Carol Ritten Smith (10 page)

Mary set her knitting aside and came to lean over him, tenderly placing her palm on his forehead. He winced. Her hand felt like a fifty-pound anvil. “You poor wretched soul,” she said. “Can I get you anything? Do anything?”

When her words finished reverberating in his head, he answered, “Just shoot me.” Through half-opened eyelids he saw Mary smile, and he added hoarsely, “It’s not funny. My head … it’s going to explode.”

Mary stood back and crossed her arms under her generous bosom. “Well, what do you expect?” she admonished gently. “Shame on you, Tommy Carver. You won’t get much sympathy from me.”

“I don’t expect any,” he whispered.

“Do you think you can sit up?” she asked. “I’ve got some coffee brewing downstairs and Sam gave me something to mix in it. Said it would make you feel better. Come on, sit up. Here, take my hand.”

Mary took his forearm and gently pulled him forward, propping a pillow behind him. He moaned in misery.

“There,” she crooned, easing him back, “you just rest easy for a minute while I get your brew.”

It hadn’t seemed she’d been gone at all when he felt the rim of a cup pressed against his lips. He sipped and pulled away from its bitterness, but Mary wasn’t one to brook resistance, especially when she believed she was doing something for his own good. She firmly held his head and kept tipping the cup. It was either drown or swallow, but as he drank the vile tasting mixture, he wondered if drowning wouldn’t be preferable. Once he’d managed to down well over half, she placed the cup in his hands, and allowed him to lean back on the pillow. It took a few minutes, but eventually the potion started to work, and the pounding in his head lessened somewhat. He sipped at the remaining bitter concoction.

Seemingly satisfied that he was on the way to recovery, physically, in any case, Mary returned to her rocker, but instead of picking up her knitting, she studied him.

“I guess you’re waiting for an explanation,” he said.

“I have an idea, but I am curious what brought this all about.”

“Abigail’s gone. Gone back East.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

There was an uncomfortable silence between them. Mary was waiting for more, but how could he discuss Abby’s leaving? He threaded his fingers back through his tousled hair. “This is something I’ll need to sort out myself.”

“You won’t find the answers at the bottom of a bottle.”

“I know. But it numbed the pain … for a while anyway … and that’s all I wanted.”

Mary came forward, sat on the edge of the bed, and squeezed his hand. “You didn’t have to go it alone. You could have come to me or Earl.”

“The way I feel right now, I wish I had.”

She took the empty cup from him and placed it on the dresser. Then she reached under the bed, pulled out the chamber pot and set it beside him. “I hate to tell you this, but Sam warned that about half an hour after you drink that stuff, everything will come up. I’d say you’re starting to look a touch green, so I think it’s best if I leave.” She headed for the door, then stopped and turned. “I’ll check on you later.” She pulled the door closed behind her.

An hour later, Tom weakly pulled back from the chamber pot, certain that if he vomited once more he’d turn inside out. Fortunately, once the spasms quit, he felt better and soon he drifted off to sleep where reality would not intrude.

• • •

“Sleepy head dog,” Davy whined. Hands deep in his pockets, he sauntered over to Tom. “Boy, that Jack, he’s so-oo sleepy today.”

Tom, absorbed in his work, paid little heed to the boy. Leaning against the horse’s flank, he lifted up a hoof and held it between his knees as he fitted a shoe. “Remember, Jack’s old,” he answered absently.

“I know, but I want to play with him and he won’t wake up. He’s even too tired to twitch his ear when I blow on it.”

“Yeah well, like I said, sometimes … ” A cold shiver slowly crept along his spine. He gently lowered the horse’s hoof and set aside his hammer. Jack was in his customary place behind the forge. Tom squatted down on his haunches beside him and gently lifted his paw. It was cold and lifeless, and when he placed his hand on the dog’s chest, there was no heartbeat.

“Oh, Davy.” How was he going to break the news to the boy?

But Davy must have read his expression already and had his own suspicions. His voice trembled when he asked, “Is he … d … dead?”

In a voice nearly as shaky, Tom replied, “I’m afraid so, son.” He rose slowly, feeling exhausted, as if the life had been sucked from him too.

