A Sweetness to the Soul (27 page)

Mama had looked annoyed by J. W.’s attempt at a toast. Now,
genuine surprise formed the “Oh” on her lips as J. W. moved to stand between me and Papa, his arm slipped awkwardly around my shoulders.

She could have looked no more surprised, however, than I.

Just being alive surprised Joseph. As light eased into the day like a reluctant relationship, he could see how his condition had permitted him to live. The angle he’d been driven into the debris forced the heavier rocks from his chest and legs. Smaller rocks, heavy, pebbled earth, and split branches shrouded him, kept him pinned but without the pressure of boulders to crush his breathing. “I’ll probably die of starvation,” he said out loud, surprised at the still raspy whisper of his voice.

He noticed some of the red lichen clinging desperately to a fragment of white stone and replayed what had happened in his mind: the ruckus, the kelpie and the cat, the rifle blast which he decided came after he had begun to feel the earth give way beneath his feet. Nothing he could have done differently.

Still, he was alive and he wondered why. Was there some purpose he had yet to accomplish? Had he been stubborn as a mule about something and this was God’s way of getting his attention? Was there a point to catastrophe besides just bad timing? “Did I just draw the low card in this cut?” he said.

His words woke the kelpie who eased himself from around Joseph. He gently slipped down the angled tomb, stretched, tail wagging to the air, panting through a happy, tongue-washed smile. Closer to where Joseph’s feet must be buried, the kelpie stood looking up, his tongue dripping, waiting for his sleepy master to get up. He barked once.

“Not this morning,” Joseph said. The kelpie cocked his head sideways, back and forth, confused by the hoarse voice emitting from the rocks, the lack of movement.

Joseph assayed his condition in the daylight. He noticed that his
right hand might be worked free. This he did, with effort, the kelpie even getting into the act, digging with his paws, dirt skittering out between his short legs until he’d made an impression deep enough to lay in, and did. “No, Bandit!” Joseph said. “Off!”

The dog moved reluctantly as Joseph’s free hand finally grabbed one of the branches that blocked most of his view, pushing it out of sight. Almost immediately he was sorry. First, because pain from the effort raced up his leg and back as he moved and secondly, because too late, he realized he could have used the branch to dig with. “Not thinking clearly,” he said.

The effort fatigued him. He closed his eyes to rest, listening. Crows called in the distance. A breeze rustled the branches of nearby trees. He heard the kelpie panting, closely. Efforts to stay alive seemed futile. He felt tears burn behind his nose and he swallowed. Perhaps these were the last details he would ever experience. It seemed a bitter irony to him that he who had a great vision to come west, do something extraordinary, make a difference in the world, should die alone, in the midst of rocks, having accomplished little in his life, having shared nothing of real import, not having caught his dream.

He had played his cards, won several hands. He’d finally lost the game and would be going home early. He’d likely not live to celebrate his thirtieth birthday. He slept.

When he awoke, he had no idea of how long he’d been asleep. The scent of pungent earth came to him along with the smell of something rotten. The air was still and he noticed a deer moving on porcelain legs down the ravine. She passed below him without noticing either him or the kelpie who slept at his feet. Joseph’s mouth tasted like wool.

As the deer moved on out through the junipers and thickets of manzanita and buckbrush, Joseph recalled something familiar. Was it the deer? The terrain? Perhaps just the peacefulness of the deer’s presence. He couldn’t place it.

He thought about his family, his friends. He wondered if they’d
recognize his body when found, perhaps months or even years from now. His turquoise bola might give him away. And his leather-bound sketch book, should they dig it out. He wished he’d sketched more, wished he’d written more to his mother, wished he’d read more, acted on things he considered rather than simply compiling them into a list in his mind. He wondered if people close to dying made bargains with God, offered commitments should they survive. His would be to act more on what he felt. Like pursuing the feelings associated with the Herbert girl and coming to some settling about what he wanted for the rest of his life.

The breeze picked up, warmer, like it might be mid-afternoon. He smelled the rotten scent again, thinking he’d killed the cat after all. The carcass could bring vultures to peck on his head. Or coyotes. He hoped the rotten smell was not his own.

