“That hook can’t be in there much longer,” I said. “Or he’s going to have one hell of an infection. Go sterilize your wire cutters for me, Clem.”
“What are you going to do?” asked Clem.
“I’m going to get that hook out of there. Hurry up with those cutters.”
Culler groaned a little, slouched forward.
“Fern, you don’t know how to do this,” Clem said.
“I’ve had to get a few fishhooks out of Birdie’s hand before. Had to pull some metal chips out of Daddy’s hands before, too.” I took Clem’s jacket from the doorhook and balled it up to support Culler’s back in the chair.
“You never worked on nobody’s neck, Fern.” Clem shook his head, worrying.
“Clem, I got it in there, and I’m going to get the damn thing out,” I shouted. “Stop wasting time.” I removed my sock from Culler’s neck, quickly pressed a warm rag against the cut. The skin around the hook was puffy, blue.
Clem bent over, looked at the wound. His eyes grew wide, panicked. “You did this?”
I nodded. I looked down at Culler, whose face was white. He was slumped down in the chair, barely conscious.
Clem disappeared into the garage for a few minutes, came back with his knife, some rubbing alcohol, a few more clean rags, and a bottle of Jack Daniels.
“What’s that whiskey for?” I asked, taking the supplies.
“The pain. Make him take a few swigs.”
“Culler,” I said, “you’re going to have to lie down flat here.” I looked up at Clem. “There’s an old station wagon mat in the garage, rolled up on the shelf, on top of the oil filters cabinet. Go get it.”
Clem disappeared again. A horn blew out by the pumps. I raised up. It was some young kids, out cruising around after school. “Go on!” I shouted. “We’re closed. Go on up a couple miles; there’s a Sohio up there.”
“What’s going on in there?” yelled one of the kids.
Clem came back with the mat. He rolled it out on the floor, threw a towel down over it.
The school kids honked again. The driver revved the engine of an old Ford Pinto. His added-on dual exhaust system clouded up our parking lot.
“You heard the girl!” shouted Clem. “Get on out of here!”
The car squealed out, burned rubber on Clem’s clean driveway.
“Crimony Jesus,” said Clem. “Never thought I’d see the day when I’d be sending away customers.”
“Culler, can you hear me?” I brushed the hair out of his eyes.
He nodded, reached for my hand.
“I know it hurts,” I said, softly. “I’m sorry.” I could see tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “I’m going to have to ask you to lie down here and let me get that hook out of your neck. Can you lie down?”
“Here,” said Clem, handing Culler the Jack Daniels. “Have yourself a snort of this. It’ll kill the pain.”
I held Culler’s head back, supported him with both hands, let him swallow a few sips of the whiskey.
“It throbs,” he said.
“I know.” I rubbed the top of his head. “Now lie down, there.”
Clem and I lifted him down carefully from the chair and stretched him out on his stomach. When we had him positioned as comfortable as possible, I wasted no time. Slowly, I pushed the hook through his skin until the barb emerged.
Culler winced.
“Hold his head still,” I told Clem.
Clem bent down, cradled Culler’s head with his big, greasy hands. He made a wry face at the blood, turned away.
I snipped the barb and eased the hook out of Culler’s neck. I could feel him stiffen as I loosened it from the grasp of his swollen skin. His whole body went tense. It was good that I couldn’t see his face.
I laid a cold towel over the wound, held it tight. “It’s out,” I said, gently patting Culler’s back. “You’re okay, now.”
“Clem, go thread me some fishing line, clean it good. I’ll stitch him up.”
“Where am I going to find a needle?”
“My tackle box. In the jeep, behind the driver’s side. Just bring the box in.”
While Clem ran around, following my orders, I rubbed Culler’s back, soothing the pain. Blood caked and matted his sun-bleached hair against the back of his head. My stomach ached. I’ve done this to him, I thought.
Finally, Clem came back in with a needle and thread. I looked into his face. Sweat beaded his forehead.
“Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been a help.” I found the iodine mixture and dabbed it over the open wound.
Culler shuddered again.
Clem wiped his own face with his sleeve. He stood over Culler, arms folded. “That didn’t bother you none, Fern?” he whispered. “My stomach went weak on me.”
“I’m okay. Culler’s the one hurt.”
“Should we drive him to the hospital?”
“No, the hook didn’t get any major veins nor arteries and I was careful not to hit any, either. He’ll be sore, but it’s not bad.”
“You hear that, son? The doc says you’re going to live.” Clem nodded, approving.
“That’s right,” I said. “But I got to close up this hole, then you can get up.” I poured a little whiskey over the cut.
Culler flinched.
Clem frowned at me, wasting liquor.
When I was just about finished sewing up the wound, another car pulled up to the gas pump. It was Dr. Erikson, the retired veterinarian.
He hurried into the station, stopped short when he saw us. He stared down at Culler lying prone on the floor, me sewing up the back of his neck. “What in Jesus name?”
