The Saints of Swallow Hill(7)

Desperate, but determined, most weren’t choosy, except with regard to the Cobb turpentine farm, where word had got out working with Warren Cobb could be a foolhardy thing to do. His reputation had made its way around the county like a brush fire out of control. If they were lucky, most went home with mashed this or that, a few with burns, a couple with broken bones. Those who didn’t get hurt, and only had a close call or two, didn’t return, which was saying something. Not being able to work was too chancy for them. Warren liked to cut into the bases of pine trees to form bowl-shaped areas called a box, to catch the pine gum. This was the “old-fashioned” way of collecting it, one he preferred instead of the newer Herty system of clay cups and tin gutters like most had moved on to, though others had told him he could get more gum. Warren, he certainly was set in his ways. When a man died after a tree fell on him, the same tree Warren had been cutting a box into the day before, Rae Lynn suspected it was the final straw. The flow of workers dried up like an old pine that’s done give out of sap.

She didn’t want to think about how she’d lost part of her own finger, but her mind took her back to that day anyway. They’d been married only a week. She hadn’t yet learned how treacherous it was working alongside Warren, but her first lesson was only seconds away. He had a propensity for not paying attention at the most critical times. Prone to being a bit too fast, a bit careless. That day, he’d said, “Hey, shug, come over here and take ahold a this here for me.”

He handed her a sign with COBB TURPENTINE FARM painted on it. She’d been smiling and he’d been smiling, excited at the prospects of this new undertaking after he’d finagled a deal with someone who’d buy gum from him. Warren had flipped his box ax around to use the blunt end like a hammer. She held the sign so he could nail it to the pine tree, and next thing she knew, he’d whacked the end of her forefinger. She yelled, and he promptly dropped the ax, which landed on her foot. Both hurt, but it was the sight of her fingertip that made her shut her eyes, feel sick to her stomach. It had been hit hard enough, it spread out like a paddle. The entire end of her finger filled with blood, the nail bed turning purple. She sank to the ground, cradling her hand. Warren had paced around her, cussing himself for being a clumsy nitwit.

After a minute, when the sharpness of pain had dulled a bit, she said, “Warren, it ain’t nothing, don’t worry, it’ll be fine.”

She got up, went inside, used some of their endless supply of turpentine as a disinfectant, and wrapped it in a soft strip of cloth from an old apron. She worked the rest of the day, but by nightfall, it hurt in a way that deprived her of sleep. Every heartbeat came out through the end of her finger. It felt enormous. It was odd, she’d thought, how big the pain, for such a small injury. The end felt sort of mushy. She believed he’d crushed the bone. After two days, she hadn’t been able to stand the throbbing anymore. The entire finger was an off color and swollen.

Warren said, “Look a here, I got just the fix for it.”

She sat at the kitchen table watching as he took a coat hanger, straightened out the curved end, and held it over the wick of an oil lamp.

When the end glowed orange, he’d said, “Gimme your finger.”

Dubious about his “fix,” she’d been hesitant, but he’d promised her it would work.

He’d said, “I seen my own Daddy do this for hisself.”

Reluctant, she gave him her hand, and he pressed the glowing tip onto the center of the blackened nail. A tiny puff of white smoke appeared and in seconds, a hole was burned through to the nail bed.

He’d squeezed it, and she’d yelled, “Ow!” as blood shot out, right across the table. To her amazement, the pressure was relieved, the throbbing less intense.

He’d said, “See?”

She had to agree, it did feel some better. She’d kept it wrapped and was sure it would heal now. But no, after a couple of weeks, it took to smelling bad. The pain came back, worse than before. The skin blackened, and she felt sickly with the fever.

Warren had sent for Doc Perdue, who took one look and said, “You got the gangrene.”

Rae Lynn had said, “What can you do?”

“Got to take it off at the first joint, maybe a touch more.”

Mouth open, she’d looked over to Warren, his hangdog expression hard to read. Doc Perdue had pulled a metal syringe out of his black leather bag and injected her finger with something to numb it. From that moment on, she’d not been able to watch, but she heard, smelled, felt what was happening because the numbing solution didn’t work completely. Pressing her lips together at the snipping sound, her stomach protested again, especially after the few seconds of sawing. She felt the tug and pull as he stitched her finger, and started to feel some better. After it was over, her finger resembled the end of a pillow, and she hadn’t been able to quit looking at it.

Like now.

Billy continued to shove and push, working hard, but the barrel was winning due to gravity, and the fact it was so heavy. Rae Lynn was certain she’d seen ten-year-old boys bigger than him, and it was likely the barrel weighed more than he did. Billy inched it along, rolling it up the two crudely made slats, and the farther he went, the more they bent. The one slat on the left especially looked like it was about to give. The boards had been filled with termites, and she’d told Warren so.

“Them ain’t gonna last, especially that one, it’s riddled with holes. Look a there.”