Dorothy Garlock (31 page)

“He fell down, Soren. He fell and Procter kicked him.” Hettie dabbed at the blood on Foster’s head with a rag.

“Is that what caused the cut?”

“He hit his head on the end of the porch.” Lily glanced at Gus to see if he had noticed Soren holding her hand, then wiggled it free. “He’s awfully drunk, but that wasn’t any reason for Procter to kick him.”

“I’ll take care of that son-of-a-bitch later,” Soren promised angrily. “Let’s move the wagon over by the barn, Pa, and get him inside.”

“Oh, poor Foster,” Hettie crooned. “Looky, Soren. He’s pee-peein’ on hisself.”

“I can see that,” Soren said, without looking at Lily. “As soon as we see to that cut, we’ll dunk him in the horse tank. He smells like he’s been wallowing in a manure pile.”

Soren and Gus lifted Foster from the wagon bed, carried him inside the barn, and placed him on a bed of fresh straw.

“He stinks.” Hettie wrinkled her nose as she looked up at Soren. “Foster’s nice to me. I’ll wash him with soap.”

“Foster’s nice to everyone, Mama,” Lily said patiently.

“He said to me, ‘Well looky here at how pretty Hettie is.’ He said that, Soren. And he said I wasn’t dumb even when Procter said I was.”

“Procter’s the dumb one. Lily, Owen’s in the house with Esther—”

“Esther’s here? I thought she was in her room—”

“She’s here. Go to the house and get some clean rags, soap, vinegar and a tin of salve from the shelf under the washbench.”

“But . . . what’ll Ana say?”

“Ana took the baby and went for a walk while Owen talked to Esther.”

“Oh, I hope Esther wasn’t mean to her.”

“I don’t know about that. Owen will have to handle it. Run along, honey. We have to wash the blood off Foster so we can see how badly he’s hurt.”

Soren knelt down and began to strip off Foster’s shirt. He ground his teeth in anger when he saw the mean-looking bruise on his side. Foster’s lips were chapped, his cheeks gaunt, his dark hair long, gray-streaked, and greasy. He looked worse than Soren had ever seen him.

“He looks like hell, Pa. He’s killing himself.”

“Aye, he is.” Gus said sadly. “I’ll get a bucket of water.”

“He ain’t going to kill hisself!” Hettie wailed. “I’ll take care of him.”

“I meant he’s killing himself by drinking so much. He’s just a bag of bones.”

“He thinks I’m pretty.”

Soren tilted his head to look at Hettie. She was pretty. Hell, she couldn’t be more than a few years older than Owen. She had been only fourteen when she had Lily. Her face was smooth, unlined, and wore a constant smile. Her eyes were as unpretentious as a child’s when they looked into Soren’s. She was neat and clean. There was a lot more to Hettie than some people thought. Her frank, child-like ways were embarrassing, but she had a heart as big as all outdoors.

“Is he goin’ to die, Soren?”

“Naw. We’ll take care of him. Take off his shoes. Jesus! He doesn’t have on any socks or underwear.”

“I won’t look at his . . . thing, Soren.”

Soren bowed his head to hide his grin. “We can’t take his britches off. We’ve got to think of Lily.”

“Lily won’t look at it. Lily’s nice like that. Do you like Lily, Soren?”

“Of course. I like you, too, Hettie.” He rummaged in his pocket for his pocket knife. “His britches are rags. I’ll cut them off. We’ll cover him with a horse blanket.”

When Gus returned with the bucket of water, Hettie dipped into it with the cloth she had used in the wagon and gently wiped the blood from Foster’s face.

“It was mean of Procter to kick you,” she crooned. “He said you was a worthless bum, but you ain’t. You can read better’n Procter.” She looked up at Gus. “One time Foster read to me out of a book.”

Gus got down on one knee and looked closely at the cut on Foster’s forehead. “It isn’t bad. Head cuts always bleed a lot. We can put pine tar on it. It’s what we do to the mules.”

“Foster ain’t no mule,” Hettie said sternly.

