Chapter Nine
A Handful of Snow
Wounded. There is so little information in that word. Laurie says that a wound could be something as simple as a bullet that cut through a bit of father's arm and will heal without further difficulties and that is what Amy believes. But I don't. People think I don't know things because I don't talk about them, but the truth is the quieter you are, the more people talk around you. I know that the Willis's boy took a bullet through the lung that left his breath whistling every time he breathed. And Mr. Jameson came home without a leg and told Mr. Greenfield that they didn't have so much as a swallow of whiskey when they sawed it off. Perhaps Father is not that bad, but they wouldn't call Marmee to his side if it was anything like what Laurie said.
I hated the atmosphere in the house when I packed Marmee's things, and Mr. Brooks rushed across the yard, and Jo came home steaming with anger because Aumt March wouldn't give us the fare for the train. So Jo got it instead: she let them cut off all of her hair right up to her ears. She said she loved it, that it felt free and boyish, but as soon as Marmee and Mr. Brooks left for the station and Laurie went home, she shut the door and cried for a full hour. Throughout all of that day, I did not cry, though I shook a great deal. I felt an odd sort of pride about it, but also a bit of shame. He's my father. He could die. Shouldn't I cry?
But I'm not ready to. Father could live just as well as he could die and the injury could be light. Marmee could arrive to find her services are not needed after all. That is what I will believe...until I have a reason not to.
Because someone has to hold things together.
We did well the first day or so. There were lots of hugs as we passed and no complaints about the burned breakfast, or going without the means to afford hot drinks while we were in town, and everyone tried to keep their things tidy. But now... Amy is whining because Meg is so distracted, she keeps pulling too hard with the brush. Meg paces more than she sits, wringing her hands together and she keeps throwing her sewing aside even though we'll struggled to cloth ourselves if she doesn't finish the mending. Jo is angry-at everything except for Laurie who has stopped by every day to take her for a walk and listen to her rant about how she wasn't born a boy. Even Hannah burns more meals than not...and Hannah never burns meals. Everyone is falling apart.
So I take over the hairbrush and try to please Amy with a style she insists on. I finish hemming Jo's dress with tiny stitches that will be hard for her to tear with her boot heel no matter how hard she stomps on her next walk. I peel and cut the entire bucket of potatoes and finish the breakfast dishes dishes and haul in the firewood.
What I don't do and haven't done is feed my canary and I honestly don't think about him at all until I carry the ironed clothes upstairs only to find poor Pip laying next to his empty water bowl with his tiny toes still curled from his perch. That is when I cry.
Sitting on the floor surrounded by fallen gowns, hugging this cage, crying harder and harder and nobody comes. Then I get angry, even though no one knows about my grief and stomp down the stairs
Meg looks up from a letter she's writing, but she didn't even ask or notice that poor pip is rolling around on the bottom like a rock. She might have noticed that I slammed the door, but if she did, she doesn't follow me.
So I cry again all the way to Ahren's house, trying to find words to explain for when he's inevitably going to ask why. My bird died. My father may be dying. I'm doing most of the chores and I'm so tired and no one seems to care.
But when I knock on the door and hear the bolt removed from inside, it's Lotchen who answers with eyes even redder than mine.
"Oh, Bet!" she cries. "I thought you were Ahren."
"What's the matter?" I ask, because something obviously is, even for the Hummel household. The baby is screaming, the fire is little more than embers with an occasional flicker, and there's no stampede to the doorway to greet me which is just as well because I brought nothing except a dead bird.
Lotchen hand goes out helplessly. "The baby is sick. Mother went to beg the doctor, but we can't pay him because Father has the moneybag. Ahren went to find him, and I sent the children to my sister's. He's so hot..."
Her words are fast and her accent so thick that I have to replay them in my head to understand them, but I'm already moving into the room toward Mary who is bouncing the baby. Her eyes are large with the desperation of someone trying very hard to stay when she only wants to run. I take the baby, and it's only a few minutes before I understand what's she's been through.
He's burning up, even though the house is chilly. He is inconsolable, screaming raw syllables that make my ears buzz. I unwrap the blankets, leaving him exposed to the colder air and that seems to help but also enables him to kick.
