Out of the Darkness

by Robert D. McKee

  Polly didn’t respond, but Cedra, who stood behind the chair in which Polly sat, said stiffly, “Thank you, doctor.”

  There was bruising on the girl’s face, but the swelling was gone, and it was clear to Chester that Polly would be pretty again.

  Perhaps.

  At least she could be pretty again if it were not for the severity that edged her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

  They were in Chester’s private office. It was a small room down the hall from the examination and treatment room where he had last seen the girl and her mother. He often tended to patients with minor complaints in here. It was more comfortable and less intimidating.

  Chester washed his hands and blotted them dry on a towel. He found he had been washing his hands a great deal in the last few days. Without turning, he said, “Things are not as simple as they once were, Cedra.”

  “No,” she agreed, her words seasoned with weariness, “they’re not.”

  He turned to face them. “I’ve been considering what you said the other night.” Cedra stood more erect, and Polly seemed to slump. “Fact is, that’s about all I have been doing.” He tossed the towel to the counter. “This is quite a problem we have here.” He walked to Polly and lifted her chin. It was the same gesture he had used earlier when he was examining her injuries, but this time he was looking at deeper wounds. “They’ve hurt you, girl, and the truth is there’s not a thing in the world anyone can do about that. Only time can fix it.”

  She pulled her chin back from his hand and looked down at the floor. There was no rudeness in the gesture, merely a drifting away.

  “I know it doesn’t seem so now, but trust me,” he said, “time’s an effective medicine. The body’s been designed to heal wounds wherever they are. Whether here.” He pointed to the scar beneath her eye. “Or here.” He lifted his hand and touched the backs of his fingers to her brow. “At least it’s been designed to heal almost anything as long as complications don’t set in. You’re a strong, healthy young woman, Polly. And I know you could overcome what these boys did to you if it weren’t for what’s come along with it.” He raised his eyes to Cedra. “It’s a sad thing, but the loathsome manner in which this impregnation came about is a complication and not only because of what Sonny Pratt might do, although there certainly is that, but also because the pain of that horrible event will never allow all the wounds to heal.” He was looking at Cedra as he spoke, but he could sense Polly wince when he mentioned Sonny’s name.

  Cedra’s eyes began to fill, and a single tear wedged its way out and leaked onto her cheek.

  Chester turned and crossed to the door. “Sometimes when complications set in, for the good of a patient, we have to perform aggressive therapies we might not otherwise perform. What’s wrong in one situation isn’t necessarily wrong in another.”

  He opened the door and called down the hall. “Mrs. Eggers, would you come in, please?” He stood at the door waiting. When the woman arrived, he said, “Please, Mrs. Eggers, prepare the surgery.”

  There was nothing scheduled, and the woman looked puzzled. “Now, doctor?” she asked.

  “Yes, please,” he said, “now.”

  When she was gone, Chester turned back to Cedra and Polly. “We do have a complicated and difficult situation. One filled with hard choices. But I have to do what I feel is necessary for the welfare of my patient.”

  Cedra wiped the tear away, cleared her throat, and said, “Thank you, Chester.”

  He responded with only a nod.

  “No,” she said, not allowing him to dismiss it. “I mean it. Thank you.”

  “We’ve not grown up in a very flexible age, Cedra, none of us. Perhaps that’s the American race’s only real shortcoming, its tendency toward rigidity. But things are more complex now. What’s right is not always so obvious. Sometimes the rules have to be bent so they fit around more complicated situations.” He paused for a second and looked over at Polly. She looked nervous, but the lost expression she’d had earlier was gone or at least beginning to fade. “These,” he added, “are unique times.”

  He was glad his choice was made. The law was what it was, and maybe it was an appropriate law in most cases, but not in all.

  Both of the women smiled across the room at him. He saw their great relief at his decision, but he sensed their surprise as well. He doubted they had ever expected him to agree. Despite their relief, they looked at him as though he were some uncommon sort of creature.

  And along with their relief and surprise, Chester saw something else on their faces: bewilderment. They reminded him of the deer he’d encountered on the road earlier that morning.

