Valley So Low

by Patrice Wayne

  “Maudie?” he said, his voice thick and hoarse. “I’m thirsty.”

  “I’ll get you some water. Let’s see if I can help you sit up first.” With effort, she struggled until she positioned him against several pillows, half upright. She held the cup to his lips and he drank several sips. After he finished, she put the cup on the dresser and held his hand. “Do you want anything else, sweetheart?”

  “Naw,” he said. “I don’t feel good, honey.”

  “I know you don’t.” Maude stroked back his hair out of his face with a gentle hand. “But you’re going to be all right, Harry.”

  “What day is it?” He’d seemed lucid but now she wondered. “It’s the day you took sick, our wedding day, but it’s evening now, almost night.”

  Harry sighed. “Seems like I’ve been sick a long time, though. I’m sorry, Maude. I meant to take you out for a Hamburg steak and head home to the farm tomorrow. I don’t guess I’ll make it yet.”

  “We’ll get home soon enough,” she promised. “Do you want another drink? No? Then you’d best save your strength and rest some more.”

  The door swung open and Granny appeared with a lit lamp in her hands. “You ought not sit in the dark. I brought up a light and I’ll be back with a little bite of supper. Then I’ll take over sitting with Harry later so you can sleep. I don’t want you to run yourself ragged.”

  “I won’t.” Maude took the lamp and put it on the dresser. The light cast tall shadows on the wall and Harry winced, so she scooted it farther away.

  Granny peered at her grandson. “You’re awake,” she said with surprise. “You still burnin’ up?” Maude watched the woman touch his face. “Not so bad, but still high. I might brew some herbal tea if you think you can drink it.”

  “Put a lot of sugar in it if you do.” His puny voice managed a faint mirth. Granny stared at him and then almost chuckled. “You ain’t forgot how bitter some of ‘em taste, then.”

  She turned her gaze to Maude. “I’ll go back down and fetch you up a bit of the soup I made with some bread. Then I’ll see about brewing some cone flower tea for this one. After that, I’ll come spell you awhile.”

  Maude nodded. She appreciated the food and she planned to stay right here but they could discuss it later. After Granny retreated, Maude helped Harry return to a prone position. She bent down and kissed his forehead, his skin blazing under her lips. She made a fresh compress and because he asked, she sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand. He drifted into an uneasy sleep punctuated with an occasional cough, and when she put her hand on his chest beneath his undershirt, she swore she could feel congestion. He’d better not come down with pneumonia too. The room seemed a bit chilly so she picked up her shawl and put it around her shoulders. Then she fixed the covers around Harry to keep him warm.

  When Granny delivered the soup and bread, Maude ate it without any appetite. Both tasted delicious, but eating wasn’t a priority. Granny offered to sit with Harry but when Maude demurred, the older woman pressed her until Maude agreed to go lie down for a little while. She didn’t sleep but the hour or so spent at rest helped. When she crept back into the room on tiptoe so she wouldn’t disturb Harry, she found Granny dozing, her head on her chest. She woke with a start. “Is it mornin’ already?” “No, but I’ve rested all I can. Go on to bed and get some sleep. I’ll stay with Harry.”

  With a yawn, Granny nodded. “All right, then. I can’t seem to hold my head up nor stay awake. If you need me, though, just holler. I reckon I’ll hear you.”

  “I will.”

  Maude hovered over Harry, checking his fever and trying to gauge his condition. She saw no change from a few hours earlier. Around her, the house loomed dark and quiet but outside a rising wind whistled around the eaves. The moaning sound might’ve disturbed her at another time but it reminded her for the moment of the farmhouse. Wind did the same there and she wished they were home. Maybe if the sheriff hadn’t come for Harry, he wouldn’t be so sick. A wave of homesickness swamped her, and Harry stirred as if he felt it too. He coughed and opened his eyes. Without asking, Maude dipped a cloth into the tepid water and wrung it almost dry. Then she placed it across his forehead. “Are you thirsty?”

  Harry shook his head to say no. “Would you sing to me, Maude?” he said in a faint voice.

  “Yes, if you want,” she replied. For a moment she wondered what to sing, an old ballad or a church hymn or a popular tune. The wind outside inspired her and she gave voice to the familiar song both she and Harry often sang to George.

