by Janette Oke
It was Arnie who came back over the wooden fence, the limp form of his young son in his arms, while Clare and the dogs distracted the bull. Only when Luke challenged the bull with the pitchfork did he break away from Clare and run bellowing toward the far end of the pasture.
Dinner was forgotten as Abe was placed on the living room sofa and a white-faced doctor uncle bent over him, checking his vital signs and feeling for broken bones.
Belinda could see that Clare, too, needed a doctor, but he waved her aside and lifted the rifle from the back porch.
“I won’t have a critter on the place that endangers children,” he muttered through stiff lips, and a few moments later they heard the crack of the gun.
Arnie sat silent, head in his hands and his shoulders shaking. He could not bear even to look at Abe.
“He’s dead,” he kept murmuring. “I know he’s dead.”
There was too much happening for Belinda to sort it all out. Youngsters were wailing, women were crying, grown men were trembling with the tragedy.
Then Belinda’s training and experience as a nurse suddenly took over. Luke needed her. This was an emergency. She was supposed to know how to act in an emergency.
True, it had never been a loved one before. That made it so different. She remembered many years before when she had heard Luke say that it was always so much harder when it was a child, and that he hoped and prayed he would never need to tend one of his own family.
And now Abe lay deathly white and blood-spattered, and Luke would need to fight with all he knew to try to save him. Belinda braced her shoulders, wiped away her tears, and steeled herself to join him.
Luke’s hand was still on the boy’s pulse. Belinda could not voice the question she knew she should ask, but Luke sensed her presence and, without looking up, spoke to her in a low voice. “We need to get him to town. He needs attention immediately. I have nothing here. He shouldn’t be moved, but we have no choice. He’s in bad shape, Belinda.”
“Have ya . . . have ya . . . found where he’s hurt?”
“He has some broken ribs. I hope his lungs are okay, but I’m worried. His left arm is badly broken. His neck and back seem all right, thank God.”
Belinda looked down at the ashen face of her nephew. It all seemed so unreal—like a nightmare.
“Clare needs some tendin’, too,” she said, “but he wouldn’t stop fer me to check him. I don’t know where he’s hurt, but I saw blood, and his shirt is all torn and dirty and—” Suddenly the tears were streaming again, and Belinda wanted to throw herself into her mother’s arms and let the sobs shake her body. She fought hard to control herself and finally managed to stifle the flow.
“I’ll tell Pa we need the team,” she said to Luke and turned back to the family members who crowded in about them, hankies to white faces and tears flowing.
“We need to get him to town,” Belinda said as calmly as she could. “Luke has nothin’ here.”
“Then he’s . . . he’s still . . .” sobbed Anne, unable to finish her question, and Belinda reached out a hand to ease her into a chair.
“He’s hurt . . . bad,” Belinda said honestly, “but we’ll do all we can.”
It was a long trip into town. Clare drove the team, brushing off any questions about his own condition. Anne had been so distraught that Arnie had left her in Marty’s care. Belinda prayed silently all the way as she sat beside the boy on the floor of the wagon, his father on the other side, holding his hand. She knew Luke was praying, too, and that those at the farm would be doing the same. Abe roused on the way and cried out because of the intense pain, then slipped into unconsciousness again. Belinda’s heart nearly broke to hear Arnie’s sobs.
At last Clare pulled the team up before the doctor’s residence, and Luke and Arnie gently carried the youngster in to the surgery table. Luke carefully went over the young boy once more. Though the ribs were broken, Luke thanked God that there was very little blood showing on the young boy’s lips. Perhaps the internal injuries were not too great. A careful check of his pulse and breathing told Luke he had not gone into shock.
Luke administered drugs and, with Belinda assisting him, set the mangled arm the best he could. He let Arnie and Clare in to see the boy before sending them back to the farm with the latest news of his condition. Then began the long vigil.
Abe was in and out of consciousness. When he awoke he murmured pleas for his mother, and Anne was soon there to whisper soothing words through trembling lips. Luke did not want Abe stirring because of the broken ribs and so kept the boy sedated much of the time. Family members came and went quietly, suffering with Abe as their hearts ached for his parents.