"He's got the Hummel boy temper," Lotchen says. "He was even louder this morning."
I glance sideways, but Mary doesn't respond. I've never seen Ahren angry, but I can't imagine him turning red or shouting.
"He's awfully hot," I say, then wince because Amy would scold me if she heard the word.
The baby's face twists, like he's mad at himself for being mad and I redouble my efforts to calm him, gently rocking him, singing, praying. In the end, the whimpers seem due more to his own exhaustion. He nearly starts up again when Ahren bursts through the door with an armful of dry logs he found somewhere. He shuffles across the floor, past me without even noticing and I can't help feeling a bit hurt.
"Did you get the money?" Lotchen asks.
"No." He drops to his knees, letting the logs fall with a clatter that makes the baby's arms flail.
"Ahren, we need the doctor!" Lotchen screams. "You said you'd find father and get the money."
"There is no money!" Ahren shouts. He stands and spins and I flinch seeing the Hummel temper on display. "He lost the money!"
I didn't know there could be fairer skin that the Hummels have, but Lotchen turns white.
She stares at Ahren before she stammers, "But... you hid it. The money you hid..."
Ahren glances toward the wall, but not in time to hid the lines that furrow into his face.
"You gave it to him?" Lotchen whispers.
"I had to."
"No, you didn't!"
"I had to, Lotchen."
"What are we going to eat? That's all we have until Spring! How could you have..." Lotchen clamps her mouth, glaring like he'd given her an answer, even though Ahren hasn't done anything beside pant with anger. Or shame. I glimpse it in his eyes just before he drops his chin. My impulse is to hug him but Lotchen plows into him, shoving him squarely in the chest and he stumbles into the wall.
"You coward!" She screams, then switches to German and fists his chest and shoulders over and over.
Maybe he doesn't want to hurt her because he knows he's stronger. Maybe he thinks he deserves it. Or maybe he really is a cowered, but he makes no defense except to shield his face with his arms.
Lotchen is half out of her mind and I stumble to my feet, tripping on my skirt and struggling to balance the baby. Mary runs back into the room, yanking on Lotchen's arm, screaming, "Stop it!"
She's so little, she can't really do much to restrain Lotchen but she breaks the momentum and Lotchen collapses onto the floor, sobbing into her hands.
I've seen Ahren comfort his sisters dozens of times, but this time he just stands there, dully watching the wall she just pushed him against.
After a minute, his voices rasps. "I brought you wood." No one moves and he wets his lips, then hunches his shoulders and moves toward the door.
Lotchen grits her teeth until she hears it open then snaps, "We can't eat wood!"
The door slams.
The baby jolts, then starts up a scream again. Lotchen pulls up her knees and cries into her skirt. Mary stands, stricken and when Lotchen's sobs have subsided a bit, she asks, "Are we going to die?"
Lotchen lets out a breath, but her eyes only rove like she's realizing she can't even find a genuine assurance to give to the girl. After a moment she answers with a raw voice. "If we do, it's Ahren's fault."
"You're not going to die," I counter, though I have realized throughout this horrible day that the March family does not have many more resources in the way of money than does the Hummel family. We have food, but not enough to feed our entire family and theirs, especially if Father dies. The greatest difference lies in that my father has history in this town, taught many of the children who are now coming of age or grown. We have our father's reputation to rely on. And the Hummels have theirs.
My arms are aching from holding the baby and I am afraid I'll drop him if I try to hug her, but I kneel in front of the girl. "Mary," I say. "You're not going to die. I promise. We will figure something out."
I will sell my hair if I have to.
"How?" The question comes from Lotchen but her tone is more defeated than defiant.
"I don't know," I say, though I'm already considering going to Mr. Laurence. Jo would have ideas. "But we always do."
Mary just watches me, then says, "I don't feel good."
Now it's my turn to freeze and pale while Lotchen spurs into action. She reaches the girl before I've fully realized her words, feeling the blotchy cheek.
"You need to go to bed," she whispers.
"I want to stay by the fire. I'm cold."