The boy shook his head in denial and then threw himself across the dog. “No! You c … can’t be d … dead. You’re just sleeping. Wake up, Jack!” Then in a rage, he started pulling on the dog’s neck, and shouting, “Get up, you lazy old dog.”

Tom felt like there was a chain wrapped around his chest and each time Davy tugged on Jack, the chain twisted tighter and tighter. He reached down and pulled him away. “He’s gone, Davy. He can’t hear you anymore. Jack’s dead. He died in his sleep.”

Davy wrapped his arms around Tom’s leg and wept pitifully. “But I miss him already.”

Tom bent down and lifted the distraught boy up into his arms and held him close, wishing he could ease his sorrow. “I know, son,” he whispered soothingly. “I know. I miss him, too, but Jack was old — really old — and he was hurting a lot, I think more than we knew. Maybe it’s better he’s gone.”

Davy pushed back, as if horror stricken his friend would suggest such an atrocity. “No! It’s not better. How can you say that?” Needing to lash out against the pain and anguish, he pummeled Tom’s chest with his fists, and kicked at his thighs.

Startled more than hurt, Tom set him down. A solid blow to his stomach doubled him over.

“It’s not better that Jack’s dead. And if you think it is, then you’re mean and I hate you and I never want to see you again!” Sobbing, the lad ran from the smithy.

Barely able to catch his wind, Tom straightened up and called feebly, “Davy, come back,” but he either didn’t hear him or chose not to heed the order. Tom debated going after him, but he knew there was little he could do or say to soothe the boy’s sorrow. He’d check on him later.

He led the horse back into his stall, and put his tools away as he’d done so many times before. He could finish shoeing the horse later, but right now, there was a task ahead of him he had to do. Teary-eyed, he scooped up his lifeless dog and whispered for one last time, “Come on, Jack. Time to go home.”

To avoid meeting anyone, he left by the back way and down the alley. When he reached the barn, he gently laid his dog on some loose straw in the bed of the wagon. Without his usual greeting for his horses, he solemnly hitched up Benjamin to the wagon, grabbed a shovel and stopped at the house to retrieve Jack’s mat.

Some time ago, Tom had decided when Jack died, he’d be buried up on the hill behind the house. Both Tom’s parents and sisters were buried there, their side-by-side graves enclosed by a small picket fence. Jack’s grave would be outside the fence. Now that the old boy was free from pain, it only seemed fitting his soul be free to run forever.

With it being late in the fall, it took some digging to get through the first layer of frost, but Tom took no notice. Nor did he feel the biting northeastern wind on his hands and face. He dug with grim determination until the hole was sufficiently deep, then spread Jack’s mat on the bottom. Lovingly, he placed the dog down, carefully rearranging his limbs.

For the longest time, he stood there, unable to bring himself to refill the grave. Finally, he tucked the mat around Jack, covering his muzzle and eyes, and then he started shoveling. He let his tears flow freely and without shame. As if the heavens commiserated with him, rain began. Before the final shovelful of dirt was patted down, the rain had changed to hard pellet-like snow.

• • •

It was seven-thirty that night when Beth set aside the paper she was marking and answered the knock at the door, knowing instinctively before she even opened it that it would be Tom. He stood there with his sheepskin coat pulled up around his ears, and his hat pulled low.

“I’ve come to see if the Davy’s all right,” he stated. Snow sifted off the roof and gathered in the brim of his hat.

Beth stood firm. “I don’t know what happened at the smithy today, but he’s very upset and doesn’t want to see you.” She had heard about the break-up between him and Abigail and how he’d become so drunk he had passed out. Having seen the ugly consequences of alcohol when they lived with their aunt and uncle, she questioned whether he was an appropriate adult for her little brother to befriend. She could only hope his drinking spree was an isolated incidence. “I think it’s best if you leave.” She tried to close the door, but he thrust his boot through the threshold, holding it open.

“Please, Beth, I just need to talk to him for a minute.”

Considering the state her brother was in, she had no intentions of allowing the man inside, but unless she heard him out, she might never know what was troubling Davy.

“Just a minute.” She yanked her coat from the peg on the back of the door, draped it over her shoulders and joined Tom outside on the stoop, clutching her coat tightly in front of her. She stayed under the eave’s shelter.

“What happened?” she demanded. “Davy came home crying and won’t stop. He wouldn’t even come out of his room for supper. He keeps saying he hates you.”

