There were so many memories. The night in the Smith home when Joseph returned from retrieving the plates from where he had hidden them in an old birch log, having a dislocated thumb from fighting off would-be attackers. There was that sunlit day when Oliver Cowdery and Nathan sat on the banks of the Susquehanna River in Harmony, Pennsylvania, and Oliver told him about the coming of John the Baptist. There was the Peter Whitmer cabin and the small group there to witness the restoration of the Church of Jesus Christ on the earth. He remembered sham trials in Colesville, mobs in Jackson County, the betrayal and arrest in Far West. The images, the voices, the memories marched like rank upon rank of soldiers in his mind. So much. So long. So treasured. And now they were dead.
He half turned, using the wet grass to wash the mud from his finger. In that first summer here in Nauvoo, during that terrible time when the ague was cutting through the Saints like the scythe of death itself, Joseph had risen from his sickbed and come to the home of Nathan and Lydia Steed. If he had not, their little Elizabeth Mary, whimpering and near death, would be gone too. Benjamin Steed would twice have been dead had it not been for Joseph’s commanding power. What would the Steeds be, where would they have gone, had it not been for the lives of Joseph and Hyrum Smith? How many threads had been woven into the fabric of their friendship? How many bonds had forged what lay between them? This was his personal loss. A prophet, yes. But a friend like few men ever had.
He turned back, looking down at the crude letters in the damp earth.
Three days! Can it really be only three days now?
He shook his head. Now the memories were like the lash, tearing into flesh and leaving raw wounds. If only he had stayed. If only he and Stephen Markham had not left the jail for medicine, they would have been there. Perhaps two more in the bedroom would have been enough to stave off the mob. But they had not been there. They had come to Nauvoo for help, driven out of Carthage at the point of forty or more bayonets, their boots filling with blood from the stab wounds they had suffered.
And now he was here. And they were gone.
He reached out and gently tamped the earth with the toe of his boot, erasing the lines of tribute and leaving the two graves unmarked once again.
“Can you just leave them here by my bed, Matthew?”
Matthew Steed stopped. The crutches he held in his hand swung gently back and forth. He looked at his wife, not quite able to conceal the sudden look of dismay that flashed across his face. Jenny gave a slight shake of her head.
Kathryn McIntire’s Irish temper flared. She turned on her sister. “Jenny, I just want them here where I can see them. I know that I’m not ready for them yet.”
Jenny’s face pulled into a disapproving frown. “Like last week, right?”
Just a week ago, Jenny had been out in the main room of the house playing with little Betsy Jo. Matthew was away at the cabinet shop. There had been a tremendous crash from Kathryn’s bedroom. When Jenny came running in, she found Kathryn on the floor beside her bed, holding one wrist and wincing in pain. Just behind her, the wheelchair was on its side, one wheel still spinning slowly. In spite of repeated warnings not to try and get out of bed by herself, she had gone ahead and nearly broken her arm.
Kathryn concentrated on Matthew, giving him a look of childlike innocence as she pointed to the chair near the head of her bed. “Come on, Matthew.”
“Kathryn,” Jenny started, her voice heavy with warning. “You are making progress, but you have to learn to be patient.”
Kathryn’s head jerked up. “Don’t use that word.”
Jenny blinked. “What?”
“Don’t tell me to be patient, Jenny.” There were sudden, hot tears. “I hate that word. I hate it.”
“I’m sorry, Kathryn,” Jenny said, instantly seeing her mistake.
There was not a flicker of response. Kathryn turned to Matthew as if he were alone in the room with her. She reached out and patted the chair. “I know I can’t use them yet, but I want to be able to touch them. It will inspire me to heal more quickly.”
Jenny McIntire Steed felt a stab of guilt. Two years ago last April, while out on a picnic with Jessica and the children, a bolt of lightning struck within a few feet of where Kathryn was standing. When she recovered consciousness three days later, she was paralyzed from the neck down. The paralysis was tragedy enough for someone who loved life as Kathryn did, but the humiliation of suddenly being totally dependent on others—for eating, bathing, even something as simple as turning over in bed—was a far greater tragedy in her eyes. She fought back fiercely. She simply refused to accept the idea that her condition might be permanent.
