A Prayer for the Dying (15 page)

Wednesday only one of Chase’s women comes to town. Dark, in the simple uniform. You’ve seen her before, not young but not old, heavy-legged, solid as a Mennonite wife. She takes all morning going store to store, leaving her bundles untended in the wagon. Sugar, coffee, salt. From the chemist, a tin of Paris green, another of London purple. A cask of tar from the hardware, probably to keep flies off the sheep. Ten gallons of kerosene, which she lugs two at a time from Fenton’s. Chase is stocking up. Must be telling his people town’s corrupt, rife with disease. What can you say—he’s right.

You wait till she’s trotted off with her load, then go into Fenton’s and ask him what she special-ordered for next time.

“Nothing,” Fenton says. “Paid in cash as usual.” He ducks in back to restock his kerosene. On the counter, the knife display accuses you. You wonder if Fenton knows who chucked the dung under his sidewalk.

Probably.

“What did she buy today?” you ask when he returns, though you already know.

While you’re jawing with him, the bell chimes and Mary Condon comes in. She freezes when she sees you, shoots you a vicious look and wheels around, the door ringing behind her. Fenton acts as if he hasn’t seen.

But then, when he’s finished telling you about the woman from the Colony, and you’ve done your own shopping, he says, “Heard about Sarah Ramsay.”

“Sad thing,” you say, and sigh. “Wasn’t much else we could do.”

“Don’t think I could do something like that.”

“You do when you have to,” you say.

“You’d have to be an awful hard man, I expect.”

And though you want to shake him, to scream in his face, you say, “It doesn’t do your heart any good, if that’s what you mean.”

Then back at the jail you’re angry with yourself. Why should you apologize to him?

Home, you cook up some bratwurst and drink three ginger beers, then a pint of cider. Leave the dishes undone. Put Amelia to bed with her dolly and open the whiskey, just a nip.

It hits you like a truth, wakes up the blood. You laugh; you want to drink it all. You sing at the kitchen table, tap your feet, slap your knee. “Let’s dance,” you say, and take Marta in your arms, whirl her through the house like you’re nineteen again.

“They all hate me,” you say in bed, the liquor swirling the lamplight. You’ve forgotten Marta’s nightshirt.

“They think I don’t mind all this.”

No they don’t, Jacob. You’re a good man, everyone knows that.

“Boarding her up like that.”

Come, hush now.

“Fenton’s right.”

Shhh, it’s all right. It’s all right. Here.

Her arms circle you, and the clean smell of her hair. How pleasingly she fits you, her slim hips to yours, her shoulders, her ribs. Kiss her deeply, run your hands over her cool, perfect skin. Firm and then soft. There, and there. Take her face in your hands. Finally you rise up and make love to her, desperately, after so long, your fingers knitted with hers, your lips to her neck, her ear, confessing how happy she makes you, how, no matter what happens, the two of you will always be together.

“I love you, Marta,” you say, surrendering to her, giving up all your sorrow in long, shuddering reaches. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

7

You wait in the dark with your pistol. Heat lightning makes the trees jump, shows you the pale silhouette of the road, the silver glint of the tracks, the dark maw of the canal. You’re swapping nights with Bart, trying to keep people on the right side of the line.

The wind has shifted again, and risen, blowing hard from the west. Montello wires Harlow all day; the great gingerbread mansions on the edge of town are burning, their turrets plunging to the ground. Even here, east of Friendship, you can smell the fire coming; the air’s heavy and spiced with it. To the west the sky holds a glow, flares like the first minutes after sunset.

You’re sure all of town knows. Today Gillett Condon drove his family up to the line and took a whip to Millard when he tried to stop them. Bart has them in the clink over in Shawano, but Millard hurt his eye. He drew his gun, he said, but didn’t fire. This is your fault. The doctor there says he might lose it for good.

You wait, pinching mosquitoes from your forehead, slapping at your hair. You’ve fashioned a blind to one side of the canal, tucked yourself in it like a hunter. It reminds you of guard duty, the river rushing invisible with the spring rains, covering up footsteps, the rustle of branches. At least here there’s starlight shining off the leaves, the flash of sheet lightning making everything suddenly present. You watch the road, listen for the scuff of boots, the drumming of hooves.

