Lavender. John awoke morning with a start, as if sleep had been a hypnotist's trick broken with a snap of the fingers or a secret word. It was as if no time passed at all. As if he simply closed his eyes, and when he opened them again it was morning. For a moment his injured hand was numb, laying beside him as though it was made of lead.
He languished in that odd moment before the pain returned as an avalanche. It came like a shock, as though powerful hands dug into the healthy flesh of his palm and was now tearing his hand in two. John nearly shouted, but feared waking Anna, still sleeping soundly beside him. He twisted and strained until the muscles in his shoulders cramped, until the pain drove him from bed onto the hard floor.
His mind spun from pain such as he had never known before, thoughts muddled as an opal. Then, just as sudden and terrible as it came, the pain abated. John knelt and let his head fall back. He gave a long heavy sigh and felt fully spent for the pain. There were tears in his eyes and upon his cheeks.
He grabbed a pair of brown slacks from the basket near the door and staggered out into the dining room. There was a sound from the bedroom. John turned as Anna mumbled something in her sleep and turned away to the window. Morning light filtered through the lace curtains, painting Anna and the room in quiet lavender hues. John lay the trousers on the floor and stepped into them. He pulled them up careful not to use his injured hand.
John went quietly up the stairs. A swift breeze rushed through the window beside the stranger, lifting the curtains and holding them in a bowl above the bed. The air tasted of dust and morning dew and carried the layer scents of hay and wood smoke. John sat in the chair beside the bed and studied the man for a time, as if he was some interesting and mysterious new species.
The stranger was on his back, turned slightly from the window. His brow was furled, but more as if he was suffering a terrible nightmare or burdened by something than from physical pain. One arm was hidden beneath the blanket. The other was across his chest, gripping the blanket tightly.
The stranger stirred slightly, then threw his head back in a silent moan. It caught John by surprise, but he reached out and laid a hand on the man’s arm and chest. He turned his face to John. His eyes opened grudgingly, straining to focus.
“Relax,” said John, affirming a hold on the stranger’s arm, fearing a repeat of the night before. “Can you hear me?”
The man nodded slightly. His eyes darted around a room that was still only vague and indiscernible shapes.
“Everything’s fine. Had a bad accident.”
“Don’t recall,” said the man, staring at the ceiling as though struggling to comprehend.
“Took a bad hit to the head and ended up in a creek. Took three of us to pull you free.”
“My automobile?”
“Wrecked. Afraid she’s gone.”
“She?” He looked at John’s hand upon his chest.
”Smashed up.” John let go of the man’s arm and patted it reassuringly. “Main thing is getting you on your feet again.”
“Can’t pay you.”
“Don’t recall asking.” John held his injured hand as he moved a bit on the chair. “Name’s John Perkins.”
“Louis,” the man replied, as if it had just occurred to him. “Louis Stanton.”
“Where you from, Louis?”
He was clearly perplexed by the question, and troubled at not remembering. Louis looked to the window and then back to John. “Can’t say for sure.”
“It’ll come you,” John rubbed the man’s shoulder and stood. “The wife and I have to run an errand. You best stay in bed. Misses Perkins will cook you something when we get back.
“Could use a bite.”
John started to ask him something, but didn’t know quite how to frame the question, or whether he should ask it at all. He started for the stairs then turned.
“You, uh, you said something last night.”
“Did I?” Stanton replied. John wasn’t sure he was telling the truth. “Can’t recall.”
“Nothing?” asked John, almost accusingly.
“Last I recall I was making my way through the storm next thing I know I wake up just now.”
John wasn’t convinced. “Ever met a fella named Bert Himmel.”
“Never heard that name before.”
“John nodded and decided not to press the issue further, at least not for now. “Well, get some rest. We won’t be gone long.”
John began down the stairs. He paused to study a step that seemed to give a tad too much. Louis spoke once more, but it sounded different somehow, as though his voice was far away and more a quality of the wind through the window.
“You’re a good soul, John Perkins.”