"You're burning up..." Lotchen pants, feeling the girl's forehead again before the door opens. We turn hopefully, but Mrs. Hummel clutches her shawl as she presses against the door to shut it.
"The wind is picking up," she says. "Is Ahren back?"
"He's in the barn," Lotchen says and when her mother raises alarmed eyes, she adds, "Alone."
"The doctor is delivering a baby," Mrs. Hummel says. "After that, he said he would stop by. I promised we'd have the money."
"There is no money, Mama," Lotchen says. "Ahren gave it to father. All of it."
Mrs. Hummel's jaw tightens, but she only pulls in a breath. "Don't tell the doctor."
"But how will we pay?"
"There are other ways to pay!" Mrs. Hummel snaps, before she tucks her face. She twists at the plain band on her finger. "I'll give him my ring," she mumbles but Lotchen just looks away.
I stand there, frustrated because I have nothing to contribute, but Lotchen touches my arm and whispers, "You should leave, Beth, before he arrives. If the fever should spread to others, you cannot be trapped here with us."
I swallow hard. When my sisters get sick, it often makes its rounds, leaving everyone little worse for the wear. But, perhaps because of Mary's fear, going home feels like taking a lifeboat and leaving the people I love on a sinking ship. But I must. She's right and the doctor will likely send me home anyway. Mrs. Hummel has taken the baby and Lotchen is reaching for Mary's hand. The best thing I can do is run home to scrounge money or food to bring back.
I take a breath and give Mary a hug, whispering a promise that I will bring some treats and she brightens, sending me a smile before Lotchen herds her toward the bed. They'll need better blankets too and I wonder if this could give me an excuse to bring the old quilt without embarrassing Ahren.
Ahren.
I pull the door softly, wincing to remember how hard he slammed it. Is he still angry? I don't want to see him angry, don't want flaws tainting the little book of memories I keep in my head. But I can't leave him, not like this.
There are no animals in the barn and only cracks of sunshine create bright patches that splice the dim light. There's a lantern lit toward the back and I can hear someone rummaging around in the tack room.
I'm afraid he'll send me away, though I can't say why, so I keep quiet, stepping as lightly as I can as I pass two empty stalls, a rusted tiller—and Ahren's coat.
I stop. The barn is so cold, I can't imagine why he would take it off unless he had to, so I call, "Ahren?"
The noises in the room stop. He doesn't reply. He doesn't come to the doorway.
Jo would barge in, but I don't want to. Not if he doesn't want me here. But I want him. I want to see him, to hear his voice in a normal tone. I try again, asking, "Please come out."
I hear the wooden door to a cabinet of some sort shut, a scuffing of boots, and then he's in the doorway near my face. I can hear him wheeze as he pulls breaths through his nose. His eyes still glint. His tone is cold and raspy as he asks, "Did you come to hit me too?"
His anger travels straight to my heart, creating its own flair but it doesn't last. "No," I say.
"Why not? Everyone else does."
The words are hissed but they wobble too. His fingers are balled, but his entire arm is shaking. I reach for his hand, pulling it between us before I vow, "I will never hit you."
The distortion melts off his face. He glances toward our hands, then toward me and the tremble overtakes his entire body like he's cracking in a thousand places and the hurt is seeping through. He regathers himself, straightens, then collapses again and takes a sudden step toward me. His hug feels like it will crush me, but I stiffen my knees because it also feels like the only thing that is holding him up. My poor Ahren.
I wrap my arms gingerly around his shoulders but the embrace seems to drive his shame and he buries his face into my shoulder. We stay there and my heart aches too much to feel any thrill, but I do feel a defiant sort of comfort. I know I shouldn't be hugging a boy alone in a stable, no matter how much he's hurting. But as Jo says, some rules are meant to be broken. Ahren is small for a man, but he fits together almost perfectly with me, like we belong here, clinging to each other in the middle of the mess.
