A Northern Light(70)

He nodded, but his eyes were elsewhere and I knew he believed my brother's words, nor mine. He was exhausted from his agitation, though, and I took advantage of it to make him swallow some tea. As I lifted his head, I felt that his skin was blazing. I undressed him, laying the dresser scarf over all the things I wasn't supposed to see. I bathed him with cold water, holding the cloth to his wrists and the insides of his elbows and behind his knees to cool the blood.

I had never seen my pa naked. We were not allowed in the kitchen when he bathed. The skin on his chest was soft and lightly furred with black hair. There were scars on his back, from his shoulders to his waist—thick, livid welts from his stepfather's belt buckle. I pressed my hand to his ribs and felt his heart fluttering. There were scars there, too. I knew it now, even though I couldn't see them. He shivered terribly as I sponged him, and he clenched his teeth, but he didn't try to throttle me. That was something. When I was done, I pulled the bedding back over him, piled two quilts on top, and made him drink another cup of hot tea. I didn't know much about fevers, but I knew he needed to sweat. Sweating would bring the sickness out of him.

"I'll miss you, Mattie," he suddenly said.

"I'm only going across the hall, Pa," I told him.

He shook his head. "Cow goes with a bull. Cow don't go with a sheep. Don't go with a goat. Goats don't read, Mattie, they don't read books..."

He was talking gibberish again. "Hush now, Pa," I told him. "Try to sleep."

When he had closed his eyes, I picked up the tea tray to take it in to my sisters. I put what Lawton had said out of my mind. I didn't want to think about it. I had gotten to be so good at not thinking about things.

Then I went in our bedroom and saw that Lou had sicked up the water I'd given her and that Abby was out of bed and lurching about trying to clean Beth, who'd messed herself again. It was my fault. I'd given them too much water.

"Mattie! Matt, where are you?" a voice called from downstairs.

"Up here!"

Feet pounded up the stairs and then Royal was in the doorway. He winced at the smell.

"What is it?" I asked, coming out into the hallway.

"One of the cows is real bad. The one with the star on her head—"

"That's Daisy. It's not a star; it's a flower," I said stupidly.

"She's suffering, Matt. Real bad. John wants ... he wants to know where your pa keeps his gun."

"No, Mattie, no! Don't let him!" Lou yelled from her bed.

I shook my head.

He took me by the shoulders. "Mart, she's bad off ... it ain't kind."

"In the shed. Above the door."

He went back downstairs, and I thought of Daisy's large, dark eyes and her whiskered, mumbly lips. And how she never kicked when I milked her but always let me rest my cheek against her soft belly. I thought of poor Baldwin. And of the bull, fierce and black, up in the Loomises' meadow. And how he frightened Daisy and Baldwin, but they still bashed through the fence every chance they got, just to be near him.

I heard the crack of a rifle, heard Lou shout my name, then curse. I heard the chamber pot go over in my father's room, heard him tell someone named Armand to shoot the damn bear already.

Then I heard the sound of choked, quiet tears, as I sat down on the top step and wept.





fu ? ga ? cious


"You still taking the cod-liver oil I left at your place?" Mrs. Loomis asked me. She was sitting on her front porch, shelling peas into a blue enameled basin. I was sitting across from her, on an old wicker settee. Royal was next to me, his legs stretched out in front of him.

"Yes, ma'am," I lied. I was pouring it down the sink, a little bit every day. I'd rather have the grippe, well and truly, than swallow any more cod-liver oil. Mrs. Loomis had dosed me good. She'd come to our house a week ago, as soon as Royal had gotten home and told her how it was with us. She'd brought all sorts of things with her—blackberry root and barley water to bind loose bowels. Onion syrup, whiskey, and gingerroot to bring a fever down. Lard mixed with camphor and turpentine for a rattling chest. She said it was one of the worst cases of grippe she'd ever seen. She doctored us and cooked for us and pulled us all through it. Weaver's mamma helped her. I don't know what we would have done without them. Pa had the remains of a cough and Beth was still too weak to get out of bed, but they were out of danger.

"Still feeding Beth plenty of ginger tea?"

"Yes, ma'am. She's a lot better. My pa said to tell you he's much obliged. And that he'll be over to pay a call in a day or two."

"I don't want his thanks, Mattie. Seeing a neighbor through is thanks enough for me. And besides, it ain't all my doing, anyway. Weaver's mamma did as much as I did."

"Yes, ma'am."

"She told me what happened to Weaver, by the way. It's a terrible thing. Heard Jim Higby put those men in the county jail. Guess it's right what they say about the squeaky wheel."

"Yes, ma'am."

"You'll be getting back to the Glenmore soon, I expect?"

"Pa's taking me tomorrow morning. That's why I brought your basket and jars. I wanted to make sure you got them back before I left."

She raised her head, fixing me with her faded blue eyes. "You learning a lot up there? Cooking and ironing and such?" she asked.