When John turned back Stanton was sound asleep, leaving John to wonder if this wasn’t some sort of trick. He had a mind to shake the man, if only there was something to accuse him of. He was lost in the many permutations of that thought when Anna appeared at the bottom of the steps, startling him.
Thursday, January 21, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-four
Silver. John didn't mention any of it. He didn't mention any of what had happened with the stranger, nor did he dismiss any of it. It was best not to concern her until he understood just what had happened. And something had happened, something more than he could simply dismiss as a product of a tired mind or his injury. John could still feel where the man had gripped his wrist. The red marks were still there.
He went out in the back yard for a breath of air before turning in. Brilliant silver stars dazzled across a midnight blue sky. The ghostly white plain of the milky way was splashed across that sky, running from near to far horizon. It was much cooler now. John tilted his head skyward and stretched with a yawn. His hand ached something awful. He took a deep breath and returned to the house. A good night's sleep, he figured with put things in their proper place.
Anna turned down the bed and helped John undress. A candle was burning on the night stand setting Anna smooth skin alight as she undressed. John studied her from the door, marveling at the sway of her breasts, the fleeting tightness of muscles in her back, the way a breath reveal and erased the rhythm of her ribs.
As she pulled the loose white nightgown over her head John was suddenly shaken at the commodity of such things. Those moments fell away like raindrops to the ocean, never to return again. This life was fleeing them both, the night’s spent in one another’s embrace far more valuable than any jewel. A part of him wished to tumble into that thoughts, as though it was a beautiful pool and dissolve himself. Yet another part was so terrified at all the paths that thought led him down that John wished to escape and forget her forever.
Laying in bed, his thoughts went to Bert Himmel and how rough he appeared slouched and spent in that chair at his shop. Didn't seem like a good sign the way he fought so hard for breath. John shook away the thought, and was sure old Bert was just fine. Just the same he'd run up to Mallard in the morning. Not that he put any faith in what the stranger had said, if in fact he said anything of the kind (more than likely it was gibberish John weary mind grew into something more). It would give him a chance to talk to Bert's boy, Myron, again about the roof. He'd need the boy's help more than ever now.
That was the last thought he'd recall. Sleep came quickly. Again it would feel like a little bit of death, like descending into a deep and dark and formless void, in which time and thought and dreams refused to venture.
He went out in the back yard for a breath of air before turning in. Brilliant silver stars dazzled across a midnight blue sky. The ghostly white plain of the milky way was splashed across that sky, running from near to far horizon. It was much cooler now. John tilted his head skyward and stretched with a yawn. His hand ached something awful. He took a deep breath and returned to the house. A good night's sleep, he figured with put things in their proper place.
Anna turned down the bed and helped John undress. A candle was burning on the night stand setting Anna smooth skin alight as she undressed. John studied her from the door, marveling at the sway of her breasts, the fleeting tightness of muscles in her back, the way a breath reveal and erased the rhythm of her ribs.
As she pulled the loose white nightgown over her head John was suddenly shaken at the commodity of such things. Those moments fell away like raindrops to the ocean, never to return again. This life was fleeing them both, the night’s spent in one another’s embrace far more valuable than any jewel. A part of him wished to tumble into that thoughts, as though it was a beautiful pool and dissolve himself. Yet another part was so terrified at all the paths that thought led him down that John wished to escape and forget her forever.
Laying in bed, his thoughts went to Bert Himmel and how rough he appeared slouched and spent in that chair at his shop. Didn't seem like a good sign the way he fought so hard for breath. John shook away the thought, and was sure old Bert was just fine. Just the same he'd run up to Mallard in the morning. Not that he put any faith in what the stranger had said, if in fact he said anything of the kind (more than likely it was gibberish John weary mind grew into something more). It would give him a chance to talk to Bert's boy, Myron, again about the roof. He'd need the boy's help more than ever now.
That was the last thought he'd recall. Sleep came quickly. Again it would feel like a little bit of death, like descending into a deep and dark and formless void, in which time and thought and dreams refused to venture.
