by Janette Oke
At length, Willie held the little boy away and looked at him. “Are ya hungry?” he asked.
“Yeah. Where Mama?”
“Mama is restin’. She’s very tired.”
“Mama sleepin’?”
“Right. Do you want to go see Wong an’ have him git ya some milk an’ bread?”
“Yeah!” exclaimed Josiah in glee. He always enjoyed a visit with Wong.
Willie carried him to the kitchen. Wong looked up from the table where he and Nathan were cutting doughnuts.
“Aha,” said Wong, “small boy is wake now.”
“Awake an’ hungry, Wong. Ya think ya might have somethin’ fer him?”
Wong smiled. He enjoyed the children.
“Yes, yes. Wong find.”
Nathan called to Josiah. “Hi, Joey. Ya all done with yer sleep? See what big brother is doin’. Look! I’m helpin’ Wong make doughnuts. We’re gonna have ’em fer supper.”
“Maybe. Maybe not,” said Wong. “Too slow. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I’ll hurry,” said Nathan and began to slap down the cutter in rapid succession, making weird-shaped doughnuts with chopped-out sides as one cut overlaid another.
“Slow. Slow,” called Wong. “We have some for supper. You make slow.”
Nathan obliged with more careful cuts. Willie squeezed the boy’s shoulder. “I can hardly wait,” he said. “Those shore look like good doughnuts.” Then he turned to Wong.
“Speakin’ of supper, ya wanna jest feed the boys? The women are both havin’ a rest, an’ I plan to let ’em sleep as long as they can. The boys can play outside fer a while an’ then they can eat. I’ll jest have a bowl of soup or some stew in the bedroom.” Wong nodded.
Willie returned to the bedroom and took his place beside Clark. There was no change.
The hours crawled by slowly. Cookie came in and stayed with Clark while Willie washed up his sons and readied them for bed. He spent extra time with them, holding them and reading to them, and then he tucked them in and remained in their room until they both dropped off to sleep.
When he returned to the patient, he was surprised to hear Clark groaning. Cookie was bending over him, trying to restrain him from movement.
“He’s comin’ out of it,” said Cookie. “Don’t be surprised if there’s some screamin’.”
Clark moaned again and fought against his extreme pain, not aware enough to realize where the pain was coming from.
“Don’t know how he’s gonna stand it when he wakes up a bit more,” Cookie muttered, and Willie had the impression Cookie knew firsthand what he was talking about.
Willie feared what Clark’s cries might do to the sleeping household.
“Isn’t there anythin’—?”
“Ya watch ’im and try ta hold ’im down,” said Cookie. “I’m gonna find Scottie.”
Cookie hobbled out, and Scottie soon came noiselessly into the room, breathless from running. Willie watched as he pulled out a small package from his pocket and opened it. Willie did not see the contents of the package, nor did he ask any ques- tions, but Scottie seemed to feel some information was in order.
“A little morphine. Cookie’s. He needs it now an’ then fer the pain thet still bothers ’im. Makes me keep it so he won’t be tempted to take it oftener than he should.”
Willie nodded.
Clark was thrashing and moaning, his brow covered with perspiration; his hands tried to clutch at the bedclothes as if to tear away the pain. Scottie leaned over him and spooned the drug into his mouth. It was a while before it took effect, and the men guarded and soothed Clark as they waited for the medicine to work. At last Clark became quieter and eventually fell into a deep sleep. Willie was thankful for the respite. But what would they do when Cookie’s small supply of morphine ran out?
It was almost morning before Clark woke again. Willie had been dozing in the chair and was awakened by Clark’s moaning. Clark’s eyes were open when Willie looked up at him. Though the pain would have been considerable, Clark was rational.
He looked at Willie and, for the first time in three days, seemed aware of his situation.
Willie was relieved to recognize that Clark was alert. At least his mind had not been affected. “How ya doin’?” Willie asked softly, lifting some water to Clark’s lips.
Clark sipped very little and then turned his head. A groan escaped him. “Pain” was all he said. “Pain.”