You’ve always liked night, the quiet, the bowl of stars above. One August your mother woke you and led you out into the chilly fields to see the stars fall, held your hand and said this was the work of God. She didn’t need to; you knew it just by looking up—that all of Creation was a gift from Him, and that you would be a fool not to accept it. How close you felt to everything then, as if you’d found your place at last. You can still do that, simply by tipping your face up, searching between the trees. It’s nearly August, you can tell by Orion’s belt.

A bullfrog lunks from the canal, and a host of them start up, calling deeply. You shift and rub the back of your neck, a mosquito rolling under your hand. Click the hammer of the Colt back, ease it down again. Stay ready.

Gillett Condon, you think. The little bastard.

Desperate for his family.

Aren’t we all?

Not you.

No? You’re just mad. Crazy Jacob.

The sky flashes to the east, and the rails are there, running off into the dark, then gone again. Watch the white dust of the road, the sign an oblong shadow in the moonlight. At home Amelia’s sleeping, Marta waiting up for you in the rocker. You’ve got to start eating more, you think. All those bacon and potatoes are playing havoc with your stomach.

A whinny.

No.

You hold your breath. The frogs go on.

Yes, the rattle of metal—a loose stirrup, or a bit clicking on a tooth. Then nothing.

The rattle again, closer.

You scan the road, squint into the dark. The rattle’s louder now, almost on top of you, and then you hear the squeak of a saddle—not from the road, but behind you on the towpath.

You wheel and see a blaze on the horse’s forehead, floating ghostly. It comes at a walk, the rider trying to be quiet.

Duck your head and push loudly out of the blind, raise your pistol so they’ll see it. Step through the brush and onto the towpath, arms over your head.

“I’m warning you to stop,” you get out. You’d planned to say more, but the rider cries, “Hyah!” and the horse bolts straight for you.

You level the gun and call, “Halt!” as if this is the war again.

He doesn’t. The horse thunders over you, one shoulder catching you smack in the chest. It punches you into the brush, sends your hat and your Colt flying.

You can’t breathe. Lie there and gasp a minute, come back to your senses. He caught you just above the heart; already it’s tender. You press your thumb into your ribs to see if they’re broken. No. Still, you’re winded, and it hurts to stand.

Your hat’s in a huckleberry bush, not even dusty. Your pistol’s gone, and it’s dark.

“Bastard!” you say, because you know who it was, should have suspected they’d make a break for it. You’re sure, in that moment you could have fired—should have, you think now, scolding yourself—that you saw in the brief noon of the lightning the cowardly face of your friend Fenton.

You crawl on your knees, feeling in the dust for your gun, your chest aching with every heartbeat. It’s like a stitch, digging at you. Finally your hand blunders against metal. To your surprise, you find the hammer still cocked. You didn’t know you were so close. Holster it, snap the snap. You know it’s stupid to fire in anger, and right now you don’t trust yourself.

“Should have killed him,” you say.

You’re quiet. Does that mean you agree?

Bart ought to know, so you climb on the handcar and start off. Every pump of the bar hurts, and you find yourself giving up, coasting through the dark. You hope it’s just a charley horse, but when you go to knead the muscle it twinges like a bruise. Your right arm works better, and you try that for a while. Roll past Old Meyer’s and the Hermit’s lake. The sky lights up, then dies. Finally, the river. You freewheel over the trestle and set the brake, get off and walk along the bank up to Ender’s bridge and into town. Everyone’s sleeping, it seems.

Knock on Harlow’s door. He thumps around, then opens it in his nightshirt, bleary.

“No,” he says, “Fenton? You’re greening me.”

“Saw him with my own two eyes,” you assure him, and still he shakes his head. He lifts his key ring off a nail and comes out on the sidewalk in his bare feet and lets you into his office.

“Don’t think anyone’ll be receiving this time of night,” he says, sitting down to the sounder. You say that’s all right and thank him, even before he sends your message, then again as he pads off to bed.

You should go back out there but it hurts when you breathe too deeply. The air smells of ash. You’re fine, it’s just a bruise; you’ll be sore tomorrow, that’s all.

Why are you always so hopeful? Haven’t you learned anything?

