Green. Sins. These sins that echo constantly in the soul, like a whisper in the night. How many lifetimes would it take to outlast those echoes? Are they a fair burden, the price exacted for pain and treachery inflicted upon others? They accumulate like locusts on the wind, eventually devouring everything good and redeemable. These sins, small and large, the negotiations with ravenous egos piloting the soul to ruin.
And is religion and the permutations of fleeting morality, bled through the prism of ramshackle ethics, the means of escaping these sins? Not as an absolution by God, but as merely a cloak spread upon that blighted ground. The ground beneath remains ravaged and blighted, but must it remain that way forever? Is there any redemption, any return to the beauty and purity (if it was ever pure) of that original heart? Was God the redeemer, was choice, or is it death(or insanity)?
John weighed that question as he stood at the top of the trench, hidden from snipers by the glare of the setting sun. He looked back across the no man's land. He wasn't sick or exhausted or in pain any more. He was numb and empty. His brow was a ragged line, his eyes fixed upon movement in the distance, a figure moving near the German lines. The German stumbled towards his trench cradling that injured arm. At the edge he turned and looked back for John before disappeared forever.
Were sins something that could be weighed in the balance? For instance, what was a life worth? He hadn't killed the German, though it would have been an easy thing to do. No man would have judged him. War erases all pretentions of humanity and crumbles any construction of civilization. But a man's life was not his to take. It wasn't anyone's to take, which perhaps defined murder as a sin. In that regard, no sin could be undone. The only thing remaining was atonement. As John climbed back into the trench there was much he needed to atone for.
Showing posts with label bovine tuberculosis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label bovine tuberculosis. Show all posts
Monday, February 15, 2010
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-seven
John knew the spot. It was small place at the back of the cemetery set off quite obviously from the other graves. There all the stillborn and infant children were buried. It was as if they bore a separate caste from those who had lived and loved and dreamed. Their tiny plots and inconsequential gravestones were quietly succumbing to encroaching grass. A few had been recently adorned with toys and trinkets and candles. There were dried flowers on another. The rest were forgotten.
John didn't pull in all the way. It seemed more appropriate to get out and walk the rest of the way rather than to disturb the peace and quite of this place, as though there was a necessary reflection awaiting. As though there was something whose value was measured in unhurried steps and silence.
There are moments beyond word and description. Moments that pull the body to earth with an undeniable weight, like the roots of a great oak holding it firmly to earth. What words, after all, could appropriately describe the loss of child. When at last they came to that place, the inscription on the flat limestone marker was all that needed to be said.
DANIEL PATRICK PERKINS
born JUNE 11, 1929
died JUNE 12, 1929
John looked skyward and felt the fullness of the emotion, like a stone in his chest. Little Daniel had been born breach, strangled by the umbilical cord. He'd lived through the night, his final breaths fading like echoes across the sea.
How does a soul live only for one day, thought John? What god could conceive of so fundamental an injustice? Could not the universe exist and allow for the life of a child? It all called to mind for John the purpose and the very existence of the soul. It seemed to him that the very purpose of the soul was to live, and if nature eschewed waste, at least in theory, wasn’t the waste of a child’s soul the greatest of god’s hypocrisies? He looked to Anna for some explanation, but her expression was as heavy and distant as he had ever know.
She could feel his expectant gaze, but Anna was somewhere a man could never go. She felt herself pulled into the grave, filtered thru the grass and poured down to soak through the soil until she filled the small casket beside her child. And he was there, sleeping deeply as Anna pulled the boy to her breast. And there in that quiet place she cried out loud, her voice absorbed by the heavy earth so that not another soul in the world would hear.
John stood for longer than he thought he could bear. He stood for Anna, but remained unsure when she turned and quietly walked back up to the road. He followed, keeping a step or two behind her. Her gate was smooth and measured. She looked skyward and all around, as though contemplating the moment. She was so strong, he thought, but then it all fell to pieces.
Anna stopped without turning back. Her mouth fell open in a silent lament, and Anna gave a shuddering breath but held back tears. With that she thrust out an arm, grasping for some anchor, as though grief might sweep her from the earth and fling her out into space and freeze her in that moment forever. John rushed to her. He took her by the arm and led her up to the truck.