“Where does it hurt the most?” persisted Willie. He had to know the extent of the head injury.
“Leg,” said Clark.
Willie felt another wave of relief pass through him.
“How’s yer head?”
“Hazy … little ache … all right.”
“Good,” Willie encouraged.
Clark rolled his head back and forth, the moans escaping from his throat.
“Where’s Marty?” he finally asked.
“I made her go sleep fer a while.”
This must have satisfied Clark. He lay clenching his jaw to keep the screams from coming. Willie knew he needed more medication and moved the lamp to the window, their prearranged signal.
“How long?” Clark gasped out.
“You’ve been here fer three nights. It happened the afternoon of the day before.”
“The old mine … I remember.”
It was a good sign. Willie breathed a thankful prayer.
“How’re them boys?”
“Haven’t heard much since we brought you out,” said Willie and let it go at that.
“Did ya get Abe out?”
“His pa did.”
“Good.”
Clark closed his eyes, obviously trying to fight away the pain and maybe sleep again, but it didn’t work. Scottie was soon there, and Clark took the medication without protest. This time he did not sleep as soundly. He dozed off and on. The pain was still with him, but he was able to bear it.
“Didn’t give ’im as much,” Scottie murmured to Willie. “We gotta ration this here stuff out.”
Willie nodded.
The light from the dawn was gently coloring the morning sky. Clark slept, then spoke and slept again. Willie knew Marty was anxious for a word with her husband. Perhaps she had slept enough and needed to be called.
“Scottie, can ya stay a few minutes with ’im? I should wake Mrs. Davis. She’ll want to see ’im.” Scottie nodded agreement.
Willie woke Marty gently.
“He’s awake now. Not too much awake, but he’s able to talk some.”
Marty threw back the quilt that covered her fully clothed body and scrambled from the bed.
Willie attempted to slow her down. He took her arm.
“He’s in awful pain, Ma. It ain’t easy to see ’im like thet.”
Marty nodded dumbly, but her step did not slow.
When they reached Clark’s room, Scottie stepped outside, and Marty threw herself at Clark’s bedside and began to weep against him.
He reached out a trembling hand and soothed her hair. He no doubt knew her well enough to let her cry for a while. When her tears were spent, he spoke to her.
“I’m all right. Don’t fret yerself.” His voice sounded rough but surprisingly strong.
“Shore,” she smiled weakly, blinking away tears. “Shore ya are.”
“My leg’s not too good, though. Ya knowin’ thet?”
“I know.” The way Marty said it confirmed to Willie that she truly did know. Marty must have been the one who had changed the bandages. Once again, Willie felt a surge of respect for this strong woman.
Clark ran a feeble hand through Marty’s tangled hair.
“Yer not lookin’ yer best, Mrs. Davis,” Clark teased her.
“Thet’s funny,” said Marty, smiling and wiping away her tears, “ya ain’t never looked better.”
Willie quietly left them alone.
Scottie was there to portion out small amounts of the morphine as Clark needed it. Clark really could have used far more pain-killer than he
was allowed, but once their supply was gone there would be no more.
Clark was able to talk a bit with his visitors. Nathan even was allowed a short visit with his grandpa. He was awed to see his strong grandfather lying pale and still on the bed. But when Clark teased him and rumpled his hair, Nathan looked reassured. Marty and Missie both spent most of their time trying to think of something they could do to ease Clark’s pain or restore his body. Missie fussed in the kitchen over special dishes she hoped would encourage her father’s appetite. He made a great effort to eat and please her, but even she could tell it was difficult with the dreadful pain always present throughout his whole body.
Word came from town concerning the boys who had been involved in the disaster. Andy seemed to be recovering. His broken ankle had not been crushed, and his parents felt that it would heal in time. They were deeply grateful to Clark for his courageous rescue and sent word that he was in their prayers.
Funeral services were held for Abe. Marty hardly knew how to tell Clark, but she felt he deserved to know. She approached the subject cautiously.
“They say thet Andy’s ankle should be healin’.”
