Winter Is Not Forever (25 page)
I moved toward him and reached out a hand to run down his smooth neck. He quivered at my touch, then tried to take a step. His whole body reacted to the pain, and I thought for one awful minute that he was going to go down again. Sick at the sight, I turned from him, and wretched. The illness I had just come through probably had something to do with it. But I had to get control of myself. I had to help Chester.
Grandpa hardly knew whether to go to Chester or to me. I nodded at him that I was okay and he moved toward the horse. He spoke to him in soft tones, rubbing his neck and trying to calm him, his hand moving gently down toward the injured limb.
Chester threw himself back, and the pain of the movement made him squeal again in anguish.
I whirled and headed for the house. I didn’t go to the kitchen, just to the back porch, and stopped there only long enough to check that there were shells in Grandpa’s big old Winchester.
I was turning to leave again when I heard the door open and close. Quick footsteps dashed after me, and I could feel a hand on my arm.
“No!”
I jerked my arm free and tried to keep on walking.
“Josh, listen!” But I still didn’t stop. Just as I reached the door Mary pushed herself ahead of me. She stood there, her back against the door, her slight frame heaving. She had been crying, too; the traces of tears were still on her cheeks.
She stood there, defying me, shaking her head and blocking my way.
“Don’t!” she pleaded again.
I reached out a hand and pushed at her. “Do you think I want to do this?” I almost screamed.
We both knew the answer.
“Then don’t,” she said again, not budging from the spot she guarded.
“He’s suffering!” I cried. “Can’t you see that? He’s suffering!”
Mary reached out and placed a hand on my coat front. Her eyes looked wide with fright and determination. “Yes,” she said and her voice rose to almost the pitch that mine had been. “Yes, he’s suffering. But life is full of suffering, Josh.You’ve suffered. I’ve suffered.” She took another deep breath and her whole body heaved. “For years—for years I watched my mother suffer—day after day—week after week. I loved her, Josh. I loved her. But I didn’t give up. I fought. I fought to save her. Chester is a fighter, Josh. A thoroughbred and a fighter. Chester isn’t done yet. He hasn’t given up. And we can’t either—not without a fight.”
With her final outburst, Mary took the gun from my unresisting hands and moved away from the door. I heard the sound of metal on metal as she hung it back on the pegs. The world was whirling around me and I was afraid I was going to be sick again.
Mary brushed past me and went out the door.
It was several minutes until I got myself under control. When I could think straight again, I thought of Mary’s plea to fight for Chester’s life. It would never work. Chester’s leg was broken; anyone could see that. There was no way we could save him now. If we tried, he would suffer and suffer and then we would need to destroy him anyway. Better to relieve his suffering now.
I looked back at the gun and then let my shoulders droop in resignation as I turned my back on it and headed for the barn.
Somehow Mary and Grandpa had managed to get Chester into his stall. They were talking in quiet tones as I entered the barn.
“ … a good clean break,” Grandpa was saying. “No protruding bone.”
“We need to keep his weight off it,” Mary replied, beginning to gentle Chester with her hands and voice.
“How?” It was only one word from Grandpa, but it spoke for both of us.
“We need to construct some kind of sling—to hold him up, off his feet.”
Grandpa eyed the stall. It wouldn’t be easy.
“I saw Pa do it once with a critter,” went on Mary. “Worked it on a pulley system.”
Grandpa chewed on a corner of his mustache as he thought deeply. “Might work,” he said at length.
“You keep him warm and try to quiet him, and I’ll go get Pa,” said Mary. I wasn’t sure if she was talking to Grandpa or to me.
It was an awfully long time until Mr. Turley got there. Mary didn’t come with him to the barn, but went right on to the house.
I had spent the time soothing Chester. We had thrown a heavy horse blanket over him and rubbed his body down with clean straw. He was quieter. The fright seemed to have left him. He still quivered every now and then and snorted loudly when he tried to shift his weight.
Mary’s pa went right to work. He called out orders so quickly that I was running to keep up. In a couple of hours we had Chester fitted with a body sling, and then with the pulley system Mr. Turley had rigged up above him, we gently hoisted him until his three feet just barely touched the floor. Chester’s right front leg was raised just a shade higher so that he couldn’t put any weight on it at all.
Chester, of course, didn’t understand the arrangement. He snorted and pitched, trying to get proper control of his circumstances. It was some time until we were able to quiet him, and by then I was just sure it wasn’t going to work.
As soon as Chester was settled down, Mr. Turley began to work on the leg. It had swollen a good deal, so it was difficult for him to feel the break. And any pressure on the area sent Chester flailing again.
At length Mr. Turley stood up. “A real shame!” he said soberly. “Such a beautiful horse.”
I thought he was going to agree with my first response, to say that nothing could be done for Chester—but he didn’t.
“Good clean break,” he said instead. “Should heal nicely, barring any unforeseen complications.”
The breath I had been holding came out slowly.
Then with the help of Grandpa and me, Mr. Turley got a leg support on Chester. By the time we were through, we were all worn out.
Grandpa invited Mr. Turley up to the house for a cup of coffee and I slumped down in the straw, my back to the manger and one hand on Chester. I just sat there—wondering, praying, hoping with all my heart that this beautiful animal would be all right.
I didn’t even hear the door open.
“Josh?” It was Mary. She spoke in a whisper. “Josh?”