Tuesday, January 19, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-three
John went lightly up the creaky old wood steps. They were narrow and angled sharply to the left. He paused a half dozen or so steps from the top, where he could just make out the stranger quiet and asleep on the small cot below the front window. Whatever Anna had heard earlier, the man was quiet now. John climbed to the top of the stairs and crossed the room, sort of making a long slow arc around to the end of the bed. As he did John watched the man's still face the whole time trying to glean some small clue to who he was and what he was doing in Emmetsburg.
“Are you an angel or a devil?” John said quietly, the words escaping him with him fully realizing. It was almost as if someone else spoke them.
John picked up a King James Bible Anna left on a small stool beside the bed. He sat and held the book to his chest as though it was a shield, as the prettiest breeze washed through Anna's hand-sewn lace curtains. A night chorus of crickets found him with the breeze. John lay the Bible in his lap and pulled it open, flipping expertly to a favored passage. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud in a quiet steady voice. He almost knew the words by heart.
“... And the LORD said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? Then satan answered the LORD, and said, Doth Job fear God for nounght? Hast thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the works of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land...”
The man stirred slightly. He grimaced, and for the first time John truly took note of the terrible nature of the man' injury. John recalled a stray dog he'd whacked in the head with a stick as a boy when it growled at him. The dog came up dead the next day, laying in the street near the place where John had encountered it. He'd always believed the poor creature had died from that hit to the head. Then there was a member of his platoon in France who was hit in the head by a sniper's bullet. He'd stood up to take a piss when the bullet banged off the man's helmet, knocking him cold for a spell. He waved off the medics and insisted everything was fine. That night on watch he dozed off and never woke.
John reached across to adjust the man's blanket. Suddenly he reached up and gripped John's arm. His eyes flashed open, but the gaze was distant, off in some other world. He looked quickly to John, but more through him than at him.
“In God's hands!” he exclaimed. “In God's hands now.”
John fought to pull away, startled as he was, but the man's grip was far too strong. Indeed, it was impossible strong. More than that, the man's eyes were wild and filled with fire. John tried to pull away gain, but the stranger held him fast, john looked back at the stairs wanting to cry out. He thought of the gun and felt curse for it. It took John a moment to collect himself.
“Gods hands,” said the stranger, quieter this time, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “He's gone with the Lord.”
It was obvious he wasn't going to break the man's hold on his wrist. The more he tried the tighter the grip, until his fingers were almost numb. With his full weight John laid his forearm and back of his injured hand on the man's chest and pushed him back onto the cot.
“Who's with the Lord?” John asked.
“Why, Bert Himmel that's who,” the man's crazy eyes found John's again.
“Bert Himmel?” John inquired. “How do you know Bert Himmel?”
But the man's hold on John suddenly relaxed and the hand fell away limply. He gave a sigh as his eyes closed, his head turning to the window and the breeze. John stood and backed away from the bed, not believing any of it had really happened. Loss of blood he figured, the pain of the product of a long and exhausting day.
“Are you an angel or a devil?” John said quietly, the words escaping him with him fully realizing. It was almost as if someone else spoke them.
John picked up a King James Bible Anna left on a small stool beside the bed. He sat and held the book to his chest as though it was a shield, as the prettiest breeze washed through Anna's hand-sewn lace curtains. A night chorus of crickets found him with the breeze. John lay the Bible in his lap and pulled it open, flipping expertly to a favored passage. He cleared his throat and began to read aloud in a quiet steady voice. He almost knew the words by heart.
“... And the LORD said unto Satan, Hast thou considered my servant Job, that there is none like him on earth, a perfect and an upright man, one that feareth God, and escheweth evil? Then satan answered the LORD, and said, Doth Job fear God for nounght? Hast thou made an hedge about him, and about his house, and about all that he hath on every side? Thou hast blessed the works of his hands, and his substance is increased in the land...”
