Dance With Me
-If the Caged Bird Wanted to Fly, Shouldn't Have Got Himself Shot-
Never in my life have I had to endure a man such as Forrest Bondurant. And by endure, I mean my tolerance for this man hung on by a thinning thread. Stubborn as a mule, and dumb as a rooster, he was. Kept me working long hours, leaving only after he was asleep, and arriving again before he could wake. In those first few days, I discovered real quickly what would happen if I left him unattended for too long. The madman overestimated his strength, thinking he could go on right ahead and climb out of bed at his convenience. On more than one occasion, I'd found him standing at the window, bleeding right through his pajamas from stretched stitches, or collapsed in a heap on the floor in a failed mission, too weak to get himself back into bed.
Forrest was a man of many noises, but he hardly ever said a word. I spoke to him freely and openly, mostly to tell him how stupid I thought he was, and how exhausted he was making me. He listened, I know he did, always watching me with those gray eyes that gave nothing away about what he was feeling. He acknowledged what I said with the occasional grunt or heavy sigh, and I took pleasure in the fact that I had to at least been irritating him a little.
Sometimes I cursed the Doctor for assigning me this man, but I suppose it was just the luck of the draw. None of the other nurses seemed surprised to find Forrest there, many even relieved that he was not their responsibility for this particular visit. They told me of his reputation; how he was supposed to be invincible, immortal even. It seemed to only encourage tries on his life, the world and its people interpreting his legend as a challenge. Apparently only just last winter, it was said that he walked twelve miles to this hospital in the snow, with his throat slit clean open. They said it was true, said they found him on the doorstep, but I just couldn't believe it. There's nobody breathing, let alone standing and walking with a cut throat.
But the man had the scar, thin white line horizontal across the thick of his neck. I was beginning to think that Forrest Bondurant was something of the devil, instead of God's miracle.
So were his friends.
They flooded in and out of his room as steady as an ocean's tide, making my job all the harder, as they incessantly resisted when I told them they had to leave. It was frequent chore, too, as Forrest was one high-maintenance man, as much as he'd like to think otherwise. Had to feed him like a damn baby, since he couldn't lift his arm proper due to the high wound, and was so uncoordinated with his other it was almost sad to watch him try. He required naps in short intervals throughout the day, and an uncomfortable amount liquid kept in his system, which meant I had to request the privacy to replace the bedpan every so often. He needed his wounds redressed every few hours, and his bedding changed every other day. And since he couldn't keep lying down, he needed sitting like a child.
The men visitors didn't put up too much of a fuss. They questioned why they had to leave, and upon my reasoning, most would tip their hats and be on their way. I'd have to shoo the same two men out of the room at multiple times daily. The same men that had carried Forrest. Brothers, as I understood it now, whose names were Jack and Howard. After so many times meeting, I figured it was good to know the pains in my side by their proper names. Without fail, every day I would walk in mid-morning, early afternoon, or just before bedtime, and at least one of them would be there, sitting or standing at Forrest's side, muttering to him as he stared in their direction. I would roll my eyes and tell them to "get", and like clockwork they would ask why.
Howard by far was the most intimidating. Little Jack, all I had to really do was yell at him to get on back to bed before I shot him again, and he would scramble out of the room. Howard stood his ground, towering over me and silently daring me to force him to do something he didn't want to. I knew he knew how to respect a lady. I'd seen how he opened doors and took his hat off when addressing the other nurses. And I suppose it was partially my fault for not being received so kindly. I like things done the first time I ask, and I don't like my authority being questioned. Forrest would make himself useful by stepping in and agreeing that it was high time he took his leave, and like a good brother, Howard would obey. But he made sure I knew he was leaving because Forrest told him to, not because I did. Damn outlaws had to make a conflict out of everything.
Now, the men were all right. Sure, they scared me some. They were criminals who could commit murder without remorse. I'd be insane not to have some trepidation, but I could hide it pretty well and stand my ground against their tenacity. But the lady, skinny little redhead with a bony face and big eyes, she was downright vicious. She wasn't from anywhere around here. That was immediately apparent in the way she dressed, and the way she talked. All soft-spoken and sophisticated, but with the bite of a viper. Always dolled up nicely in the latest fashions. She might've been one of those New York gals. Chicago even, I couldn't be all that sure. What I did know, is that she was Forrest's sweetheart, and she did not like anyone else taking care of him.