The barn lantern flickered with the slight movement of air from the door, the wavering flame sending the shivers of light dancing cross Mary’s face. She stood there, holding out to me a steaming mug of chicken soup. I took it in still-trembling hands.
Without another word she lowered herself to the straw beside me and laid a hand on my arm.
“He’s gonna be okay,” she whispered. “He’s gonna be fine.” I tried a weak smile.
“How’s Matilda?” I asked, wanting to forget just for a moment the pain of Chester.
“She’s okay now. She’s making dessert for supper. She’s been praying—steady—ever since it happened.”
I sighed and turned back to Chester.
“You really think he’ll be all right?” I asked Mary. Her smile was a little wobbly.
“Look at him,” she said rather than making me any promises. “Pa says his leg felt real good. The bone seems straight—it’s just a matter of time.”
I looked at Chester. He was much calmer now. I almost believed what Mary was saying to me.
I turned to her. “Thanks,” I said, taking her hand. “Thanks.”
I should have said a lot more. Thanks for stopping me from doing something foolish. Thanks for riding old Maude through the cold and snow for your pa. Thanks for bringing me the hot soup. Thanks for your support. But all that I could say was “thanks.”
She gave my hand a slight squeeze, rose to her feet, and returned to the kitchen.
C
HESTER ADAPTED REMARKABLY WELL
to his body harness. Maybe he enjoyed the extra attention. I spent a great deal of time in the barn with him, and Matilda visited him often with treats of apples and sugar lumps. Mary inspected his entire body at least once a day, watching for any sores that might result from the harness straps.
The swelling began to go down in the leg, and after Mr. Turley had taken a look at it a few times, he suggested putting on a new leg brace. Chester hardly complained at all as it was done.
After a few weeks the brace was taken off altogether, but Chester was still not allowed to put his weight on it. I began to massage and exercise it. I wanted to be sure that the knee and ankle would still work well. Chester was able to move it with no problem—with my help, of course.
Finally the day came when we lowered the hammock and let him test his weight. He seemed reluctant at first and snorted his concern. I rubbed his neck and spoke to him ’til he calmed down.
We didn’t leave him on all four legs for long. We didn’t want to tire him. But every day he was allowed to stand for a longer period of time.
At last I began walking him. At first he had a bit of a limp, and then even that disappeared. It was almost too good to be true, but it looked like Chester was going to be just fine.
As the winter wore on, we all went about our daily chores. I fired up our new tractor every once in a while, just to make sure it was still working. Then Grandpa had the bright idea of dragging a log behind it to clear snow on our road. Uncle Charlie got in a bit of teasing about my “new toy.”
We spent the evenings together in the big farmhouse kitchen, Pixie curled up contentedly on the lap of one or another. Those evenings were special times. On such nights, we were comforted by the thought of being snuggled in the kitchen, a warm fire crackling in the big cookstove. We could often hear another storm as it swept through, the wind howling and raging and rattling the loose tin on the corner of the eaves trough. Every time I listened to it, I reminded myself to fix it come the first nice day. But when the nice days came, I was always busy with something else.
Every time I went to town—and I didn’t go any more often than absolutely necessary on those cold days—I picked up another bundle of Matilda’s papers to help pass the boredom of the winter days. It had been several weeks since I had heard from Willie, and I had been watching for a letter from him—but the letter didn’t come.
Then one day I heard the farm dog bark a greeting, and I looked out the frosted window to see Uncle Nat flip the reins of Dobbin over the gate post. He came toward the house in long, quick strides, and I wondered if he was cold or just in a hurry.
I met him at the door with enthusiasm. It had been a while since he had been out.
Mary pushed the coffeepot forward and added fuel to the fire so that Uncle Nat could warm himself a bit, and Grandpa and Uncle Charlie pulled up chairs to the table, getting ready for a good visit.
Uncle Nat sat down and indicated the chair next to him. I pulled it up and leaned forward, eager to hear how things were going in town.
“How’s Chester?” asked Uncle Nat.
I beamed. “He’s doing fine. I can’t believe it.You should see him. He can move around almost as good as before.”
Uncle Nat smiled and nodded his head.
“How’re Lou and the kids?” asked Grandpa for all of us. “Busy,” laughed Uncle Nat. “Real busy. That Jonathan!
Lou hardly knows how to keep him occupied in this cold weather.”
We all laughed, knowing enough about active Jon to feel a bit sorry for Aunt Lou.
“You out callin’?” Grandpa asked.
“No,” said Uncle Nat slowly. His head lowered and his face sobered. We all waited, knowing instinctively that there was more. He lifted his head again and looked directly at me.
“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he said. “I thought you should know. It’s Willie.”
“Willie?”
“He’s gone, Josh.”
I didn’t understand.
“Gone? Gone where?”
“Word came to the Corbins by telegram this morning. Willie died a couple of days ago.”
“But there must be some mistake!” I hardly recognized my own voice, hoarse with shock. “Willie is in South Africa. How do they know—?”
“The Mission Society sent the telegram.”
“But there must be some mistake,” I repeated, not wanting to accept or believe what I had just been told. I started to get up from my chair. Uncle Nat put a hand on my shoulder and eased me back down.
“There’s no mistake, Josh,” he sorrowfully assured me. “The Mission Board sent their deepest regrets. Willie is dead.”