But eventually the boy began to improve, and by the time a week had passed, Luke was gently propping him up with pillows to discourage pneumonia. By the end of two weeks the family was confident that Abe would get better. He still had a long way to go, but daily they prayed their thanks to God that his life was spared.
Clare had a multitude of bumps and bruises, but miraculously no broken bones. He said the farm dogs took the brunt of the bull’s charges, finally distracting the animal from him.
When Abe was well enough to be moved on home, Luke and Belinda were able to again get a full night’s sleep. But it wasn’t over yet. Luke’s doctor eyes told him that. He would need to have a chat with Arnie—and how he dreaded it.
TEN
Concern
Luke watched young Abe closely, making regular house calls to Arnie’s. He said he was pleased with the boy’s general progress.
Still, Belinda had a strange feeling that Luke was looking for something and was not completely satisfied with how things were going. She didn’t quite dare ask him about it, afraid of what he would say.
Arnie hardly let Abe out of his sight. He was constantly reminding the lad to be careful, to watch his step, to slow down when running. Belinda even wondered if all Arnie’s worrying and fussing over him might turn his son into a sissy.
“What was Abe doin’ in thet bullpen anyway?” she asked Dack one weekend when she was home. “Didn’t he hear Clare say that everyone was to stay away from thet bull?”
“Our ball went in there, an’ Abe thought he could jest climb in and out real quick an’ no one would ever know,” Dack explained, looking very serious.
Belinda shook her head. “When adults make rules, they have reasons,” she said. “Abe is sufferin’ because of his disobedience— and the rest of the family has suffered, too, because of him.
Besides thet, yer pa lost an expensive bull.”
“I know,” said Dack, his head lowered. Then his face came up. “But it wasn’t my fault, Aunt Belinda. Honest.”
Belinda reached out to ruffle the mop of red hair. “I’m not blamin’ you, Dack,” she said. “And I shouldn’t scold ya. I jest don’t want ya to forget the lesson.”
Rand had met the farm wagon that Sunday on its frantic rush to town, and Belinda had quickly explained the circumstances. He of course understood their ride would have to be postponed, and a few weeks later made the same arrangements for the coming Sunday. She bundled up warmly against the brisk fall wind and settled herself on the high buggy seat beside him. He explained that he was borrowing the buggy until he had enough put aside to buy one of his own.
“Where would ya like to go?” he asked her.
“I can’t think of anyplace in particular,” Belinda responded. There was really nothing that scenic in the area. Belinda had seen the neighborhood farms dozens of times. She was not aware of anything new unless some farmer had put up a new hog barn or machine shed. True, the fall leaves could be beautiful, but most of the color of the fall already lay strewn over the pastures and fields.
“We could drive into town and see the Kirby house,” he suggested.
“Is it ready?” she asked in surprise.
“No, not finished yet. But at least there is enough of it fer ya to get some idea of what it will be.”
“Oh, let’s!” cried
Belinda.
“Yer sure ya’ll be warm enough?” he wondered.
She assured him that she would and the team was turned toward town.
“How’s Abe?” asked Rand, and Belinda told him the boy seemed to be recovering nicely. Their talk continued with little bits of news from town and community. Belinda noticed again that Rand was an easy person to talk to.
When they reached the building site, Rand tied the horses securely and gave Belinda a helping hand down over the buggy wheel.
“It’s a bit awkward to get into the house yet,” he admitted. “I was goin’ to wait until the steps were in place before bringin’ ya on over.”
Belinda laughed. “I’ll manage fine,” she said, eyeing the makeshift stepping blocks.
The house was bigger than Belinda had imagined. She wandered through the main-floor rooms, trying to picture in her mind’s eye what they would look like when they were completed and furnished, with a family living in them. It must be fun to have a house, she mused. For a moment she almost envied Mrs. Kirby.
“This must be the parlor,” she commented as she walked.
“And the dining room and kitchen through there, with a pantry over there. But what’s this?”
“Mrs. Kirby wants a mornin’ room,” answered Rand.