  With that thought, Chester was smiling too.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Emmett Pratt had not been involved in his own haying in a long time. That was what he had a grown son and a bunkhouse full of hired hands for. But since Cedra left, he needed more to occupy himself than riding around on horseback watching other men work.

  “Pump some water, Sonny,” he said, pointing toward the pump handle. Sonny did as he was told for once, and Emmett leaned out over the trough and felt the well-water splash across his head and the back of his neck. It was icy cold, but it felt good. Emmett was hot. He might even have a touch of sunstroke coming on, and he needed cooling off fast.

  He allowed as how stacking hay might not be a job for a man almost fifty years old, especially one who wasn’t used to it.

  “Damn, ol’ man,” Sonny said with a snigger. “You look like you’ve about had it.”

  “Keep cranking that handle,” Emmett said. He let the water wash over him a while longer, then tilted his head and drank some. He stopped himself before he swallowed too much. When he stood erect, he felt some better, but it was clear to him that piling up winter feed on a hot August afternoon was a chore he’d been better suited for in younger times.

  He pulled a kerchief from his rear pocket and wiped his face and neck. The boys were still out in the field cutting, but, though Emmett hated to admit it, he’d had enough. It had been a long, hot week, and he’d worked right alongside every twenty-year-old on the place.

  He’d never liked the practice of farming his feed anyhow. He was a cattleman, not a damned sod buster. When he’d first come out to this country the prairie grass was higher than a tall man’s ass. A fella’s cattle could eat their fill summer or winter wherever they found it. Hell, one spring he’d located a bunch of his cows nearly sixty miles to the east. It was an open range in those ancient days, and they’d wandered that far over the course of the winter hunting grass not covered in snow. But that was fine by Emmett. Rounding them up in the spring was part of it. It was a lot better than fences, and it was a whole lot better than keeping them penned all winter and feeding them hay. To Emmett Pratt’s cow-savvy way of thinking, cattle should be able to come and go as they damn well pleased; that’s why they wore brands. But, of course, the open-range days, like plenty of other good things, were gone forever.

  Emmett tied the wet kerchief around his neck and looked across the trough at his son. Sonny was a handsome kid, nearly six feet tall, lean and hard. He had strawberry blond hair like his mother and eyes the color of an old pair of jeans. But the boy didn’t have his mother’s disposition, never did. Emmett Pratt had been a lucky man at finding good women. They didn’t make them any better than Alice, his first wife, nor Cedra, his second. He lost Alice to a cancer, and Cedra . . . well, he wasn’t sure what it was he’d lost Cedra to, but he guessed it was to the loyalty a man has to show toward his son.

  “What’re you doing in from the field, anyhow?” he asked. “Why aren’t you out there with the rest of the crew?”

  “Come in to change my shirt,” Sonny said. “Me and the Joneses are headed into town.”

  That was what Emmett had figured before he had even asked. “God-damn it, Sonny, it’s the middle of the week and there’s haying to be done.”

  “It’s getting done,” Sonny said, jerking his thumb back over his shoulde
r toward the crew in the field.

  His loyalty was not fading, but Emmett was beginning to admit to himself—if not to anyone else—that Sonny had grown to be a disappointment. The boy had always been a little wild, even before his mother died. Now, though, he’d become more than wild. He was mean. Emmett knew that. But there was still some good in him. Sonny wasn’t as bad as Cedra believed he was. And as much as he loved that woman, Emmett couldn’t accept as true what Cedra said. Sonny would never harm his stepsister. Never. It came down to Sonny’s word against Polly’s and Cedra’s, and in the end, Emmett had to go with his son. That was how it had to be. Even if it cost him what he knew had been a happy marriage to a fine woman, there was nothing else he could do.

  “You’re not going into Probity tonight,” Emmett said. He figured telling Sonny that would cause some ruckus, but before his son could answer, they heard horses coming down the road. Emmett turned in time to see Hank and Lester Jones ride into the yard.

  “Heya, Sonny,” Hank called. “Mr. Pratt.” He made a gesture toward his hat.