“The boy got a fishhook caught in him. Fern operated on him, fixed him up,” said Clem.
Dr. Erikson bent down over me, studied my work. “Well, I’ll be damn,” he said. “That’s a finer stitch job than I’ve done on some horse’s asses in my day.”
That’s reassuring, I thought.
“Dr. Erikson, this here is Fern Rayburn. She’s my assistant.” Clem looked proud, introducing me.
“How do you do, Miss,” The doctor tipped his hat.
“Hi,” I said, not looking up.
He opened his medical bag, removed a bottle of beta-dine. “Looks like I’m too late for the crisis, but I’ll leave you this. It’ll disinfect the cut, stop any infection.”
“I used iodine.”
Dr. Erikson raised his hand to his chin. “Iodine,” he said. “Who is this fella?”
“Name’s Culler,” said Clem.
“Is he local?”
“Lexington,” I said. I lowered my face down to Culler’s neck, bit the nylon thread and stood up. “There.”
We all three stood in a circle, staring down at Culler, lying silent on the floor.
We were interrupted by a hoarse little voice in the doorway to the station. “Fern.”
It was Birdie. She looked down at Culler, then at all the rest of us hovering over him. “Where have you been?” She frowned. “Momma’s got supper going, Florabelle’s staying. They sent me down here to find you.”
“I’ll be home in a minute, Bird.”
Still frowning, she stared at me, suspicious. “Who’s he?” She pointed at Culler.
I followed her eyes down. “You’re all intact now, Culler,” I said. “Roll over and meet folks.”
Slowly, Culler rolled over and stared up at all of us. Some color had returned to his cheeks. He smiled faintly.
“Well, young man, this lady, Fern, here, has sewed you back together,” said Dr. Erikson.
“You look better than you did when you first came in here this morning,” said Clem.
“Try standing up,” I said.
“Who is he?” Birdie demanded.
“A friend, Bird,” I said.
“Why’s he bleeding?” she asked.
“He had an accident, but he’s okay now. Run on home and tell Momma I’ll be right there.”
She kept standing there, looking around, stil
l not satisfied. “Is your friend going to be eating with us?” Birdie regarded Culler. “Momma’ll have to know.”
I looked at him, still lying there, but now smiling at me.
“Yeah, tell her to set an extra plate.”
Clem and Dr. Erikson helped Culler stand up while Birdie stayed long enough to see him get to his feet.
“What’s for dinner?” he asked her, much too brightly.
Birdie shrugged, looked at me. “You’re wearing my earrings,” she said and ran off.
“How do you feel?” I asked Culler.
“A little rough around the edges. My neck is so numb I can hardly feel whether my head’s attached.”
“It’s up there all right,” said Dr. Erikson, assuring him. “How’d this happen?”
I turned away.
“Long story,” said Culler.
“Well, I’m useless here.” The doctor took his bag, turned to leave. “But you could come see me in a couple of weeks about those stitches. Make sure your tetanus is up to date, too. Clem, you take care now. If you ever want to lend me your assistant, I could sure use her help, too.”
“Sure, Doc,” said Clem. “I’ll let you know. Thanks for coming down.”
“Bye, then,” said Dr. Erikson. He looked at me, tipped his hat again. “Good work.”
Clem started cleaning up the stuff on the floor where I’d operated.
“Hungry?” I asked Culler.
“A little.”
“Since I split you open, least I could do is offer to fill you up. Come over for supper. Momma won’t mind.”
Culler reached out, took my hand. “Let’s just forget this, okay? It wasn’t your fault.”
“Accidents happen,” said Clem, listening in.
“It’s going to be some time before it heals,” I said.
“You can help me take care of it,” said Culler.
“May leave a scar,” I warned.
“It’ll fade,” said Culler.
“Who’ll see it?” Clem pointed out.
I hoped, too, that the memory of this day would fade. At least the bad part.
17. Spilled Milk
When we pulled up to our house, Heidi came running round from the backyard to greet us. I tapped the horn lightly, warning her. She pranced back and forth across the gravel driveway, barking.
“She just isn’t going to move, is she?” said Culler.
“Don’t pull up yet,” I said. “She doesn’t see us; she’s blind.” I called out the window. “Heidi, come on now, move!”
Culler leaned out his side and whistled at her.
After a minute or two of this, we had conjured up together enough sweet noises to lure Heidi out of our way. Culler drove on up the driveway and parked behind Jason’s truck.
Before we got out of the jeep, I took a deep breath and said, “My family. They’re tensed up over my grandmother getting admitted to a nursing home. Don’t mind them if they’re edgy.”
“I hope they won’t mind me coming over,” said Culler.
“Not at all,” I said. But I was dreading this whole thing. It wasn’t that they didn’t take to strangers, or that we weren’t used to company. Momma liked entertaining at any opportunity. It was just bad timing.
The screen door to the front porch banged shut. Birdie came out, looked at Culler, then at me. “I told Momma you were bringing somebody and she said there might not be enough roast.”
