The Listening Sky

by Dorothy Garlock

  “I opened it this mornin’,” he said when Jane dipped some of it out into a bowl and looked carefully for weevils.

  “It should be in a tin with a tight lid.”

  “Miss Jane, will Miss Polly be goin’ with ya?”

  “No.”

  “She’s in the family way, ain’t she?”

  “yes.”

  “Where’s her man?”

  “She doesn’t have one.” Jane turned and looked at the boyish face of the big man. “She was… forced.”

  Herb’s mouth opened in surprise, then snapped shut.

  “Gawdamighty!” The word exploded from him. “A man who’d do that to a young girl ain’t fit to live.”

  “I agree.” Jane took the salt box to the stove and sprinkled salt in the boiling water. “Mr. Kilkenny and Sunday Polinski and now you know Polly’s situation. I’m telling you this because Polly will need friends, understanding friends, in the months ahead.”

  “Ya can count on it, Miss Jane. I’ll see to it nobody hurts her.”

  Jane’s gaze flicked up to the youth’s face. It was cold and void of expression, but the skin at the corners of his eyes tightened ever so slightly, narrowing his gaze. It occurred to her that this man, scarcely old enough to grow a beard, had a deep-seated sense of moral obligation, but a hard life and strong survival instincts had left their mark. He could be deadly if crossed.

  “It eases my mind to know that you’ll be around if she… if something should come up.”

  “I’ll be here.” Herb shook his head. “It’s a shame… ya ain’t stayin’, Miss Jane.”

  “We can’t always do what we want to do. You’ve probably discovered that.”

  “Ya mean ya don’t want to go?”

  “No. No, I didn’t mean that,” Jane said quickly, and while stirring with a wooden spoon, began to sprinkle the cornmeal into the boiling water. She’d let her mouth run away with her and it was best to drop the subject.

  When the gruel had thickened to her satisfaction, Jane removed it from the stove. On a shelf above a work bench were several bowls. Choosing the one with the fewest chips, she wiped it with a cloth, and poured some of the gruel into it.

  “Ain’t it a wonder what a little know-how will do? I put a cup a meal in all at once.”

  “I’ve made mush hundreds, maybe thousands, of times. It’s thin now, but in a few minutes it will set up.” Jane spooned onto the gruel some of the syrup from the flapjacks they had brought from the cookhouse. “You better eat these before they get any colder I’ll take this up to the doctor?”

  “Ya best let me take it, Miss Jane. Doc’s not been in his right mind lately.”

  “I’ve dealt with sick children—”

  “—He ain’t no young’un, ma’am. He’s got a nasty mouth when he’s feelin’ poorly.”

  “At least he won’t ignore me.”

  “But, Miss Jane—”

  “I promise I won’t be offended no matter what he says. Show me the way, Herb, then come back down here and eat. Before we go, set the biscuits in the oven to keep warm.”

  “Won’t they burn?”

  “Not if you leave the oven door down.”

  Jane looked around for something to serve as a tray, but could find nothing. The kitchen was in need not only of a good cleaning, but of decent dishes as well as cooking pots, She placed the bowl on a tin plate, handed the milk to Herb and followed him out of the kitchen.

  In the upper hall Herb stopped and spoke to Jane.

  “Ma’am, I wish ya wouldn’t go in. I ain’t wantin’ ya to see Doc like this. He’s a good man. He just can’t forget ‘bout all them arms and legs he took off during the war and all them that died ‘cause he didn’t have time to help ‘em. He ain’t never been like this before. He’s sick, too. And scared.”

  “Drink has ruined many good men.”

  “But… it stinks in there.”

  “No worse than what I’ve smelled before.”

  Herb’s shoulders slumped in resignation and he opened the door.

  Jane noticed the odor first. Her next impression was that the room was sparsely furnished: a narrow bed, a chair and a washstand. The morning light coming in the curtainless window revealed a startling sight. A man, who appeared to be not much larger than a child and who was spidery thin, lay on his back. A cloth rope bound his skinny ankles to the end of the wrought-iron bedstead and a wide cloth, reaching from his knees to his chest, was stretched tightly and tucked beneath the mattress on each side of the bed.

