Under a Painted Sky (26 page)

All the blood leeches from my face. These are the signs of cholera, the deadliest disease on the prairie.

I CHECK EVERYONE ELSE'S HEALTH AND HEAR NO
complaints.

But by midday, we realize Peety and Andy are not fine after all. They also come down with the fever, vomiting, and
choro.
As Andy vomits for the third time in an hour, I start to wonder if the shortcut we took
was
Calamity Cutoff, and if I caused this by shooting the cholera man, even though I didn't pull the trigger.

How could I ever think I would outrun my bad luck? It is like a plague, spreading its contagion to those I hold most dear.

Since West and I have not spoken for nearly two weeks, words no longer come easy, but we work together to pull the others' bedrolls closer to the river, next to Cay.

“We should dig holes,” I say, rummaging around for spoons since we don't have shovels. We find a spot behind the shrub with the white flowers to dig our latrines. The flowers smell like oranges and freshen the air. We scoop up spoonfuls of earth. Father made a special blend of rehydrating salt for dysentery that he believed would also help the pioneers with cholera. No one ever returned to tell us if it worked or not.

“Cholera isn't always fatal,” I say without much conviction.

“At least we got a stream,” he says at the same time.

We pause in case the other has something more to add. Then we both start up again. West stops to let me finish.

“Father had a remedy—”

“What's in it?”

My digging slows as I try to remember. “Half a teaspoon salt, six teaspoons sugar, four cups water—”

West throws down his spoon. “Hell.” He glares at the mound we've scraped together so far, the size of a grapefruit. Then he starts clawing the dirt with his hands.

An hour later, we have three holes and two broken spoons. We kneel by the stream to wash. When Cay moans and clutches his middle, West grimaces.

“For stomach pain, we used blackberries and pepper,” I say. “There was a bush yesterday that Palom—”

“I think I remember the direction. I'll fetch 'em.”

“The thorns can pierce your gloves.” I dry my hands on a cloth. West picks up the other end to dry his. “Maybe use your fishing spear to knock them off.”

“I know what to do,” he says gruffly.

Now our hands meet in the middle of the cloth, and we both let the other have it. He plucks it out of the air before it drops to the ground.

“Might be gone for a stretch,” he says, like nothing happened.

“They'll be okay. I'll help them use the necessary.” I decide that is what we should call the holes.

“They got to use it a lot. What if you—”

“Don't worry about me,” I snap, crossing my arms over my chest.

He closes his mouth and looks at Franny, standing next to us. Her ears start to pull back. We bore her. As he straps on his rifle, I hold Franny's reins, willing the remorse on the tip of my tongue to leap out of my mouth. But nothing comes.

Fixing my stare on his shirt buttons, I notice that one looks different from the rest, a replacement for the one Sophie ripped off. I drop my eyes to his belt buckle, an even worse place.
Shake it off.
How can I think of that at a time like this? I refocus on the only freckle he owns, a solitary speck on the smooth curve of his cheek.

I soften. “I know you are afr—worried.” I switch words, remembering the chicken threat. Boys do not like to be seen as fearful. “But I'm stronger than I look.”

His brow wrinkles as he takes in my fingers, hopelessly entangled in the leather straps and getting tighter the more I pull. Turning my back to him, I hiss out my irritation at my nervous habits, which lurk like uneven floorboards, waiting to trip me up.

“Sammy.” That tone again, two parts exasperation, one part resignation.

I shake my head as I wiggle my fingers free and hand him back the reins.

“I know you are,” he says. He swings his leg over Franny and clicks his tongue.

• • •

For the rest of the day, I alternate between patients, feeding them the mix, and helping them to the necessary. I throw dirt into the holes after each use. I mix the salt, sugar, and water, praying I got the ratios right. Then I steep pepper in the kettle.

Andy's so still and ashen, she looks almost dead. I kneel beside her and take her limp hand in mine. It's cool, but not cold, and I put it to my cheek.

I want to talk to her, but I can't with Peety and Cay here. They lie motionless, and it's hard to tell if they're sleeping or just resting. So instead, I say a prayer for all of them and hope God is listening.

By my estimates, we are at least twenty days from Fort Bridger. Even if we reached the fort, what could the people there do? Most folks stay as far away from cholera as possible. There is no cure. We must wait for the disease to run its course and keep everyone hydrated.

Cay wakes up shivering, his lips blue. I scoot in behind him and put his head on my lap. Then I hold his cold face between my hands.

Cay blinks up at me hanging over him. “My stomach . . . ”

Another of Father's methods comes back to me.

“Want to try
tui-na
?” I ask, using the Cantonese word for a technique that uses pressure on certain points on the body. “I will need to touch your ears.”

“My ears?”

I nod. Chinese people believe the entire human body is mapped on the ears. I don't remember where everything is, only the key points.

“Does it hurt?”

I smile. “No. You might even like it.”

“Well, okay, but don't tell Peety.”

Sliding my hands up to Cay's ears, I tug at his lobes, then circle my fingers around the edges toward the center. There, I find the spot that corresponds to the stomach and press in toward his head.

