Harvest Home (29 page)

The knife fell from the child’s hand, clattering noisily. Her neck stretched like a serpent’s, the head angled forward, the eyes blank, unseeing. Cassandra, speaking with the tongue of the god.

“Mn—mm—mean, um—” She muttered on in a dead, hollow tone. I stiffened, waiting.

“Mean—um—mnm—” She seemed to be groping to see something that she alone could see, to hear what she alone could hear. There was still some unchewable matter in her mouth, and the parched syllables came with difficulty.

“Be—ware—” She was fumbling with the dead chicken, working her fingers inside the slit cavity.

“The—night—”

I looked down at the dripping entrails, and back as Tamar spoke anxiously. “When, Missy? Which night?”

“When—it comes—the night—beware—”

“When?”

A garbled response.

“
Which
night, Missy?”

Though she faced me, I was sure she did not see me. Yet, pillaging the insides from the chicken, yanking them onto the linoleum, she was speaking to me. “For you—the—”

“What, Missy?” Tamar strained forward anxiously to hear.

The cat dropped to the sinkboard and eyed the slimy guts on the floor. Missy bent, feeling with her hands but never removing her glazed eyes from my direction. She scrabbled at the feathers in the corner of her mouth and then, scooping up the loathsome mess from around her feet, she began hurling it at me, bit by bit, her arms windmilling, the gobbets flying in a spate of red before I could move.

“
Which night
?” Tamar demanded again.

Ugly blotches had appeared on the child’s pale skin. Wet breathing sounds issued from her gaping mouth. “Mean—um —mnm—” Gently she fondled the last remaining pieces in her palms, then paused as though listening. She struggled to articulate, then gasped out the words.

“The—all—pre—vail—ing—night—‘’

Her hand flew up, she crammed the stuff into her mouth, choked, and fainted. As I backed through the doorway, the cat sprang to the floor with a thud and began greedily devouring the chicken’s heart.

At first when I turned in to Penrose Lane, I did not hear the horse. Then, absorbed in thinking of what had happened at Tamar’s house, I thought that Kate was just giving the mare too much head. At last I realized Tremmy was running away with her. They were coming at a fast clip, and I could see the look of terror on Kate’s face. I ran into the middle of the road and lunged for the rein. “Dig your knees in!” I shouted, grabbing hold and letting the horse drag my weight. At the same time, Kate pulled back on the reins and the horse reared and plunged, whinnying wildly and thrashing with its head. Still Kate kept her seat, grasping the mane with both hands as she tried to control the animal. Its head came up and knocked me sidewise, and again it reared, its hoofs just missing me as they came down. I rolled out of the way and shouted for Kate to kick free of her stirrups, then jumped and snatched the reins in one hand and an ear of the horse in the other. Twisting, I exerted all the force I could to quiet the animal, and as it moved past me, I let go, reached for Kate, and grabbed her from the saddle. The horse skipped away as I held her in my arms, then set her down.

“Gosh.” She leaned against me for a moment, pressing her head to my chest with relief.

“Are you O.K.?”

“Sure. I’m fine.” She looked up at me, rose on tiptoe, and kissed my cheek. I heard her laugh as I went back to the corner, where the horse had stopped to chew some grass. I came quietly up beside it, talking to it until I had got the reins, and gently led it around. Kate was still laughing.

The laugh stopped. She caught at her chest. Yanking the horse behind, I started to run. Her hands came up around her throat, she staggered slightly, and I let go of the horse and caught her just as her knees buckled. I laid her down in the roadway for a moment, watching as her eyes bulged, the veins appeared, and she fought for air. Frantically I felt in the pockets of her jeans for her Medihaler. It was not there. I picked her up in my arms and, running, carried her down the lane.

I brought her in through the door of the kitchen, where Beth and Maggie Dodd were sitting at the table having coffee. Beth jumped up, white-faced, and I told her to get the emergency Medihaler from the drawer, then took Kate into the bacchante room and laid her on the sofa. When Beth brought the breathing device, I forced it between Kate’s lips and pumped the aluminum valve. In the other room I could hear Maggie on the telephone, calling Dr. Bonfils. Then she dialed another number, apparently failed to get a response, and a moment later hurried out the door.