  “What in the world!”

  “I had to, ma’am. He’d get up an’ hurt hisself.”

  “You sonofabitch!” The feverish sunken eyes glared up at Herb. “I despise the day I kept that outlaw from killing you.”

  “Doc… it’s for yore own good—”

  “If you had a ounce a gratitude for what I’ve done for you, you’d not have taken my whiskey.” The weak, raspy voice rose to a screech. “What’s this slut doin’ here? I don’t need a whore. Get her outta here! And get me my whiskey!”

  “Hush up that kind a talk, Doc.” Herb said sharply. “Miss Jane’s brought ya some breakfast.”

  “My guts are on fire and you bring me a prissy-ass woman with… breakfast! You stupid, backwoods bastard! Get my bottle or, by holy hell, I’ll cut off your damned pecker when I get up from here!”

  Herb winced. The doctor’s cruel words hurt. Jane set the bowl of gruel on the washstand and took the cup of milk from Herb’s hand.

  “Go on downstairs,” she said, ignoring the man on the bed, then added when she turned to look down at him, “I’ll see to it that he eats.”

  “You’ll do nothing, you pig-ugly old spinster!”

  “Doc! For God’s sake! Ma’am, he don’t mean it.”

  “I know. He’s lashing out like a spoiled little boy. Go eat your breakfast.”

  “Get… her out… of here.” The doctor coughed, leaned over the edge of the bed and spit on the floor. He made no attempt to use the can beside the bed. Jane saw flicks of blood in the spittle and on his lips.

  She shoved Herb gently out the door, but left it open. Then she went to the window, raised it and propped it up with a stick that lay on the sill.

  “Herb!” The doctor tried to shout but his voice was weak. “Get back in here, you sorry piece a horseshit!”

  “Phew!” Jane waved her hand before her nose. “It smells like a privy in here.”

  “It is a privy, you stupid whore! Touch me and I’ll piss all over you.”

  At that Jane turned on him.

  “Keep a civil tongue in your head or I’ll slap you so hard your teeth will rattle.” Her face was rigid with impatience and anger.

  “You do and I’ll spit in your face.”

  “You’re a poor excuse for a human being, lying there wallowing in self-pity. Look at yourself; a whiskey-soaked sot wasting the brains and talent God gave you.”

  “I don’t need a nasty-nice little heifer telling me what I am. If you’re so much why’d you have to come to this godforsaken place to get a man? I know why T.C. sent out that bill wanting women to work.”

  “So do I… now. But bear this in mind, Doctor, I’m on my feet and you’re not. However, that’s got nothing to do with the pitiful condition you’re in now.” Jane spoke as if to an unruly child. “Let’s get something straight right now. I’ll not suffer your insults in silence. I do not feel sorry for you; therefore, I will give you back as good as you give.”

  “The thieving son of a bitch stole my whiskey.”

  “Your brain is so pickled you don’t realize what that young man is doing for you. You don’t deserve such loyalty.”

  “Loyalty, my ass! He stole my whiskey!”

  “Shut up whining!” Jane was surprised by her own words. She poured water from the pitcher on the washstand into a bowl and wet the end of a towel.

  “Wash your face and hands. Heaven knows they need it.”

  “Loose the damn sheet. I can’t move.”
>
  Jane pulled on one side of the sheet, giving it some slack, but left it stretched over him. While he rubbed the wet towel over his face and hands, Jane studied him. His breathing was labored. The skin on his face and neck was like yellow parchment. His eyes were deep-set in their sockets and his whiskered cheeks sunken. The thin hands that lay on his bony chest were long and slender.

  He wiped his hands with the wet cloth, then laid it over his face for a moment as if enjoying the cool dampness. He removed the cloth and left it to lie on his chest.

  “Don’t spit on the floor again. It was a childish act of defiance.”

  “Untie my feet.”

  “No.”

  “I’ll do it myself.” He leaned forward on one elbow, his shaking hand reaching for his ankles. Unable to reach past the calf of his leg, he sank back down on the pillows. Weak tears filled his eyes.