At first, I didn't like her all the much. When she was around, I was made useless. Wouldn't let me feed him. Wouldn't let me change anything other than his bandages. Requested privacy as soon as I was done, and sent me from the room. Then I began to appreciate her presence. She tended to him just as well as I could've. Kept him in bed under close watch, and acted as babysitter so I didn't have to. It was a nice break when Red was around, and I could enjoy my day, making my rounds and checking up on the other patients just to say hello. She didn't like me in the slightest, but I ended up quite liking her.
Forrest had been there about a week when I walked in on Sunday morning to find him awake unusually early, and standing at the window yet again, just a bulking shadow in the dim light of the room. The sun was just about to rise, the dark cerulean of night clouds fading into an orange glow on the horizon. I stopped at the doorway, unspeaking and unmoving for a moment. I knew he must've heard me; the heel of my shoe tapping against the floorboards was no subtle sound. But his back remained turned, large hands bracing the wood of the windowsill. The back of his head was tilted downward slightly, and I knew he was looking at the sky. What he was thinking about though, I couldn't even begin to imagine. He reminded me of some kind of caged bird, longing for freedom so close, yet just out of reach.
I shook my head then, not feeling bad for him in the slightest. It was the price he had to pay if he was going to go and get himself shot.
"What do you think you're doing?" I asked, the sound of my voice echoing in the room's silence. I crossed over to the window, and grabbed his arm. "Forrest Bondurant, how many times do I have to tell you? You are not to get out of that bed for at least three more days." With both of my hands flanking the crook of his left elbow, I gave a tug in attempt to pull him away from the window. He swayed in place as he absorbed the force and easily resisted it, letting me know that I had no power over him. When he turned his head to look down at me, his eyes were narrowed in what I could have mistaken for amusement. Couldn't have been though, absolutely nothing funny about this. "Come on now, don't make this difficult," I told him as I lifted the loose button-down pajama shirt to make sure his stitches still held tight, and with a satisfied nod, dropped the fabric and motioned toward the bed.
After a long pause, he exhaled deeply, and removed his eyes from me in a slow blink, turning his head toward the bed, and his body soon followed the direction. Forrest's steps were slow and laborious, as he exhausted his energy resources every time he moved another leg forward. His body just wasn't quite ready to be up and walking yet, but I was almost positive nothing could get that through his head. I matched him step for step, a hand placed at the middle of his back.
We were just about there when his right knee buckled, and he couldn't seem to find it in him the strength to bring that leg standing again. I ducked under his arm before he could lose his balance and fall to the ground, and the weight of him leaned against my side had even me struggling to stand. "See what happens when you don't listen to me?" I mumbled, just about throwing him off of me the rest of the way onto the mattress. "You ain't never gonna heal proper if you don't give your body the time to do what it needs to." Forrest rolled onto his back with a groan, and one by one I picked his legs up from off the side of the bed, sliding them over the sheets. He attempted to sit up against the pillows, and with an annoyed tut of my tongue, I put a hand to the center of his chest, forcing him back down.
"Pain in my rear end, Forrest, you know that?" I told him as I folded the sheets back over him, and took extra care in tucking him in, snug as a bug in a rug. My fingers stuffed the sheet under his body with a little more force than necessary, and I didn't feel an inkling of guilt at his grunt when I brushed a tender spot. The end result was a cocoon all the way up to the armpits for this man-child. "Now you're gonna stay in that bed, and you aren't moving until I tell you otherwise." He opened his mouth and I could hear a breath hitch in his throat. "Close your eyes," I ordered with a stern stare. His brow furrowed only slightly at the request, but as he released the breath he was holding in a low grumble, his eyes fluttered to the close. "Now I don't want to see them open again for at least another two hours."
Forrest said nothing, only kept his eyes squinted closed, eyebrows turned up in apparent lack of amusement for the sleeping game I used frequently on him. After a moment more, I rose from my spot on the mattress, prepared to indulge myself in a fresh cup of strong coffee, but was stopped by the feeling of fingers wrapping easily around the circumference of my wrist, a remarkable gently grip from such a large and calloused hand.
