Stepping Stones (3 page)

Moments late
r I stood outside Jessie’s room
.  Across the hallway, the door to another room stood open, the
bed
beyond
deserted. 
Gazing
out
a
window beside the bed, I watched as the sun
began to rise
on a new day,
absently
thinking
that it’s a blessing men don’t
have the power to gaze into the future.  I hesitated for what seemed an eternity, searching my conscience.

Then, at last, I opened Jessie’s door and stepped inside.

The Green Monkey

T
he evening sun had settled low on the horizon
when I noticed Christy Sullivan and her mother pulling their handcart up the dirt road.  Curious, I watched from the solitude of the
Farraguts’
barn as they approached.  I could see that fourteen-year-old Christy was doing most of the pulling, head
lowered
, a determined set to her shoulders.  She had on a blue hand-me-down dress that had been patched many times and looked too big on her.  When they got closer, I could also see
from the dusty smears on her cheeks that she had
been crying.

I was working on Sandy Farragut’s mare at the time. 
She’d gone lame a few days back
.  The big bay was part of a matched pair Sandy was mighty proud of, and he wanted her back in front of his buggy as soon as possible.  I’d
done
my share
of work
for
Sandy
over
the past year, and as he was
both my patron and one of my biggest clients
, I aimed to oblige.

Eighteen months
earlier
I had
started taking care of the
Farraguts’
livestock for my room and board.  Before long word
had spread
that I was good with animals, and now I’m doing vet work for most of the town.  In a farming community like Danville, animals are near as important as people—sometimes even more so—and I’ve done well.  In
a few years I may
have enough saved for a
small
place of my own.  I’ve done well, all right, but I’ve kept to myself. 
I have no friends in Danville, not really. 
I prefer it that way.

I was making progress with Sandy’s mare, but curiosity finally got the better of me and I stepped
from the barn and
out into the yard.  By then Christy and her mother had the
ir
cart pulled over in the shade
by the main house
.  Mrs. Sullivan spotted me as I rounded the corner.

“Howdy, Seth,” she said.

“Evenin’, Mrs. Sullivan.”  Mary Sullivan was a tall, attractive woman in her late thirties, but farm life had left her looking older than her years.  Her face was
filled
with concern, but I could tell from the way she kept glancing at her daughter that it was Christy she was worried about, not the
injured dog
in the cart.

Without being asked, I examined the dog.  A farm b
reed, he appeared to be mostly Irish S
etter with something el
se thrown in, maybe Australian S
hepherd
or Border Collie
.  He was a handsome animal—shiny tan and white fur, brown eyes, intelligent face.  Blood had seeped from his mouth to form a dark puddle beside his head.  One of his legs was flopped off at an angle, and I could see bone sticking through the fur.  His gums were white and he was panting, rapid and shallow, like he couldn’t get his breath.  I didn’t need to search around inside to tell he was dying.

“Can you fix him, Mr. Neuman?” Christy asked, her eyes holding mine, willing me to say yes.

I looked away.  I knew from her expression that her dog was probably the most importa
nt thing in her life
,
at least right then,
and I didn’t know what to say.

“Can you?”

Turning back, I regarded her again, struck by something in her
deep blue
eyes that reminded me of Ma.
“What’s his name?” I asked.

“Lucky.”

“Lucky, huh?” I said, skipping the obvious comment.  “Well, he’s hurt bad, Christy.  You know that.”

She swallowed
hard
, fighting tears.  “Yes, sir.”

Mrs. Sullivan placed her hand on my arm.  “Seth, may I speak
with
you in private?”

“Sure, Mrs. Sullivan.”

Christy’s eyes followed us as we walked to the corral.  When we were out of earshot of her daughter, Mrs. Sullivan said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, Seth.”  She stood for a moment worryin
g a loose thread on her sweater
.  “We . . . we’ve been having a hard time
of it this
past year, what with crop prices and that dry spell and all.  Fact is we just don’t have any money
to pay
for doctoring that dog.  He means a whole lot to the girl, but
we just . . .”  Her voice trailed off.  Then
she shrugged sadly.  “I r
eckon he’s dyin’ anyway.  I would
appreciate it
if you’d just put him down
.”

I looked across the yard.  Christy was leaning over the cart ministering to Lucky, her hands trying to give comfort.  I watched briefly, then came to a decision.  “There won’t be any charge for the doctoring,” I said.

“You don’t have to do that, Seth.”

“I know, Mrs. Sullivan.  I want to.”

She gazed at me
for a long moment
, then smiled
sadly
.  “Well, thank you, Seth.  And God bless you.”

I turned away. 
God has
already blessed me
, I thought bitterly. 
Blessed
me
and damned me in the same stroke.
 
“Tell me what happened,
”
I said.

“It was an accident,” Mrs. Sullivan answered,
seeming to sense by my change of mood.  When I remained silent
, she shook her head and went on.  “Christy and Lucky were down by the landing watching
workers unload
the barges. 
I reckon
you heard what happened
up
at Auger’s Crossing.  People have been heading downriver steady for the p
ast couple days now.  Anyhow,
Lucky was chasing some livestock and got caught under one of the big wagon wheels.  Wasn’t nobody’s fault.”

