The Saints of Swallow Hill(53)

Somehow she fell asleep again, and the next time she woke, the inside had become an oven. Sweat ran off of her, little rivulets of distress along with her ever-increasing thirst. She attempted to lick her arms, the salty perspiration drying on her tongue. She laid her palms against the lid. It was hot to the touch. Each time she swallowed, she coughed. What was odd was her sense of urgency to urinate was gone, but now her head hurt, and though she hadn’t moved, she was dizzy. A distant rhythmic banging matched the heartbeat she heard in her head. Voices ran out in song occasionally somewhere in the belly of the camp. She strained to hear the tune until it stopped and was replaced by yelling. She rolled her head to the left, to the right, twisted each foot the same, left then right. A cramp seized the calf muscle of her left leg, and the pain made her grit her teeth.

Be still. Go back to sleep. Get through this. Get through it.

The next time she woke up, her ability to breathe was like sucking on a clogged straw while a peculiar pressure had developed in her chest, as if a heavy weight had been set on top of her. She made herself calm down and slowly took in the stifling air through her nose and let it go slowly out of her mouth. She smelled blood. The tinny, metallic odor was more obvious along with other unpleasant smells as the heat built in her little prison. The narrow crack above her revealed a sky that was hazy. She tipped her chin down to her chest, and a wave of nausea made her stomach roll. She shut her eyes until it passed, and when it had, she opened them. Here and there, other cracks in the wood allowed the sun to decorate her body with golden stripes over her legs and stomach. Dazed, half awake, lovely, she thought. If only some sort of breeze would slip in, it might give a bit of relief, but it was only wishful thinking. Since coming to the camp, most days had been as still as a corpse.

She shut her eyes again and hummed. Behind her lids, colors spun and shimmered. It was probably midafternoon and only the first full day. She didn’t want to get too far ahead of herself, but if she made it (and she didn’t like to think like that), she had to decide what she could do to stay on. Her confidence at making numbers was shaken, but maybe Peewee would let her try dipping gum. There were a few colored women doing it, and after their bucket was filled, one of the men would usually empty it into a barrel in the back of the wagon. Thing was, Peewee might refuse. She’d not given him the best impression thus far. If that happened, she had no idea where she’d go. With the country deep into the Depression and jobs scarce, now wasn’t the time to be without a way to eat unless she wanted to resort to what some women did, prostituting themselves out. She couldn’t begin to consider such a thing.

She wished she’d not been so quick to part with that three dollars on behalf of Cornelia, because now, she might need it. Her physical discomfort brought her back to the present. Strangely, her hunger and thirst were disappearing. Through the hole, she caught a bit of a cloud slipping by. The patch of blue returned. As she laid there, one image flickered over and over in her mind, and she held on to it because it stood out above all the rest. As the lid was raised, she saw herself stand, and with defiance, she looked Crow in the eye.





Chapter 17


Del


Cornelia administered turpentine to Birdie’s bite by pouring it over the puncture marks. Birdie’s breathing had become more labored, his chest sinking inward as he took in air and creating a strained, whistling noise as he expelled it. He didn’t seem to know where he was or who they were.

Del turned to Preacher. “He married?”

“Naw suh. He stay by hisself. I can bring him with me. My missus’ll look after him.”

Cornelia handed the bottle of turpentine to Preacher and a bag of Epsom salts. “Soak his foot in this for at least fifteen minutes, then put more turpentine on it.”

He said, “Ma’am, please put all this under my name in that book you keep.”

Cornelia raised a hand and waved away his words.

“It ain’t necessary.”

“Sure do ’preciate it, ma’am.”

Del said, “Let me know how he’s doing.”

“Yessuh.”

As the wagon pulled away, Del realized he didn’t know anything about the injured man except he couldn’t be more than twenty or so. He didn’t know what his real name was or where he was from. Matter a fact, he didn’t know a thing about any of his work hands. He’d been put into this situation so quick and unexpected, he’d not had time to find out. He made a mental note he’d get to know each one of them.

He turned to Cornelia and said, “Thank you.”

Cornelia waved a dismissive hand as she stared after the wagon.

She said, “He won’t make it the night. I didn’t want to say it where he’d hear me.”

Del tugged on his beard.

He said, “It’s a damn shame.”

She said, “Ain’t it, though?”

Shaking her head, she went back into the commissary. Del picked up Ruby’s reins and started for Peewee’s office to tell him about Birdie. After everything that had gone on, he’d forgot about Cobb’s truck. There it sat, still parked neatly under the lean-to, adding to the mystery. He was still studying it when Peewee came out and locked his door.

He came over to Del and said, “Good day?”

“It was ’til Birdie got hisself bit by a coral snake. Cornelia tried tending to him, but she said he won’t make it the night.”