Devils Unto Dust(90)

Sam looks at me with sadness written wide across his face. “I know,” he says simply.

I draw a shaky breath, not sure I’ll ever be ready to talk about it. I lost a part of myself when Micah died, lost something more than an arm or a leg. I can feel it missing, a phantom pain in the empty space where he should be.

“I hardly ever went a day without talking to him,” Sam continues. “He was my best friend. He was my only friend.”

It occurs to me that Sam knew my brother better than I did. It hurts, in a soft and new way. But here is someone else who loved him, someone to share the load of grief; one death and a thousand tiny ripples.

“I liked coming to your house,” Sam goes on. “It’s always so loud and full, even when it’s quiet it’s a loud quiet. The twins running around, Micah and I trying to avoid them, you yelling at all of us; it’s not like my house, all empty and lonesome.”

“You’re always welcome, Sam,” I tell him. “I know it ain’t the same; I’m not Micah, but you do have another friend. And it’d be nice, to have someone to talk to—someone who knew him.”

“Listen, Will—” and Sam stops speaking, staring down at my arm.

“What?” I ask, uneasy. It hasn’t been bothering me since we came through the gates, but Sam’s face looks upset. “How bad is it?”

“It’s—it’s not,” Sam says, and he gazes at me with wide eyes. “I think it’s healing.”

“What?” I yank my arm away from him and look at it closely. The skin around the bite marks is pink, but no streaks of red. I use one finger to press the wound gently, but I don’t feel any puffiness and no blood seeps out.

“How did you do that?” I ask Sam.

“I didn’t do anything,” he says. “You said it was—” and he slaps his hands to his forehead. “I’m an idiot.”

“That’s one thing you’re not, Sam.”

“No, listen,” he says, his eyes lighting up. “Inoculation.”

“What?”

Sam stands up, too excited to sit still. “Cuts itch when they’re healing, too. It makes perfect sense.”

“Sam, would you kindly sit down and explain what you’re talking about?” I try not to yell at him, but I think I’m being very patient under the circumstances.

Sam bounces back to his chair and perches on the edge of it. “Remember that smallpox scare years back?”

“Yes,” I say slowly, not sure what he’s getting at.

“Well, you remember how your ma brought you and Micah over to see Pop? She had him inoculate you, so y’all wouldn’t catch the pox. He did it for lots of folks.”

I meet Sam’s bright eyes, hoping I understand. “I’m not gonna get sick again.”

Sam smiles at me, a real, honest smile. “You’re not gonna get sick again, Will. You won’t ever get the sickness again.”

I blink a few times, my slow brain trying to catch up.

“Willie, don’t you get it? The shakes can’t hurt you. Even if you get bit again, your body already has . . .”

Sam’s voice drones on, but I’ve stopped listening. I stare at the bite mark on my arm like it can tell me what to do. An idea is solidifying at the back of my mind, but mostly what I’m thinking is that I’m tired.

“Sam,” I interrupt him. “I have to go home.”

“Sure, Will,” he says, his enthusiasm deflating a little. “I’m sorry, I know you want to see the twins. I’ll come by tomorrow to check on you.”

“Thanks, Sam.” I get up to leave and Sam follows me to the door. I stand in the doorway for a moment, and turn back. “Hey, Sam? How much can you let go of—how much can you give up—and still be yourself?”

Sam cocks his head to the side, frowning. “I don’t know.”

“Yeah. Me neither.” Impulsively, I reach out and wrap him in a tight hug. It takes Sam a moment to overcome his surprise, then his arms snake around my shoulders and he squeezes. I close my eyes, and it’s almost like hugging my brother again.

When I finally pull away, Sam’s eyes are slightly pink behind his glasses.

“You’ll come and see me, won’t you?” he asks.

“No,” I tell him firmly. “You’ll come and see me. Help keep the house loud.”

Sam laughs a watery laugh and ducks his head down. I hate to leave him here, alone in his perpetually empty house, but the twins are waiting and my thoughts are coming fast and hard.

I give Sam a last, quick hug and leave him standing on the porch, watching my back as I walk away. He’ll always be watching my back, that one.

“Willie,” he calls after me. “Remember that they can’t hurt you. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

I’m not.





73.


Almost home. Almost home. The words pulse through my mind, and I walk to their beat, tracing the familiar path to Bess’s house. I think I figured something out. There has to be a reason all this has happened to me, there has to be some light at the end. So much has been taken from me: most of my family and pieces of myself. Surely there must be something given back in return.