His fingers curl again, this time snagging on my hair, but he shifts so he can step back and puts his forehead again mine. "Please, Beth, don't..." he takes a breath, swallows, and tries again. "I hid the money. I did not mean for him to see it, but he did. It is his money, what can I do? I begged him to leave some but...he said...if I did not give it...he'd break my shoulder. Then I cannot work. I thought I could find work...I meant to work, to bring it home but no one... no one will... What could I have done? I cannot work if he breaks it and there wasn't time to think...it wasn't cowardess... I mean to work and how can I work with no arm...?"
"Ahren, stop," I say and he does, but his eyes stay on me searching, still asking what he should have done, if he was wrong.
And that's the worst of it. The only part of the story that he questions is whether he should have chosen to cling to the money and allow his father to break his arm. Instinctively, I reach for it, setting my forearms on his, holding his arms above his elbows. "You were not wrong," I say. "And you are not a coward...You're bleeding."
I didn't mean to add the last bit to my speech and I miss his reaction because I've suddenly realized that my both of my sleeves are bright with blood.
He pales. "I'm sorry. I didn't think about it..." He seizes my hand but it's only to get a better look at my shirt. "I've ruined your dress."
I shake the shock from my head. "Ahren...you're hurt."
He winces. "It's fine." But he rolls his face to the side, then back, sending me a shamed look before he whispers, "It's glass."
"Glass?"
"In my back." His voice trembles. "I can't get it out. I tried, but…I can't see what I'm doing."
How did he get glass in his back in a barn? I sidestep, trying to get behind him, but he pivots. "It's not... it's not bad. Just...lots of blood."
I no longer believe Ahren's definition of what is 'not bad' and I'd hate to see what he actually would describe as 'bad,' but perhaps he's trying to spare me the shock of his shirt because the bit I glimpse looks awful.
The jacket must have covered the color and soaked up the excess in the house because I see now the trail of drips across the floor leading into the stable. This didn't happen in the barn. This happened in town when he was trying to get the money from a man who had already threatened to break his arm. He came home hoping for help, only to endure a second assalt.
"For God's sake, sit down and let me see!" I snap and stun him into compliance. He sits on an cracked milking stool and I take in deep breaths, trying to think of what Marmee would do.
His shirt is white but the back of it is a solid red and some of the blood has seeped down his pants. I peel up his hem, lifting it enough to see a jagged bit of clear glass protruding from swollen flesh. Most don't look deep but there are lots of shards, some so small they look like sprinkled sugar, increasing toward the middle of his back. I try to lift it higher but it catches.
Ahren takes another jagged breath, the reaches for the front hem and I hear a whimper catch in his throat as he peels the entire garment off. The movement shifts the glass, creating tiny new cuts that draws fresh drops of blood.
"Ahren, you need..."
A doctor. I stop myself before I say it. Our doctor a good man. Surely whatever statement he was trying to make about the Hummel's continuing lack of payment won't extend to fevered children and wounds like this. But if he's delivering a baby, it could be hours before he comes.
I amend. "Why don't you come inside and..."
"Please," he whispers. "Help me here."
Panic flickers and I sputter, "I don't know what to do. Some of these shards might go deep."
But they have to come out. I can't stop the bleeding if I'm pressing against glass and driving the pieces deeper. I take a breath and reach for a tiny shard, relieved when it comes easily and sticks to my finger. I'm going to have tiny cuts myself but fingers are the cleanest thing I can find in a barn and most of the tools have been sold off.
"Let me get a bucket," I say. I retrieve two and fill the second with clean snow, deciding if I dig out from the middle of the bucket, I can avoid most of the dirt. I wonder if I can take him to my house but the idea of making him walk there quickly shuts down the plan.
Get the glass out. Clean it up. Stop the bleeding. And as quickly also you can manage.
I put the second bucket near him. I don't know if the cold will bother him more than the glass, but it will slow the bleeding and help get the dirt and loose glass out as it melts.
I hope.
I take off my cloak and lay it on the floor. "Lay down."
"But the blood..."
"I have another cloak," I lie. "Don't worry about it."
The largest shard worries me as he moves. I may have to stitch it. I have the mending kit in my pocket where I slipped it when the boiling kettle interrupted my hemming. But I've never stitched skin and the idea makes me sick.
