CHAPTER FOURTEEN—PART ONE
IN THE BATHHOUSE OF THE OCTOBER MOON
"Sorrow can be alleviated by good sleep, a bath and a glass of wine" (St. Thomas Aquinas)
Late afternoon... In the contagion unit, Slim was now settled under an improvised respiratory therapy tent—a bedsheet over a wooden frame, with bowls of hot water infused with oils of peppermint and wintergreen on the floor sending up congestion-relieving vapors. A calamine-coated Andy dozed on the cot behind the partition until the mattress for Jess' regular bed had dried enough to be brought inside. Emmaline had talked Slim into giving the pajamas a try and he indicated, even though he couldn't speak, that they were comfortable and he was pleased. Andy followed suit, once he saw that not only his big brother but his idol was willing to wear them. (Jess, of course, wasn't yet aware that he was.)
Jonesy got a shave and a liniment backrub from Peach. It took some doing to get him into a new style of sleepwear but once there he admitted they were an improvement on the hot and itchy union suit. He was sleeping peacefully in the bed in the opposite corner from Jess. Only one more patient to tidy up.
Peach was in the kitchen with supper under way (beef broth with barley and dry toast). Roop had milked the cow (after hobbling her back legs—no dope he!), having got an early start on chores. Feets and Oxtoe had finished evening feeds and were back to doing whatever they'd been doing earlier behind the house. Under the cottonwood, a folding wooden campaign table and three chairs of the same ilk had been positioned under the striped awning. Off to the side, Roop was cooking something at a waist-high, four-legged rectangular box that looked like a steamer trunk fabricated of sheet metal. Every time Roop opened the lid and poked at whatever was on the grid, flames leaped up and the tantalizing fragrance of barbecuing pork rolled in the direction of Kim's salivary glands.
(Nonie's commentary on hospital food... Kim somehow doubted he and his wardmates would be gettin' any of that for dinner no matter how pitifully they begged, and he was right. They was lucky Jell-O hadn't been invented yet. I mean, think about it... have you ever got barbecue on your tray in the hospital? What do dieticians have against barbecue anyway? And wasn't the Koski brothers' portable grill a clever idea, considerin' fifty-five gallon oil drums hadn't been invented yet either!)
With the afternoon sun bearing directly on the porch, Kim had once again squirmed out of the top of the union suit and retied the arms at his waist. He'd just stood up to stretch his legs and was facing away from the door when Lychee and Lucky sauntered out, preparing to head back to town with fresh requisition orders to be delivered the next day. Both of them stopped in their tracks at the sight of the tattoo—a prime example of IndoAsian or Polynesian representational art, Luca observed with delight. He was about to open his mouth but Lychee gave the tiniest of nods and put a finger to his lips, signaling to keep quiet about it. They said their goodbyes, climbed on the beer wagon and decamped.
Emmaline was satisfied that the situation was under control and that her nephew would find no fault with their efforts when he finally arrived. She was a little concerned that he hadn't shown up yet. She stepped out on the porch and turned her attention to Kim, who wasn't quite as scared of her as he'd been that morning although he hastily squirmed back into the top portion of his bunny suit.
"How are we doing?"
"We might survive if we can stay out from under horses," he quipped with a barely discernible grin.
"It's nice to see someone with a sense of humor around here. If you could have anything you wanted right now, what would it be?"
"Morphine with a tequila chaser?" It was Emmaline's turn to suppress amusement. She had a right little comedian on her hands.
"Does it really hurt that bad?" (Knowing it did.)
"Yes, m'am. It surely does. But only when I breathe."
"Aside from morphine—which you're not going to get by the way as we only serve that at amputations—what else would you like?"
"Seriously? A hot bath!"
"I rather thought so. I'll be right back." And she was, with a bottle of homemade blackberry wine, a bundle of blue cloth and a pair of moccasins. "I have something to show you that I think you're going to like."
(Gracie's note... Such utilities infrastructures as electricity, gas and piped water were as yet only a gleam in a Laramie City's municipal planner's eye but they were right around the corner and Emmaline was prepared for their eventuality. On her forays into major Eastern metropolitan centers and few sojourns abroad, she'd been greatly admiring of indoor plumbing and its attendant facilities, and by the fact that many foreign cultures—notably non-European—regarded daily full-immersion bathing as a necessity... as opposed to the weekly, monthly or semi-annual routines conducted by most rural Americans.)
She held out a hand. "Come along. Be careful going down the steps. Hold onto my arm."
"I think I can manage..."
"Just do as you're told. If you trip and fall down and break something else, I'll have to shoot you. I only have one bullet in my derringer and I'm saving it for Mister Harper."
"Yes, m'am."
