by Janette Oke
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.
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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
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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
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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?"
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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 somethin'."
"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 being' finished," said Belinda. "Do ya think the Kirbys would mind?"
Rand smiled. "Guess it's mine fer the time being'," 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
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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
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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
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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.
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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
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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.
"Abe seemed chipper enough," Belinda finally commented after the silence.
Luke was still deep in thought. He turned his eyes back to Belinda as she spoke.
"He's chipper," he responded, "but he's not using that arm well. If you watch him, he handles almost everything with his other hand."
Belinda hadn't noticed, but then she hadn't been as attentive as Luke. Thinking back, she realized now that Luke no doubt was right.
"What happened, Luke?" she asked softly.
"One of the bones that was broken was in the elbow and it was pushed out of proper position. I figure that the bull must have caught the arm between his head and the hard-packed earth and twisted as he ground it. You've seen certain critters do that. They aren't content to just butt things. They grind at them with those rock-hard heads of theirs."
Yes, Belinda had seen them do that.
"Well, this bone was dislocated, so to speak, as well as broken, and I couldn't get it to line up properly. I hoped--and prayed-- that it might adjust itself as it healed, but deep inside I knew it would really take a miracle for the bone to align on its own." Luke sighed deeply, his eyes troubled. "Well, this time we didn't get our miracle," he stated simply.
"And ya think they can do thet in the city--set it right?"
"I'm sure they could. They have a team of doctors and all the latest equipment. I'm sure they could do a good job for the boy. I got to watch a doctor do a very similar procedure when I was in training. I couldn't believe what he accomplished."
"Is it . . . is it terribly painful?" went on Belinda.
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"There's pain . . . of course. After all, it is a break. And also surgery. But they have good sedatives. Good medication for pain. And the main thing is that the patient is whole again. It's worth the additional suffering for a while if Abe gets his arm back."
Belinda understood Luke's reasoning. If it were his son, he would do all he could to give him a whole and usable body. But this wasn't Luke's son. And Arnie had never been able to stand to see suffering of any kind. He shrank back from it, hating it for its very sake. Arnie would find it hard to make a decision that would cause suffering to anyone, especially his child, even if the purpose was to bring healing.
"What happens if nothin' is done?" Belinda continued.
Luke shook his head. "It'll get worse and worse. He m
ay lose use of the arm entirely as time goes on. It might not grow with the rest of the body. Might even begin to shrivel some. At best, the elbow will be stiff and unbending. To say it simply--the boy will have a crippled arm."
Belinda cringed. She remembered, years ago, seeing such a boy. She had gone to another town with her ma and pa, and they were riding down the street in an open carriage when they were halted in the street for some reason. Belinda had looked about her while the horses fidgeted and impatiently tossed their heads.
At first she had enjoyed looking in the windows of the nearby shops and watching the people in their colorful garments as they hurried back and forth on the sidewalk. And then her eyes had landed on a young boy on the street corner selling papers. In his one hand he held high the latest edition as he called out the headline to the passersby and urged them to buy their copy. But it was the other hand that drew Belinda's attention. The whole arm was twisted off to the side in a strange way, the hand small and the fingers bent.
She had been shocked at the sight and unable to understand why the boy's arm looked like that. Even at her young age her
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heart was tender with sympathy. She had tugged on her pa's coat sleeve and pointed a finger at the young boy, asking what was wrong with him.
Concern in his eyes, her pa had gently pulled her arm down and turned to look at her intently.
"He's crippled, Belinda," he had said softly. "I don't know how or why, but his arm's been damaged somehow. Like my leg was damaged," and he tapped on his wooden one. Belinda stared up at her pa with wide eyes. She was so accustomed to his handicap that she didn't even think about it.
At just that moment three young boys came around the corner. Belinda saw them stop before the newspaper boy. Maybe they're goin' to help him, she thought. But they began to dance around, calling out such things as, "Claw hand, claw hand," and "Crooked arm!" Then they had snatched his papers and begun throwing them about on the street. Clark saw it all, too, and before Belinda could understand what was happening, her pa had jumped from the carriage. Seeing him coming, the boys turned and ran from the scene.