“Thet’s good,” said Clark. “The way thet timber had ’im pinned, I was feared it might be bad broke.”
“The other boy—Casey—he’s fine. Jest some scrapes an’ scratches an’ his deep inner pain, I guess. The third boy, Abe, was his younger brother.”
“He told me.”
“Abe didn’t make it, Clark.”
“I know.” Clark spoke very quietly.
“Ya know?”
“He was already dead when I first found him.”
Marty was surprised and, for a moment, angry. “Ya knew he was dead when ya risked everythin’ to go back on in there an’—”
Clark hushed her with a raised hand. “If it had been our boy, would ya have wanted him out?”
Marty was silent. Yes, if it had been her boy, she would have wanted to hold him one more time.
Marty was deeply relieved at the clarity of Clark’s thinking. She was so glad the head injury had not caused permanent damage, but she could not shut from her mind the picture of Clark’s leg and the condition it was in. Each time she entered the sickroom, the stench of the injured leg met her with increasing force. The leg was in bad shape. It might even claim Clark’s life. Marty fought that thought with her entire being. They needed medicine. They needed a doctor. At times she was tempted to demand that Willie hurry them to the train so they could head for home. In more rational moments Marty knew he’d never survive such a long trip in his weakened condition.
And then Clark began to flush with fever. His eyes took on a glassy look, and his skin was hot and dry. It’s the poison, admitted Marty to herself, the poison from the wound.
Marty could hardly bear this new dilemma. He had been doing well under the circumstances. He had been gaining back a little strength. He had been able to talk. And now this. They had no way to fight this. Oh, dear God, what can we do?
At first, they did not talk about Clark’s condition, for to talk about it would be to admit it, and also to admit that they were defeated, for they had nothing with which to fight the dreaded infection.
At last Marty knew they could no longer try to pretend that the problem was not there.
“Bring me a pan of hot water,” she said to Missie. “An’ boil a good sharp pair of yer best scissors. We’ve gotta do somethin’ ’bout yer father’s leg.”
Then Marty went to find Scottie. Willie and Scottie thought Marty had not noticed the drug ministrations to Clark, so Scottie was caught off guard when Marty walked up to where he was working on the cinch of a saddle and calmly announced, “Scottie, I don’t know how much medicine ya still have left, but Clark needs a good-sized dose now. I’ve got to clean up thet leg the best I can or it’s gonna kill ’im. The poison from thet gangrene is goin’ all through his system, an’ we don’t have much time.”
Scottie gazed into her face, wonder in his eyes. “Yer a better man than I am,” he said, then must have caught his blunder. “Well, anyway, I’m thinkin’ I’d not have the stomach to do what yer intendin’ to do.”
He went for the medicine and gave Clark a large dose. Marty waited until the morphine had taken effect, then gathered together all her limited supplies and every ounce of her courage and went to Clark’s room. She threw the window wide open and lit a piece of rag in a tin can to help smoke out the odor, then threw back the light quilt and removed the bandages. It was even worse than she had feared. Never before had Marty faced such a sight and smell. She wanted to faint, to be sick. But she would allow herself neither. She soaked and snipped and cut away dead flesh, but even as she worked she knew she was fighting a losing battle. She finished her difficult task, knowing that what she had done would not be enough.
Gently she covered Clark, all but the damaged leg. She left it exposed to the air, thinking the fresh air might do it some good. Then she cleaned the scissors and knife she had used and put things away in their proper places and went to her own bed.
Down upon her knees, she cried out her anguish to God. She began by telling Him how much Clark meant to her and reminding God of how faithfully Clark had served Him over the years. She told God she had already suffered through the loss of one husband and couldn’t possibly bear to lose another. She reminded the Lord of her family at home and of Missie and the grandchildren here. They, too, needed Clark. And then she pleaded and finally demanded that God heal her husband. Hadn’t He promised to answer the prayers of His children when they prayed in faith, prayed believing?
