The old, slouching house was an island on the flooded town. Its wooden porch bumped right up against the still water, soaking silently in the gentle waves. White siding drooped like tired eyes and every once in a while, a large piece of wood or a shingle slid off and disappeared into the liquid graveyard below.
The last house left was home to the Adlers. When their neighbors evacuated, first by car and then by raft, they remained. Mrs. Adler was sure everyone had made quite a fuss over what was just an unusually brutal thunderstorm.
“By morning, the streets will be dry and the roads will be clear,” she said from the porch. “Mark my words.”
Mr. Adler and their son Ronnie did mark her words. And by sunrise, the sea had begun creeping up the sidewalk, lapping against the concrete.
“Give it one more day,” she grunted from the kitchen window. “And it will all be gone.”
Another day passed and the lawn disappeared.
“Sweetheart, let’s get going,” said Mr. Adler softly. “I think it’s time.”
But Mrs. Adler wouldn’t even consider it. This was her home, goddamnit, and she wouldn’t be shoved out by any thunderstorm or flash flood.
“One more day,” she said again. “One more day and it will be dry as the desert out there.”
Needless to say, it was not dry. The sky continued to unleash its vicious waters and the wind continued to berate the crumbling house. Yet still the Adlers stayed.
One afternoon on the sinking porch, Ronnie and his mother sat on their rocking chairs and quietly watched the rain. This was Mrs. Adler’s favorite activity, and no longer able to go anywhere at all, she had turned it into a full-time job.
“It’s only getting stronger,” Ronnie observed.
“There’s a hole in the sky,” said his mother. “A great big leak.”
“I wish we could patch it up.” He pointed to a rip in the screen door that Mr. Adler had covered in three evenly cut strips of masking tape to keep out the mosquitoes. “Just like this.”
“A patch,” said his mother to the wind. “A patch. And the rain will stop.”
She stood from her rocking chair and hurried inside, leaving Ronnie alone with the storm. She gathered every blanket and every pillow and every one of Mr. Adler’s old shirts.
“What are you doing with my clothes?” he asked his wife.
“I’m saving the world,” she called back, excitement and determination shining in her eyes as she marched up the attic steps. “I’m saving the world.”
On the sprawling attic floor, she cut each piece of fabric into the largest square it could hold and laid them out in a checkerboard of gingham and florals and stripes. With the focus of a surgeon, she stitched together each piece until there were yards and yards of solid cloth. Yards turned into miles, and piles of patchwork filled the room.
She left no piece of material untouched. The couch lost its cushions. The mattresses were stripped of their sheets. The carpets were gone and so were the tablecloths and spare towels. Every textile found its way to the attic, where Mrs. Adler sat through the days and nights stitching and stitching, listening to the rain fall on the roof like dropped ceramic plates. For months she did nothing but sew and sleep. Sew and sleep. Sew and sleep.
One gray morning, just as the water was about to consume the porch, Mrs. Adler came barreling down the stairs, sweat flying from her brow and onto the hardwood steps where there had once been a plush runner.
“I’m done,” she announced. “It’s done. The patch is finally finished.” Ronnie and his father looked up from their books.
“Honey, that’s excellent,” said her husband. “We’re very proud of you.
And the boys returned to their novels.
“Well, come on,” she said, confused by their silence. “It’s time to patch it up.”
“What do you mean, darling?” asked Mr. Adler.
“The sky,” she replied, frustration rising in her voice. “We’re patching up the sky.”
The boys exchanged a glance. Though only eleven years old, Ronnie understood the situation a lot more clearly than his mother did.
“Ma,” he said. “I don’t think a patch will work. I think it’s done.”
“What’s done?” asked his mother, concerned frown.
“Well,” he replied carefully. “Everything. We’re the last ones left. And it’s been raining forever. They say on the radio there’s no more survivors in the whole town. They say it’s gone like it never happened. No one knows we’re even here. It’s done.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “You’re speaking nonsense. Come and see what I’ve made.”
With no choice, they followed the manic woman up the stairs and down the hallway and up some stairs again. Their footsteps echoed in the skeletal house, free of all its softnesses. Light fell in from the windows, throwing the rainstorm in shadow against the walls. Even inside, everything vibrated with the movement of water.
Once at the attic, they found they could hardly go in. The bolts of tweed and wool and cotton were packed from ceiling to floor. It was a room overflowing with fabric, one giant square that folded in on itself at least five thousand times.
“All we’ve gotta do,” said Mrs. Adler, breathing heavily from the walk up. “Is stitch this patch. To the sky. And the rain will stop.”
Ronnie could hardly speak. He reached out to caress a square of suede that used to be his favorite fall jacket. He had nearly forgotten the feeling of fiber since his mother begun this project. He hadn’t realized until that moment just how much he missed it.
“Ma,” he said quietly. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
He parted the waves of polyester and linen and climbed into the woven room. Inside was a cacophony of colors, a parade of patterns, none matching their neighbor but all joining in a kaleidoscope of Adler history. He saw his father’s fancy suit stitched into the wall. He saw his mother’s silk scarf arc above him on the ceiling. And for the first time in what felt like years, he could not hear the rain. The quilted cave created a cocoon of complete silence.
“Come in,” he yelled. “Come inside.”
The structure opened in a diamond of light and his parents crawled through to join him.
“I don’t believe it,” said Mr. Adler, looking around in wonder.
They huddled together in the fabric attic and marveled at its beauty. And because of the silence, not one of them heard the screen door break from its flimsy hinges. Not one of them heard the waves crash against the hardwood floor downstairs.