Devils Unto Dust(60)

“I’m only suggesting,” I hear Mrs. Keen say, her voice carrying, “but in my experience, a lady likes a smooth face.”

I laugh to myself as I climb; she might be right, but there aren’t any ladies here. There’s only me, and I like the beard just fine.





48.


The room is warm and full of light, the sun spilling in through one tall window. It’s simple and cozy, with a small iron-framed bed with a thick quilt and a wooden nightstand with a kerosene lamp. There’s a chair in the corner with a folded towel and soap, and best of all, sitting on the floor is a tin washtub filled with steaming water.

I pull the curtain across the window and then shuck off my clothes so fast I get stuck in my pants and have to hop around on one leg till I can free myself. I shove my soiled shirt outside the door and close it, checking twice to make sure it locks.

I step into the water slowly, one foot at a time. It’s blessedly warm, and I ease myself down, taking care not to splash over the sides. The washtub isn’t large; I could almost circle it with my arms, but I tuck my knees up under my chin and mostly fit. For a while I just sit with my eyes closed, listening to the soft lapping of the water against the tin. I wish I could make this moment last; why is it that the best parts of life are the quickest over? Water always gets cold, food has to be swallowed, and even the best dreams end when you wake up.

When the water starts to lose heat, I take the brick of soap and work it into a washrag and start to scrub the layers of dust and grime off my body. I untie the wet bandage from around my hand and let it fall to the floor. My palm is swollen red and tight around my cut; it’s getting hard to move my fingers. I gently wipe the dirt away, taking care not to bump anything. Even that small pressure makes it throb, and the pain travels from my hand up to my shoulder.

I scour every bit of me I can reach, until my skin is bright and pink, some part of me thinking if I can get the outside clean enough, maybe it will make a difference.

Only when my skin starts to smart do I finally let the soap drop. The water has turned a murky gray with white suds skimming atop the surface. I take a deep breath and heave myself out of the tub, grabbing the towel before I drip too much on the floor. I wrap the towel around me and lie down on the bed, not caring that my wet hair is soaking into the quilt. I smell like soap and wet skin and I want to keep feeling clean as long as I can, before I have to put my dirty clothes back on. I could easily fall asleep right now, but life insists on moving forward, and I still have so much to do.

I reluctantly sit up and start to wring out my hair. When I’m dry I pull on the shirt Mrs. Keen lent me; it’s soft and roomy and smooth against my scrubbed skin. The sleeves are too long, so I roll them up to just past my wrists. The fingers on my left hand do not want to cooperate, and I look at them grimly; I need my hand, I need to able to use it. For that I need the swelling to go down.

I get dressed quickly, tie my wet hair back and grab my knife and the dirty bandage before I lose my nerve. I crouch next to the washtub and rinse the snake guts off the blade, though the dirty water will hardly help. I take a few rapid breaths, grit my teeth, and position the point of my knife against my swollen palm, just at the corner of my scabbing cut. I press down, at first gently and then with more and more pressure until I puncture my skin.

Blood wells up around the tip of my knife, and I set it down beside me. I hold the bandage against my palm and with my good hand I press around the cut I made. It hurts, badly, and I hiss as more blood leaks out. I move my fingers and press on a different spot, and then, like someone cracked an egg, thick grayish-yellow pus gushes from the wound. I gag at the rotten smell, but I keep pressing to drain the wound, letting the blood-streaked liquid run down my hand and soak into the cloth. Already the swelling is going down, and still more pus seeps out, foul and runny and sickening.

I push at my skin until no more pus remains, until only clear pink fluid runs from the cut. My hands are covered with blood and infection, and I scrub them down with the washrag and soap. My palm feels normal-sized again, though my scabbed-over cut is still red and inflamed. The small tear I made at the corner is hardly visible now that it’s stopped bleeding, and at least this time the wound served a purpose. I run my fingers lightly over the scab; it slices diagonally across my palm, making a path from my thumb to my pinky. If things had gone differently, I doubt it would even leave a scar.

My vision blurs, and when I blink the cut is split open, the two sides gaping wide. I watch, horrified, as the cut starts to grow. It streaks up my wrist and along my arm, the skin ripping apart and sloughing off in pale sheets. I can see the tissue underneath, only something’s wrong with it; the inside of my arm is all black and lumpy and writhing with scores of white maggots. I open my mouth to scream, but no sound comes out. How long has my body been like this? How can I still be alive and have something so rotten inside me?

Bile rises in my throat, hot and sour. I barely make it to the tub in time to vomit up stomach acid and ginger into the water. I wipe my good hand over my mouth and force myself to breath in deeply through my nose, shutting my eyes tightly so I can’t see the putrid mess my arm has become. I count to ten slowly, taking long even breaths, waiting until my stomach stops rolling and settles.

“It’s not real, it’s not real, it’s not real,” I repeat to myself, rocking back and forth. It’s only in my mind; it has to be. But I still can’t open my eyes. I don’t know which is worse, that I imagined the whole thing or that it could be real, that there’s dead flesh lying just beneath my skin, crawling with filth and disease.