CHAPTER 10 - FRAGMENTS
Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.
~ John vi. 12
How long had it been since he'd been maimed by that damned bullet fragment? Time didn't matter when there were no landmarks. Even if there were, they meant nothing to him any more. Whether on his stomach or on his back, Johnny stared bleakly at a world gone terribly awry.
It was early morning, a few days after the operation, when Scott came in, accompanied by the nurse, Marybeth. She smiled at the patient in a kind way, but went about her duties efficiently, treating Johnny like just another body to assess, turn over, and re-bandage. Scott noted how uncomfortable Johnny was with her presence, so he told the nurse he would do the rest, that she could go. Although Marybeth pursed her lips and said that Dr. Jenkins wouldn't like it, Scott insisted, so she left Johnny's care to him.
Once she was gone, Scott brought Johnny a clean chamber pot and helped him to get ready for the day. Johnny said very little while Scott shaved him, cleaned him up and changed his nightshirt. It took some time, but when his younger brother was settled back in bed, Scott proceeded to straighten the room, putting some of the medical paraphernalia away in a drawer. Johnny watched him from behind half-closed lids, wondering if out of sight was out of mind.
There was a knock at the door and one of the kitchen girls appeared, bearing a tray of food and drinks. She looked curiously at the man in bed, but Scott took the tray, thanked her and quickly ushered her out. Johnny was glad; he did not like being an object of speculation.
Scott poured some tea and encouraged Johnny to drink some, then offered him a bowl of hot cereal for breakfast. While Johnny ate, the bowl perched on his stomach, Scott talked. "Back in Boston," he said, pulling a chair near the bed, "George Beauregard and I lived near each other, but it wasn't until after the war that I got to know him properly." Scott reached over to the tray and helped himself to a slice of toast. "I was home recovering and one day I saw smoke pouring out of a window in a house across the square. Of course, I thought I'd do the brave thing, even though I was in no shape to be running around. I rushed over, expecting to be putting out a fire, only to discover that George was in the middle of conducting a scientific experiment in his bedroom." Scott laughed at the memory. "He studied chemistry at the university, but became a doctor when the war broke out; he was always experimenting."
"If you believe so much in Doc Beauregard," Johnny suddenly asked, "why did you say that it was better for Sam to operate on me?"
"Beauregard is a fine surgeon," Scott replied cautiously. "But Sam Jenkins, even though old school, is more than capable." He hesitated, then added, "I knew that you needed me to show my approval of Sam because you'd seen my contention with him. You don't think that there would have been a different outcome if Beauregard had performed the operation, do you?" He looked at Johnny with concern.
"I'll tell you what I think. I think I never should have let anyone cut into me," Johnny said adamantly. "I think that the lead in my back would have stayed right where it was and never woulda bothered me."
Scott rose from his seat and objected, "Johnny, you can't second-guess the results of the operation. It won't help matters at all. Of course we all feel terrible this happened to you, but we have to move on from here. We have to concentrate on getting you better."
"We?" Johnny's voice raised as his anger escalated. "'We' are not lying in this bed. This is me, with legs that don't work any more! Only me! I should have followed my instinct and just picked up some more salve for my hip and got the hell out of there while the going was good." He pushed the bowl of half-eaten cereal away in disgust.
Scott was not surprised that Johnny was infuriated. On the contrary, he wondered why it had taken so long for his brother to become incensed. At least Johnny had finally decided to put up a fight rather than lie like a lump in bed, letting people take care of him. Calm in the face of his brother's anger, Scott took Johnny's bowl and placed it on the side table. "That wound on your hip was infected, and you know it."
Even though Johnny knew that he had needed a doctor's care, he wasn't about to say so aloud. He might have eventually gone in to talk to Sam on his own, but he didn't like that he was manipulated into seeing a doctor. "You steered me right into your Dr. Beauregard's office and you two ambushed me, Scott. You were planning that right from the get-go, weren't you?"