The Medihaler seemed to be having no effect. As Kate lay gasping for breath, I could feel her pulse getting weaker. Hastily I forced her mouth open and began applying mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. I was still working over her when the doctor arrived.

He administered massive doses of adrenalin; I swabbed the arm for him when he injected the needle. Kate lay in a comatose state, her position unchanged. Behind me, Beth watched horror-stricken. The doctor rolled back the lids and looked at the turned-up eyes. I heard a truck in the driveway, and shortly Merle Penrose, Harry Gill, and another from the fire department rushed in with the respirator. The doctor supervised the application of the machine, taking his stethoscope from his bag and holding it to Kate’s chest. I stepped back out of the way, groped blindly for Beth’s hand, but failed to find it.

Kneeling, the doctor listened. I could see that the collar of his shirt was frayed; I remember thinking he probably got paid so little for his services in these parts that he couldn’t afford a new one. Mrs. O’Byrne’s Tiffany clock on the shelf chimed the half-hour, and I became acutely aware of the ticking. Merle and the fire department boys had moved to the corner, waiting. I could hear the sound of raspy breathing, but I knew it was Dr. Bonfils, who, with his shoulders sagging, crouched by the sofa and listened for the heartbeat. He motioned to Merle; the apparatus was detached. Merle and the others did not look at me as they took it and went out. The truck backed out of the driveway and went along the lane.

Dr. Bonfils stood looking down at the small figure on the sofa; he did not turn immediately. Unable to wait longer, I stepped to his side, put a hand on his shoulder, forced him to look at me. It is still possible to hope when hope is gone; he read the hope in my expression, and I could see it pained him to be able to offer me none. I watched him lay the stethoscope in the bag, heard the snap of the latches. Then he picked up his bag and, without looking again at the figure on the sofa, left the room. I heard the front door open and close.

In the space between the coffee table and the sofa, I knelt and laid the side of my head along the cushion, my lips touching the shoulder of my dead daughter. There was the odor of the stable on her jacket. I took her hand and held it. What did one do now? In the movies they always draw a sheet over the—

Body.

Again I heard the ratcheting sound of a motor; a car pulled into the drive, doors slammed. I remained where I was, thinking I must call Ed Oates and let him do what must be done. Amys Penrose would be tolling thrice times thrice; wasn’t that the way you did it for a girl? Thrice times—

I heard them coming in, felt the floorboards give as someone came up behind me. A hand touched my shoulder, and I looked down and recognized it as the Widow Fortune’s. Maggie Dodd was standing behind her.

Without speaking, she motioned me aside, and I rose and gave her my place beside the sofa. She lowered herself, the little black valise beside her. I looked at Beth, who stood in the doorway, shaken but dry-eyed, her hands at her breast, clutching a handkerchief.

“Open my bag,” the Widow told Maggie.

It was useless, of course. For all her healing powers, for all her pharmacopoeia, for all her wisdom, there was nothing to be done. I had seen it in the doctor’s eyes. I went to Beth and took the handkerchief from her clasped hands and used it myself, wiping my eyes and blowing my nose. She returned my look briefly—and angrily, I thought, as though Kate’s death had been my fault. How mine? For the horse that I had bought her? For moving to the country where she could have a horse? For—what?

I put my arms around her and drew her against me. She held her body stiffly, and her hands at her breast kept us apart. Behind me I could hear noises, the rustle of the Widow’s black dress, a few muttered words to Maggie. I turned to see the old woman bending, her ear to Kate’s unmoving chest. She listened intently, then straightened; slowly she raised her hand, closing her fingers into a massive fist, which she held motionless for the space of three or four seconds, then brought it down with a firm blow. Quickly she moved her head to the listening position. She grunted; then, putting one palm over the back of the other hand and placing both on the chest, she began applying a steady pressure. When she had worked thus for perhaps a minute, she changed her position slightly, moving to the head, where she repeated the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

I could see it was no use. The girl had not stirred; there were no signs of breathing. As she applied her mouth, the Widow lifted her eyes and let her gaze wander the room. She pointed at the jar of bamboo pens on the piecrust table. Maggie handed them to her; she examined them, selected one, and flung the rest away. She sent Maggie for clean towels; then, pulling her bag nearer and beckoning me to her, she reached up to dig in my pocket. I knew immediately what she wanted: my penknife.