  Hank was twenty, the older of the two brothers, and right at Sonny’s age. Hank and Lester’s parents had both passed on, and the two boys were left to run their small ranch out on La Bonte Creek. From what Emmett could tell, they were pretty much running it into the ground.

  “Mount up, Sonny,” said Lester. “Let’s get-a going. Time’s a wastin’.” Lester was a dull-looking kid of about eighteen. His teeth were terrible. What few he had left poked out in every direction and were black around the edges.

  Hank took off his hat and whacked his brother in the face so hard it left a welt across Lester’s cheek. “I don’t know what your hurry is,” he said. “That whore Becky’ll be spending her night screwing every cowboy and thimble rigger in the county before you get a chance at ’er.”

  Lester gave his busted picket fence grin and said, “Ah, hell, she’ll make time for me, Hank. That girl loves me dearly.” He rubbed the red welt with dirty fingers, but didn’t complain to his big brother about it. This was likely not the first unexpected smack to come Lester’s way.

  “Loves you,” Sonny said with a laugh. “She’ll love you as long as you got yourself a couple spondulicks you ain’t got a problem with handing over to that whore-keeper Adelaide.” Adelaide was Probity’s bawdy-house proprietress.

  Emmett suspected his son was more than a little familiar with the inner workings of a bawdy house.

  Sonny climbed aboard his sorrel.

  “Sonny,” Emmett said, “you heard me. You’re staying home tonight.”

  “Well, sir,” Sonny said, reining his horse’s head toward the gate and the road beyond, “I reckon you’re as wrong about that as you can be, ya ol’ coot.” He gave out a high-pitched laugh, gigged the sorrel, and led the two brothers off in a lope.

  Emmett Pratt had little experience with having his wishes ignored, but it seemed he exercised less and less influence over his son. He knew he was to blame for the way Sonny turned out. The boy was ten when Alice died, and Emmett had never been much of a father. But deep down where it counted, Emmett still believed Sonny was a good boy.

  From the shadow’s slant, it figured to be around five o’clock. He’d hoped to get all this field cut by the end of the day so they could get started on the field by the river tomorrow morning. It didn’t look like that was going to happen, though, now that Sonny was quitting early.

  Emmett looked around and found his straw hat on the ground beside the trough. He picked it up and placed it on his head. He considered going inside for a rest, but with Cedra gone, the house was an empty place. Besides, he felt better now. The hot spell that had come over him earlier had passed.

  He pulled off the kerchief, pumped some water over it, then tied it back around his neck. Yes, sir, he told himself as he headed off to the field to give the boys a helping hand, his son could be ornery, but at heart Sonny was still a good boy.

  CHAPTER NINE

  That man must take me for a fool, Mrs. Eggers told herself. A blind fool at that. She was standing in the kitchen peeling a potato and watching through the window as the doctor and that Pratt woman helped her young strumpet daughter into Hedstrom’s buggy. Did he think she didn’t know what he’d done that afternoon? How stupid did he think she was?

  She had never liked this job, and she had never liked this Dr. Hedstrom, either, with his strange ideas and his foolish little gadgets. She’d taken the position only because the pay was good and it provided a place to live. Those were the only reasons. She was a housekeeper, not a nurse. She had never wanted to be a nurse, but in this job she was forced to be both.

  Hedstrom helped the women into the seat of the buggy and climbed up beside them. He snapped the reins, and the three of them drove off. Mrs. Eggers could see Polly’s head loll against her mother’s shoulder. Hedstrom was giving them the ride because the little harlot was too groggy from the anesthesia and weak from the surgery to walk the few blocks to Mrs. Jordan’s boarding house.

  She didn’t care what butchery he practiced in his surgery, but she resented being taken for a fool.

  In a burst of anger, she threw the potato to the counter. It bounced against the wall and rolled onto the floor. She started to retrieve it, but stopped. The devil with it.