A chill ran through me.  It was a cool evening, but I could feel sweat beading on my forehead.  “What happened at Auger’s Crossing?”

“You didn’t hear?”

“No.”

“Well, i
t looks like the radiation poison is
showing up again.  Imagine, after all these years.  Nobody can figure where it’s coming from, but all of a sudden lots of folks there are coming down with cancer.  Them that’s able are leaving as fast as they can.”

“What kind of cancer?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

“Bone, I think,” she answered, eyeing me curiously.  “Fifteen so far.  Come to think of it, you’re from up that way, aren’t you?  Got any kin there?”

I nodded.

“Sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah,” I
said
.
  “Me, too.”

I walked back to the cart.  Mrs. Sullivan followed.  On the way over I thought about what
she’d
said. 
I had
tried to forget what had happened upriver, but I guess some things won’t stay
forgotten
.  In the back of my mind I’d always known it was sure to surface.  Now it had.

Fifteen men.

That left
four still to go.

Christy glanced up when I returned.  I didn’t make her ask.  “I’m going to do my best to
help
Lucky,” I said.  A hollow feeling welled up inside me as I watched her eyes fill with
the
tears
she had
held back earlier.

Christy and Mrs. Sullivan helped me get the dog into the barn.  We laid him on a clean bed of straw and covered him with a horse blanket. 
Then
I waited till they were gone. 
Next, before starting,
I steadied myself for what was to come.  I needed to find out how bad the dog was hurt, and there was only one way to do it.  Taking a deep breath, I sent my mind into him,
steeling myself
against his pain as my senses seeped into his suffering.

Fighting the impulse to withdraw, I closed my eyes and began my search.  His heart was racing in quick, hurried strokes, not doing much good.  Blood was pooling in his abdomen,
and
not enough
was
returning to his heart for it to beat properly.  There were two main areas of bleeding—one in a kidney, another in an artery running to the broken leg.

I repaired them as quickly as I could.

Next I decreased
the
blood flow to several other injured organs and constricted some of the surface vessels, too—getting the pressure up enough so
his
heart could work right.  At that point I began to think Christy’s dog had a chance.  But as I continued to explore his injuries, I discovered I couldn’t feel anything in his hind legs.  I couldn’t make them move, either.  Working my way back up the big nerve bundle
in his spine
, I found the problem. 
Several vertebra
had been shattered by the wagon wheel,
crushing the
nerves inside.

Lucky’s other injuries could wait.  If he were
ever
to walk again, I had to mend the spinal
nerves
right away.  “Take it easy, pup,” I
said. 
I smoothed the fur on his head and took away the pain. 
I had
found out what I needed to know; there wasn’t any reason he shouldn’t be comfortable.  I still felt his suffering, though, as sharp and penetrating as ever. 
I had
never learned to get around that.

“Go to sleep, boy,” I whispered, giving him another nudge with my mind.  He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.

By then the sun had set, but I didn’t bother lighting the lantern.  For what I had to do, I didn’t need to see.  Night gradually enveloped us.  I remained on the straw beside Christy’s dog, linked together with him as
if we were one.  And g
radually, as I worked, the
pain
I felt
flowing
from him began to ease.  And as it did, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to Auger’s Crossing . . . back to the day that had forever changed my life.

*        *        *

Come hell or high water, Pa had decided we were going to move that boulder in the north field.

It was one of his projects, one of the ones
he would
dream up when
ever
he had a skinful of liquor—like the time he decided we were going to dam the river.  It couldn’t be done, but it was easier to just go along than try to persuade Pa otherwise.  Right from the start I knew this was go
ing to be another of his fiasco
s. 
We had
been plowing around that rock for as long as I could
remember
, just like Grandpa
had,
and
Grandpa’s
father before him.  It was just too big to move.

We had
cut our
hay
weeks earlier, but then the rains had come with a vengeance, preventing us from getting
our crop
off the ground.  Eventually the sun had come out, once more turning the weather hot and dry, and we’d finished the harvest at last.  As far as I was concerned the season was over, but Pa unexpectedly announced that we had one more chore.  We were going to move that rock before the ground froze, and there was no use arguing.

Georgie woke me at first light.  “Seth, get up,” he whispered, lowering his voice so’s not to disturb Pa.  He needn’t have bothered. 
Pa had
spent most of the previous night at the tavern.  Since Ma
had
died
he’d
taken to drinking there on a regular basis, and it was a safe bet he wouldn’t be up before noon.

“Lemme sleep, Georgie,” I
mumbled
.  “We don’t have to start this early.”

“C’mon, Seth.  Let’s surprise Pa.  Let’s do it all by ourselves.”

Aw, Georgie . . .”

“Please, Seth.”

I propped myself up on one elbow, squinting in the half-light at my
older
brother Georgie.  He was big, with thick blond hair that stuck up in back in the worst cowlick you ever saw.  He had a huge grin on his face, and I could tell he was excited.  Georgie saw moving that rock as a chance to please Pa.  He didn’t understand it was just too big to move.  Georgie didn’t understand a lot of things.

I had
turned fifteen earlier that summer.  Georgie was four years older
than me
and half again my weight, but I still thought of him as my little brother.  “Okay,” I groaned, realizing there was no way
I would
be getting any more sleep that morning.  “I’m getting up.”