One Came Home (20 page)

That afternoon I knew what I needed to do. We needed to leave and Billy needed a doctor. Billy’s face had gone putty-colored.

Still, there was a decision to be made. See, Dog Hollow was the closest town. Dog Hollow would have a doctor. And I did not want to go to Dog Hollow. I knew
who else
knew how badly Billy needed a doctor.

I imagined that even reasonable people do not have difficulty recalling the person that cost them a thumb. Forget the vain reasons—
Here comes Four Fingers!
—a thumb is downright useful. Fingers alone? A clamp, not a hand. Additionally, consider how many of us start life sucking our thumbs. Chicken soup doesn’t render half the comfort of a thumb. I tell you, people
like
their thumbs. Might as well send an
invitation for a personal vendetta. Never mind that it was an accident. I did it. I was a thumb shooter.

I suspected that Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat would wait for me on the road to Dog Hollow.

Billy and I could head back to Placid, but Placid had to be a journey of at least two days, and two days without a doctor would send Billy to his grave. You don’t turn the color of dust unless you’re returning to it.

As I saw it, I could choose between death for one of us (Placid) or a good possibility of death for me (Dog Hollow), since I’d be the one holding the gun in the shoot-out. I ask you, what kind of choice is that? Every time I thought the words “Dog Hollow,” I shook so badly I could barely hang on to the reins.

In desperation, I recited what I knew: I knew we couldn’t stay in the meadow. I also knew I didn’t have to decide which way to go until I found Miller Road. At Miller Road, I could choose between east (Dog Hollow) or west (Placid).
Let Miller Road be my crossroads
, I thought.

I was fidgety as we got moving. I’d tethered Long Ears to Storm and told Billy to hold the saddle horn. The repeater lay across my lap. (After that cougar, I did not trust myself to pull it from a holster.) I rode like some sort of ranger, with one hand on the reins, the other hand on the rifle.

I kept glancing back at Billy. He cringed with every one of Long Ears’ steps, even though we went slower than I thought wise.

*  *  *

The ride that followed goes on and on and on in my mind. It took work to find Miller Road. I did not have a map. I looped some.

Initially, Storm troubled me. I suppose I felt as light as a dried leaf to her. But what I didn’t have in weight, I made up for in will. I left little room for misunderstanding and Storm obeyed.

“Tell me one of Agatha’s stories,” Billy said, speaking for the first time in a while. So I told Agatha’s stories: the day the fox kits stole her glove; the story of the kingfisher chasing off a hawk by Cattail Pond. I told him everything I remembered of those last days with Agatha.

Then I told him the story of the old man who was visited by the white pigeon. I told the story fully, spinning it out further than Agatha had done: “As the white pigeon left, the old man peered out after it and saw that the sky was filled with birds. Two of every kind of bird on the whole earth waited for the white pigeon. There were big birds and little birds, long-necked birds and spindly-legged birds, birds with beaks like spoons and others with beaks like tweezers. Those birds came in every color too—green, purple, red, yellow, and orange. When the white pigeon joined them, all the birds flew up … up … up. Finally, the birds disappeared from sight and the old man stared at an empty blue sky.

“The wise old man stared into that empty sky until the blue turned black, all the while musing about those birds. When the moon came out, the old man got down from his
stool, stretched his back, and went to deliver the white pigeon’s message. Then he returned home and slept.

“The next day the wise old man stepped outside his forest lodge. He looked up at the sky, remembered the visit by the white pigeon, and was filled with joy. He spread his arms wide and began to spin. He felt like he was flying. He threw back his head and laughed. Then he closed his eyes and spun: spinning, spinning, spinning. He spun until he lost his balance and fell.

“But here was something unexpected: as the man fell, he never struck earth. Instead, he heard whirring. He opened his eyes.

“And what do you think he saw? He saw birds. Birds, birds, birds—a wing, an eye, a beak. They flew so fast he could barely make them out. All around him was a feathered fabric weaving itself in and out. It seemed the birds were lifting him. Or perhaps he’d grown wings? One of his moccasins fell off, and the man watched it fall, seeing for the first time that the earth was far below. That should have scared him, but the wise old man felt no fear. What he felt was the heat of somewhere better warming the top of his head.

“Then a bird called to him. He answered! The birds’ language melted on his tongue like honey, and when he spoke it, it felt like laughter. Was he laughing? Or was he calling?”

I stopped there. In front of me passed the Wisconsin River. Normally, I took joy in seeing those slow red waters. But this time I dreaded what came next.

“Won’t be long now, Billy. Miller Road has to be around here. Hang on,” I said. My heart started to beat furiously.

A minute or two later, I’d found Miller Road. I looked to the east. I looked to the west.

“Billy, tell me what to choose,” I whispered. I stared at the road, unable to urge Storm one way or the other.

I turned around in the saddle to look at Billy. Sweat ran down his face as he concentrated on hanging on to that saddle horn. Half dead, partially departed, one foot in this world and one foot in the next—that was Billy from the looks of him.

“Giddap, girl,” I said. Come what may, we were going back to Dog Hollow.

“What did you think of my story?” I said loudly to Billy. I said it only because I needed to think of something else besides the danger ahead. I did not expect a response.

But I got one: a thud.

Then: “Ungh.”

I turned and saw Billy had slipped off the saddle and fallen to the ground. His right foot was caught up in the stirrup.

“Billy?”

I no longer knew what to do.