They moved slowly across the porch, down the steps and around the corner of the house on duckboards leading to a large pitched-roofed rectangular assemblage of waxed canvas lashed to the wooden framework of the intended bunk house. Kim had seen it on an earlier trip to the necessary some hours earlier but hadn't wished to disturb the construction workers at their labors.
"What's this?"
"You'll see. Let's go inside." Up a ramp and through a flap door, Kim was astonished to find a Japanese-style community bathhouse. The tent had been partitioned by overlapping canvas curtains from behind which heat radiated and wisps of steam escaped. One of the smaller half-barrels was the wash station, with a bench nearby holding an assortment of towels, loofahs and soaps. The other small barrel was the rinsing station, with a pail of cold water and a dipper. The largest barrel—the soaking tub—was full of steaming hot water infused with Epsom salts.
Kim spoke slowly and sincerely. "Miss Emma... I think I've died and gone to paradise... but I'm afraid if I get down in there I won't be able to get back up."
"No problem... you'll have spotters... Feets! Oxtoe!"
There was a rustle at the partition and the two apple-cheeked elders appeared in a halo of steam with towels wrapped around their middles. (Customary modesty didn't apply within the confines of a bathhouse.)
"Yah, miss?" Oxtoe queried.
"Here's your first customer. He has broken ribs so handle with care, please."
"Yah, miss," Feets echoed.
"Sauna?" questioned Oxtoe. (If Slim had seen this first, he would have thought onikare—Lakota for sweat lodge.)
"Thirty minutes tops," Emmaline stated firmly.
Kim spoke up, "Only thirty...?"
"Maybe a little longer in a few days but not today."
"Why not...?"
"Because I said so. I know what those old farts do in there. They'll swill akvavit until they're knee-walking commode-hugging drunk. But they'll be fine in the morning... you, on the other hand, would be dead or wishing you were."
This sounded promising, Kim thought. "Where do they get that stuff here? All I've seen is rye whiskey and bourbon."
"Doctor Whatleigh orders it special for them. Look, if you start drinking with them you'll end up vomiting. And if you think your ribs are hurting now..."
"Okay... I get it. Thirty minutes. No akvavit. What's for dinner?"
"Beef broth with barley and biscuits."
"Yum. My favorite."
"Stop acting like a child. Here..."
Kim had assumed the wine was for the Koskis, but she uncorked the bottle and set it on the bench then produced a tin cup from a pocket. "An apéritif for Sky Lizard to enjoy with his bath. I find it to be an excellent restorative, more so than hard spirits." Said with a straight face.
"Madame is too kind," Kim responded, wondering why she was giving him such an odd look.
Emmaline unfolded the bundle, shaking out the pajamas. "These are all the rage back in England. They're called pajamas and they come from India. They were advertised in the Laramie Gazette as being suitable for both sexes. I have a pair myself and can vouch for their comfort. This is where I leave you... until suppertime anyway. Mind the splinters... they didn't have time to sand anything."
After she'd gone Kim shucked his clothes and joined the brothers in the sauna. The heat source was a kiuas—a little iron firebox on stubby legs with carry handles and a sectioned pipe venting to the outside. On top was a removable shallow iron bowl filled with fist-sized polished river stones over which cold water was dipped from buckets on the floor to produce steam.
(Gracie's explanation... This was the Koski's portable travel sauna, cunningly designed to avoid setting the tent on fire. At home they had a proper cedar-lined cabin with benches wide enough and long enough to lie down on and a water intake line running from the wellhouse as they preferred steam to the more traditional smoke.)
When his time was up, Kim soaped up, rinsed off and descended into the soaking tub. Utter bliss! Roop came in to join his brothers. The four of them carried on their conversation through the canvas partition. Kim asked many questions about the Koskis' homeland, where he'd never been. They were very much interested in his, which they'd visited a few times back in their sailor days but hadn't strayed outside the ports. They were especially fascinated with his tattoo and wanted to know when and where he got it and what it meant.
Kim sipped his wine and soaked in that tub until his fingertips pruned and he felt boneless as a ferret. He'd just toweled off and dressed in the blue pajamas when Emmaline the party-pooper came out to break it up and he allowed his slightly tipsy self to be escorted back along the duckboards.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN—PART TWO
THE CONSEQUENCES OF INSUFFICIENT DATA
"I feel like a mushroom... people keep me in the dark and feed me bullshit." (Unattributed)
Earlier... Jess was slowly rousing from his chloroform-suspended state between a dream wherein an elephant sitting on his leg was hosing chicken noodle soup from its trunk into his face and the reality of that same leg encased in a ton of white marble with five toes at the end of it, beyond them a white marble wall. As his senses synchronized he realized that it was his leg and those were his toes and what he was seeing was a bedsheet hanging from the ceiling. It took him another few moments to identify the room he was in... the parlor... but certainly not arranged as he'd last seen it. There was an odd-looking chair with a boxy bottom between his bed and the next, unoccupied bed. In the far corner Jonesy lay flat on his back with pillows stuffed under his knees (the classic gynecological exam position, if you can imagine that).
