Chapter 19: DECISIONS
"What do I oughta have a choice about?"
Neither man had heard the girl's stealthy approach. Both wondered how much she'd overheard.
"We'll talk about it later, girl," Tony said.
Sammie plopped herself down crosslegged in front of them.
"No, Pa. We'll talk about it right now. I ain't movin' 'til we do."
Got that Harper hardheaded stubbornness, too... an' that ain't funny...
Jess had no choice but to repeat an abbreviated version of the inheritance story... and how she was the sole and rightful beneficiary of this line of the family. Displaying an adult's comprehension in a thirteen-year-old body, the girl listened carefully, asked intelligent questions and expressed cogent opinions. Her speech patterns and vocabulary choices left much to be desired, although Jess was in no position to be judgmental on that score. If Daisy'd been around, their household soap inventory would've been depleted by an entire case.
"Why'd you hafta come around here botherin' us?"
"Because..."
How do I explain about bein' alone... havin' no kin to care about... or to care about you?
" 'Cause yer the only kin I got." What more was there to say?
"So ya found us. Now what? Ya gonna come live with us?"
"Well... no..."
"We gonna go live with you?"
"No... I guess that won't be happenin' neither."
"This money you say I'm 'sposed to get... even if Pa don't want it, I do. There's a lot a things we could do with that money like clothes an' books an' store-bought medicine for when Pa gets sick. How's it gonna get here an' how soon am I gonna get it?"
Tony broke in. "It's not that simple, Sammie. Someone has to go to the outside an' prove who we are. Talk to some town people an' sign a bunch of papers."
"Then why don't you jus' go an' do it?"
"You remember why I can't leave here, don't you?"
"Oh... yeah. Well... can't he do that for us?"
"It doesn't work that way. They have to see you in person to be sure you're a real live girl... and that you're the granddaughter of Elizabeth Harper."
"Uh huh."
"That means you'd have to leave here, by yourself... well... not exactly by yourself, but with a grown-up... your Uncle Jess, to be specific. You'd have to go into town an' talk with a lawyer. That's a man who..."
"I know what a lawyer is, Pa. Sheesh! I ain't iggernint. Ma an' me, we read the newspapers together when yer done with 'em. Go on..."
"That lawyer has to contact other lawyers wherever the money's at. When it comes they won't give it to you directly because you're a minor child. It'll be put into a bank account in your name an' a grown-up will be appointed to manage it for you. You won't be able to take it out an' do whatever you want with it."
"Why not? I kin read an' write good an' do my sums an' sign my name..."
"Doesn't matter. Other people... lawyers... they'll decide the best use for your money."
"That's a crock a..."
"Sammie... that's enough!"
"I ain't done yet..."
Having lost the thread somewhere around 'not that simple,' Jess' attention was divided between a fish on the line and the youngster sitting in the sand. To call her 'pretty' would be stretching it some, but 'unattractive' would be uncharitable and untrue. At the moment she made a convincing boy—all bony knees and elbows, short-haired and flat-chested. In his limited knowledge of human female physiology, Jess knew that there came a time when they sprouted bosoms and were capable of reproducing... but he was fuzzy on exactly when that took place. Francie at the same age already had the beginnings of tits although the rest of her was still gangly.
Whatever was tugging on Jess' line had some weight to it, arcing the cane pole almost to the surface. The hook seemed set so he decided to let it run a bit and maybe tire it out. In the meantime he continued studying the father-daughter duo from several paces away, not so much arguing as debating. He couldn't begin to articulate the emotions fighting for supremacy inside his head. It was very confusing. Elation, of course... because he'd found his brother. Sadness... because he knew in his heart this reunion was destined to be short-lived. Tony couldn't leave the swamp and Jess couldn't stay here—not with his soul craving wide open spaces, soaring snow-capped mountains and the pure joy of racing across a grassy plain on a good horse.