“A mornin’ room? I’ve never heard of such.”
“All the finer homes have them—accordin’ to Mrs. Kirby.
The ladies of the house sit in them and do needle work while the maids clean the rest of the house.”
Belinda looked at Rand in surprise. “Is Mrs. Kirby going to have herself maids?”
Rand laughed. “Not thet I know of—but she will have her mornin’ room.”
Belinda smiled. “Maybe it’ll give her a sense of well-being,” she offered, feeling she should defend Mrs. Kirby for her little quirk.
“Maybe so,” responded Rand.
“And what’s this?” asked Belinda, indicating another room off the main entry.
“Well,” smiled Rand, “tit for tat. Iffen Mrs. Kirby was to git her mornin’ room, then Mr. Kirby insisted on a library.”
“My,” said Belinda. “It will be a grand house, won’t it?”
Belinda’s eyes traveled upward. There was no stairway to lead to the second floor, only a ladder leaning against the opening. Belinda did not think she should attempt it in her Sunday skirts.
“How many bedrooms?” she asked.
“Four—and a nursery.”
“I didn’t know the Kirbys had any family thet young,” Belinda noted.
“They haven’t. Their youngest is eight or nine. But I guess it didn’t sound right to Mrs. Kirby to have a fine house without a proper nursery. Maybe she’ll use it for a sewin’ room or some-thin’.”
“My! It must be nice to have so many rooms thet ya can have one jest fer sewin’ in,” marveled Belinda.
She continued her wanderings from room to room, running her hand over the smoothness of polished wood or studying the delicate colors of stained-glass inserts over the windows.
“It’s goin’ to be one grand house,” she said with awe in her voice. “Mrs. Kirby is a lucky woman.”
She wasn’t conscious of the high praise she was giving to the builder, but she did notice Rand seemed to be pleased with her comments.
“I’d like to see it again—when ya get nearer to bein’ finished,” said Belinda. “Do ya think the Kirbys would mind?”
Rand smiled. “Guess it’s mine fer the time bein’,” he said. “I’ll be glad to show it to ya as many times as ya wanna see it.” He took Belinda’s hand to help her down the improvised steps. Belinda thought about it later and realized her hand in his felt natural, not awkward.
Belinda was in the office when Arnie brought Abe in for another checkup. His uncle Luke looked him over thoroughly and declared the ribs as good as new. He then sent Abe in to have cookies and milk with Thomas and Aaron. There was nothing unusual about that, so Belinda was unprepared when Luke pulled a chair up beside Arnie and haltingly began, “Arnie—there’s something we need to talk about.”
Arnie’s eyes swung to Luke’s face, and Belinda could read fearful questions there.
“He’s not healin’?” Arnie asked quickly. “But you said—”
“He’s healing. He’s doing fine,” Luke interrupted.
“Then what’s the problem?” Arnie demanded.
“The ribs are great, the lungs just fine. All the bumps and bruises are completely healed . . . but I’m worried about the arm.”
“Hasn’t it healed?”
“It’s healed . . . sure. But it was a bad break . . . and I didn’t have the equipment to set it properly. It needed care that I couldn’t give and—”
“What are ya tryin’ to say?” Arnie interrupted. “Yer talkin’ riddles. Ya set it, didn’t ya?”
“I set it . . . like I told you. I did the best I could under the circumstances, but—”
“What circumstances?”
“That arm needed the care that only a large hospital could give to make—”
“Then why didn’t ya say thet before?” Arnie’s voice was harsh with emotion. “Why’d ya let us think everything was goin’ to be jest fine?”
“Arnie,” said Luke patiently, “Abe was badly hurt. I was concerned about saving his life! I knew at the time that the arm needed special care—better care than I could give it in my simple office, but I did the best I could here because Abe was not in any condition to be moved to a hospital at the time. The trip might have killed him. Can you understand that?”
Arnie nodded slowly. “Well, it’s done now,” he said, working hard on swallowing. “Guess we made out okay. Abe is alive an’ seems fine, an’ iffen the arm has healed all right—”
“But it hasn’t,” replied Luke carefully. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Abe still needs special care for that arm.”