Scott stood his ground. "No, I didn't plan it, or not until I talked to Beauregard. Face it, Johnny, you could barely stand the ride into town, with your hip, and apparently your back, hurting you so much. When it was obvious you weren't going to do anything about it, I chose to ask the doctor to take a look at you."
Johnny raised his head and shoulders off the bed and shouted, "Well it was the wrong choice! Look at me, Scott! Look at me." He pulled the blanket and sheet away from his legs, exposing them. They looked the same as they always had, only looks were deceiving, he knew all too well. He grunted as he made a vain effort to move his dead limbs. There was no reaction, not even a twitch of a toe. After several attempts, exhausted and sweating, he gave up and fell back onto his pillows, his hands clenching his bedding in frustration. "You and your damned doctors!"
Scott moved to pull the covers back up, but Johnny struck out at him. "Come on, Johnny, don't," Scott pled. He caught one of the flailing arms, but when Johnny's other fist struck him hard enough on the chin to cause a surge of instinctive anger, Scott shouted back, "Johnny, calm down!"
Johnny glared at his brother with something in his eyes that was near hatred, then shook him off. "I'd rather be anywhere," Johnny said between clenched teeth, "than in this hell you stuck me in." He turned away and shut his eyes. "Get out."
Scott remained at the bedside for a minute, his face stiff, and then he slowly pulled the covers over his brother's chest. "You can blame me all you want, Johnny, but don't blame Sam. He did everything he could for you. You know the kind of man he is. How do you think he feels about what's happened to you?"
Turning his head only a little, Johnny spat, "You think I care how I got this way? That some old geezer who shouldn't call himself a doctor any more made a mistake? I don't! Right now all I care about is you leavin' me alone."
"All right, Johnny. All right," Scott said quietly and left.
Johnny lay there and thought about the choices he'd made and the 'what ifs' until it drove him nearly crazy. He never should have stepped over the threshold of the doctor's office. He should have known Scott would tell his doctor friend about his hip injury. He never should have let some old country doctor cut into him. He could have lived with the occasional twinge. So many should haves, regrets and no way of turning back time.
Johnny seethed and swore at Scott and at Sam, as well as at himself, but after a long while he calmed down a bit. It wasn't Scott's fault that the result of his good intentions had gone south. And he didn't really blame the doctor for his paralysis. He had always had the utmost trust in Dr. Jenkins, and the truth was the doc was one of the very few people in the world that Johnny felt comfortable confiding in. It just felt good to cast blame around. If there was one person he should hold accountable, it was himself.
In the first place, Johnny knew that he never should have turned his back on the man who had shot him - the Southern trader. And that man's violence had originated from his fear of Johnny - fear that the ex-gunfighter had used to his benefit now and then in business dealings. Johnny never threatened anyone outright, but he had sometimes used his past reputation to press a point. Well, that was one time it had really backfired. Now he had to live with the consequences.
Johnny threw his arm over his eyes and took deep breaths. He was so angry about his present situation, but everyone was being so compassionate and caring. They were happy to feed him and bathe him and do everything they could to keep him as pain-free and content as was humanly possible. It could be a lot worse, he reasoned. He told himself he could be all alone somewhere with no family, no home, no hope.
/ I won't fight them any more. I won't be mad. /
But he was.
Scott made himself scarce the rest of the day, and so it was Murdoch who kept Johnny company. Murdoch was attentive but not conspicuous. He read some chapters of a novel to his son, or just sat quietly reading a newspaper or writing letters on the table in the corner. When he needed to lift Johnny, he called Cipriano in, but otherwise they were alone. Also, on the doctor's instructions, Murdoch exercised the muscles of his son's legs three times a day.
Johnny knew it was futile, but if it gave the old man purpose, well, it wasn't hurting him. . .much. He felt an uncomfortable pressure up his back every time his father brought the leg up and gently pushed his knee towards his chest. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling, and his breathing under careful control, Johnny was able to keep his winces to a minimum.
"Is this too much for you, son?"
"No," Johnny gasped. He was drenched with sweat and was already feeling depleted after only ten minutes of the therapy.