He closes his eyes. His face twitches at first but eventually relaxes. When I hear him sigh, I begin to knead his earlobes with my thumbs, the loose and easy headtabs that indicate a charmed life, unlike West's. Some charmed life, nose against death's door and only eighteen. Maybe earlobes are not the weatherglasses of one's life that I've always believed them to be. Wasn't it Cay who got the boss's daughter pregnant? And didn't West survive that stallion bite? Maybe ears are just ears.

Cay moans, “That  . . . feels . . . so . . . ”

West drops down beside us, startling both Cay and me. I let Cay's ears go.

Cay's eyes slit open and take in his cousin. “You always spoil the fun.”

“Please, continue,” says West dryly, sweeping his hands at us.

I pat Cay's whiskery cheek. “I think you're better now. I'll go fix the tea.”

As I gently lift Cay's head, West slides in to take my place. Before I can leave, Cay says, “Why do you always smell so good?”

I choke. Maybe Cay's delirious. His eyes drift close. West watches me so I give him a helpless shrug and don't answer.

Cay's eyes pop open. “I don't have all day.”

I smile, because he can make me do that, even in my misery. “I smell like horse shit like the rest of you.” My face heats up at my vulgarity.

“Nope,” says Cay. “You smell like jacaranda. Oddest thing . . .  ”

Jacaranda? Those fragrant purple blossoms were Father's favorite. He couldn't know that. I lower my head while I collect my composure. When I look up again, I'm pinned by a pair of brown eyes and a pair of green ones.

“Cowboys ain't meddlers, but you got me balled up. Why're you such a secret?” Cay rasps. “You ain't no Argonaut, obviously.”

I open my mouth to deflect the question or give a cheeky answer, but close it again, suddenly weary. The boys have been nothing but honest with us, while I have lurked in shadows. Even now, with death knocking, the lies still flock to my tongue like ravens to a kill. What is the worst that can happen if I tell them a little of myself? This is not the time for a confessional, but the least I can do is be straight with him for once, maybe even take his mind off his suffering.

“I come from St. Joe,” I begin.

“Missouri?” asks Cay.

“Yes. Father's Portuguese partner in New York lost the whole business with one roll of the dice.”

“What'd he roll?” asks Cay.

“Four. That's an unlucky number for Chinese because the word for four,
sei,
sounds like the word for death. So Father decided not to rebuild the business and instead bought the Whistle in St. Joe, hoping we would join the pioneers one day.”

I describe the cold welcome we received in St. Joe, then end with the blaze that took Father's life. “He did not have a proper burial.”

My throat constricts, and I grab a fistful of dirt to distract my mind from the pain, letting it seep out like sand in an hourglass.

“We fought that morning,” I hear myself say. “I didn't want to move to California. After violin lessons, I sat on the riverbank instead of coming straight home.”

My shameful tears water the dirt as I bow my obstinate head.

I failed you. I should've been in there with you. I should've pulled you out.

Cay breaks the silence. “So he's an angel, then. We'll adopt you. Go on, West.”

West pauses a moment before reciting, in a gentle voice, “Welcome to the family. Keep your neck and hands clean, and scrape the shit off your boots before you come into the kitchen. And don't pick the crust off the pie.”

I laugh a little at that.

We let Cay sleep. I spread out my bedroll by the fire, and West arranges his next to mine. The two lone blankets side by side bring a blush to my cheeks. I am thankful it's dark.

“I'll take bobtail,” says West.

“What's bobtail?”

“First watch.”

He does not wake me for my shift. Instead, I rouse myself at sunrise and find him kneeling between Peety and Andy. Peety lays comatose, but Andy twitches like she lies on a hill of ants. Did West help Andy use the necessary last night? Surely he would have said something if he learned the truth. Or maybe it was too dark to see.

“Next time, don't let me sleep,” I plead, carefully watching his reaction.

He drops down onto his bedroll without replying.

• • •

West wakes in the early afternoon. I hand him a cup of coffee, suddenly struck with the urge to smooth back his rumpled hair.

“Andy needs help,” says West.

She is halfway off her bedroll and about to crawl over Cay. “I'll help him,” I say, nearly scalding myself with coffee in my haste to get to her before West gets up.

She clutches me with more strength than I expect. Her fingernails dig into my arm. “Isaac misses us something awful,” she croaks. “But we'll be with him soon, won't we, Tommy?” Her forehead knits and I can smell the bitter sickness in her breath.

She must be in the middle of a dream. “Sure, Andy. Of course we'll see him soon.”

I pull her, half stumbling, toward the necessary. Once she finishes using it, I resettle her on her bedroll. West brings over a cup of blackberry tea, and I put it to her lips.

“Being still ain't good for the horses,” he says. “They ain't fed enough either. I'll explore with them today. Maybe I'll run into some folks who can help.”

He takes out his journal. I have not seen him draw since that picture he sketched of my six-year-old self. The book opens to the page held by a leather cord. While he rips out a blank sheet, I catch a glimpse of the last picture he drew: a girl whose hair cascades over her shoulders, hiding her face in shadow.

It couldn't be Sophie, as she had ringlets. I recall his fitful sleep after the stallion bite, when he cried out, “She didn't do it!” Perhaps that “she” is the girl in the picture. Maybe a friend, or . . . There is so much I do not know about his life, and a part of me mourns that I never will.

He draws the route he will take so I know where to go if I need him. Paloma will stay behind with me. He tacks Franny, then leads the remuda out of Eden.