He grunted at that thought, winced, remembered other events connected with strong scents like the day he encountered the reptile pile. “She’d not be too pleased to know I associate bad scents with her,” he said to the kelpie. “Wonder what sassy thing she’ll say when I tell her that?” Talking hurt his voice, even in the whisper he’d just mustered.

The thought of me and of having what was happening be part of his past, encouraged him, he remembered. That, and the faint smell of smoke.

Smoke! Someone might be close. Or was it the smell of flaming forest, a disaster burning his way? “Hello!” he attempted to shout. Only a hoarse whisper came out. He heard nothing but began digging frantically with his free hand, the pain causing him to stop and start. He lifted his nose to the breeze.

Campfire, he thought, excited. Perhaps not too far off. He did not smell the smoke again. He tried to call, his voice barely projecting loud enough to wake the dog.

Bandit had been roused by his activity and now began to bark. Short barks, with a listening pause between. Joseph heard nothing in the pauses and he did not smell the smoke consistently, but the dog
never wavered once he began his staccato bark. He kept it up, as though sending a signal: a yip, pause; yip, pause; yip, pause; yip.

Suddenly, Bandit rushed down the rock tomb and disappeared into the brush. Joseph felt a moment of panic. The dog continued its steady barking cadence in the distance for what seemed like hours until it scrambled back through the shrubs to Joseph’s sight.

“Good boy,” Joseph said, realizing how much the dog’s presence comforted him. He tried to pat the dog, but Bandit slipped beyond his grasp, kept up his yipping cadence, this time facing the underbrush instead of Joseph until both heard the sounds of movement: some large animal stomped just beyond.

Bandit increased his barking, scuttled out through the underbrush again, returned and stood a wary guard, back to Joseph’s tomb, hair raised, until the brush parted.

Legs and the chest of a horse came first. Then Joseph saw the man.

Joseph had a moment to study him as the man tried to locate why the dog barked at the base of a pile of rocky debris. Tall, blond, he looked vaguely familiar. Like his mother’s milk toast, Joseph thought, the realization bringing back the man and the event. “Turner!” he said in his whisper.

The man looked, isolated the sound. He seemed healthier than the day more than a year ago when Joseph had given dried venison to a hungry man and his family.

“Lordy, Lordy!” Turner said, finally locating Joseph’s head in the rocks. “Couldn’t figure out that barkin’ sound. Knew no coyote yipped like that.” He had dismounted quickly, grabbed his hide canteen and bent now, holding Joseph’s head gently to the moisture. Sweet water dribbled from the corners of Joseph’s mouth making paths in the dust. “Thought I recognized that funny-looking dog when he come out through the brush,” he said. “Couldn’t figure why he’d be here.”

Joseph closed his eyes, relishing the sweetness of the water. “Thank you,” he said.

“Don’t thank me,” Turner said, still kneeling beside him.

“Then the dog,” Joseph said, resting his head back onto the dirt.

Turner looked at him. “I was thinking Someone higher,” he said. “He’s what led me this way. Hadn’t planned to be up this ravine looking for scrubs, least not ’til next week or so. Figured this was too close to home to worry about.”

“I thank him,” Joseph said. “More than you can know.”

Turner nodded his approval. “Let’s see if we can get you out of here,” he said next, surveying Joseph’s condition. “Francis’ll look after you while I get the Chinese doc. Let my little ones romp around you while you wait, keep you up half the night. But you’ve prob’ly had enough rest,” he said, smiling, “laying around like you have.”

Joseph eased back while Turner began the slow process of removing the debris. He was aware now of the throbbing in his leg. He knew the trip to wherever would be painful, wasn’t sure how badly his leg was damaged or if it would ever hold him to walk again. But he was alive, thanks to God. That was all that mattered at the moment. “I’ll be thirty years old next month,” he said. Turner’s odd expression told him he was rambling as the man eased Joseph’s mangled leg from the debris. Joseph didn’t care. He had more than a birthday to celebrate.

