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.

.