I was quick to look him in the face, masking my alarm with professional curiosity. My patient clearly needed something, and it was my job to retrieve it for him. But he never touched me before. Such a simple caress, yet I could already feel my face flushing hot under his touch. If it would've been a rough hold, I would've yanked my arm away and proceeded to slap him upside the head with a warning to never do that again. But it was gentle, so gentle, as though he was holding onto fine porcelain, and it had me frozen in my position.
Forrest's eyes shined in the quickly fading darkness, and narrowed as he regarded me. I couldn't detect any particular emotion. He simply stared. "What is your name?" he finally asked, his voice a waking volcano in the silence.
The question caught me off guard. He didn't know my name? Of course he didn't. I never told him. Too busy seeing to it that he was healing and behaving. "Edna Ellsworth," I told him, and his lips moved as he repeated the name to himself silently.
"Miss Ellsworth," he said. "I won't be taking any visitors today. It'd be kind of you to pass that message along to those who come."
"And what should I tell them when they refuse to listen to me?" I asked.
"I'm sure you'll think of something," he said with a small nod. He released his hold on me, dropped his hand to his side, and closed his eyes. I could feel my annoyance rising, my gut clenching at the very thought of Red, and what she'd do if I told her she couldn't see her sweetheart today. No way, not in a million years was I having that conversation. The Doctor could take full charge in being the one to deflect the visitors.
"Hey," I said, and he grunted to acknowledge he heard me. "What's your lady's name?" I asked, and the question prompted him to open his eyes once again. "The redhead," I specified, as he seemed confused.
"Maggie," he said after a long pause.
"Ah," I nodded. What a sweet name for such a fierce personality. Maybe she was sweet, just not to me. Maggie. A name fit for someone who embroidered, and rode side-saddle. Not someone seeking the affections of a Franklin County moonshiner. Such a strange pairing. "She your wife?" My curiosity was getting the best of me, and I knew it wasn't my place to make such an inquiry, but I couldn't help myself. Wouldn't think it possible to love someone who had such a close relationship with death. Someone so stubborn, so dangerous, so reserved. Can't even hold a proper conversation with him, when he's all grunts and grumbles like some damned caveman.
His answer came back negative, but that 'no' could've appropriately translated into 'not yet'. With a small sigh, I patted the fabric of the sheet beside him. "You go on back to sleep now," I said. "I'll be back later with breakfast."
As I walked out of the room and down the hall, a little piece of me wondered why Forrest desired a break from the company of family and friends. Whatever it was, it put me in a pickle having to fare against Howard and Maggie. Just one more thing to add to the growing list of reasons to hate the Doctor for assigning me to the Bondurant brother. Acting as security was not in my job description. Hell, I could run my mouth, but I'm sure even little Miss Maggie could put me flat on my back if it came down to it. Certainly beat me in the height category.
In the kitchen, the cook was already mixing batter for biscuits, and I gave him a hearty good morning, despite what kind of morning I was sure it'd really turn out to be. He smiled, and waved, then gestured toward the aluminum coffee maker already resting on the stove. I put a hand to my heart to let him know of my appreciation and crossed over, grabbing a mug off the counter and grasping the smooth wooden handle, a wave of relief washing over me already as I tilted the pot and steaming black liquid began to pour out.
If the Cook could talk, I knew he'd be laughing at my face after that first sip of pure, remedial Heaven. I wouldn't have minded in the slightest. A fresh cup of Joe could cure almost any crisis, I was sure of it. Howard and Maggie be damned. They couldn't intimidate me. If his privacy was what Forrest wanted today, then that is exactly what he'd get. And it was my duty, my responsibility as his caretaker to see to it.
Although, it was impossible to ignore the shining wish that since it was the Sabbath, they were just going to go ahead and stay home anyway. Here's hoping.
It's so good to see Lawless interpretations popping up like wildfire already! If you've noticed, I changed the name of my story. A fellow author within the same category decided to borrow my title and use it as their own, and it was driving me nuts. But I think Dance With Me will suit my particular theme better, as its metaphorical significance will provide the foundations for the motifs throughout future chapters, and the story as a whole. I apologize for a short chapter, I promise they'll get longer, but I had to get it out there to solidify my commitment to this story. Thank you so, so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows! If you're enjoying the story thus far, I highly encourage you to keep them coming, as even the fewest of words about my work mean the world to me. Thank you again. :)