A fierce tug on the line nearly yanked the pole from Jess' hand and something large leaped almost completely out of the water. At first he thought it was an alligator before understanding it was a fish of some sort. A big ugly one. His own shout of alarm and the splash as the fish hit the water distracted the debaters. Soon they were on either side of him, alternately dispensing advice and cheering him on.
Man and fish tired at approximately the same time. As Jess brought it in closer to shore, Sammie waded out and gaffed the creature, dragging it up onto the sandbank. With a long pointy snout and hard knobbed protrusions along its spine, it looked very much like a small gator with no legs and a fish tail. He estimated the length at somewhere around four feet.
"What is it?" Jess asked. "Can ya eat it?"
"Sturgeon... nice one, Uncle Jess!" The girl beamed and Jess realized with a start it was the first time she'd acknowledged their relationship with the honorific 'uncle'. Was it possible to be both suspicious and thrilled at the same time? Yes. Yes, it was...
The rest of the afternoon and early evening went by in a blur of activity as the barbecue got underway and folks crowded around wanting to be introduced. Jess found himself in the novel position of being beau of the ball, with Sammie—serving as belle—sticking to his side like a limpet and proudly referring to him as 'my Uncle Jess.' Clearly he'd missed some important twist in the negotiations down by the fishing hole.
In Jess' experience, the only times he'd been at the center of so much attention was usually being surrounded by a lynch mob or a posse, depending on whatever he'd been doing to earn it. He tried sending mental appeals for rescue to Painter and Tony, comfortably ensconced in rocking chairs up on the porch and being waited on hand and foot. They continued rocking and grinning, wreathed in cigar smoke, as Jess was herded along from one gaggle to another.
Plates of food were pressed on him from all directions and, well, he didn't want to appear unappreciative of the generosity. Jugs of moonshine were passed around as well. The festivities began winding down long after dark. A few times Jess had to excuse himself to vomit in the bushes. He had plenty of company, including a few women. His last memory was of staggering toward the steps of the cabin, tripping on the first riser and regurgitating an astounding stream of semi-digested fried fish, roasted goat, berry pie, cathead biscuit, molasses cookies and an assortment of shellfish—all marinating in a toxic brew of homemade hootch.
Sunday, November 30th... If there were a portal to Hell, Jess Harper was hurtling down a greased chute right towards it. His brain was about to throb itself right out of his skull, threatening to burst his eyeballs. His arms and legs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds. His nose and fingertips were tingling and his teeth felt loose in their sockets. There was an awful taste in his mouth of pepper and iron. His itching skin was on fire yet he was shivering, and the quilt beneath him was soggy with sweat, as was the single sheet over the lower half of his naked body. Just breathing required a concentrated effort. He was oh so tired. His belly and chest were sore from all that vomiting and he felt thoroughly hollowed out. Compared to this, the motion sickness of two weeks ago was a mere hangnail.
Dear Lord... I know I promised before but this time I really mean it... I ain't never, never EVER drinking again...
Someone was sitting next to him on the floor, applying a welcome coolness to his face and upper body with a sea sponge. He was afraid to crack open his gummy eyelids to see who that someone might be.
"Hey, Uncle Painter... I think he's comin' around," said a familiar voice, reverberating painfully in his right ear.
Noooooooooo... NOT THE KID!
The floorboards vibrated with clumps as someone else came near and knelt on the floor.
"Gedderwayfrume!" Jess moaned. "Leamelone..."
"What's he sayin'?" (Sammie)
"Not sure... sounds like 'shoot me now an' get it over with." (Painter)
"Noooooomakergowaynotseemeligis!" Why's my tongue not workin'?
"Izzat some kinda furrin language?" (Sammie)
"Hmmnnn... no. I b'lieve he's requestin' a different nurse." (Painter)
"Ya think? Well... tough tittie, Uncle Jess. I'm all ya got right now. There's a awful lotta folks today sicker'n you what need tendin'." (Sammie).
Worse humiliation was yet to come.
"Uncle Painter... we need ta get 'im on a dry quilt. Can you pick him up so's I can pull out this 'un an' put down a fresh 'un?"