Murdoch started in on the other leg. "Do you have any feeling in them?" he asked cautiously.
"No. It's sort of like they're asleep." He did have a slight amount of feeling in his thighs, mostly when his knees were brought up and towards his body. When he touched them with his hands, there was a dull sensation, as if there was a thick barrier between the two surfaces. He was aware of his lower limbs, and could feel pain in them, but he could not move them. They were dead and gone. "My back hurts some," was all he could say.
"Try moving your legs," Murdoch encouraged.
His father still clung to some hope of Johnny recovering, it was clear. Johnny, who had no such delusions, said irritably, "Maybe later." He saw the disappointment in his father's eyes, so he offered, "How about I try later on when the doc is here?"
Murdoch nodded with approval of the plan. When he finished the round of what Johnny privately referred to as the torture, the older man settled Johnny back under the covers. Murdoch said offhandedly, "I hope your brother didn't say something to upset you."
Startled, Johnny was slow to reply. "We don't see eye to eye." Murdoch looked worried, so Johnny asked in return, "Did you always agree with your brother when you were young?"
"Ah, no." Murdoch smiled ruefully. "But if we hadn't been at such odds, I wouldn't have left the old country and, as they say, the rest is history." His smile faded. "Scott has had a hard time since Jenny died. I think your coming here has helped him find some hope again. Awakened him."
Johnny did not say aloud what was in his mind: You mean seeing how hopeless my life has become has made Scott relieved that he's not the one in this bed? He unconsciously nodded in acknowledgment of his father's words, and held back any retort.
After hovering for a while, Murdoch, at Johnny's insistence, reluctantly left in order to deal with some of the never-ending ranch business.
In just the past several days, Murdoch had occasionally wavered when faced with a decision to make, but Scott had stepped right up each time. Johnny imagined that he could see his father aging from worry, yet Scott had apparently traded places with him to become the head of the household. It seemed incongruous that it had taken his crippling injury to kick his brother in the ass. Scott was coming back to life even as Johnny was embracing death as a viable alternative. Despite his dark mood, Johnny gave a small chuckle.
"I'm glad that you still have a sense of humor," Scott said as he entered with a tray in his hands. He saw Johnny's immediate suspicion and added, "It's only food." Soon he had raised Johnny using the backboard and handed him a bowl and a spoon. "Is stew all right for supper?"
Johnny shrugged and moved his spoon around in the stew to see what was in it: something brown, something orange, something green. He also was thinking of what to say, if anything, to his brother; he wasn't sure how to approach him. Scott was acting as if they'd never had a quarrel, but Johnny didn't like it hanging over them.
"It's safe. I didn't cook the stew," Scott said by way of explanation.
Tentatively, Johnny sampled the food. It was good, and he realized he hadn't had anything substantial to eat in several days. No wonder he was so weak; it wasn't only from blood loss from the operation. "Thanks," Johnny managed to say.
"You can thank Maria. She even said a little prayer over it," Scott said with a slight smile.
"I meant thanks for doing everything for me," Johnny said in between spoonfuls. "I know I've been difficult. I don't want to put anyone out."
Scott said casually, "You'd do as much for me."
Johnny played with his food for a minute. "I shouldn't have hit at you like that. Guess I'm not thinking straight. If it helps any, I got my punishment when Murdoch exercised my legs." He gave a short laugh.
"You're not being punished, Johnny."
"No, I know, but it's a waste of his time."
"I mean this isn't some sort of test from God or a punishment for past offenses."
Johnny nodded. "I knew what you meant. But, you see, my legs. . .they're gone and they're not coming back. I can tell." He ran a hand down his thigh and didn't look up. "I can't feel. . ."
Trying not to show his alarm, Scott asked, "You mean it's worse?" For a while Johnny didn't reply, but Scott waited with trepidation.