  “Down in the valley, valley so low, hang your head over, hang it so low,” she crooned. “Hear the wind blow, love, hear the wind blow…”

  Outside the rising breeze buffeted the house and Maude wondered if it brought more snow or warmer temperatures. She didn’t care, not when they were snug in the house and Harry, for now, remained safe. She sang until he drifted back into an uneasy sleep and waited for dawn through the long night, alone in the dark.

  Chapter Twelve

  Morning dawned but a new day failed to deliver fresh hope. Instead, hour by hour, Harry’s condition deteriorated. His fever refused to go down and he became increasingly restless. Sometimes he groaned and his alert moments waned. The awful cough racked him, and when he coughed he moaned. “Hurts,” he told her once. “Every time I cough, it hurts my chest.” By late afternoon when his temperature soared higher, Maude feared he’d become delirious. She wasn’t sure at first but when he began talking to Jamie about cutting hay, she realized he was out of his mind with high fever. Granny brought the coneflower tea and they managed to get him to take a few sips. He sicked up what little he drank, though. Maude managed to contain his spew in a pan Granny had brought up. They tried sage tea a few hours later but the results were the same. Harry kept down the red clover tea sweetened with honey but his fever blazed.

  Maude’s hands grew chapped from handling the wet cloths constantly. Her back ached from sitting beside Harry and her head hurt from fatigue. Worry devoured her within but she refused to yield to despair. It grew more difficult, however, as his skin emanated a terrible fever heat. Harry’s pallor was marked and dark circles appeared below both his eyes. He coughed more often with a harsh bark she didn’t like, and when she put her head down against his chest, she heard an inner crackling in his lungs. It sounded like bad pneumonia to her and when she consulted Granny, the old woman agreed.

  One hour faded into the next in an endless cycle. Maude nibbled at whatever Granny brought her and drank endless cups of strong black coffee. By evening, her eyes burned with fatigue and she swayed, sitting upright in the chair until Granny took a hand. She sent Maude to bed, and this time Maude slept for six straight hours, so tired even anxiety couldn’t keep her awake. When she woke, she didn’t feel rested and her head was so groggy she had trouble thinking. But she returned to Harry’s side.

  As the third day of his illness progressed, Maude noticed brown patches on both his cheeks. At first she thought he’d manage to soil himself somehow and she tried to scrub them away without success. “Look at this,” she told Granny. The old woman shook her head. “It’s not good,” she told Maude. “Gertie and Rose May both got those spots. I fear he’s not doing well at all, honey.”

  Maude refused to accept it then but as his breathing became increasingly labored, his fever consumed him, and a faint bluish tinge appeared near his ears, she faced the possibility Harry might not survive. “I think he’s got pneumonia,” she told Granny.

  “I’d say so.”

  “What can we do?” Maude sought answers, hoping Granny’s age and wisdom would yield something, but the woman shook her head. “There’s not a lot. Pneumonia carries off many a strong young person every winter. He’s low with the flu now so I don’t know. We might do a poultice on his chest and if we do, the onions are best.”

  She’d rubbed camphor oil on Harry’s chest and goose grease but neither had relieved his congestion or cough. “Onions?” Maude asked.

 
“Yes, onions,” Granny said with emphasis. “You fry them up and put them into a clean cloth to make the poultice, then lay it on the chest. If it works, it’ll bring up all kinds of nasty from Harry’s lungs, but I’ve seen it work years back.”

  “It’s worth a try.” At this point, Maude welcomed anything which might help Harry. “What do we need to do?”

  “For starters, we need to peel a lot of onions and I’ll need help,” Granny said. “I know you want to be here with Harry but I can use your hands. Maybe we can get someone to sit with him a spell, though I doubt it. Everyone with any sense is keeping home.”

  “Couldn’t Fred?”

  Granny pursed her lips tight. “Fred took off soon as Harry got sick. He said he managed not to catch the flu with Gertie, Rose Mae, and the gals, but he wasn’t pressing his luck any further. He’s at his brother’s over to Granby and said he’s staying till I tell him different.”

  Anger sharpened Maude’s voice. “Well, that’s nice of him,” she said, rankled at his abandonment. At her raised tone, Harry stirred and his eyes opened to slits. “I didn’t do it,” he said. “I never did. Don’t be mad.”