The man stirred slightly. He grimaced, and for the first time John truly took note of the terrible nature of the man' injury. John recalled a stray dog he'd whacked in the head with a stick as a boy when it growled at him. The dog came up dead the next day, laying in the street near the place where John had encountered it. He'd always believed the poor creature had died from that hit to the head. Then there was a member of his platoon in France who was hit in the head by a sniper's bullet. He'd stood up to take a piss when the bullet banged off the man's helmet, knocking him cold for a spell. He waved off the medics and insisted everything was fine. That night on watch he dozed off and never woke.
John reached across to adjust the man's blanket. Suddenly he reached up and gripped John's arm. His eyes flashed open, but the gaze was distant, off in some other world. He looked quickly to John, but more through him than at him.
“In God's hands!” he exclaimed. “In God's hands now.”
John fought to pull away, startled as he was, but the man's grip was far too strong. Indeed, it was impossible strong. More than that, the man's eyes were wild and filled with fire. John tried to pull away gain, but the stranger held him fast, john looked back at the stairs wanting to cry out. He thought of the gun and felt curse for it. It took John a moment to collect himself.
“Gods hands,” said the stranger, quieter this time, turning his eyes to the ceiling. “He's gone with the Lord.”
It was obvious he wasn't going to break the man's hold on his wrist. The more he tried the tighter the grip, until his fingers were almost numb. With his full weight John laid his forearm and back of his injured hand on the man's chest and pushed him back onto the cot.
“Who's with the Lord?” John asked.
“Why, Bert Himmel that's who,” the man's crazy eyes found John's again.
“Bert Himmel?” John inquired. “How do you know Bert Himmel?”
But the man's hold on John suddenly relaxed and the hand fell away limply. He gave a sigh as his eyes closed, his head turning to the window and the breeze. John stood and backed away from the bed, not believing any of it had really happened. Loss of blood he figured, the pain of the product of a long and exhausting day.
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-two
John pulled the box from the shelf, panicking a fat brown wolf spider whose web collapsed as the box ripped it apart. John mused as it drew is body and legs tightly into the silky-white web cone between the shelf and the foundation wall. John momentarily weighed his own existence between the creatures before returning to the box. He set the box on the bench and carefully peeled open the old green rag covering it. The box was dusty and dulled from the years. John opened it with his finger tips, wincing slightly as that tiny bit of pressure tugged at his sutured flesh.
Inside the pistol appeared pristine and new, a testament to the meticulous and reverent care of the former owner. Within the box lay his grandfather's six shot forthy-four caliber 1847 Colt Walker pistol. The barrel was long, with a polished brass trigger guard and a deep brown walnut grip. The trigger guard bore a deep dent, the consequence of a rebel musket ball at the battle of Cold Harbor. John lifted the pistol gently and weighed its full four and a half pounds in his good hand.
There was a history to the Colt. His grandfather had carried it as a cavalryman with the Sixth Iowa in the War Between the States. He returned home to Emmetsburg the day Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. It was the elder Perkins who laid the pistol in that box, intending to put it away forever. It passed to John's father in Eighty-eight, and then to John when his father passed in twenty-two.
It was the first weapon John had ever fired, back when he was barely able to hold it steady with both hands. He could plainly recall his father behind him, helping to steady the pistol that threatened to tip a small and wiry boy onto his face. And he could plainly recall how frightened he became as the bullet exploded from the barrel.
John pushed out the cylinder and looked through the six empty chambers. He snapped it back into place and scooped out four heavy lead bullets from the box. Quickly, like a child downing some disagreeable medicine, John shoved the bullets into his pocket. He returned the pistol to the box and closed the lid.
Awful things, these, John thought. They were brutish and un-elegant, the same way a hammer served a function but held no true beauty. They were utilitarian, a kind word that described a tool invented for the singular function of killing. John said a silent prayer and crossed himself quickly before tucking the box under his wounded arm.
