Caroline: Little House, Revisited(58)
But it was hard, muscled work, even for Charles. More so than the day before. Caroline could see it in his neck and shoulders, hear it in his swift exhale as he thrust each log upward. Yesterday his legs had borne the brunt of the lifting. He had only to squat down, take hold of one end of the log, and straighten himself up again. Today that was barely half the task. Now the height of the walls demanded the strength of his arms to hoist each log into place. His pace had slowed enough that even the girls’ interest flagged until they finally wandered away to play. Up went one end of a log, propped at the corner where two walls met. Then, tentatively, the other rose as he worked, shuffling and grunting, to bring the whole timber level without dislodging the first end. One nudge too far and the wood lurched from its place, bumping its way down each of the logs beneath it. Charles staggered back, dropping his end without a word. He whipped out his handkerchief in a flash of red and swiped his face.
Caroline was beside him with the dipper and pail before he’d stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. “Let me help, Charles,” she said as he drank. His eyes popped up from the dipper. One, then two drops of water trickled through his beard. Charles put down the dipper and wiped his chin in the crook of his elbow, still looking at her. Her empty hands reached for each other, then fled behind her back. She could not fold them before her as she usually did without drawing attention to her belly. There was no hiding it these days, but nor was there any need to proclaim it, either. Perhaps with no other women in sight he had grown accustomed to her shape. Perhaps, if she stood quite still and made no mention of it herself, he would not take it into account.
He considered so long her fingers began to wish for the needle and thread, if only to keep from fidgeting. She felt like one of the children, standing there so earnestly. Caroline watched the corners of his eyes narrow with thought and knew he was wondering how to accept without making more work for himself, as she did when Mary and Laura begged to lend a hand in her chores. She ought to have treated him to a jug of ginger water and sat back down to her sewing instead of trying to elbow in.
“I won’t have you lifting logs,” he said at last. “But do you think you could brace them while I lift the other end and square the join?”
Caroline did not say one word. All her childish excitement would spill out if she opened her mouth to say so much as Yes, Charles. She simply nodded and followed him to the west wall.
The logs that formed the northern corner jutted toward her like oversized pegs. Charles lifted the end of the fallen timber onto the highest one and propped it with the heels of his hands. “Hold it this way. Don’t try to grip it when I lift the other end. It has to be able to move some while I position my side—just lean so it can’t slip off.” Caroline planted her feet and slanted her body forward to put her hands beside his. “That’s it. The notch in the wall underneath will keep it from sliding the other way.” He went to the south corner and hoisted the other end. “Now hold steady while I fit this into the notch.” The log rocked, then wobbled and dropped squarely into place. Caroline pushed herself back from the wall. As she did her end slid into its notch.
Charles propped his fists on his hips and bobbed his head in approval. “That’s all there is to it.”
Together they built the house one log higher, then another. Each time Charles squatted down and took the end of the log in both hands, levering himself back up with a thrust of his calves. Then he bent his knees and with a grunt, hoisted the end up to his shoulder. Caroline never tired of watching—the swoop of his knees, the spring from the balls of his feet, the deft flip of his palms as the log reached his chin. He grinned at her each time.
There were moments he was like something out of a book, that man, too grand and vivid to be fully real. With him, there were times when life had the feel of a story larger than themselves. All winter as he talked of going west, Caroline had caught glimpses of it as he saw it—a current pushing forward with purpose and momentum. What else could account for why she stood on this blank square of map with one end of a log in her hands? For his part, she did not know what he saw in a woman such as herself, what made him look at her the way he did, as though she were a song he had sung, come to life. Caroline shied a little to imagine what kind of song anyone could make out of her. It would be akin to exalting something as commonplace as a quilt, or a pan of milk.
Caroline did not see what happened. She only felt the jolt pass through the timber and down her elbows. Raw wood scraped, and suddenly the log was nosing down toward her.
She hitched herself sideways, going up on tiptoe to boost the log from beneath with her shoulder. Her foot caught in a hollow and one knee buckled. The log’s weight shifted toward the notch of her neck, pressing her down. Caroline’s thigh muscles surged upward. Too late—her knee could not straighten under the load. Her shin threatened to splinter like a matchstick. Every hinge in her body wavered as though it were on the verge of melting.
“Let go!” Charles called. “Get out from under!”
It was not a matter of letting go. Her hands bore none of the weight. It was her shoulder. She could not lift it from her shoulder. Her only hope was to throw her body down faster than the log could fall. Caroline let both knees buckle fully and thrust her hands up against the wood, hurling herself outward.
All the points of her body struck the ground—knee, hip, elbow, shoulder.
She lay waiting for the crack, expecting to be split like a pitcher and feel herself spilling out onto the grass.