“He’s as stubborn as one. What he needs is a good cleanin’ up.” Gus stood, tipped the bucket and poured a stream of water on Foster’s head. Foster wiggled his nose, smiled lazily, but otherwise didn’t move. “Here’s a bar of lye soap on the washbench. Suds his head, Hettie. If he’s got lice, that lye soap will get rid of them.”

“He does,” Soren said drily. “Take these clothes out and set ’em afire, Pa. We don’t want Ana to see what a sorry state he was in. Did he have a suitcase, Hettie?”

“He has a little pack but there’s no clothes in it.”

“Goddammit, Foster,” Soren said to the man in the drunken stupor, “this time you’re going to straighten up if I have to whip your butt.”

“You’d whip him?” Hettie gasped. “I thought you liked Foster.”

“I do. That’s why he’s going to straighten up.”

Lily returned with the rags and salve. “Esther’s upstairs rantin’ and ravin’. She don’t make no sense atall anymore.”

“Honey, go with Pa and see if you can find some clothes to put on Foster after Hettie and I get him cleaned up.”

Honey.
He had said that right out loud. What would Uncle Gus think? Lily’s cheeks turned a bright red as she turned her face away from Soren’s father.

“C’mon, child.” Gus urged Lily out of the barn with his hand on her back. “Soren and Hettie can scrub him down. We’ll find him a clean shirt and a pair of overalls. The hard part will be soberin’ him up.”

*   *   *

Owen found Esther upstairs in the bedroom.

“Where have you been, you naughty boy? Go wash your hands. It’s time for supper.” Owen gaped at her. “Where’s Paul?” Esther demanded. “He’d better clean out that chicken coop or Pa’ll have his hide.”

“Esther, Paul . . . isn’t here.”

“Did you lock him in the privy again? Shame on you.”

“I d-didn’t . . . Paul isn’t here.”

“You can lie to me but not to Pa.” She shook her finger in his face. “You know what’ll happen.”

Owen frantically searched his mind for something to say. He had been prepared for anything but this. She had regressed to the days when he and Paul were children.

Suddenly she screeched. “What’s this doin’ here?” She spread her arms over the bureau as if protecting it.

“I brought it up here.”

“It’s Mama’s. Mama don’t want to be up here.” Tears began to stream from her eyes.

“Yes, it was Mama’s. Now it’s yours.” Owen’s heart began to thump painfully.

“It’s Mama’s. She wants me to polish it and make it pretty.” Esther grabbed a cloth from one of the drawers and began to rub it over the front of the bureau.

“I think you’d better go home now, Esther. I’ll take you in the wagon.”

Esther ignored him and presently began to hum. She moved from one piece of furniture to the other, dusting it carefully. When she reached the rocking chair, she began to sing. “Bye-o, my baby. Bye-o, my baby—”

Owen didn’t know what to do. It seemed to him that his heart was splitting in half. He owed this sister so much, yet a yearning for Ana and the home she was creating for them pulled at his insides.

“Mama would want you to take these things home with you. I’ll get the wagon and we can load them up.”

“Home with me?” She looked at him strangely. “But I am home, Papa.”

Oh, dear Lord! Her mind was completely gone if she thought he was that ornery old son of a bitch.

“Look at me, Esther. I’m Owen,” he said desperately.

“Owen’s gone. He went off and left me—”

“Oh, sister.” Owen had never felt such pain. In his despair he grasped her shoulders to turn her toward him.

“No! No! Please, Papa. I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”

The look of terror on her face caused Owen to drop his hands and reel backward. He stared into her stricken face, then turned and lurched from the room. In the hallway he leaned against the wall, his face buried in the crook of his arm. Tears rolled from his eyes. Silently he cursed the man who sired him. He wished to hell he’d left him in the cow lot for the bull to stomp into the manure from which he came. Instead he had pulled him out, got a horn in his thigh for his trouble, but not a word of thanks from the ungrateful old man.

Owen dried his eyes on his shirt sleeve. He could hear Esther humming and the creak of the chair as she rocked. She had lived a nightmare while he and Paul were growing up. It was no wonder she had lost her mind. A vision of her hovering over him and Paul while their father wielded the buggy whip came to his mind.

And the
other thing
! Goddamn that old man!

Owen owed it to his sister to take care of her.

