Still Without Answers, a Stream of Refugees Copes in Massachusetts

LAWRENCE, Mass. — Emmanuel Peguero, 7, thought he had been walking for 80 miles on Saturday. And how many days would it be before he could return to his own home? One thousand, he predicted.

In reality, his trek was closer to 1 mile. It seemed much longer, though, because of the extraordinary circumstances in which his family — and thousands of others — suddenly found themselves.

On Thursday, a still-unexplained gas leak touched off scores of explosions and fires that ripped through three Boston suburbs. Thousands of people were evacuated from their homes, many of which are still under quarantine and in areas where multiple new gas leaks were reported Saturday.

This freak disaster and its chaotic aftermath have given rise to an unusual sight in modern-day America — a river of humanity, lugging only the belongings they can carry in overloaded wagons, roller bags, strollers, laundry hampers and black plastic garbage bags slung over their shoulders. They carried plants, dairy items, jugs of milk; one woman pulled a vacuum cleaner behind her.

The tableau of urban refugees is most vivid in Lawrence, a city where the Merrimack River, lined with acres of old brick textile mills, separates the haves (those in North Lawrence who have electricity) from the have-nots (those in South Lawrence who have no electricity and where homes are still off-limits).

The evacuations were not mandatory, and many people opted to stay in their neighborhoods despite the absence of electricity and gas. Those who left faced police blockades and could access their homes only by walking across the city’s grand bridges, which were built in another era. They returned to the bridge with their belongings, a scene reminiscent of those in a forced migration.

Their cars are often parked miles away, if not quite the 80 miles of little Emmanuel’s imagination. At their home, he and his parents picked up clothes, fed their pet fish and grabbed a special pillow for Claritza, Emmanuel’s mother, before turning around and walking back to their car across the bridge.

Emmanuel’s guess of being out of his home for 1,000 days may be extreme, but officials have not given residents a clear sense of when they can return. There is no curfew, and residents can come and go.

“The rumors say a week,” said George Garcia, 42, a logistics manager, who was trudging across the bridge on South Broadway with his family of five. They have moved in with his brother in nearby Methuen. “But the kids, they are afraid to go back.”

He was lugging packages of meat that had spoiled in his refrigerator and was trying to figure out what to do with them.

“Throw them out!” two young women yelled as they passed him by.

He was discouraged, he said, because in his absence, his front door had been pried open. But he did not bother to see if anything was missing.

“I’m just glad we’re alive,” he said.

Unlike people who live in the path of Hurricane Florence, which continued its assault as a tropical storm on the Carolinas on Saturday, residents here had no warning that their lives were about to be upended. And unlike hurricanes, which rage for a finite period and then move on, mysterious and invisible gas leaks have no set time frame for dissipating.

Hector Diaz, 59, a deliveryman, said he had already had his fill of life as an evacuee.

“They’re taking too long to fix stuff,” he said. He said his wife and dog had stayed at home and he was going to move back in with them Saturday night, despite the evacuation orders. “I just can’t stand it anymore.”

New gas leaks were reported Saturday, adding an extra layer of fear and confusion for those displaced. Their houses were still off-limits as utility crews continued to shut off gas meters house by house, accompanied by locksmiths. As of Saturday, 17,000 customers in the three towns affected — Lawrence, Andover and North Andover — were still without power.

Vicente Avila, 42, a handyman, who was tugging at a wooden red wagon loaded with what he estimated was $700 worth of food, rolled his eyes when asked how long he might be away from home.

“We’re stuck,” he said. “Everything is just frozen in time.”

In South Lawrence, sirens still wailed throughout the day as police and firefighters set up additional roadblocks, trying to keep up with each new report of another gas leak. No new explosions were reported. Marianne Vega, 36, a sales representative, stopped on a bridge to catch her breath, saddened at the state of her home. “Everything spoiled and the fridge smells,” she said. Because of the power failure and gas leaks, businesses are at a standstill, but her husband was working as an Uber driver in Boston.

Vega said her family was supposed to be moving in a few days, but moving trucks would not be able to get to their house, so they will likely be in their new place without any furniture.

Others are trying to make the best of a difficult situation. Carmen Gonzalez, 43, who works in a clothing store, said she and most of her extended family and a few neighbors decided to stay in their homes in South Lawrence, regardless of the evacuation orders and the lack of gas and power. They were afraid their houses would be robbed, and they wanted to protect them.

The deserted street gave them plenty of room to play basketball. They put batteries in a boom box and cranked up the bachata music. They waited for family and friends on the outside to bring back food, and on Saturday night they fired up the grill and cooked burgers and pork chops.

At one point, a truck drove by and handed out bottles of water, toothpaste and travel shampoos.

“I was so happy to see them,” Gonzalez said. “It made me cry.”