And miraculously, her situation did improve. Gradually, control over her hands and arms returned. Soon her upper body was back to nearly what it had been before. A few weeks after the tragedy, Matthew crafted a wheelchair for her in the cabinet shop. Thrilled with her new freedom, at first she had to be pushed everywhere. But that was not good enough. Soon she was strong enough to propel herself around, covering everything but the roughest ground without help. But that was as far as it had gone. She spent hours every day massaging her legs, lifting and bending them over and over, but there was no further lessening of the paralysis. Two years of waiting, and nothing more. No wonder she hated the word
patience.
The crutches had been Kathryn’s idea. They had all tried to talk her out of it. Even Joshua, who had been the most supportive in her battle against her handicap, saw that crutches required at least some control in the legs and feet. But she wouldn’t listen to him either. And now, watching Kathryn’s eyes, full of silent pleadings and proud determination, Jenny understood the need for hope, the importance of having something to challenge her further.
She laid a hand on Matthew’s arm and nodded briefly. There was a quick, grateful smile from Kathryn as Matthew stepped forward and set the crutches against the chair. Unlike the single crutch Matthew had once carved for Joshua back in Missouri, this pair was a finely crafted set and finished professionally. As he had done with the wheelchair, Matthew used a pattern he found in an Eastern catalog. He had turned the wood on the lathe until each piece was perfectly round, then sanded them until they felt silky to the touch. The place where they fit under the arms was padded with layers of soft cotton cloth. He had just finished putting the padding on late the night before.
She reached out and touched the wood, letting her fingertips caress the polished surface. “Thank you, Matthew. They’re beautiful.”
He reached down and kissed her on the cheek. “You’re most welcome. I hope I measured right. I made them a little long.” He flashed a warm grin. “It’s easier to take a little off than to add it back on again.”
“I’m sure they’ll be just fine.”
Jenny leaned over and hugged her. “Are you sure you’ll be all right alone?”
“Of course.” She looked contrite. “I know I ought to go to worship services, but I just don’t feel up to it today.”
“That’s fine. We’ll be home shortly after noon. We’ll come get you before we go over to Mother Steed’s.”
“Okay. Do you really think Jessica will come today?”
“That’s what one family told Father Steed. The man said Solomon had been out checking on the schools, but planned to come today.”
“I’m so anxious to see them. I’ll bet little Miriam has grown a foot since we last saw them.” She lay back against the pillow. “I just wish it were happier times that brought them.”
“Yes,” Jenny said, sudden tears springing to her eyes. Like thousands of other Latter-day Saints, Jessica and Solomon were coming to Nauvoo because they wanted to pay their last respects to their martyred leaders.
“Well,” Matthew said, brightening a little, “I’m sure they’ll be here this afternoon sometime. But we’ll come get you before then.”
“All right.”
“Of course,” Matthew went on, “Mother plans a big supper this afternoon. It will be the first time the whole family has been together for some time.”
“Except for Carl and Melissa,” Jenny said.
There was nothing to say to that. Upon learning that Carl’s father was dying, Carl and Melissa had returned to Kirtland, Ohio, in March. Though his father had passed away a few weeks ago, in their letters there was no mention of returning to Nauvoo.
“Get Betsy Jo,” Jenny said to Matthew. Then, as he left the room, she looked sternly at her sister, motioning toward the crutches. “You’re not to be rushing things,” she chided softly, “you hear me?”
Kathryn answered with equal softness. “I know what I can and can’t do, Jenny.”
Their eyes held each other for several moments; then finally Jenny nodded. “All right,” she said. “We’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Kathryn waited for a full twenty minutes just to make sure that they didn’t return to get something they had forgotten, or that some other family member didn’t stop to say hello, which they were in the habit of doing. But the house was quiet, and through the open windows she could hear nothing outside. Nauvoo had gone to worship services and the rest of the city was deserted.