A pained expression flashed across Tom’s face. “Jack, my old dog — .”

Beth could tell he was having trouble speaking, for he closed his eyes and raised his head as if asking for divine help. The swirling snow hit his face while he expelled a deep frosty breath.

He looked at her and said flatly, “Jack died today, and Davy found him.”

“Oh dear.” No wonder her brother was so upset. He loved that old dog.

Tom bowed his head, vividly remembering Davy’s heart-wrenching denial. “I swear it broke my heart to see the little guy crying so hard, so like a fool, I tried to make things better. I told him maybe it was for the best, what with Jack being so old and arthritic. I never thought he’d think I meant I was glad Jack died.” He reached out and touched Beth’s arm. “Please, I can’t leave things the way they are.”

She nodded and opened the door. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Come in. I’ll see if I can get him to come out of his room.”

Tom waited just inside, hat in hand while she went to speak to Davy. He could hear their muffled voices behind the closed bedroom door and then presently she returned alone. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. He just needs some time.”

He bowed his head and stared at the floor. “I wish I could go back and redo this afternoon, handle things differently.” He turned his hat in his big hands. “I should have prepared him some. It might have made it easier.”

“I’m sure he knew it was bound to happen soon. He just didn’t want to admit it, he loved Jack so. But now that I understand the situation, maybe I’ll be able to get somewhere with him.” She regretted judging Tom so harshly. He was well respected about the town and she’d seen no one else denigrate him because of his drunken state. And he couldn’t be all bad if he was concerned about the feelings of a little boy. Suddenly she felt obliged to add, “I’m sure he didn’t mean what he said.”

“I know.” Tom settled his hat back upon his head. He nodded at the stack of papers on the table, “I can see you’ve got work to do, so I won’t keep you any longer. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight. And I’m really sorry about Jack. I know he meant a lot to you too.”

• • •

Tom tossed another log in the stove and closed the cast iron door, its clang resounding about the kitchen. It was his second evening without Jack. Resuming his place at the table, he lifted the glass globe off one lantern and set about trimming the wick, a mundane job, but at least one that occupied a few minutes of his time. The hours between supper and bedtime were long and lonesome. He missed talking to Jack and hearing his tail thump against the hardwood floor in reply.

Finished the wicks, he carried one lantern to the parlor and set it on the mantel. He tried reading, but he couldn’t concentrate. At loose ends, he decided to go to the barn where horses and the musty smell of hay always soothed him. He shrugged into his coat and opened the door.

Beth was standing there, hand raised to knock.

“Oh, hi,” he said, taken aback.

Without any preliminary small talk, she said, “Tom, I need your help.” Her voice was on the verge of breaking.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Davy.”

“Is he hurt?”

“No, he’s not hurt, but I’m worried about him. He’s barely eaten since Jack died and he just wants to stay in his room. Honestly, I don’t know what to do. I was hoping you’d talk to him.”

Tom’s jaw tightened. “Do you think it would do any good?”

“Maybe. It’s not only Jack he’s upset about. I think he feels bad about the things he said to you.”

“He shouldn’t.”

“Would you talk to him then?”

“I’ll try.”

It was a solemn, five-minute walk from Tom’s place to Beth’s. They spoke little and only then about Davy.

The moment they arrived, Bill grabbed his coat and took off like a scalded cat, giving some excuse that Tom didn’t believe. He hoped he’d at least get a better reception from the younger brother, but he wasn’t holding his breath. He rapped lightly on the bedroom door, and pushed it open.

The room was dim. He crossed to Davy’s bed. The boy was on his side facing the wall, curled up into a tight little ball.

Tom sat on the edge of the bed, not at all certain what to say to him, or if he’d even listen. He reached out and gently shook him awake.

Davy uncurled and rolled onto his back. “Tom?” his voiced croaked.

“Hi, there. Your sister tells me you’ve been off your feed. She’s worried about you.” He could understand why. Davy looked thin and pale.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I know. I haven’t had much of an appetite myself.” He stroked Davy’s matted hair. “Still feeling bad about Jack, huh?” When the lad nodded, he continued. “Yeah, me too. It’s lonesome without him. I catch myself glancing behind the forge a thousand times a day, but he’s not there. Makes me feel like crying.”