He would explain to Ana and make arrangements for her to go back to Dubuque if that was what she wanted to do. He wouldn’t tell her
all
of it. She would despise him and he couldn’t blame her.

T
he
first thing Owen saw when he came out onto the side porch was Jens Knutson’s wagon beside the barn. Then Gus and Lily came from the house in the grove. When she saw him, Lily moved away from Gus and came to the porch. Gus continued on toward the barn.

“Mama and I brought Foster over, Uncle Owen. He came to our house last night. He said he got a ride to White Oak on a freight wagon. He’s in the barn.”

“Drunk?”

“And hurt. He was drunk when he got to our place. Procter was awful mean to him. He’s got a cut on his head, but Uncle Gus said he’d be all right.”

“Have you seen Ana?”

“Soren said she walked off toward the orchard. I didn’t know Esther had come here, Uncle Owen. I thought she was at home in her room upstairs. That’s where she stays most of the time.”

“I moved Ma’s furniture upstairs. She’s up there now and not making any sense at all.”

“Do you want me to go talk to her?”

“Are you afraid of her, Lily?”

“No. She talks mean sometimes, but she’s never hit me.”

“Do you think you can get her to go back home?”

“I’ll try. But Grandpa’s getting real ornery. He doesn’t have any patience with her anymore.”

“Does he mistreat her?” Owen asked.

“Well . . . not exactly. When she gets one of her spells, he has Procter take her upstairs and lock her in. She kicks and fights every step of the way.”

“Oh, Lord, Lily. I can’t take her to the crazy house. And with Ana and the baby here, I can’t bring her here.” He groaned a deep sigh of distress.

“Don’t worry. Mama and I will look after her.”

Owen’s arm went around her thin shoulders and he hugged her to him. “Ah, honey. I wish there was some way I could make things easier for you. Is Jens pestering you to take up with Procter?”

“He wants me to, but—”

“But you won’t.”

“No. I won’t.”

“Procter wants the farm. He’ll do everything he can to get it.”

“I worry about Mama.”

“Procter doesn’t want Hettie. And you don’t have to take any man you don’t want.”

“Soren told me that.”

“Do you like Soren, honey? I mean, could you be happy with him?”

Lily hid her face against his shoulder and murmured, “He’s not said anything about . . . that.”

“Soren’s not cut out to spend his life on a farm. He likes to come here for a month or two, but that’s all.”

“I know. And I couldn’t leave Mama even if he wanted me to.” She looked at him then and smiled, although there were tears in her eyes. “Soren isn’t wanting to
marry
me, Uncle Owen. He comes to see me and tells me about the places he’s been. Oh, he’s been everywhere.”

“It might be that he wants to settle down.”

“But not here.”

“No, not here. God, Lily, this family is a mess.”

“I’ll go see about Esther. You’d better go find Ana.”

“She won’t come back while Esther’s here.”

“I’ll see if I can get Esther to go home. Sometimes if I act like we’re both little girls, she’ll do what I want her to.” Lily opened the screen door, turned and asked, “You like Ana a lot, don’t you, Uncle Owen?”

“Yes, I do. I . . . love her.”

“I hope she loves you back.”

*   *   *

Owen stood for a moment after Lily left him. It was a continuing source of wonder to him how sensible she was. Sweet little Lily could very well be the only sane one in the family.

He stepped off the porch and went to the barn. He arrived just as Gus walked up to the stall where Foster lay. Soren and Hettie backed away and Gus threw the bucket of cold well-water on the naked man.

Foster came up out of the straw like it was on fire.

“Goddammit, Gus! You’re killing me. Oh, Lord . . . my head feels like it’s been run over by a train.” He squeezed his temples between his palms as he stood there shivering.

“Get over here, dry off, and put on these clothes.” Soren held up a towel.

Hettie took the towel and began drying Foster’s back.

“Get away from me, woman,” he snarled, his one good eye glaring at her. “I need a drink. Oh, Lord, I need a drink.”

“You’re not getting any,” Hettie said. “Soren said drink was killing you.”

Foster’s one blood-shot eye darted to Soren, then back to Hettie. “It’s no business of yours.”

“It is, too. You ain’t goin’ to kill yourself ’til you read to me some more.”