  “You’ll feel better after you eat,” Jane said. “I’ve made cornmeal mush. It’s easy on the stomach.”

  “You a doctor?” he asked sarcastically.

  “Heavens, no. But I’ve taken care of many sick children and carried out the orders the doctors gave me. After you’ve eaten you’ll drink the milk. It’ll coat the lining of your stomach and keep it from burning.”

  “Milk! Christ almighty. I’m not drinking any dad-blasted milk!”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “I won’t.”

  “You’ll eat and you’ll drink the milk, or I’ll pour this pitcher of water on you, shut the door and leave you alone all day.”

  “Herb will come.”

  “Not if I tell him you’ve gone to sleep.”

  “I’ll yell.”

  “Not with a gag in your mouth,” Jane said calmly. “Now open it. And, I’m warning you—spit it out and I’ll smear the whole bowlful on your face and walk out.”

  “You’re a… bitch!”

  “And you’re a… miserable old sot.” Jane held the spoonful of mush close to his lips and waited.

  “I can feed myself,” he sputtered, and then his thin lips parted.

  “I don’t trust you.” She thrust the spoonful of mush inside.

  He held the food in his mouth while his eyes battled hers, then with a grimace he swallowed. His feverish eyes stayed on her face while she fed him. When he had eaten half of the mush, Jane could see that he was having a difficult time swallowing. She set the bowl on the washstand and picked up the cup.

  “Drink a little milk,” she said and put her arm under his thin shoulders to raise him up. Without making a fuss, he took several swallows.

  “Aren’t you going to pat me on the head and tell me I was a good boy?”

  “Sure. Good boy.” Jane laughed as she patted the top of his head, then dropped her eyelid in a wink.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Jane. What’s yours?”

  After a pause he said, “Nathan Foote. It’s been a long time since I said it.”

  “Nathan. After Nathan Hale?”

  “I’m no hero.”

  “Maybe you’re the villain. Every town should have one.”

  Jane began working at the knots in the cloth holding his feet to the bedstead. When they were free, she swung his thin legs over the side of the bed.

  “Sit up and I’ll get a pan of water so you can wash yourself.”

  “Aren’t you scared I’ll run off?”

  “Not one bit.” She made a fist and shook it under his nose. “I’ve had to deal with unruly boys bigger than you. I learned where to hit so it will hurt.”

  A gleam of admiration lit his eyes. “Where were you twenty years ago?”

  “Oh, I was probably a moonbeam or a snowflake or the song of a lark.”

  “More than likely the croak of a frog,” he growled.

  “You haven’t lost your sense of humor. Do you have a clean nightshirt?”

  “I don’t own a nightshirt.”

  “Or clean sheets?”

  “Or clean sheets.”

  “Wait right here. I’ll be back.”

  She left the doctor sitting on the side of the bed and went downstairs. She found Herb standing on the porch with Colin Tallman. The street was filled with men, horses, wagons. Shouts and good-natured banter rang out over the ring of the hammer and saw, the stamping of dray mules and the slapping sound of lumber being unloaded.

  “Doc all right?” Herb asked the minute she came out the door.

  “He ate a little and drank a little milk. Where can I get a nightshirt for him and some clean sheets?”

  Herb frowned and tilted his head. “He don’t have a nightshirt. Don’t reckon he’d wear it if he did. About sheets—We got plenty a blankets.”

  “They must have sheets at the mercantile.”

  “Ah… yes. I believe they do.”

  “Would you please get four sheets and a nightshirt. If they don’t have a regular nightshirt, get a big soft shirt.”

  “Ma’am, is he… calmed down some?”

  “Docile as a lamb. He’s very sick, you know.”

  “I’ve knowed it a while.”

  “I’ll make potato soup for his dinner if you’ll get me a few potatoes and some more milk from the cookhouse.”

  On the way back upstairs to the doctor’s room Jane realized that she hadn’t thought about the note in her pocket for an hour or more. Being busy was what she needed to keep her fear at bay until she could leave this place.

  Before noon the room was clean, the chamber pot had been emptied and the doctor lay in a clean shirt on clean sheets. As she worked, she told him about the activity out on the street, the sounds of which came in the open window.