I’m sure I do not need to tell you that it didn’t seem good that a man with broken ribs had fallen from a mule. I remembered that there was a section on building litters in
The Prairie Traveler
, but fire had reduced my guidebook and instruction manual to its spine. So I did what I could: I arranged Billy in a mostly flat manner. Billy sweated, shook, and spoke gibberish.

I had one last choice: to leave or to stay. If I left him to go for help, I imagined either animals or criminals would get him. If I stayed, he’d die—by the side of the road, in a nowhere place.

I would not let him die
alone
in a nowhere place.

So I sat by the side of the road, my ears listening for the hoofbeats of bad men coming, running my fingers up and down that Spencer repeater. I promised myself that when Mr. Garrow and Bowler Hat came, I would shoot until I was dead.

I started to have that talk with God, praying in earnest.

“Listen …,” Billy rasped.

“Billy?” There was a clarity in his eyes I hadn’t seen an hour earlier.

“Listen to me …”

I leaned down, closer. “I can hear,” I said.

“I need to tell …” His eyes closed.

“I’m here, Billy. I’m here.”

“The kiss … I
knew
you’d tell … I knew you’d see it from your grandfather’s study. I
planned
it so you’d see … Agatha said good-bye. I made it look … more … whistled …”

I sat back.

Billy opened his eyes and tried unsuccessfully to sit up.

“Lie down,” I ordered.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t want Agatha to marry Olmstead. Thought Agatha would come back to me if he was gone. She didn’t come back. She ran off. I knew then she’d never come back. When she ran off, I asked Polly to marry me.”

It had taken everything out of him to say it, cost him strength. He continued: “I
do
love Polly. She would have been … good wife.”

At that moment, I did not care about Polly. I also did not care that he had used the third conditional tense—“would have been”—suggesting the end was in sight.

“You manipulated me?” I said.

He did not answer.

“Used me? Answer me, Billy. If it’s the last thing you do, you tell me.”

Billy opened his mouth. “Yes …”

I stood up and looked down at him prone on the ground, so weak—nearly dead, as far as I could tell.

“So, so sorry … why I came
here
. To make up.”

I stared at him for what seemed like a long time. Finally, I said: “You did not show love to my sister. You never cared for me. You talk to your maker about it.” And I walked off.

I did not go far.

Furious? Oh yes.

But Billy was dying, for heaven’s sake.
Dying
. There is a night-and-day difference between “dying” and “dead.”

I turned around, went back, and sat near his head. I told him how it would be (not knowing if he could hear): “My name is Georgina Burkhardt. Miss Burkhardt to you. We are no longer on a first-name basis. In fact, from this day forward, we are strangers.”

It was what I imagined Grandfather Bolte would say under such circumstances. How I missed him then! My grandfather always knew what to say, and I imitated him as best I could. I tipped my chin into the air, and I gave Billy a stare as hard as granite. (It did not matter that Billy’s eyes were closed as I did it. It made me feel better.)

Then I whispered into Billy’s ear: “I’ll sit with you, Billy. I won’t leave. I’m right here. You are not alone.”

Billy’s mouth jerked open as if to speak. I leaned in. But all I heard was a hiss, a hard swallow, and “Fry.”

I put my head on my knees and started to cry.

Rocks popping under wheels.

Wheels. Not horse hooves.

I ran into the center of the road, waving the hand that didn’t hold the repeater. “Stop! Help! Man hurt! Help me, please!” I yelled.

The wagon pulled over to the side. I thought I was hallucinating when I saw Mr. Benjamin Olmstead.

Next thing I remember is waking in that miraculous room in the American House in Dog Hollow. It wasn’t a fancy room. It was slightly larger than a pantry, and held only a bed, a wooden chair, and a mirrored dresser with a bowl and water pitcher set on top. A small square window had been opened for a breeze.

But it was a room without memories. It did not suggest any pasts or futures. It was simply a
room
in a
place
in
time
. The ropes of the bed had been turned tight. The sheets were clean. A rug lay folded at the foot of the bed. In the closet hung a new set of clothes—everything from snow-white bloomers to a fine cloth blouse and, finally, a store-bought split skirt. (Where had Mr. Olmstead found that?)
The miraculous continued when I saw breakfast laid out on a table and, on the floor, a large copper tub for bathing. Every bit of it was paid for by Mr. Olmstead.

I did not remember how I got back to Dog Hollow, or to the inn. I later learned that Mr. Olmstead had traveled with his groundskeeper. Mr. Olmstead had lifted me into the back of the wagon, where I immediately fell asleep. The groundskeeper had found Billy. It took both men to get Billy into the wagon.

Hours later I was rubbing my eyes and pushing off sheets that smelled of sunshine. It seemed to be midmorning, though of what day, I could not say.

I walked to the mirrored dresser.
Is that me?
I thought upon seeing my reflection. The only thing that seemed familiar was my right eye. Then I poured water from the pitcher into the washbasin and splashed it on my face. After drying off, I put my finger on the great bruise and followed its orange and green shoreline as it skimmed around my left eye and lapped against the side of my nose. The deep purple of it lay over my eye and cheekbone. Tentatively I pressed it, watching it lighten and darken. It was tender.

A knock at the door. “You up?” came a voice.

Then, without waiting for my reply, a woman opened the door and walked in.

Unexpected entries no longer suited me. My encounters with bad men (and a certain cougar) had left me skittish. I hopped right into a corner.