The lightning teases you, shows you the road under the oaks, the tidy houses of your neighbors, their kitchen gardens and brick walks. You wonder who’s peeking from behind a curtain, how much of town is watching you.

Yesterday you burned down a house with someone in it. Doc asked you to. It was the Winslets, out west of town. Roland had finally died, and Doc convinced you there wasn’t time to bury him, that there was too much to do. While it was true, you still argued with him. But you were so tired, or that’s the excuse you make to yourself now. You didn’t like it, you said, but you brought the crew out, soaked the baseboards with kerosene, and stood there watching it, angry with everyone but the millhands who’d been pressed into service. You thought of Roland in bed under dirty sheets, and how you’d want to be found. And while you were standing there fuming, you all saw the figure in the attic window, in the invalid room, banging at the glass with her frail bare arms until it fell and shattered on the porch roof. The slow aunt from Eau Claire, you’d all forgotten her. You’d done such a good job there was no chance. She screamed but she was too old to jump, and soon smoke filled the window, the roof collapsed, and the sparks boiled up into the sky. Later, you found her in the basement, light as a husk. When you went to Doc he ducked his head and ran his hands through his hair, and you could see his fingers were puffed with infection. He didn’t say he was tired or sick the way you did, didn’t make excuses. “She’s better off,” he said, and before you could light into him, he looked at you so you knew he didn’t believe it.

After that, you walked through the empty houses sloshing the jug, calling and calling. Only then did you touch the brand to the love seat, the ottoman, the lampshade. And even though no one in town knows, it’s true, they hate you, no matter what Marta says. If they don’t, they should. You do.

The door’s locked, and you use the moon to find your key. Marta’s asleep in the rocker, arms crossed in her lap. You carry her to bed, a sleepy child. It must be all the terrible things that are happening, but she seems more beautiful to you, more precious now that everyone is set against you. She stirs to your touch, moans and coos beneath you, then drops back to sleep after, as if it’s all been a dream. For the first time in weeks, you drift off easily, curled around her, your head on her chest.

In the morning you have a black bruise, and Marta badgers you to see Doc. Outside it’s cloudy and a light snow is falling, the street covered with a gray dusting of ash.

The Bagwells’ wagon stands before their door, bristling with furniture tied on with twine. The whole family’s helping, the children with armfuls of clothes.

“Where you headed?” you ask Tom as he knots a sack.

“Shawano,” he says, not looking at you.

“They won’t let you in.”

“We’re not staying here,” he says. “That’s fine for the sick, but there’s no reason we should be made to, not with the fire.”

“I understand,” you say, and you do. You’re just not sure what can be done about it. You tell him to be careful and head for Doc’s. The street’s crosshatched with tracks, a regiment of gray footprints. Must be an inch of the stuff. You try not to run.

The ash sits on the hitching rail, dirties the trough water. His door’s locked but there’s no sign saying he’s out making calls. You thump and thump, and finally he appears at the curtain, just his head sticking out. He waves and disappears again, then comes back a minute later in a dressing gown and lets you in, stands there staring at the fall of ash like a child.

His face is lined from his pillow, and his hand is bandaged. At one corner of his mouth is a black crust of blood. When he tells you to have a seat, his voice is hoarse, barely a squeak, as if his throat’s closing.

You stare, unable to say a word.

He looks disappointed in you—or in himself? The two of you face each other like a gunfight.

“Hell,” he croaks, “guess there’s no point hiding it now.”

“When did you know?” you ask, thinking it’s not possible. He made it so long you thought he was like you, that he couldn’t get it. For a minute you wish you could. Now you’re going to be alone.

“Couple days ago. Not long.”

You look at the carpet as if it holds some clue. He’s apologizing, but you shrug it off. “You tell Irma yet?”

“Not yet.”

“Better wire her. No telling how long you’ll be able to. I mean, with the fire.”

“I know what you mean.”

You say you’re sorry and he just nods, shifts his paperweight with his good hand. Goddamn him.

“Sorry I’m running out on you,” he says, and tries to smile. He’s hard to hear, and you lean forward, toward the desk.

“Any idea what you’re going to do?” he asks.

“Take the healthy ones out on the freight.” You say it like it’s been in you all along. It has, you just don’t think it’ll work.