A F
UTURE AND A
H
OPE

F
rancis Turner was a saint long before she died. I never did meet her, but she became my rival just the same, one all the more difficult to compete with after her death. I covet the time she had with Joseph. Though he says I would not have liked him much those months—his recovery taxing his patience—I would have risked the encounter not to have later shared his memory with a saint.

The Turners’ home sat on a ridge not far from Joseph’s forced entombment. Archibald Turner whistled softly when he uncovered Joseph’s left leg. Impaled on a sharp branch, Joseph’s calf resembled a bloated cow before the knife was pulled to release the captured air. His knee looked oddly crooked too.

“Don’t think I should try to take out the splinters,” Turner told Joseph, looking up at him with wary eyes. “Just cut what I can and leave the wound plugged.”

“Agreed,” Joseph said wondering already about the infection, his own beginning fever, the chills that were turning to a clammy sweat now that his body was exposed to the air.

Turner made a sturdy travois of old hackberry branches and alders and eased Joseph onto it though as big a man as he was, Joseph had to sit up—more or less—to keep his leg from dragging in the
dirt and shrubs. With no sign of Joseph’s gelding (or his Sharps), Turner led his own horse back to a trail wide enough to drag the travois through. Bandit trotted faithfully by his side.

Joseph could not recommend the trip. His leg, twisted at the knee with its open wound, throbbed until he felt nauseous. He passed out.

When he came to, the angel bent over him. Wisps of gold surrounded her narrow face, pug nose, and heart-shaped mouth, and blue eyes stared into his with worry and concern. Her hands were cool to the touch as she wiped his forehead leaving a lavender scent. As she leaned over him, Joseph realized she was with child.

He heard noises, little voices, and then “Shush, now!” as she turned to quiet four small children. “Mr. Sherar needs his rest,” she told them. She coughed, as if to clear her throat. “And the dog does too, I suspect.” He heard scrapes of little feet and then eight doe-like eyes in stair-steps gawked down at him in faces that were perfect replicas of their mother’s. Bandit’s head and front paws soon appeared on the edge of the bed. The cornhusks shifted within the comforter with the dog’s weight.

“Our children,” she said, with both apology and pride mixed in the introduction. She coughed, pressing her fingertips against her full lips. Then, “Cris, John, Martha, Susan Ella,” she said touching each small head as she spoke. “We shorten the little one to ‘Ella’, but they’re the same little imp.” She coughed again. “The dog you know.” Bandit panted happily, nuzzled Joseph’s neck.

“You awake, Mister?” Susan Ella, the youngest, asked, her face close to Joseph’s, examining. She looked to be about five years old. She had two dimples in plump cheeks and the same blond curls, same blue eyes of her mother. “Can we play with your dog?”

“Little late for asking that. Dog’s played out these past days,” her mother told her. To Joseph she said in explanation, “He wouldn’t stay outside. Just barked and barked when we put him on the porch, so we let him in.” She coughed. “Didn’t know his name. Children called him Weasel cause he wiggles so, and he comes.”

Joseph smiled, tried to speak. His mouth felt like wool again, and Francis noticed, apologized, and offered him cool water. It tasted strange but the liquid was clear. “What’s in it?” he asked, laying his head down with the help of Francis’s hand.

“Herbs. From the Chinese doctor. You children, shoo now, go play with Weasel.”

“Bandit,” Joseph said. “His name is Bandit.”

The children swarmed around Bandit, calling him correctly, running with him around the table in the center of the single large room.

“Some folks don’t take with him,” Francis continued, turning back to Joseph. “The Chinese doc,” she said in explanation. “But he’s made me feel better.” She coughed again, harder, catching her breath. “I am better, really,” she said to Joseph’s wary eyes. She smiled at him. “I couldn’t even sleep I coughed so hard.” She set the empty cup down on the bedside table and added: “He’s mixed a concoction to cut your fever and a poultice for your leg. See,” she said, pulling the covers back, “he got the branch out and most of the splinters. I change the bandage twice a day. It’s still weeping some, but now your fever’s broke, I think you’ll be all right.” She coughed again, “In time.”