Between Earth and Sky(54)

“How did this happen, George?”

He looked up. A glossy sheen covered his eyes. Taut jaw muscles bulged beneath his tawny skin. His breath quivered with each inhale. “I was . . .” He stopped, raked back his hair with a bloodstained hand, and then continued. “I was sanding wood. At the lathe. A leg. For to make a table. Charles came. The end of his shirt—by his hand—”

“His sleeve?”

George nodded. “It caught in the spindle, pulling him. And his arm. The belt ate his arm. Chewed and twisted and spit it out. I stopped. Took my foot away from the treadle. Too late.” He lowered his head, shielding his face from her.

“This wasn’t your fault. I’ve been in the wood shop before. It’s too crowded. So much is going on all at once. Just last week Frederick cut himself on a saw blade and needed stitches.”

“Plenty more than stitches is needed here.”

“I know, but—”

Charles gasped. His eyes opened, wide and frantic. Alma took one hand off the wound and laid the back of it on his cheek. His clammy skin was cool against her fingers. “It’s okay, Charles. The doctor shall arrive any minute. Shh, now. Be still.”

She stroked his cheek and his breathing steadied. When his eyes fluttered shut, she looked back at George. “He’s so cold.”

George cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “Mrs. Simms, do you keep any blanket in the kitchen?”

The cook’s frazzled-haired head popped up. “What, dear? No . . . no, I don’t need a blanket, thank you. I’m just resting here a bit before I start dinner is all.”

Laughter slipped through Alma’s lips while tears mounted at the rims of her eyes. “I’ll go fetch one from the trunk in the hall. I think the bleeding has stopped a bit since Mr. Simms put on that tourniquet.”

Alma returned with a thick wool blanket and tucked it around Charles’s body. Blood wicked into its fuzzy fibers.

“Like ink,” she said aloud. “Mother will be irate over the stains.”

Again, she wanted to laugh. What did it matter what her mother thought at a time like this? A smile twitched at the corner of her lips. She glanced at George. What must he think of her? But a crooked grin sprang to his lips as well. A fleeting moment and their smiles faded. Their eyes strayed away.

Through the silence, Alma listened, begging of each passing moment the sound of horse hooves. The angst of her younger self, waiting, listening for a similar sound, flashed in her memory. She had never dreamed the arrival of the Indians would lead her here: standing beside a broken body, across the table from the boy who called her enemy, her ears once again straining to hear the cry of wagon wheels through the empty air.

When the sound did come—snow crunching, hooves pounding like a frantic drumbeat—Alma released a heavy sigh. Her father rushed in, followed by Dr. Austin and Mr. Simms.

The middle-aged physician shooed Alma from the table. His alert, beady eyes scanned Charles from head to toe. He lifted the saturated towels from the wound. “If there’s any hope of him living, I’ll have to amputate. Open my bag, Mr. Blanchard, and retrieve my saw. We’ll need water set to boil and fresh linen too.” He flung the soiled rags on the floor. Blood spattered across the kitchen.

Alma’s stomach turned. The glint of the long metal handsaw caught her eye; the room blurred and spun. She pushed through the back door and raced down the steps to the yard. Falling to her hands and knees, convulsions overtook her and she vomited in the white snow.

The sun had sunk behind the trees, but rays of light knifed through empty boughs, casting a barbed-wire pattern of light and dark across the ground. From inside came an arresting shriek. The kitchen windows rattled. Alma’s stomach heaved again.

How long she remained there, hands and knees buried in the snow, Alma did not know. Eventually, the door behind her swung open and closed. Footfalls descended the stairs toward her. She covered her vomit with snow and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

George offered her a hand and helped her up. The warmth of his skin made her entire body crave his touch. He sandwiched her frozen fingers between his own and brought them to his mouth. His hot breath began to thaw her.

On any other occasion, Alma would have pulled away. But it was not just her hands that were numb. Her entire body felt shrouded in fog.

Her mother’s voice from within the kitchen startled her back to reality. “Great heavens! What’s happened here? Where’s Alma?”

She slipped her hands from George’s grasp just as the back door whined open.

“Alma, come inside this instant.”

She turned around and her mother gasped. “You’re covered in blood. That’s not your silk gown, is it?”

This time, Alma found no humor in the absurd exchange. “No, Mother, just my cotton work dress. I was helping Mrs. Simms in the cellar when . . . when the accident happened. I’ll wash up at the well and be in presently.”

Her mother frowned. “Very well. You too, George. You’re absolutely gruesome.”

The two of them plodded to the well. The air had cooled with the sun’s retreat, creating a frozen crust atop the snow that crunched beneath their feet. Alma’s legs felt heavy, each step a chore. She sank onto the lip of the well while George cast and reeled the bucket. They washed their hands in the frigid water without a word. Alma scrubbed hers frantically, rubbing the skin raw. George smoothed his together in slow, circular motions, his eyes fixed, distant.