John didn't pull in all the way. It seemed more appropriate to get out and walk the rest of the way rather than to disturb the peace and quite of this place, as though there was a necessary reflection awaiting. As though there was something whose value was measured in unhurried steps and silence.
There are moments beyond word and description. Moments that pull the body to earth with an undeniable weight, like the roots of a great oak holding it firmly to earth. What words, after all, could appropriately describe the loss of child. When at last they came to that place, the inscription on the flat limestone marker was all that needed to be said.
DANIEL PATRICK PERKINS
born JUNE 11, 1929
died JUNE 12, 1929
John looked skyward and felt the fullness of the emotion, like a stone in his chest. Little Daniel had been born breach, strangled by the umbilical cord. He'd lived through the night, his final breaths fading like echoes across the sea.
How does a soul live only for one day, thought John? What god could conceive of so fundamental an injustice? Could not the universe exist and allow for the life of a child? It all called to mind for John the purpose and the very existence of the soul. It seemed to him that the very purpose of the soul was to live, and if nature eschewed waste, at least in theory, wasn’t the waste of a child’s soul the greatest of god’s hypocrisies? He looked to Anna for some explanation, but her expression was as heavy and distant as he had ever know.
She could feel his expectant gaze, but Anna was somewhere a man could never go. She felt herself pulled into the grave, filtered thru the grass and poured down to soak through the soil until she filled the small casket beside her child. And he was there, sleeping deeply as Anna pulled the boy to her breast. And there in that quiet place she cried out loud, her voice absorbed by the heavy earth so that not another soul in the world would hear.
John stood for longer than he thought he could bear. He stood for Anna, but remained unsure when she turned and quietly walked back up to the road. He followed, keeping a step or two behind her. Her gate was smooth and measured. She looked skyward and all around, as though contemplating the moment. She was so strong, he thought, but then it all fell to pieces.
Anna stopped without turning back. Her mouth fell open in a silent lament, and Anna gave a shuddering breath but held back tears. With that she thrust out an arm, grasping for some anchor, as though grief might sweep her from the earth and fling her out into space and freeze her in that moment forever. John rushed to her. He took her by the arm and led her up to the truck.
Monday, January 25, 2010
Emmetsburg: Twenty-six
John pulled to a stop dead center of the crossroads at the edge of town. Leaning across the wheel he squinted east towards Cylinder. A golden morning sun hovered above the hills and fields to the east. It was fat and round, the heat, already becoming a presence. The sun was suspended, held aloft by arms of ochre dust rising from parched fields. A sweltering south wind painted a fine layer of sweat upon John and Anna's faces. John took a long breath and let it out dramatically through his nose. Anna knew immediately what he was thinking and touched his leg.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
“Think maybe we ought to stop,” she said.
John was tortured at the thought and peered into the distance.
“Don't know.” he said simply.
“John,” she touched him again, firmer and more adamant this time. His gaze remained among the fields, lost there. Anna persisted. “John?”
“Maybe sometimes best just to let things be,” he said.
“Sometimes,” she said softly. “Sometimes best to put things to rest.”
John pursed his lips and felt the full weight of the moment.
“Just been so long, and the other night and all. Don't know if I want to risk that, Anna.”
She took his hand and lifted it to her lips. She breathed him in. He looked at her. figuring.
“I took that as a sign,” she said. “Time to say goodbye and get on with things, John Perkins. Start new.”
He conceded and yanked the truck into gear. Not a mile out of town St Mary's cemetery blanketed a rectangular patch of ground beside the road. It was a pretty little of green earth, such as it was, a solemn island bounded on three sides by unplowed fields. Nine tall firs separated that island from the world. Their mottled shade blanketed most of the cemetery, falling over ranks of neatly arranged stones. There was no fence or boundary. Instead it was as if those who resided there had reached some agreement with Iowa's endless farmland, or as if the land had given ground to those who lived and sacrificed and died here.
John guided the truck up to the gravel entrance and pulled to stop. They had not been here since the funeral. He leaned on the wheel and chewed his lip. There was a time when this place felt like a destination for John and Anna. Like a traveler might feel looking off along empty tracks leading to some unknown yet certain home. He looked at Anna, and pulled the truck forward when she gave a slight nod.
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.
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