  She left the kitchen and went into the parlor. She opened the liquor cabinet and poured herself a brandy. Mrs. Eggers had developed a fondness for brandy before when she was working as a maid in a school for wayward girls in Omaha. It was in those days she had begun keeping a bottle hidden in her room. There was a bottle in her room now, but why drink her mediocre stuff when she could enjoy the wealthy doctor’s best?

  Mrs. Eggers had been around the girl Polly enough to suspect her situation. She became even more suspicious when Hedstrom unexpectedly had her prepare the surgery—more suspicious yet when he did his procedure without having her assist. But the oddest of all, he cleaned his own mess, something the man was never prone to do. She’d gone in, though, afterward, and she saw what implement he’d used. That was when she knew. Despite her distaste for the nursing profession, she had learned some things in the doctor’s employ. He had used the curette, a spoon-like instrument designed for scraping the uterine wall.

  She took a long drink of the brandy. She loved the sting of it in her throat and the warming once it hit her belly.

  Hedstrom would not be gone long. It wouldn’t take twenty minutes to deposit the little whore in her bed. She tossed back the last of her drink and started for the kitchen to wash the glass before he returned. She was nearly to the parlor door when she came to a stop.

  She had seen abortions before, Mrs. Eggers had. She’d performed three herself during her days at the school in Omaha. With two of them she hadn’t received much pay for her services—the girls had very little—a locket here, a gold bracelet there. But the last girl, a year or so after leaving the school, had married a well-to-do businessman, and Mrs. Eggers had siphoned a goodly sum from that one before she was done.

  Yes, the woman thought. A goodly sum indeed.

  She held the crystal snifter up and looked through its smooth surface. Perhaps she needn’t rush to wash the glass after all. With a smile, she decided another slosh of the brandy would really hit the spot.

  She returned to the liquor cabinet, took down the decanter, and poured herself another drink. Glass in hand, she sat in the doctor’s overstuffed chair and lifted her feet to his ottoman.

  The little tramp in Omaha who married well had been eager enough to pay to keep her handsome new husband from learning the truth. Mrs. Eggers expected that with the possibility of prison staring him in the face, the haughty Chester Hedstrom would be willing to pay as well.

  Yes, she mused, she expected that he would.

  She sipped from the snifter more slowly, letting the warm liquid trickle down, and felt herself smile again with the thought of how surprised the good doctor would be when he learned she was not the fool he had taken her for after all.


  CHAPTER TEN

  Micah plucked his hat from the rack by the front door, stepped out onto the boardwalk, and locked the door behind him. He had not been outside his new office in a day and a half. That both infuriated and frightened him.

  He would not allow the blue devils to take him over again. There was a time when the melancholia would lay him so low he couldn’t get out of bed for days. It was like falling. Slipping and falling into a well, tumbling deeper and deeper down. But lying in bed had not been an option in his years with Judge Pullum. In time, Micah discovered that forcing himself to perform regular activities would usually help some. Not always, but usually, and not a lot, but some.

  It did feel better to be outside. It was warm but breezy, so the heat wasn’t bad. A million stars salted the black sky, and there was no reason—not one in all the world—that he should feel low.

  But he did.

  He set out down the boardwalk, and the clomp of his boots drummed a hollow cadence.

  Was it Fay, he wondered, who brought this spell on? He knew it would be unfair to blame his depression on her. Over the years he’d suffered hundreds of bouts with low spirits that had nothing to do with Fay. But he couldn’t discount the effect she always had on him, both good and bad. Even long ago when they would see each other, there was never a time when the sight of her didn’t cause something inside him to move. They might be separated by a crowd of people, and with a sidewards glance she could cause his internal geologic foundations to shift—collide like tectonic plates in an earthquake.

  Fay Charbunneau was an intoxicant to Micah; that was a fact he’d learned to accept. He was certain this effect was not something she plotted, although he was also certain she made no attempt to lessen its impact. He had tried to explain it to her once, and she’d laughed. She didn’t laugh in an unkind way, but she’d laughed nonetheless, so Micah had never brought it up again. He had devoted many hours to pondering this ability of hers to make him drunk, but he didn’t understand it any better now than he had the first time one of her smiles had caused his head to swim.