She drew back the covers, reached down with both hands, and pulled her feet up, swinging them around over the side of the bed, grunting with the effort, talking to them as if they were naughty children who refused to listen to their parent. She had to stop for a moment when she was done and the first beads of perspiration started to form on her forehead. She sat there, feeling the warmth of the floor on her bare feet. At least she had that much. Someone had told her that sometimes with paralysis, one lost all feeling too. But thankfully, that was not the case with her. She had feeling, just absolutely no control of her body from the waist down.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself for the task ahead, then reached for the crutches and brought them to her. Today would be the first step to greater independence. She grimaced at the unintended play on words.
First step?
If you dragged feet and legs across the floor using crutches, did that qualify as a step? Then she nodded to herself. Maybe not to someone else, but it would be a major first step for her.
Sitting straight now, she pulled at her dress until it was down around her ankles again, then positioned the crutches under her arms. Gripping the hand braces tightly, she held them out straight. She smiled as she remembered the day Matthew had come in with a carpenter’s ruler and measured her to see where the hand braces needed to go. He had made her stretch out so he could take the measurement from her armpits to the palms of her hands, and from her armpits to the bottom of her feet.
“I feel like you’re measuring me for a coffin,” she had quipped.
With great solemnity, Matthew shook his head. “We only do that for customers who have passed on,” he said. “That way we get fewer complaints.” She had giggled, and loved him all the more for being willing to tease her about it.
With crutches firmly in hand now, she leaned forward, positioning the tips on the floor (the tips had been wrapped with a thick padding of canvas so as to cover the polished wood and take a better grip to the floor’s surface). The challenge immediately became evident. From a sitting position there was no way she could pull herself up using only her arms and upper body. Chiding herself for being so foolish, she set the crutches aside, slid sideways on the bed, then pulled herself onto the arm of the overstuffed chair beside her bed. Once again she had to stop, the effort momentarily exhausting her. Though it was barely ten-thirty now, the day was going to be a hot one and the house was quickly warming up. A droplet of sweat broke loose from her temple and trickled down the side of her cheek.
She twisted around and, using the back of the chair, worked herself up into a semi-standing position, her breath coming in short, hard gasps now. That effort alone was enough to start her body trembling. Her feet were planted firmly enough on the floor to help her keep her balance, but they couldn’t respond if she started to wobble. Closing her eyes for a moment, she let her body adjust itself to this new, strange feeling. Then, biting her lip, she reached for the crutches.
Now came the hard part. Steadying herself with one hand, she put one crutch under her left arm. She shifted her weight, cautiously letting go of the chair. She wobbled a little but steadied. Then she took the second crutch. She nearly fell twice before she had both of them under her arms. Once again she rested for a moment. Now the sweat was pouring down her forehead and into her eyes, stinging them. She was barely aware of it. She was on her feet, standing, with no one holding her, with no one having lifted her to that position. The exultation was like a deep draught of cold water on a hot day. It gave her the strength she needed to make the next move.
With a quick breath she pushed off, leaving the safety of the chair. To her surprise, she found that maneuvering the crutches was simple enough. She would steady herself, make sure her feet were solidly on the floor, and then with a quick motion lift both crutches and move them forward an inch or two. Then all she had to do was lean her upper body forward, dragging the lower part of her after it. Once. Twice. Three times. She felt a burst of exhilaration. It was working! It would take weeks and weeks of practice to master it, she could sense that, but she was up. With no one else in the house. She was up!
Halfway across the room, she had to stop. Her first step! The pure joy of knowing she was moving, completely free of anyone’s help, dizzied her and she nearly lost her balance. Leaning heavily on the crutches now, she took a deep breath, then another, grinning foolishly. Steadying herself, she reached up one hand to wipe away the sweat from her eyes. It was a mistake. The crutch beneath her slipped on the wooden floor and shot outwards. With a cry, she grabbed at it, which threw her body off balance.
So simple a thing, to shift one’s weight to the other foot to stop from losing one’s balance. But for Kathryn, it was like asking an infant to walk. Down she went, trying to throw out one hand to catch the fall. But her hand was still tangled in the crutch and she couldn’t free it in time. She hit on her right shoulder, with the crutch half-beneath her body. She screamed out and rolled over to her back, writhing in agony, holding her shoulder. Tears of pain filled her eyes, but after a moment, they gave way to tears of frustration and hopelessness and despair. She rolled over onto her stomach, ignoring the searing pain in her shoulder, and began to sob uncontrollably.