Jess remembered that evil little woman coming at him with a basin of water and intent to seriously invade his personal space. He remembered falling off the bed and the sudden jarring pain when his leg hit the floor. He remembered a lot of bodies and a lot of hands picking him back up. The last thing he remembered was the evil large woman coming at him with a cloth and holding it over his face.
Of course, Jess understood what had been done to him. This certainly wasn't the first time he'd been subjected to intimate attentions from females having nothing to do with amore. He needed more than just the fingers of one hand to count the number of times he'd been bedbound and unable to care for himself, usually due to having been on the receiving end of a lead projectile. And, of course... the other time he'd broken a leg. It didn't matter whether he was conscious, unconscious, delirious or comatose... the after-mortification was just the same.
He was feeling pretty darn humiliated right now but had to admit he was also feeling a damned sight better than he had earlier. He was clean, he smelled nice and was generally relaxed. His head was a little sore and his leg ached though not as much as before. The fact that he still had a leg was comforting in itself. Someone had taken a great deal of trouble in arranging him with his head and torso elevated so that his hip and spine weren't twingeing as they had this morning. The goosedown pillow under his head was softer and fluffier than the lumpy chicken feather one he was used to. Having a smaller pillow tucked under each elbow alleviated strain on his shoulders.
Clearly it would be churlish to complain about the quality of care he was receiving... except for those she-devils who seemed bent on drowning him or smothering him.
Jess could hear, on the other side of the curtains, the mumble of voices speaking in low tones and could see the shadows of several people moving about out there. He thought he identified one of the voices as belonging to Slim's friend Sally, the female blacksmith. What was she doing here? He could smell something good simmering on the stove and hoped supper would soon be forthcoming. His stomach was grumbling in anticipation. He resolved to accept it with good grace, whatever it was and by whomever it was served.
Slim had told him time and time again that his in-your-face attitude was his own worst enemy... that belligerence almost always engenders resistance rather than cooperation. And Jonesy was always trotting out platitudes about looking before leaping, thinking before acting, catching more flies with honey... maybe he should have paid more attention. Furthermore, he should have followed his own advice to Andy: Always stand clear of the stage when it's about to pull out. Acknowledging he was in no position to defend himself, he also pledged to be more cooperative.
Jess' thoughts turned to Slim and Andy... and how they were faring. Surely someone would have come and told him if anything dire had occurred... but so far no one had told or explained anything... not even how bad his own injury was... and this worried him.
Jess tried to get Jonesy's attention but the latter's head was turned away and Jess couldn't tell if the man was asleep or ignoring him. Jonesy was dressed in odd clothing Jess had never seen before, which was when he discovered that he was identically attired... an oversized button-front shirt with a collar and a pocket on the chest but no cuffs on the sleeves, and loose-legged pants with a drawstring waist, both of airy, soft baby blue cotton flannel.
The curtains swished apart as another Amazonian woman entered and pulled them closed behind her. At least, Jess thought it was a different woman at first until he realized it was same one in different clothes... a fresh starched white apron over a black blouse and long black skirt. Her corona had been unraveled and loosely replaited in a single long salt-and-pepper braid that hung over one shoulder. Her face wore an almost friendly expression and her voice was more of a pleasant contralto than what he recalled from hours earlier.
"Feeling any better, Mister Harper?"
"Yes m'am... and it's just Jess. 'Mister Harper' makes me feel like I'm standin' in front of a judge." He could have sworn he almost saw a twinkle in her grey eyes. "I apologize for the trouble I caused earlier. It won't happen again." (Meant fervently at that moment although his resolve to be good would weaken in days to come.)
"Apology accepted. It'll be much easier for everyone that way..."
"Yes, m'am... but m'am..."
"Miss Emma."
"Miss Emma... could you please tell me what's going on... what's all this..." He gestured toward the rest of the room. "What's this thing on my leg? Where's Slim and Andy... are they...?"
Emmaline had come in prepared to be brusque with her charge but was disarmed by the worry on his face and the distress radiating from those blue eyes. Instead, she sat primly on the edge of the unoccupied bed and folded her hands in her lap.
"Slim is very ill. He may be coming down with bronchitis or influenza—too early to tell. We're doing everything we can to prevent this from turning into lung fever..."
"Can I talk to him?"
"Well... you could talk at him but he has laryngitis and can't answer back... and in answer to your next question, Andy has contracted measles. Both of them have fevers and need to be in darkened, quiet rooms, so I've segregated them from those of you who don't."
"Why's Jonesy in bed?"
"Jonesy is temporarily incapacitated with severe back pain. He'll be on his feet within a week if he follows the doctor's instructions."