  “I’m not angry with you,” Maude cried as she rushed to stand beside the bed. The last thing she’d wanted had been to disturb him. For the first few seconds she thought he might be lucid but when he spoke again, her hopes faded. “I didn’t steal the green apples, Granny, I didn’t,” he cried in the tone of a young boy. “My belly hurts but it was Jamie who took them, not me I just ate some of ‘em.”

  “I’ll be.” Granny spoke very low and soft as she bent over Harry. She touched his cheek with a single finger. “I remember what he’s talking about. He couldn’t have been more than nine or ten. I thought he’d robbed the neighbor’s apple tree and made himself sick but I guess not. Sometimes I wonder if I knew Jamie.”

  Sometimes Maude felt the same but now wasn’t time to dwell on her first husband. All her focus remained on Harry. “He’s delirious then.”

  “’Fraid so,” Granny said.

  “Do you think he has a bellyache too?” Maude wondered.

  Granny didn’t hesitate to give an answer. “I suspect he does. I know they say to starve a fever but I don’t know if it’s right. He’s had nothing to eat for days now and I’m sure he’s weak. I doubt we could get him to take any broth or anything, but an empty belly’s likely to pain a fellow.”

  Maude stared down at Harry with a frown. “He’s so sick.”

  Like anyone else, she’d suffered through some minor illnesses and the usual headaches or stomachaches, but she had trouble imagining the physical discomfort Harry must be experiencing. And I thought it was hard to sit here, tending him and worrying, but he’s got the worst of it.

  “He is,” his grandmother said. “But we’ll do all we can to change it if we can. We’ll try, Maude, it’s the best we can do.”

  Before she could respond, someone rapped hard on the front door downstairs. The sound carried and with it a voice called out. Granny pulled herself erect. “Sounds like Miz Smith. I’m surprised anyone dares to come—most everyone’s afraid of getting sick. I’ll go see.”

  More than one voice joined Granny’s and when she returned, she brought two neighbors, Mrs. Smith and another woman Maude hadn’t met. Miss McBride carried herself erect with perfect posture, and after being introduced she confirmed Maude’s first impression that she must be a spinster.

  “I never married,” she said. “So I do what I can to help others. And I’m not scared of getting the grippe. It’s the Lord’s will, I say. If I’m meant to get it, I will, and if not, I won’t. Miz Whitney said she’s about to start peeling onions for a poultice. I can’t abide onions. My eyes tear up until I’m near blind, but I’ve kept many an invalid company so I’d be pleased to sit with your husband.”

  “I don’t mind…” Maude began but Granny interrupted. “I need you downstairs for a bit, child. Miss McBride will do fine so don’t fret.”

  She knew when she’d been outmaneuvered so Maude leaned over to kiss Harry. Until she did, she hadn’t realized his eyes were half open. She touched her lips to his forehead, still blazing with fever, and then to his lips. “You’re pretty,” Harry said. “I wish I knew your name.”

  Tears strangled her heart worse than honeysuckle vines but she managed to answer. “It’s Maude,” she told him. He didn’t know me. Oh, dear God. He’s in a worse way than I dreamed. He doesn’t even recognize me. Fear thrust a fist into her abdomen and as she followed Granny downstairs, she failed to control her tears. Walking into the kitchen brought a new flood as she remembered helping Harry bathe a few nights earlier. Miz Smith talked about recipes for beef tea and noodles with Granny. Neither woman noticed her distress until Granny asked her to go down cellar to bring up an armload of onions. “Why Maude, what’s wrong?”

  As if she didn’t know. “Harry didn’t know me,” Maude replied. “Oh, child, he’s out of his mind with the fever,” Granny said. “He can’t help it.” Maude realized he couldn’t but it didn’t hurt any less. For the first time, she understood he might die—without Harry ever knowing she’d been keeping vigil at his side. She might never exchange a lucid word or vow of love with him again. Maude said nothing but went to fetch the onions. She lingered in the damp basement, inhaling the ghost scents of laundry soap, and tried to collect her emotions. Hysterics wouldn’t help Harry, but maybe the old-fashioned poultice would.

  A half hour later, the kitchen reeked of pungent onions. Maude’s eyes burned with the odor and tears rolled down her face unchecked. Granny manned the largest iron skillet and fried onions in lard while Mrs. Smith prepared a square of cotton for the poultice. As the onions cooled, Granny stirred in some cornmeal and a bit of vinegar.