"Sho 'nuff, Miz Nightingale..."
Jess felt himself being scooped up like a babe, held for a minute, and gently reinstalled on a dry surface.
"Dry sheet now..." (Sammie)
Oh. Hell. No! Jess uncooperative hands scrabbled to attain a death grip on his sheet in order to preserve the last shred of modesty he owned, but to no avail. Off came the damp sheet, on went the dry one.
"I gotta go see a man about a dog." (Sammie) "Be right back. Keep a eye on 'im?"
"Will do, kiddo."
As the smaller footsteps pattered away, Jess opened his eyes. The room was dim though still too bright for comfort. His voice was scratchy but at least he found it.
"What other folks...?"
"Half the revelers, I'm afraid. We think it was the shellfish."
"You didn't eat any?"
"Can't. Allergic."
"Just how sick was I…?"
Painter gave him a wicked grin. "When we were cleaning you up, Sammie said she'd never seen that much upchuck come outta one man."
"That ain't funny," Jess moaned.
"It is if you're not among the afflicted."
"That poor girl... she shouldn'ta been exposed to..."
"To what? Anatomy and biology? Children here grow up fast. They have to. They're not sheltered like kids in the outside world."
"That's... that just ain't right."
"Oh... I agree, I agree... but it is what it is. Sammie was only ten when she helped Ollie birth the twins. The men were all gone on a night hunt and the nearest neighbor was a mile off. The babies came too fast for Sammie to go and get help. Ollie told her what to do and she did it. She stays out here, she'll likely be married an' pregnant by fourteen. Most of the gal young 'uns are."
"I can't believe Tony or Ollie'd go along with that."
"Yeah... well... it's sort of a moot point now."
"Whaddya mean?"
"We'll talk about it later. Right now you need to rest up some more."
"I reckon so..."
Jess slept fitfully throughout the rest of the afternoon and on into the evening hours. At times he'd rouse just enough to be vaguely aware of comings and goings. Missing were his brother's voice and those of the children. Sammie and Painter drifted by to check on him a time or two but seemed satisfied he'd got over the worst of it and otherwise left him alone. There seemed to be an undue amount of traffic between Tony and Ollie's bedroom and the kitchen table—the floorboards trembled every time someone trod by.
At intervals people would tiptoe across the porch to tap lightly at the frame of the open front door. Painter and Sammie took turns getting up to meet them. After a brief whispered conference, the visitor would steal away like a wraith into the darkness beyond the cabin door.
Finally Jess'd had enough of lying on the floor, double layer of quilt or no. His back hurt, his joints ached and he had to piss. He was also parched and feeling hollow-bellied. Sitting up, he gathered the sheet about himself and attempted to stand up, only to wobble back down. His legs didn't seem to have any bones in them and he was assailed by dizziness. Of course, that attracted the attention of Painter and Sammie and an unknown older woman sharing the table.
"I need my clothes," he complained.
Sammie got up. "Ma warshed 'em this mornin' an' hung 'em out to dry. They's probably damp agin but I'll go an' fetch 'em for ya."
"Thanks, Sammie."
Unceremoniously dumping the bundle in Jess' lap upon her return, the girl made no move to leave the room. Painter murmured a few words to the woman, who nodded and stood up.
"Come, Sammie. Let's give the men some privacy. You can help me change the sheets on the boys' bed. I expect I'll be here all night."
"Yes m'am."
What? No argument? Is she sick? Wait... what's goin' on?
With Painter's assistance, Jess was able to care of his immediate needs, dress and make it to the table though still shaky.
With a sickening premonition that he already knew the answer, Jess asked anyway.
"It's Tony, ain't it?" Keep calm. Keep calm. Keep calm.
"I'm afraid so."
"What happened?"
"Food poisoning... you both had it. Normally it's not life-threatening if you're young and healthy... but for someone with a pre-existing condition, it can be fatal."
"Is he...?"
"No. But it don't look good."