Then she returned to Clark. Clark’s breathing was just as shallow, his face just as flushed, his brow just as hot as before. But Marty determined that she would sit right beside him and wait for the Lord’s miracle.
Missie came in. At the sight of her father’s infected leg, she gave a little cry and, placing her hand over her mouth, ran from the room. Marty’s heart ached for her. What would she ever have done if she’d seen it before I cleaned it up? thought Marty. Marty was thankful Missie had been spared at least that much.
The drug began to wear off, and Clark tossed and turned in his pain. Marty bathed his hot face and body in an attempt to get the fever down. It had little effect. Clark soon became delirious, and Marty had to call for help to hold him. Willie came and then Cookie, and the two men sent Marty from the room. Marty paced back and forth, back and forth, praying that God’s miracle might soon come. Still Clark’s screams and groans reached her ears.
Maria came. White-faced and wide-eyed, she stood in the hallway and talked to the tearful Missie. She did not stay long. Clark’s agony and the distress of the entire household sent her crying from the home.
The hours crawled by. Marty went into the sickroom occasionally, but Clark’s misery was more than she could bear. At last, she went to her room again … and again fell beside her bed. This time her prayer was different.
“Oh, God!” she wept from the bottom of her soul. “Ya know best. I can’t stand to see ’im suffer so. I love ’im, God. I love ’im so. Iffen ya want to take ’im, then it’s all right. I won’t be blamin’ ya, God. Ya know what’s best. I don’t want ’im to suffer, God. I leave ’im in yer hands. Yer will be done, whether it’s healin’ or takin’, thet’s up to you, God. An’, God, whatever yer will, I know thet ya’ll give me—an’ all of us—the strength we need to bear it.”
Marty eventually arose from her knees and went to find Missie. A strange peace filled Marty’s being. She still shivered with each scream from Clark. It still pierced her to the quick to know he suffered so, but Marty knew that God was in control and that His divine will would be done.
She found Missie in the boys’ room. The boys, however, were not there. Lane had taken them to the barn, where they wouldn’t hear their grandfather’s agonizing cries.
Missie clutched the small backpack Clark had used to carry her as an infant and that she in turn had used to carry her own sons. She was sobbin
g out her hurt and anguish.
“Missie,” Marty said, taking the girl into her arms. “It’s gonna be all right. I know it is.”
Missie burst into fresh tears. “Oh, I want to believe that. I’ve been praying and praying for God to make him well.”
“He may not,” said Marty simply, looking into her daughter’s face.
Missie looked at her mother in bewilderment.
“But ya said—”
“I said it will be all right. An’ it will. Whatever God decides to do will be the best. He knows us. He knows our needs. He seeks our good. Whatever He wills—”
But Missie pushed her arms away.
“Oh, Missie, Missie,” Marty began to sob. “I fought it, too. I fought it with all my bein’. I want yer pa. I want him here with me. But God knows thet. I don’t even have to tell ’im. But, little girl, we’ve got to trust Him. We’ve gotta let God truly be God.”
Missie rose and left the room, still sobbing. Marty heard her close the door to her own room, and she could hear the muffled sobs. There was nothing more that Marty could say. She could only pray.
Marty went to the kitchen to ask Wong for coffee for the men in the sickroom. They had given him the last of the medication, allowing him to sleep once more. Each one in the house felt the lingering question: What then?
As Marty carried the pot of coffee and cups to the room, she met Missie in the hall. Her face was still tear-streaked but more serene. “Mama,” she said, “I just wanted you to know that it’s all right. I’ve prayed it all through, and I’m … I’m willing to … to let God be God. He does know best. I knew it all along. It’s just easy to forget sometimes when you want your own way so… .” She could go no further.
Marty managed a weak smile, and the tears flowed down her cheeks. She leaned over and kissed Missie on the cheek and then straightened to go on to Clark’s room. She heard a knock sound on the front door and turned to watch Missie wipe her face with her apron and go answer it.
Missie opened the door, and there stood Maria, her shoulders square and her eyes shining with faith and pride. Just behind her stood Juan.