I shake my head and scoop out the snow, packing it between his shoulders and wincing when his entire body goes rigid. Maybe this is wrong. Maybe he'll get too cold. But blood dribbles down his sides, so I compromise and add the snow only to the top half of his back. I need a clean rag but I doubt I can find one in the house at the moment, so I use my handkerchief which is still clean. Hoping the snow has numbed his skin, I wipe it as clean as I can. Then I go after the stubborn shards, pulling them out and dropping them into the empty bucket.
"What happened?" I ask.
"Vater…gambles," Ahren says. "He can't stop himself. And I... I shamed him. I shouldn't have. Not in front of the entire room."
I was asking about the injury but I only hesitate to pull the next piece so I don't interrupt his talking. It's deeper than I thought, with a tip that goes on and on. He winces but seems relieved when it's gone. I pack the cut with a handful of snow, hoping that will be enough to quell the blood.
"Where did the glass come from?"
He shifts and his breathing picks up so much that it's making it hard for me to work. "The window," he says. "He put me through the window."
As soon as he says it, I understand the pattern on his back. The shoulders hit, retaining the most glass, the sides were cut as they scraped against the jagged edges. He didn't fall against the glass. He passed all the way through it.
"It'll have to be paid for," he says and then begins to pant again and I'm not certain that he's thinking wholly of the glass or adding his actions onto the bill.
"Where is your father now?" I ask.
He doesn't answer for a moment before he replies, "They took him to the jail. I think... just overnight."
"No one helped you?" I ask softly.
The shame heats the side of his face that I can see. "I ran," he says. "I thought... they would jail me too. And then... how can I work? They may still."
"You've done nothing to deserve jail, Ahren," I say.
"I am German," he says rawly. "The son of a drunken bum. That is enough." He thinks, then amends. "But he is not bad. Not all the time. Not with the girls."
I swallow because the bleeding is slowing and letting me see his skin and there are faded welts beneath the cuts. The skin is still pulled away from the deepest shard and I take a breath and dig for the mending box in my pocket. I eye the snow bucket but Ahren's already begin to shiver from the handfuls I've used.
"I need to stitch this," I say. "I've never stitched anybody before..."
He takes a breath but manages a weak tease. "Well, I've never been stitched before so we're about even." I wonder if he is feeling as suddenly nauseous as I am but after a moment he manages what I think means to be a shrug. "I've already been through a window today."
He has a point. After what his back has been through, pinpricks seem inconsequential. I reach for the snow but he shakes his head.
"Please, it's... I'm cold."
The only thing I can think to do is to hold the tip of the needle over the lantern's flame for a moment, numbly remembering one of Jo's characters doing it. Not that it really matters when he's laying on a filthy barn floor and will sleep in a house full of feverish children.
If his constitution succumbs to a sewing needle, it will have been the last of a long list of oppressors. I eye the glass still in his lower back but the cut seems to be the worst of his injuries.
I try to think of something to say, more to distract myself than him, but I am numb, too busy second-guessing my nursing skills.
"My bird died," I blurt, reaching for the flap of skin and wincing as I push the needle through it. "I forgot to feed it."
I see his eyebrows work but I'm not sure if it's surprise from the random announcement or the sensation of having thread being pulled through your skin. It's blue thread, to match Joe's skirt, and it looks even worse than it already would.
"What kind of bird?" Ahren asks.
"A canary," I answer. "He's name was Pip."
Anren almost laughs. "I'm sorry. Did you catch him?"
"No. No, we bought him when he was a baby," I say and it gets easier to make the stitches small and neat instead of trying to get the task finished with a few large ones. Maybe if I do it well enough, the scars won't show any more than the ones that are already there.
I wonder if Mother has stitched up Father, but I don't want to tell Ahren about Father anymore.
"He was yellow," I say before realizing all canaries are. "I liked the way he sang. Do you sing?"
I talk fast because I feel like I'm hurting him and somehow talking will drive away the pain.
"No," he answers. "Well...sometimes. Not when my back is being stitched." After he endures three more pokes, he hints, "You could, though."