“But ya said it’s healed.”
“It is,” Luke answered slowly, “as far as the break itself.”
“Then what needs doin’?”
“It’s healing crooked, Arnie. Crooked.”
Arnie just sat staring into space, trying to understand the words.
“What’s thet mean?” he asked finally.
“It means if it doesn’t get treated properly, the arm will get worse. Abe won’t have full use of it. In time it might not function well at all.”
Belinda looked first at Arnie and then at Luke. So that was what had been bothering her doctor brother.
“What . . . what can be done?” asked Arnie, his voice tight. “It’s already set.”
“That’s not a big problem. They rebreak it. The only thing is, the sooner it is done, the more successful it will be.”
Arnie swung about to face Luke, his eyes dark with anger. “Are ya suggestin’ thet I take my son to some city hospital and put ’im through his pain all over again—on purpose?”
For a moment Luke was shocked to silence.
“Well, forget it,” rasped out Arnie. “The boy has suffered quite enough. Iffen you’da set it properlike in the first place—”
But Arnie stopped short. The expression on his face said he knew he wasn’t being fair. Luke had done his best. He had saved the life of his son. Arnie looked as though he wished he could take back his words.
“Arnie,” said Luke gently, “I don’t blame you for feeling that way. Honest, I don’t. And I wouldn’t even suggest such a thing if there was any other way. But I’ve been watching that arm. It’s getting worse. It needs to be fixed and the sooner the better. I know a good doctor. He does amazing things in corrective bone surgery. He would take Abe’s case, I’m sure he would, and there’s a good chance—a good chance that the arm would heal properly— be almost as good as new. This doctor—”
“I said no.” Arnie’s voice was low but the tone unmistakable.
“I won’t put him through all thet.”
Luke took a deep breath. “If you don’t,” he said firmly, �
��you’ll have a crippled boy.”
The tears ran down Arnie’s cheeks. He brushed them roughly aside. “He’s been through enough pain already,” he insisted.
“What kind of pa would I be to put him through more?”
“A loving pa,” Luke said, laying a hand on Arnie’s arm, his voice little more than a whisper.
Arnie spun around to face him. “You doctors!” he cried, choking on his words. “All ya wanna do is play God. Ya don’t think nothin’ ’bout the pain ya cause. Ya jest gotta fix, fix, fix.
Well, I won’t have them experimentin’ on my son jest to git glory in the doin’, ya hear? The matter is closed. I never wanna hear of it again. An’ one more thing, I don’t want ya sayin’ a word of this to Anne. She’s suffered enough havin’ to watch her boy fight to live. It would jest make things worse. Ya hear?” And Arnie slammed out the door, calling for Abe as he went.
Belinda took a deep breath and looked over at Luke. He stood leaning against the wall with his head down, his face in his hands, and he was weeping.
ELEVEN
Sorrows
Belinda could sense the heaviness in Luke as he went about his daily medical rounds. She longed to share his burden in some way. She knew Luke had done his best, but she also knew he felt his best hadn’t been good enough, that he had failed a child— and, even worse, a family member.
One wintry day when the foul weather seemed to be keeping away all but the emergency cases, Belinda decided to broach the subject of young Abe to her doctor brother. She knew there was no way for her to ease the pain Luke was feeling, but she felt that even talking about it might help some.
“Have ya talked to Pa and Ma about Abe?” she asked softly.
Luke raised his eyes from the column of figures he was adding. He shook his head, his face thoughtful.
“Do ya think ya should?”
“I don’t know,” Luke hesitated. “Some days I think I’ve just got to talk to them and on other days . . . I don’t know. It might just make things worse.”
“Worse how?”
“Arnie already avoids me.”
Belinda nodded in agreement. She had noticed it also the last time the family had gathered for Sunday dinner. Quiet and morose, Arnie hadn’t entered in with the usual man talk and good-natured banter. In fact, Arnie seemed to have retreated from the warmth of the entire family. Marty had noticed it, too, and worried that he might be coming down with something and should be taking a tonic.