The evening air was noticeably cooler when John climbed from the cellar. It wasn't really colder. It was that he felt a bit colder for the gun and for the thoughts that accompanied the gun. A part of John felt stunted or dumbed simply for possessing the thing, as though any modicum of wisdom and wit had abandoned him for the implied power and ready violence. His faculties and wisdom seemed suddenly a burden, and flimsy. The gun allowed him the power to react without thought, and gave license to squander negotiation and reason for animal impulse.
John startled Anna at the bottom of the stairs, Just as she was coming down from seeing to the stranger. She slipped on the last step. As John reached to steady her the box crashed to the floor, and out tumbled the pistol. Anna's eyes widened, and she looked to John with alarm.
“Didn't mean to startled you,” he scooped the pistol back into the box as quickly as he could, feeling suddenly awkward and foolish.
“Oh, my god, John!” Anna gasped.
“Just for tonight.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I'll put it someplace safe.”
She nodded reluctantly. John started for the bedroom. Anna caught his arm. She searched his Irish green eyes a moment.
“Are we terrible?” she asked, with fearful and anxious eyes begging to be rescued.
John's expression held the weight of a mathematical equation. “I'm bound to see him get better, but I have to think of you too.”
She nodded and stroked his arm. Anna understood well enough. Not happily, but she understood well enough.
“How is he?”Asked John.
“Goes in and out,” she replied. “Something, gibberish. Makes no sense.”
“Best I look in on him then,” said John.
Inside the pistol appeared pristine and new, a testament to the meticulous and reverent care of the former owner. Within the box lay his grandfather's six shot forthy-four caliber 1847 Colt Walker pistol. The barrel was long, with a polished brass trigger guard and a deep brown walnut grip. The trigger guard bore a deep dent, the consequence of a rebel musket ball at the battle of Cold Harbor. John lifted the pistol gently and weighed its full four and a half pounds in his good hand.
There was a history to the Colt. His grandfather had carried it as a cavalryman with the Sixth Iowa in the War Between the States. He returned home to Emmetsburg the day Lee surrendered to Grant at Appomattox. It was the elder Perkins who laid the pistol in that box, intending to put it away forever. It passed to John's father in Eighty-eight, and then to John when his father passed in twenty-two.
It was the first weapon John had ever fired, back when he was barely able to hold it steady with both hands. He could plainly recall his father behind him, helping to steady the pistol that threatened to tip a small and wiry boy onto his face. And he could plainly recall how frightened he became as the bullet exploded from the barrel.
John pushed out the cylinder and looked through the six empty chambers. He snapped it back into place and scooped out four heavy lead bullets from the box. Quickly, like a child downing some disagreeable medicine, John shoved the bullets into his pocket. He returned the pistol to the box and closed the lid.
Awful things, these, John thought. They were brutish and un-elegant, the same way a hammer served a function but held no true beauty. They were utilitarian, a kind word that described a tool invented for the singular function of killing. John said a silent prayer and crossed himself quickly before tucking the box under his wounded arm.
The evening air was noticeably cooler when John climbed from the cellar. It wasn't really colder. It was that he felt a bit colder for the gun and for the thoughts that accompanied the gun. A part of John felt stunted or dumbed simply for possessing the thing, as though any modicum of wisdom and wit had abandoned him for the implied power and ready violence. His faculties and wisdom seemed suddenly a burden, and flimsy. The gun allowed him the power to react without thought, and gave license to squander negotiation and reason for animal impulse.
John startled Anna at the bottom of the stairs, Just as she was coming down from seeing to the stranger. She slipped on the last step. As John reached to steady her the box crashed to the floor, and out tumbled the pistol. Anna's eyes widened, and she looked to John with alarm.
“Didn't mean to startled you,” he scooped the pistol back into the box as quickly as he could, feeling suddenly awkward and foolish.
“Oh, my god, John!” Anna gasped.
“Just for tonight.”
“Is that really necessary?”
“I'll put it someplace safe.”
She nodded reluctantly. John started for the bedroom. Anna caught his arm. She searched his Irish green eyes a moment.
“Are we terrible?” she asked, with fearful and anxious eyes begging to be rescued.