Finally the dark head nodded. "I can't feel anything up here now." Johnny's hand rested on the top of his thigh. "I could feel something before. Just a little, but not any more. It's creeping up." He turned his gaze to meet Scott's, his eyes full of apprehension. "I. . . I can't tell Murdoch."
"You'll tell Sam though." Scott's felt as if his heart was being constricted. No wonder Johnny had struck out at him; the fear and uncertainty must be crushing. "You have to trust him, Johnny."
Johnny nodded. "I do. Lets not talk about this, okay?" He sighed and went back to eating the stew, then sampled some crackers while he tried to find the right way to approach something else he'd been worrying about. "I was thinking, Scott, that maybe me staying here isn't going to work out." Scott objected, but Johnny said, "Now hear me out. I don't mean right away, and I know I have a way to go with healing and such, but I think I need to go. . .to go home." He dropped his eyes to the crumbs on his chest and started picking them up. "Home to San Francisco." He had to leave Lancer before he became too used to it, and his house in San Francisco was his only alternative; he had nowhere else to go.
After a long pause, Scott spoke. "Of course, if that's what you want, Johnny. Natalie will be there for you, and we can arrange for any assistance you need." He took in a breath and looked uneasily at his brother. "You know that there is an alternative. You can consider moving back to Lancer. Move everything here, your wife, your business." Scott was suddenly enthused with his idea. "We could set up an office here, and employ someone to do the legwork-." He stopped cold and looked uncomfortable. "I'm sorry, perhaps that was a bad choice of words."
"It's fine. I'm stuck with this and that's the sorry truth, Scott. I'd better face it sometime and so should you." Johnny took a deep breath and winced. He could feel the stitches pulling along the incision in his back if he inhaled too deeply, and the pain, although dull for the moment, was wearying. He put the bowl aside and said quietly, "I'll think on what you said. I need to rest now."
Later on, under the watchful supervision of the doctor, Johnny was supported into a sitting position. "Take it very slowly, Johnny. We're not out to impress anyone," Sam cautioned.
"Believe me, I'll be the one who's most impressed if I can sit up," Johnny responded with a touch of humor. Scott had an arm around his back and did most of the work at first, but once Johnny was half way up, he was emboldened to put his little-used back muscles to work. Finally he was sitting upright in bed, a pile of pillows behind his burning back, with beads of sweat on his brow and a grin on his face. "Guess this is some accomplishment, huh?"
Scott smiled back and nodded his approval. "Well done, brother." He was more than glad to see Johnny's face bearing a smile. God knows, he hadn't had much to be happy about, and as for his future, Scott knew that was going to be a very rocky road indeed.
Johnny turned to the doctor and asked plaintively, "Doc, does this mean we can do without the nurse? She's nice enough but. . ."
Laughing, Sam agreed, saying, "I think you have enough people here to meet all of your needs, Johnny. I've given your father instructions to continue exercising your leg muscles. You need to keep them limber, even if they're not functioning right now."
It didn't make any sense to Johnny, especially as their function was obviously not about to return. After sitting for a while, listening to Murdoch and Sam talk about the local news and cattle prices, Johnny was aching from his neck down to his rear end but wouldn't say so. Luckily, Murdoch saw the telltale signs of physical stress in his son, so both he and Scott slid Johnny back down to a flat position in his bed and Sam gave him some medication. When the patient said he didn't want anyone watching over him, Murdoch turned the lamp down and left him to rest while he and Scott went downstairs to have supper with the doctor.
Johnny was relieved when they were gone. He knew they only wanted the best for him, and he was glad he'd been able to sit up, but afterwards, alone in the dark, it sunk in how little he was going to be able to do on his own. Sure, the medication helped with the pain, but underneath its thick, narcotic haze, was the knowledge that even if the discomfort went away and the wounds healed, his body was never going to fully recover. Johnny had never envisioned living out his days in such a state.
Back when he was very young and still a green youth who just happened to have some skill with a gun, he had thought he was invincible, and when he had grown older he knew better but faced the reality of death head on. But to be like this, crippled, dependent, living less than half a life was untenable.
***–***TBC