"This can't be happenin'. It ain't fair... I only just found 'im." Jess stood up too quickly, almost toppling over. "I wanna see 'im."
Painter leaped up and pushed him back into the chair. "Ollie's with him... she's been up since last night. Keep your voice down. This isn't a good time."
"I keep hearin' about this 'condition' but won't nobody tell me what's really wrong with 'im..."
"I could try to explain it but that lady in there with Sammie can do it better. She was a nurse at the prison during the war."
"A Yankee nurse?" Jess queried with disdain, forgetting for the moment how much he owed to the former Yankee nurse back home in Wyoming.
Painter's face hardened and his voice went cold. "Miss McCord's a native of Mobile. She was head matron of the surgical nursing staff at City Hospital when the city surrendered, lost her position to a man from up north. She accepted a similiar job at the prison, thinking to help our boys in whatever way possible."
"I 'pologize, then. She live out here, too?"
"No. She lives in Freeport. Runs a clinic there for poor folks an' provides us with whatever medical supplies they can spare. Comes out every month or so and does whatever doctorin' she can, too. The only reason I know the details of what happened to Carl is she told me. Best ask her directly when she comes out. I'm gonna make some coffee and fix you somethin' to eat, you want it."
"Yeah, thanks. An' I'm sorry for jumpin' to conclusions."
"Apology accepted. Now then, may I suggest the chicken broth and dry toast?" Painter was making a feeble attempt at humor. "Unless you're looking for a repeat of yesterday's performance?"
Jess blanched at the thought. "Reckon I'll have a piece a toast."
"Comin' right up. No pun intended."
Matilda McCord was a tall, angular woman with a hawklike nose, a forbidding thin-lipped visage and frizzy gray hair that refused to stay confined to its net. Attired in utilitarian black under a white apron fashioned from a bedsheet, she exuded an aura of authority, reminding Jess (unpleasantly) of another head nurse with whom he'd crossed swords, metaphorically speaking, and lost. He decided to be polite to this one.
Advised of Jess' relationship to Carlton and his interest in knowing what, exactly, was wrong with his brother, the woman took on a more benign aspect. Somehow her precisely enunciated words with a genteel Southern inflection had a soothing effect.
"You were a soldier?"
"Yes, m'am."
"How much do you know about shrapnel wounds?"
"Not much. Never had one though I been shot up plenty a times."
"And are you still carrying around any mementos of those injuries... such as a projectile that proved unextractable?"
"You mean a bullet? Oh... no, m'am. They always managed to get 'em out. Not always before they festered, though. Nearly didn't make it a couple a times."
"What about birdshot or buckshot?"
Jess squirmed a bit. "Well... yeah... once when I was a kid. Got caught stealin' eggs an' the farmer, he peppered my... he got me with his birdgun. Took my ma forever to pick out all them little bitty pellets."
"Imagine if you will, an explosion that propels into your head and body hundreds of tiny irregularly-shaped shards of metal that penetrate so deeply they can't be located, much less removed, no matter how diligently pursued by a surgeon."
"I'd druther not. Is that what happened to Tony... er... Carlton?"
"Precisely. He was brought to us more dead than alive. Doctor Ainsworth was of the opinion the man wouldn't last the night. However, as we had no other surgical patients that day, he determined to take his time removing as much of the shrapnel as he could reasonably get at. Don't get me wrong... he was not viewing your brother as an experiment or a test subject. I had then and still do have the utmost respect for Doctor Ainsworth's abilities and devotion to the medical profession... even though he was a Yankee.
"He labored for hours, expecting the patient to perish at any moment. As surgical assistant, I stayed right by his side until it was decided we had done all we could. Against all odds, Captain Harper survived.
"Over the ensuing weeks, pieces of metal continued working their way outward to where they could be visibly detected or felt below the epidermis. We removed these as well. Although Captain Harper made progress, physically, he wasn't responding quite as well as we'd hoped. His mental faculties were compromised—there were many more fragments lodged within his skull. Unfortunately, medical science has not yet provided us with the means to address this sort of injury. The doctor theorized that some of these fragments had, or would at some point in the near future, become free-floating. He believed that the potential danger of intracranial ischemia and cerebral infarction..."