John's expression held the weight of a mathematical equation. “I'm bound to see him get better, but I have to think of you too.”
She nodded and stroked his arm. Anna understood well enough. Not happily, but she understood well enough.
“How is he?”Asked John.
“Goes in and out,” she replied. “Something, gibberish. Makes no sense.”
“Best I look in on him then,” said John.
Monday, January 18, 2010
EMMETSBURG: Twenty-one
“Heavens, John!” she gasped, at barely a whisper, so as not to wake Mrs. Conlon. She went to him and reached out for his hand without actually touching it.
“Been quite a day,” he said, looking past her to the bedroom door. “Maybe we should...”
“What happened?”
“Not as bad as it looks,” he couldn't quite look her in the face. John forced a smile through a surge of pain, not wishing to alarm her. He knew full well, however, that she could see through his pretend bravado and plastic male ego. “Some unlucky soul put his auto into the creek on the way to Mallard.”
“Dear!” she gasped. John waved his hand in the air between them.
“Took some to get him out,” he said.
“Oh. John,” she touched her breast, her face now as pale as fresh laundry, “you'll be the death of me.”
They went down to the kitchen where Anna still had a few chores to finish. John slid a small wooden stool over by the door with his foot and sat down. The light was fading quickly now. Anna was all but lost in shadow at the other end of the long and narrow kitchen. The back door was open. A heavenly breeze carried the sounds of the first crickets.
John reached up and turned the light switch by the door. It took a moment before the heavy copper filament in the clear bulb on the ceiling began to glow. Its feeble light painted the kitchen in bright and dark patches of Amaretto hues. The filament flickered gently, giving motion and life to the shadows. That flickering grew the pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling into strange and abstract shapes.
Anna ladled the last of some chicken soup she'd made for Misses Conlon into a small bowl. She scrubbed the cooking pot clean and set it aside to dry. That done she fished out a clean spoon from the cupboard in the corner and knelt on the floor in front of John. Anna rested the soup bowl upon John's knee.
“You'll tell me everything,” she said, turning the spoon in lazy circles through the clear golden soup. It was more stock than soup. Bits of pale white chicken, orange carrot, together with green pieces of parsley and rosemary floated in the translucent golden mixture. Flat oblong drops of clear chicken fat lay upon the surface, supporting touches of white salt and black pepper.
Anna could see that the whole thing had shaken John terribly. She always knew, despite his best and bravest efforts to conceal any evidence of weakness of misgiving. With a sigh she brushed the bottom of the soup against the rim of the white ceramic bowl and waited for a drop of soup to fall. She lifted it carefully to his lips. John slurped up the mixture, fresh with the perfumed chill of rosemary.
“Now don't you worry,” she reassured. Anna knew he was already worrying over money and bills.
“Reckon we'll get by,” he conceded.
“We'll do fine.” She fed him another spoonful of soup. “Most important thing is to get you healthy.”
“Looks worse than it actually is,” he lifted the hand. As it was, that simple act brought a sickly sour pain, as though if not for the bandages one side of his hand might simply fall away.
“What'd the doctor say?”
“Said I was luck I didn't lose it altogether.”
She shook her head scoldingly. “I figured as much.”
“Anyway,” he downed another spoonful, “seems some boys got hurt last night at the mill.”
“Jesse and Mabel Soper's oldest, I hear.”
“Sister Dougherty said they came up short for beds and asked if we could look after this fella for a couple days, till he's back on his feet.”
“I trust your decision.”
“I'm glad,” he replied. “They brought him to the house already.”
“He's there now?” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“He took a bad whack to the head,” said John. “He'll be out for a while. Don't worry. It'll all work out just fine.”
They took forever walking home. The sun had already set behind the homes and trees to the west. The crickets came out in full chorus, filling the evening with their song. Anna was holding tight to his good arm, holding it as though it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
A shooting star spanned the darkening sky to the east. Anna missed it. John didn't say word, instead he made a wish that all of these hard times were merely a dream, as if that could save him, as though he might learn something of all this after awakening. He wished all that had happened with Anna, all the pain and mourning, the ultimate disappointment might never have happened, and that they would go on about there lives happily. He wished, he wished, and then went inside to get cleaned up.