Maggie brought the towels, and relieved her of the mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. The Widow opened the knife and, without wasting a second, bent over Kate. She plunged the point in at the base of the throat, making a small, quick incision. Then she inserted the blunt end of the hollow bamboo pen into the aperture and began sucking. I held a towel for her as she spat out the fluids she was draining from the throat, a thick, yellowish-white substance, mixed with blood.

I glanced at Beth; she had not moved from where she stood. I looked down at the two women, both working stolidly, determinedly, Maggie with her mouth to Kate’s, the Widow drawing out the deadly secretions that had caused the arrest. As she sucked at the hollow of bamboo, her broad, liver-spotted hand spread across Kate’s chest, exerting the rhythmical pressure initiated earlier, pushing down as Maggie pulled the air out, releasing as it was replaced with fresh.

Still I knew it was impossible. I watched the collar of blood ooze from around the inserted pen, saw it flow down the collarbone onto the green velvet upholstery. I gave the Widow a fresh towel and took the soiled one, holding it in my hands. Kate’s blood. Beth moved, came to stand beside me at the end of the sofa, and together we looked down at our daughter in this grotesque attitude of death. It seemed ignominious, and I wanted to tell them to stop, to leave her alone, let her be; don’t do this dreadful thing to our child—the cut throat, the running blood, the streaming nostrils—

I must have made a sound, for Maggie stopped, then shook her head once, a firm shake, never taking her eyes from the Widow. I was struck by the horrible thought that the old woman had gone insane, was trying to suck the last bit of blood from the unmoving body, and again I thought, Christ, let them stop.

And then, before our eyes, the miracle took place. The chest heaved convulsively; the Widow quickly raised her head, and I heard the rush of air through the bronchial tubes. Never ceasing the rhythmical pressure on the chest, she shifted her position slightly, turning the head so that more liquid drained, while Beth reached for a towel and knelt to wipe up the excess.

“She’s alive,” I said aloud. The old woman shot me the quickest of looks, an unreadable one; then, cradling Kate’s head with her free arm, she shifted her back to a supine position, still using the other hand as a bellows. The breathing continued for some seconds, then stopped. I felt my body sag. Again the Widow used her mouth. The breathing resumed. Erratically, but it resumed.

She would live, she would live, I kept telling myself. She would live because of this old woman who was bending over her, forcing her to live, pushing the breath back into her body, giving her air to breathe. Beth had laid aside the soaking towel and was leaning on the arm of the sofa, her hands before her face in an attitude of prayer. The rate of respiration quickened, slowed, and quickened. After several minutes, the Widow took her hands away. The chest seemed to rise and fall of its own accord. The uneven breaths wheezed in Kate’s throat and chest, but they were breaths.

She would live.

Now the Widow was working at the hole in the throat, holding it closed with her fingers to stanch the blood flow. I came around her to a position between her and Beth, reaching for Kate’s wrist that hung limply to the floor, feeling the vein for a pulse. It was there; faint, but it was there. Silently I kept thanking God. Thank you, God. Thank you, God.

Again I heard the Widow mutter something, and she motioned for Maggie to hand her Beth’s work basket. She threaded up a needle, and as if she were quilting she calmly sutured the muscle and tissue together with a series of neat stitches.

I marveled at the way the ancient fingers worked, how deft and nimble they were, even in age, how carefully and gently they manipulated. When the stitches had been placed and the knot tied, she dug her fists into her back to ease the strain, but kept her kneeling position at Kate’s side, her eyes taking in every slightest movement.

I continued holding the frail wrist, as if trying to draw from it a stronger pulse beat. Beth remained where she was; Maggie was poised at the other arm of the couch. I could hear the low sound of the Widow’s voice; I thought she must be speaking to Maggie, perhaps to herself, perhaps making a prayer; I do not know what I thought. Crouched beside her, I began to feel the strength emanating from her body, a life force flowing out of her into the child. She bent close to Kate’s ear, speaking into it, willing her, commanding her to live. The words made no sense to me, but the fervor with which she spoke them engendered in me the utmost feelings of trust. I glanced at Beth. Her eyes shone; there was a small, rigid smile of hope on her tightly compressed lips.