  “They’re putting up two buildings. One on the other side of the store and one by the blacksmith. One looks like it will be two-story. They got two cookfires going along the side of the cookhouse and you can smell meat cooking.”

  “Which one of the men have you got your eye on?”

  “You,” Jane said with a quirked brow. She was rinsing the cloth she had been using to wipe the windowpane. “I thought you knew that.”

  “Bullfoot,” he snorted.

  “You look like a good prospect to me.”

  “Is that what you’re looking for? A man with one foot in the grave?”

  “Sure. That way, I’m boss.”

  “Herb’d make you a good man.”

  “He’s too young. Besides, I’m a pig-ugly old spinster. Remember?”

  “There’ll be a dozen trying to court you… even if you are.”

  “I’m not staying to be courted.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “I’ve not decided yet.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as Mr. Kilkenny finds someone to take me to catch the train.”

  “Why?”

  “You should have been a lawyer instead of a doctor.”

  The doctor remained quiet, but his eyes followed Jane as she rolled the soiled bedclothes and placed them outside the door.

  “I’m… dying.” He spoke as Jane came back into the room.

  “I know.”

  “It won’t be long now.”

  “It could be a while—”

  “No. It’s been a while coming on.”

  “Rest and good food will make things easier.”

  “I want it to be over.”

  “If you were trying to kill yourself with whiskey, it made it hard for those who care about you.”

  “No one cares.”

  “Herb cares. The things you said hurt him.”

  “Herb tied himself to me because he had no one else.”

  “You underestimate yourself and Herb.”

  The doctor turned his face away and was silent for a long while. Jane was tucking stray wisps of dark auburn curls back up under the coiled hair on the top of her head when she felt his eyes on her.

  “I’ve not had a pretty woman doing for me in more years than I care to think about.”

  “Pretty? Me? What changed your mind?”
>
  “Will you stay… till… the end%?”

  “I thought you didn’t like me.”

  “I didn’t think I did. Only a fool doesn’t change his mind once every forty years.”

  “I’m an old maid… and bossy,” she said, trying to tease him out of his serious mood. It didn’t work.

  He closed his eyes. “I hate asking, but will you stay? I… don’t want to be alone.”

  “You won’t be.”

  “I never had a family. I was too busy. There were my studies… then the war—”

  Jane sat down in the chair beside the bed, reached over and took one of his hands in hers.

  “You won’t be alone, Doctor Foote.”

  “Thank you.” His fingers tightened on her hand. “Call me Nathan. Doesn’t make me feel so damned old.”

  In the minutes that followed, Jane tried to think of a way to explain that someone would be with him when the end came, but not she. Any number of the women would come to tend him if Mr. Kilkenny asked them. No words came to mind and she sat in stony silence.

  She was relieved when she heard Herb calling her name from the bottom of the stairs. She released Doc’s hand and stood.

  “I’ll be back. Sleep if you can. This afternoon I’ll read to you if you like.”

  “There’s a Bible down in the surgery.”

  Herb was waiting at die foot of die stairs.

  “Miss Jane, diere’s a woman in the surgery with a sick young’un. I shut the door so Doc wouldn’t hear the little ‘an cryin’.”

  “I’m not a doctor. I’m not even a trained nurse.”

  “Talk to the woman anyhow.” Herb led the way to the surgery. “Ma’am, this is Miss Jane.”

  The woman was walking the floor with a small wailing child in her arms. She looked at Jane, then accusingly at Herb.

  “Where’s the doctor?’

  “He’s very sick,” Jane said.

  “Can’t he look at her? She’s been like this since last night. Her stomach hurts real bad, and she don’t want to straighten out her legs.”

  “Put her down on the table and let me look at her, then I’ll go up and ask the doctor what to to.”

  The little girl shrieked as cramps knotted her stomach. In spite of the child’s clinging arms the mother laid her down. She turned on her side and drew her knees up to her chest. Jane felt her forehead, then discovered that her little stomach was bloated and hard. She knew immediately the little girl was constipated. She felt a stab of fear. Children died from locked bowels.