  “It can’t be too hot when we put it on his chest or it’ll burn him,” she said. “But I can’t let it cool off too much either or the fumes won’t get to his lungs enough.”

  In Maude’s opinion, the harsh smells would raise the dead but she refrained from saying anything. “Let’s try it.”

  “Go on up and we’ll be right behind you.”

  Maude didn’t wait. Thirty minutes away from Harry seemed more like hours, but when she came into the room nothing had changed. She noticed Miss McBride had plumped the pillows and straightened the covers. “Is he asleep?” The spinster nodded. “I think so. He’s had his eyes closed since you left.”

  She peered at Harry’s face and noticed a thin thread of blood coming out of one nostril. “His nose is bleeding!” Maude plucked a clean handkerchief out of a drawer and dabbed it away as Miss McBride lifted her hands to her mouth with horror. “His nose was bleeding,” she announced to Granny and Mrs. Smith when they entered with the poultice. Both women blanched at the news and set off Maude’s inner alarm. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not a good sign, child,” Granny said with quiet resignation. “Most of them with flu that get nosebleeds don’t make it. But we won’t give up yet. We’ve got the poultice and let’s pray God it works.”

  Maude, by right as his wife, unbuttoned his flannel long johns and placed the warm poultice on Harry’s chest. His swift, violent reaction caught her by surprise. He tried to claw the cloth bundle from his body and sit up. He cursed, using words Maude had seldom heard him use. “Lie down, son,” Granny barked and to Maude’s surprise, he did. “Maude, why don’t you go clean up a little? I imagine you’d like to change your dress and all. If this brings out the stuff from his lungs, it’ll be a mess.”

  She wanted to stay but she’d worn the same dress since changing after the wedding. The calico stuck to her in places and Maude could smell the unwashed aroma wafting from her clothes. She hadn’t combed her hair or hardly washed her face. With the sense Granny wanted rid of her for some reason but lacking the energy to argue, Maude nodded. “All right, I will. I could use a bit of a wash. Holler if you need me, though, or he comes around or something.”

  “I will, child.”

  Maude lingered
outside the bedroom long enough to hear Mrs. Smith say, “I’m powerful sorry to say it and I hope I’m wrong, but I don’t think your grandson has long left in this world.”

  Miss McBride concurred. “I’m afraid she’s right, Miz Whitney. I’ve nursed a lot of Spanish flu cases and if they get the nosebleed, I’ve seldom seen one who lived.”

  “I fear you may be right,” Granny said, her voice thick with sorrow. “I hope you’re wrong, though, for Harry’s sake and for his wife. Poor Maude don’t need any more grief. If Harry passes, she won’t have a thing but her baby boy. She won’t be able to stay on the farm either, and she’ll have to move in here. Fred won’t like it much. He’s not a bad sort but I swear he grudges every crust of bread I put in my mouth, even though I earn my keep.”

  “They just got married, too, didn’t they?” Miss McBride asked. “I wouldn’t be an old maid if my Jake hadn’t died on San Juan Hill back in the Spanish-American war. I hope Harry rallies for her sake and yours.”

  Ears ringing, heart stinging, Maude retreated. She’d already suspected everything the women said but hearing it came hard. Her mind understood the logic but her heart rejected the possibility. She couldn’t accept the harsh fact of Harry’s pending death. Too stunned to weep, too tired to rage, Maude did as Granny suggested. She changed out of her perspiration-soaked, stained housedress into another. Downstairs, she washed her face and torso, then took down her hair. Maude combed it out and braided it in a single row to hang down her back. Being clean and refreshed revived some faint hope and she headed back to the sickroom after her break with renewed spirits.

  In her absence, everything had changed. Harry, supported by Granny and Mrs. Smith with his back propped against several pillows, spewed a nasty stream into a basin Miss McBride held. Mucous streaked with blood poured into the pan in terrible shades of yellow and green. Ropes of something white and slick were part of the discharge. A foul stench wafted from the steaming mess, so bad she almost gagged. Harry made a retching sound, although if he were alert and awake, Maude couldn’t tell. His eyes remained closed tight, and his overall appearance remained awful. Then he suffered a coughing fit and tried to sit up, one hand clutching his chest.