The Saints of Swallow Hill(20)

Though he had his doubts about Swallow Hill considering what he’d seen so far, he was here now, so he’d make the best of it. He didn’t stop all afternoon, though he’d not had much to eat since he’d taken to the woods and wasn’t as strong as he’d been at the Sutton farm. The work was hot and difficult, but he chipped fast and accurate, gaining confidence. He’d estimated doing 167 trees per hour sunrise to sunset. He’d make his numbers, and as long as he kept up, he’d do all right, at least this was what he chose to believe.





Chapter 6


Rae Lynn


Pain riddled, agitated and morose, Warren kept moving around in the bed to the point neither one of them slept much. It had been four days since the accident, and Rae Lynn’s head throbbed from lack of sleep and worry. She rose and went into the kitchen for some aspirin, and when she returned to the bedroom, she stopped to watch Warren swing his feet over the side of the bed and make an attempt to stand. He stayed bent over, his arm over his midsection. Rae Lynn was transfixed, holding her breath. Some part of her willed him on, willed him to move without pain, to put things back to normal for them. Gripping his side, he slowly straightened, but before he’d unfolded himself, he doubled over again, gasping in distress. Her shoulders sagged with disappointment. She went to the bedside and stood by him. Warren’s head hung down and he didn’t bother to lift it.

“You shouldn’t have tried. It’s too soon.”

He whispered, “Where’s my horse?”

She’d been about to put her hand on his shoulder, but what he’d said was so strange, her hand fell away.

Bewildered, she said, “We ain’t got no horse.”

“Huh?”

Rae Lynn put her hand on his forehead. It felt clammy.

She said, “Lie back down and try not to move. You’re making it worse.”

“Worse? What could be worser’n this? Dammit, Rae Lynn.”

He’d cussed in the past, but never at her.

She said, “You could’ve broke your neck and be six feet under, that’s what could be worse.”

Tentative, her fingers probed his belly. It was hard, hot, and distended. Something was horribly wrong inside him, she was sure of it. He put his hand on top of hers and stared at her so pitiful-like, she couldn’t think of a thing to say.

He whispered a word: “Will . . .”

She didn’t understand and she attempted to help.

“You need something? Will I . . . ?”

Warren shut his eyes. He didn’t go on, so she stroked his arm until his breathing eased. For the rest of the day, she tried to keep busy, checking on Warren in between her chores, setting cool cloths on his forehead, and giving him sips of sweet tea. When it was time to finally begin her nightly ritual, she only wanted sleep to come for the both of them. She filled the wash basin and took it to their room. After undressing, she washed and pulled on her nightgown before removing the pins that held her hair up. Her head still hurt but brushing her hair helped. She caught Warren’s eyes on her from the mirror, and turned to him as he spoke, his voice was weaker than it had been earlier that day.

He whispered, “Your hair. It’s so purty.”

She set the brush aside, picked up the cloth, dipped it in the water, and went to his side. She wiped his face while sitting on the bed beside him.

He gazed at her and said, “Who’re you?”

She drew back a bit and frowned. “It’s me. Rae Lynn. Your wife.”

He blinked. “Rae Lynn?”

Unnerved, she said, “You thirsty? Can you drink some water?”

He nodded, and when she brought him some, his hands trembled as he reached for the glass. He clutched it tight and drank till it was empty. She set it on the nightstand and got in the bed beside him, trying not to jostle him. Somehow, she slept and didn’t waken until she heard a mockingbird singing outside their window the next morning. She turned to Warren and saw he was awake too, but the man staring back at her didn’t resemble her husband. Gray-skinned, purplish half-moons staining the area beneath his eyes, he was nothing like the old Warren, yet there was a clarity in his gaze she’d not seen for the past few days.

Trying to inject a bright tone, she said, “You feeling some better?”

He didn’t respond, as if her question tired him.

She went out to empty the chamber pot, and when she came back to the room, his gaze sharpened, and he gasped, “Need. Something.”

She went to him and said, “Anything.”

His pointed at the dresser.

She felt the beginnings of dread. “Can you tell me?”

She didn’t mention the doctor again, not wanting to agitate him.

“Like I done. For Bessie.”

Bessie had been Warren’s redbone hound, a dog Rae Lynn had grown attached to after she’d moved in. Bessie had been a good old girl who slept under the porch in the summer and under their bed during the winter. She got to where she couldn’t hardly walk, couldn’t control her bowels or bladder, and then stopped eating. She watched them with mournful eyes, her tail no longer thumping.

He’d put his big hand on the dog’s head and said, “She wants to go.”

He rubbed on her for a while, got his .22 revolver, gathered the old girl up, and disappeared deep into the woods with her. Rae Lynn had paced the kitchen, bracing for the gunshot, and when it came, and she knew it would, still she’d jumped, and felt her heart break. It took them a long time to get over Bessie. She’d filled a space in their hearts and took that piece with her when she went.