I can't. For a few full three seconds can I even think of something to sing. And then a song comes so I sing as I stitch and he shivers in silence. I tie it off, snip it, and hope not to find anymore, but in the end there is a second gash on his side that pulls apart as he shifts. I can't see any more glass and the other cuts have settled into red lines.
I sigh and concede with, "There's another I'll have to stick." I touch his side to show him where and he jolts, turning his head quickly to stifle a cry into his elbow. I jerk my hands back. "I"m sorry. I didn't meant to hurt you."
"No, it..." he moans something in German and the word muffles against his skin. And I then I realize and almost laugh.
"Are you ticklish?"
"My side? Jah." He's almost panting but the moan seems a bit exaggerated. "My sisters...they know. They hold me down sometimes and torment me."
I'd tease him about it but he has enough sisters to be fairly ganged up on. I try for a weak tease. "Shall I call them to hold you down?"
"No." But he actually takes a nervous breath before he says, "It's alright...if I know you're coming. But…you touch like butterfly wings...you have to touch harder."
I'm ticklish too, so I know what he means but his skin is so inflamed I'm surprised he can feel anything besides pain.
I'm tired. I woke up tired and my arms hurt from the baby. I have no idea how long I've been digging out glass, but my hands shake with fatigue as I thread what I hope is the last needle.
"My sisters used to hold me down too," I said. "They meant it in play but I always hated it. I think they don't realize, because you can't help but laugh, that you're not having fun."
He smiles sadly and I wonder if he has anything in his life that is fun.
"Alright," I warn. "I'm touching."
He still braces, flinches away involuntarily but seems to force his side back toward me. And then it's alright. I keep my hand anchored on the skin and push the needle through with the other as quickly as I can mange, watching the gap close as I work.
Ahren just lays with uneven breaths, so slow that he sounds tired too. I wish for his sake that he could sleep through this but he suffers silently until I tie off the thread and slip the needle free from a string that hangs loose until I snip it.
"That's the best I can do," I say. "But... when you the doctor comes, he needs to look."
Ahren nods, but his eyes move away from me before he pushes himself slowly off of my cloak.
I watch but the stitches hold, even when he pivots to face me. His breathing is still labored. I see pain in his eyes but then he drops them and reaches to touch my hand.
I swallow. "Do you... have another shirt?"
He glances toward the bloody shreds and shrugs. "I'll stitch it up."
I swallow because once the numbness from the snow fully leaves, he's not going to be wanting to stitch anything. The shirt is not salvageable but what can we do? Borrow a blouse from Lotchen? Steal from a neighbor's clothes line?"
"What about tonight?" I ask because he wouldn't go to all the trouble of asking me to patch him up in the barn if he was going to turn around and let his family know what had happened.
"I have the coat," he answer." Button it high and they won't know."
I snatch up the shirt. "I'll bring it tomorrow." Or more likely one of Fathers. "I can mend it faster than you... but not with blue thread."
He laughs but only takes another breath before says, "Thank you."
I stoop for his coat, offering a closed-lipped smile and hold it between us.
"You're welcome." My face is heating, so I spin quickly and throw over my shoulder. "I'll come back tomorrow. I promised Mary treats."
I stride from the barn, snatch up my frozen cage with the dead bird, and start down the road. Cold seeps through my entire body before I reach home, and poor Pip gets a pathetic burial but my heart has developed a greater sorrow.
Meg's helping Hannah cut carrots as I let myself in after stashing Pip's empty cage outside and folding Ahren's shirt as small as I can to stuff into my pocket and make an unnatural bulge.
"Where have you been?" she asks.
"The Hummels," I answer and when my voice shakes a bit, I add. "The baby is sick."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Meg says. "Maybe Jo can go with you tomorrow and bring some of this soup."
"Jo's going to the theater with Laurie tomorrow," Amy says, "and they didn't invite me."
I nod quickly, then leave them to rush upstairs, rubbing my eye before I realize my hands are coated in dried blood. Laurie and Jo are outside, throwing snowballs at each other and I watch them from the window as I wash my hands in a basin full of pink water.
It's strange sometimes, how old Jo and Laurie are compared to me and Ahren. And how horrid it is that we live in a world where a handful of snow isn't always play.
