A Northern Light(68)

"Beth? Abby?" I whispered. There was no answer. I laid Lou down on our bed, then crossed the room and pulled on the shade. I saw Beth then. She was lying in her and Abby's bed, still and pale. There were flies crawling on her. On her face and hands and feet.

"Beth!" I cried, rushing to her. Her eyes fluttered open and I sobbed with relief. She closed them again and began to weep, and I realized her bowels had let go. I touched her cheeks and forehead. She was on fire.

"Ssshh, Beth, it's all right. I'll get you fixed up, I promise...," I said. But she didn't hear me. I went back to Lou. "Where's Abby?" I asked her.

She licked her lips. "With Pa."

I ran out of our room and down the short hallway to Pa's bedroom. My father was lying rigid in his bed, mumbling and shivering. My sister was slumped over him.

"Abby!" I called to her. "Abby, wake up!"

She raised her head. Her eyes were dark hollows. Her cheekbones were sharp beneath her skin. "He's real bad, Mattie," she said.

"Since how long?"

"Since two days. Fever got worse this morning."

"Go to bed, Ab. I'll look after him now."

"I'll help you, Matt—"

"Get in your bed!" I snapped.

She raised herself up and walked toward the door, her steps as slow and shuffling as an old woman's. I touched my father's face. His skin was dry and hot. "Pa," I called softly. "Pa."

He opened his eyes and looked right through me. His hands scrabbled at the bedding. "Pa, can you hear me?" I said.

"...killed her, I killed her...," he jabbered, "...my fault..."

I put my hands over my eyes then and whimpered with fear. I didn't know what to do. They were all so sick. I was all they had and I couldn't think of the first thing to do.

"Yarrow, Mattie," Abby rasped from the doorway. "Get him to take some yarrow tea. He's got fever and chills and a deep cough. Try onions..."

"...and goose grease and turpentine...," I said, suddenly remembering how Mamma had treated coughs. Abby's voice, gentle even now, calmed me and helped me to think. "And baths. I'll try a cool sponge bath," I said.

"Beth and Lou have the scours. I tried blackberry syrup, but it didn't do any good. Get some roots."

"Roots? What roots?" I almost shouted.

"Blackberry, Matt. Chop up a handful and simmer them until the water's brown. Make them drink it."

Abby's legs shook then and she had to grab the doorjamb to keep from collapsing. I helped her into bed next to Lou. She squeezed my hand and her eyes closed, and I was alone. Utterly alone.

I raced downstairs and ran outside, thinking to get a spade in the barn to dig up some blackberry roots. I stopped halfway. The bushes were way up past the cornfields, a good fifteen minutes' walk. And Lou needed water. And there was the yarrow tea for Pa. And there was Beth, lying in her own filth ... I ran back inside and put the kettle back on the stove to boil. Then I pumped water into a large enameled basin, ran back upstairs, and stripped Beth's clothes off. I pulled her out of the bed onto the bare floor and washed her.

She shivered under my hands and moaned for me to stop. "It's cold, Mattie, it hurts," she whimpered, trying to pull away from me, her thin limbs shuddering.

"Hush, Beth, I know," I soothed. "Hold still, hold still." I tried to think of my word of the day, aby, to take the fear from my mind. I recalled that it meant to endure, to atone, and found I didn't care.

When Beth was clean, I put a fresh nightgown on her and tucked her in with Abby and Lou. Her own bed was rank, but it would have to wait. Then I took Lou's dirty coveralls off her and drew the quilt up over all three of them. Abby was sweating now. Her underthings were damp and her hair was plastered to her head. I would give her a sponge bath. Just as soon as I started some soup. I remembered that Mamma always made chicken soup when someone was poorly. I dreaded killing one of our hens, but there was no way round it.

I ran downstairs, pumped clean water into a jug, snatched a glass, and ran back up again. I gave everyone a good, tall drink, holding their heads up so they could swallow. It was a struggle getting Beth to take any water, but Lou, Abby, and Pa drank greedily. The dirty things stank powerfully and I knew that breathing tainted air wasn't good, so I bundled all the clothing, Beth's soiled bedding and her straw tick, and took it all outside. While I was in the yard, I looked up toward the barn. Three calves had been put in the pasture. Another was heading for the drive. Two more were in the cornfield, trampling the fragile plants. My heart lurched. We needed every ear, every stalk, for winter feed. A movement caught my eye. It was Tommy. He was near the beehives, trying to push another calf—Baldwin—toward the pasture, but Baldwin didn't want to go. He stopped dead, lifted his head, and bawled piteously. Manure gushed from his backside and splashed all over Tommy. Tommy cursed and punched the calf in the face. Again and again and again. The animal's bawling turned into shrill, terrified bleats. His front legs crumpled.

"Stop it, Tommy!" I screamed, running to them.

Tommy looked at me and shrank back, shame flushing his cheeks. His eyes were red and watery. A livid welt bloomed under one. "I was afraid," he sobbed. "I didn't mean for them to all get out ... they ran at me—"