.
“Been quite a day,” he said, looking past her to the bedroom door. “Maybe we should...”
“What happened?”
“Not as bad as it looks,” he couldn't quite look her in the face. John forced a smile through a surge of pain, not wishing to alarm her. He knew full well, however, that she could see through his pretend bravado and plastic male ego. “Some unlucky soul put his auto into the creek on the way to Mallard.”
“Dear!” she gasped. John waved his hand in the air between them.
“Took some to get him out,” he said.
“Oh. John,” she touched her breast, her face now as pale as fresh laundry, “you'll be the death of me.”
They went down to the kitchen where Anna still had a few chores to finish. John slid a small wooden stool over by the door with his foot and sat down. The light was fading quickly now. Anna was all but lost in shadow at the other end of the long and narrow kitchen. The back door was open. A heavenly breeze carried the sounds of the first crickets.
John reached up and turned the light switch by the door. It took a moment before the heavy copper filament in the clear bulb on the ceiling began to glow. Its feeble light painted the kitchen in bright and dark patches of Amaretto hues. The filament flickered gently, giving motion and life to the shadows. That flickering grew the pans and utensils hanging from the ceiling into strange and abstract shapes.
Anna ladled the last of some chicken soup she'd made for Misses Conlon into a small bowl. She scrubbed the cooking pot clean and set it aside to dry. That done she fished out a clean spoon from the cupboard in the corner and knelt on the floor in front of John. Anna rested the soup bowl upon John's knee.
“You'll tell me everything,” she said, turning the spoon in lazy circles through the clear golden soup. It was more stock than soup. Bits of pale white chicken, orange carrot, together with green pieces of parsley and rosemary floated in the translucent golden mixture. Flat oblong drops of clear chicken fat lay upon the surface, supporting touches of white salt and black pepper.
Anna could see that the whole thing had shaken John terribly. She always knew, despite his best and bravest efforts to conceal any evidence of weakness of misgiving. With a sigh she brushed the bottom of the soup against the rim of the white ceramic bowl and waited for a drop of soup to fall. She lifted it carefully to his lips. John slurped up the mixture, fresh with the perfumed chill of rosemary.
“Now don't you worry,” she reassured. Anna knew he was already worrying over money and bills.
“Reckon we'll get by,” he conceded.
“We'll do fine.” She fed him another spoonful of soup. “Most important thing is to get you healthy.”
“Looks worse than it actually is,” he lifted the hand. As it was, that simple act brought a sickly sour pain, as though if not for the bandages one side of his hand might simply fall away.
“What'd the doctor say?”
“Said I was luck I didn't lose it altogether.”
She shook her head scoldingly. “I figured as much.”
“Anyway,” he downed another spoonful, “seems some boys got hurt last night at the mill.”
“Jesse and Mabel Soper's oldest, I hear.”
“Sister Dougherty said they came up short for beds and asked if we could look after this fella for a couple days, till he's back on his feet.”
“I trust your decision.”
“I'm glad,” he replied. “They brought him to the house already.”
“He's there now?” There was a hint of alarm in her voice.
“He took a bad whack to the head,” said John. “He'll be out for a while. Don't worry. It'll all work out just fine.”
They took forever walking home. The sun had already set behind the homes and trees to the west. The crickets came out in full chorus, filling the evening with their song. Anna was holding tight to his good arm, holding it as though it was the only thing tethering her to the earth.
A shooting star spanned the darkening sky to the east. Anna missed it. John didn't say word, instead he made a wish that all of these hard times were merely a dream, as if that could save him, as though he might learn something of all this after awakening. He wished all that had happened with Anna, all the pain and mourning, the ultimate disappointment might never have happened, and that they would go on about there lives happily. He wished, he wished, and then went inside to get cleaned up.
.
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