"And my leg... am I gonna lose it?" Although Jess spoke calmly it was impossible to not feel the fear behind his soft words.
Emmaline stood up and moved to the foot of the bed, running a fingernail along Jess' exposed toes. "Can you feel that?"
"Yeah... it tickles..."
"That—and the fact that your toes are pink and healthy—indicates adequate blood circulation. There's no reason why your leg shouldn't heal properly... again, if you follow the protocol..."
"Protocol?"
Emmaline resumed her seat on the bed. "The plaster cast will keep your leg immobile until the bones knit—it was a very bad fracture, by the way. In two more days the plaster will have set solid enough that you'll be able to get around in a wheelchair or possibly on crutches. In four weeks Doctor Whatleigh will cut the cast off and examine your leg to see how well it's coming along, then he'll replace it with a smaller, lighter cast from below the knee to the ankle. That one stays on for another three weeks but you'll still need crutches."
"But I'll be able to ride with it?"
Emmaline sighed. "I'm afraid not... not right away... you'll first need physical therapy for your knee and ankle..."
"But there ain't nothin' wrong with 'em... it's my leg that's broke!"
"I hate to burst your bubble, Jess, but your knee and ankle aren't going to work right away. Christmas will be here before you'll be able to put your full weight on that leg again."
Emmaline paused to let that unwelcome information sink in, watching the hopefulness in his eyes slowly transform to defeat... almost certain she knew what he was thinking: that he wouldn't be able to pull his share of the work around here, that he'd be a useless burden on the Sherman family... and that he didn't have any place else to go or any kin who cared. Her heart went out to him... she'd seen so many like Jess Harper... men who could be fun and loving and even playful but capable of terrifying violence when the world closed in on them and their backs were to the wall.
Emmaline was glad the wisdom of her years provided protection from the mistake a younger woman might have made. It was so easy—so very tempting—for a woman to convince herself she could fix a broken man and make his life whole again. Throughout recorded history women had torn their hearts apart trying to do this. Emmaline, who was a devout believer in evolution, imagined many a prehistoric female sitting alone in her cave by a campfire, crying her eyes out after failing to dissuade her mate from sallying forth with club in hand to boink his neighbors.
Was it truly possible for a man to put away his gun and assume a cloak of respectability? Yes, Emmaline thought but only if it was his own determination to do so.
"What about my hand?"
"The good news is that your fingers aren't broken. The bad news is Doctor Whatleigh believes you have torn ligaments and tendons which will also take several weeks to heal... you will experience difficulty using that hand in the meantime."
Jess couldn't suppress a moan of despair. "I can't live like this."
"Of course you can. And you will. Let me ask you this... how many times have you been shot?"
"Can't remember right offhand... I'd hafta think on it."
"But you've managed to survive..."
"Yeah but..."
"Look on the bright side: this will all be over in three months. It could be worse, you know. You could be a woman... pregnant for nine months... throwing up your guts every day for the first three and then carrying around a watermelon in your belly for the last two, not to mention having to squirt it out..."
Finally... a weak grin... and a blush. "Okay, okay... I get the picture." He'd never heard a woman speak quite so bluntly about a subject that was usually considered private female business.
Emmaline was intent on getting her point across—that he ought to count himself lucky to be a man with a broken leg rather than a woman in any condition. Jess was embarrassed enough... but he had another discomfiting subject he needed to bring up...
"Miss Emma?"
"Yes... how am I going to... what I mean to say is, when I need to... you know?"
"Ah... well... that's what this little beauty is for." She tapped the arm of the commode chair between the beds, which was when Jess noticed the package of Gayetty's tissue on the seat. But before he could express his indignation, she continued. "Doctor Whatleigh has arranged for the Koski brothers to stay here for as long as necessary. They'll be living in their campwagon out by the corral to take care of the stock and the stage and will also be serving as orderlies for, shall we say... personal needs. I hope that will satisfy your sensibilities?"
"Yes, m'am, I reckon it will."
"Splendid. Now, if there are no other questions, I need to help with dinner..." Emmaline stood up.
"I do. Have another question, I mean..."
"And that would be?"
"If Andy and Slim are in the back bedroom, who's sleeping in the front bedroom?"
"Myself and my cook-housekeeper Peach—the Oriental lady you met earlier? I'm assuming we'll be here several weeks so you two will have to come to an accommodation. But don't worry, tonight I'll personally be your server... if that's all right with you?"
"Yes, m'am... that'll be just fine! Thank you." Spoken with a genuine smile this time.
"I'll be back in a little while soon as we've got the others settled." She turned to leave.
"Wait a minute... Miss Emma... who's this third bed for?"
"We have a guest patient... an unfortunate traveler who managed to fall under his horse. He'll be with us for some time, I'm afraid, so you'll have company. I'll introduce you after dinner..."