Painter interrupted. "Plainer language, please, Tilda."
"Oh...yes... of course. Depending on the severity of the event, any arterial blockage to the brain can—will—result in cognitive or motor failure, paralysis and eventual death. Doctor Ainsworth gave Carlton, at the time of his discharge, no more than a year to live."
"But it's been seven years an' he's still alive," Jess objected.
"Indeed. If ever there were a miracle, he is a walking example. But I must point out that over the course of those seven years, the predicted failures have occurred. Loss of hearing followed by loss of vision. Weakness of limb. Spells of mental aberration during which Captain Harper becomes unstable and violent. His physical decline has advanced at an alarming rate over the past year or so. He's experienced a number of minor apoplectic events from which he's managed to recover. The one he suffered last night is not minor. It is my opinion that he has now reached the end of that grace period. He is currently unresponsive and appears to be in a comatose state. His heartbeat is irregular, his pulse weak and his breathing labored.
"I'm very sorry, Mister Harper, but your brother will most likely not survive much longer."
This's gotta be a bad dream... a nightmare... pretty soon I'll wake up an' Tony'll be walkin' out the bedroom door... No. It's real. I got here just in time to watch him die.
"Can I ask you somethin', Miz McCord?"
"Of course."
"Why now? Was it too much excitement... me showin' up unexpected after twenty years?"
Painter and the woman exchanged a glance that Jess missed. He didn't see the other man's negative nod.
"I'm convinced that what has happened is a direct result of shellfish poisoning. I've been told that you yourself have just experienced the extreme muscular contractions that occur as the body attempts to rid itself of the substances creating the toxins. This places undue stress on organs, particularly the heart, which in turn causes one's blood pressure to rise astronomically. This sudden upsurge in the circulatory system no doubt dislodged one or more metal particles, creating a blockage which in turn produced a seizure and subsequent apoplexy. This could have happened at any time. It had nothing to do with your presence."
"I see. Thank you."
Ollie came in then—ashen-faced, tear-stained and haggard. Miss McCord stood up.
"Olivia, I insist you rest for a few hours. There is absolutely nothing you can do."
"I know you're right, Tilda, but I want... I need... to be with him when..." The devastated woman couldn't complete the sentence. "And the children..."
"Those boys are too young to understand," Miss McCord replied firmly. "Jeannie Hagerty is perfectly capable of looking after them until this is over. Samantha's exhausted as well." She nodded to where the girl had fallen asleep on the settee. "Captain Bradshaw and I shall take up the vigil in turns. We'll alert you immediately if there's any change."
"Ain't you forgettin' somethin'?" Jess challenged. "There's me. I'm his brother. I should be the one settin' with 'im."
Miss Matilda then gave him a long, level look. "Yes... that would be fitting... if you're up to it. You're not looking at all well."
"I'm up to it," Jess growled.
"Very well, then. Talk to him, Jess, of all the good things you remember from your shared childhood. In some few cases, patients have been known to regain consciousness briefly before..." She paused with a frown. "In any case, it has been reported by previously comatose individuals that they were able to hear and understand though unable to respond." She tucked Olivia's arm under hers. "Come along, dear... let's get you settled."
Jess sat by Tony's bedside for hours, clasping his brother's cool, limp hand in both of his. Assuming it would be a far reach to recall any happy memories, he was surprised to find that he could. Staunchly setting aside his own grief, he reconstructed in detail each of their siblings... and their parents—before the father had taken to destructive behavior and the mother had succumbed to hopelessness. Whenever Miss McCord or Painter attempted to spell him, he waved them off.
Despite the nurse's declaration to the contrary, Jess couldn't help harboring a kernel of guilt... if he hadn't come, there would have been no feast, no food-borne illness, no resultant catastrophe...
All those lost and wasted years... reclaimed and lost again in less than twenty-four hours...