was still at the bottom?
“I don’t think you can stay under forever. Somehow I think you fill up with water and pop to the surface like a beach ball.” My voice was beginning to whisper.
After about an hour a second boat launched as the shadows grew longer across the river. The breeze picked up, scattering more leaves from the patchwork trees. I felt colder. How could this have happened? It had been a perfect Indian Summer day. Why hadn’t we invited Todd to play football? We’d still be playing at home, not here waiting for them to drag him from the stinking river.
“Damn!” I muttered.
Doug looked around cautiously knowing profanity was tolerated less at our house than the river.
“What’s got into you?”
“Todd was always odd . . . a real loner.” I lamented.
“Yeah, he was a real mama’s boy,” added Doug. “Never rode the bus. Mrs. Bierman drove him everywhere.”
“I think she dressed him in the morning. Always pretty . . . slicked backed blonde hair . . . bow tie,” I recalled.
“He was sure fun to tease”, Doug grinned and then caught himself.
“Todd was too much of a wimp to play football. I’m sure he wouldn’t have played . . . even if we had asked . . ..”
Before Doug could reassure me a fireman in the first boat yelled to the other vessel to join them. There was a murmur from the crowd. They found him! The second boat rowed vigorously toward the first. Doug and I stared at the scene not sure whether we wanted to move to a better viewing position or run away in terror. I thought about the firemen, who had so diligently searched for Todd, now faced with the horror of recovering him. Fire fighting no longer was a part of my career plans.
In deference to Mrs. Bierman the second boat pulled in front of the first. Two men stood at the bow and the stern holding a tarp blocking the scene from the onlookers.
“Do you think he’ll be blue?” Doug questioned a bit loudly. “I heard ‘drownded’ people turn blue . . . especially their faces . . .”
“How should I know?” I whispered angrily. “This is my first drowning too!”
Doug was irritated. Maybe it was my impatience, but I think he was disillusioned. For years, I was a cocky ‘know-it-all.’ Now, when it really counted, I was coming up short.My emotions were somewhere between relief and disappointment as the curtain blocked our view. Another man, perhaps Mr. Bierman, helped the priest support Todd’s mother. My dad fingered his rosary as tears streamed down his face.
I began to cry. This wasn’t at all natural. Children were supposed to bury their parents. I was angry with Dad for bringing us here. A spanking would have been more merciful. I felt guilty about Todd. He could have been a friend. Now a dragging chain snarled him, piercing his blue body with sharp hooks. That damned river . . . so disarmingly peaceful . . . yet it had coldly killed so many.
The fire fighters were having difficulty pulling him up. Daylight was dimming. The crowd shifted for a better view. Soon the men in the second boat dropped the tarp to help the others bring up the net. They pulled together, as if was a ‘tug of war.’ The muddy waters had still not given them a glimpse of him. Finally, after one giant heave, the net jerked and began to come up. Gently they pulled him to the surface. Perhaps you never get used to the shock of a body coming out of the water. In this case, the firemen were more startled than I had expected. Rather than Todd, they snagged a car axle with the hooks embedded into a worn old tire.
The crowd groaned. Mrs. Bierman didn’t flinch. Dad continued to finger his rosary beads. The autumn sun rapidly sank.
“Look,” screamed Doug. He pointed at the other riverbank.
“Damn!” I repeated in disbelief.
A figure in a tee shirt and jeans peered out of the woods along the other bank. Leaves sprouted out of his blonde hair. One hand suppressed a yawn. The other held a canoe paddle. It was Todd Bierman.
Both boats rowed over triumphantly to pick him up. Their wicked dragging chains glittered from the stern. We would later learn that Todd had fallen asleep in the woods while his canoe drifted to the bridge. Mrs. Bierman knelt silently for a few moments before brushing the flour from her dress. She picked Todd up and held him tightly, gently whispering her love into his ears. Dad’s tears rolled off a huge grin as he placed the rosary back into a pocket. Doug and I jumped about in a screaming celebration . . . better than any touchdown we could have scored that day. The crowd cheered.
Nearly thirty years later Mrs. Bierman succumbed to cancer. Todd, now a schoolteacher and former football teammate, buried her the other day. In many ways I am relieved for his mother. It would have been too cruel to see Todd die a second time.
To our Dad’s relief, Doug and I stayed away from the river. It may have been the full knowledge of the grief our drowning would have inflicted on our parents. Perhaps it was the nightmares of the dragging hooks tearing at our flesh. I believe it was out of respect. We knew that muddy waterway could take lives. One sunny autumn day it somehow gave one back.
The End
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Oh Yeah ~ What kids don’t do to their parents!
Mark, Trent Spurgeon steered me here. What a great story! I wish my dad was alive so I could ask him if Todd had been a patient of his when he was a pediatrician in Defiance. I well remember the confluence of the Auglaize and Maumee rivers and how folks said that was the reason there were never any tornados in Defiance. Thanks for bringing bad memories.
Gina, thanks for your words. The story is fiction based on a true story. My dad did take Doug and I to the Auglaize, but the outcome was sad. Decided to use some creativity for a happier ending. Todd is fictional. I do remember my Dad claiming the rivers protected us from tornados. I always looked at growing up in Defiance as happy times – despite tornado and H-bomb drills. All the best Mark