“Well, I’m not that hungry, so Culler can eat my share,” I said. “Birdie, you didn’t meet Culler. Say hello.”
Birdie looked at him, waved.
“Hi there, Birdie,” said Culler.
“Jason’s eating, too,” she said.
“We’ll have plenty,” I said.
We walked up the front steps. Heidi, following our voices, found Birdie and nudged her hand. Birdie petted her, bent down to give her a big squeeze. Then she grabbed her by the collar and led her back around behind the garage.
The house smelled like onions and was alive with voices. Jason’s, Daddy’s, and a newscaster’s in the family room; Momma’s, Hazel’s, and Florabelle’s in the kitchen.
When we walked through the family room, Daddy and Jason stopped talking and stared at me. They’d been discussing the news; somewhere a plane had crashed.
“This is Culler,” I said. “That’s my father and Jason, my brother-in-law.”
“Hello,” said Daddy.
“Pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Culler. He walked over to the sofa, shook Daddy’s hand, then turned to Jason.
Jason nodded a hello, but didn’t offer his hand. He stared at Culler, frowning. “Man, you look like you just been horned by a bull. Your head’s a’ bleeding.”
Culler smiled faintly, looked at me. “We had an accident with a fishhook. It’s quit bleeding, though. Fern, is there a place I could wash up?”
I pointed to the downstairs bathroom.
When Culler closed the bathroom door, Daddy asked, “Where have you been? Working late?”
“I went fishing for a little while, just over at Toad’s Pond by the post office.”
“You’ve been gone all afternoon.” He pointed at the TV. “Look at that mess, wiped out the side of a motel. Your Momma needed your help earlier.”
“Birdie told me.”
“You clean your fish already?” he asked. “Take it on in there, have your Momma throw it on the stove.”
“We didn’t catch anything.”
“What took so long, then?” Daddy half listened to me, half to an anchorman talking about the fatalities of the jet crash.
“We had an accident with a fishing hook. Kept us late.”
“A hook got him?” asked Jason. “That was the blood?”
I nodded.
Jason smirked, then under his breath said, “Hell of a fisherman.”
“It was an accident,” I said. I didn’t want to own up to what had happened, figuring Daddy would start putting up defenses out of fear that Culler would press charges.
“Sixty some dead,” said Daddy, frowning at the newscaster. “There’s a lawsuit.”
I started towards the kitchen.
“Fern?” called Daddy.
“Yeah?”
“Who is that cat in there?” he asked, pointing towards the bathroom.
“A friend I met at Clem’s. Goes to a college in Lexington.”
Jason snickered again, louder. “College boy,” he whined.
“Jason, let up.” I said and walked away.
The noise of the pressure cooker muffled the voices in the kitchen. Hazel and Florabelle were sitting at the table, smoking, folding napkins and peeling potatoes. The room was dense with smoke and steam.
“Hey, Florabelle,” I said. “How are you feeling?” It was good to see her; it had been almost two weeks, and I hadn’t had much of a chance to talk to her that morning when I had headed out to work.
“I’m as big as a sow.” She stood up to show off her stomach, sat back down, smiled at me.
“You’ve got good color in your face,” I said.
Momma was at the stove. She turned around when I walked in. “There you are, finally,” she said.
“Come here and talk to me, Fern,” said Florabelle. “Birdie tells us you got a man out there.” She raised her eyebrows, pointed towards the family room. “Something happen since I moved out?”
“Where did you meet him?” asked Hazel.
“Clem’s. He’s a friend. I just met him last week. Momma, is there enough food?”
Momma wiped her hands on her apron, walked over to the table. “We’ll have to stretch the roast. When I heard Jason was staying for supper, I tried to find you to go buy me a few more pounds of beef. Then I heard you was bringing home someone else, so I fried a chicken and threw in two more ears of corn.” She took the bowl of potatoes from Hazel. “Where is he?”
“Washing up. He got a fishhook in his neck. He’s sore.”
“Lord almighty,” said Momma, mashing potatoes.
/> “That must have smarted,” said Hazel.
“You want me to set the table?” I asked.
“Florabelle was supposed to,” said Momma.
“I can hardly get up and down; you do it, Fern.” Florabelle handed me the napkins she’d folded.
“Make sure there’s eight there,” said Momma.
“I counted, Momma,” snapped Florabelle.
“Just make sure.”
I took the napkins, went to the drawer, counted out silverware. Momma hated to be short a fork at the table, or for someone to find a stained one. She washed everything twice. Even our clothes were bleached and pressed with starch. When it came to bed linens, Momma’s sheets were always the whitest of the whole town. Tuesdays were wash day for most folks, and from time to time, Momma would make Hazel drive her around, looking at clotheslines, to compare her sheets with others’ just to reassure herself that hers were the whitest. And if they weren’t, she’d bleach them again.
“How was Grandma today?” I asked.
No one spoke for a moment, then Momma turned to me and said, “She’s adjusting.”
“Bull,” said Hazel. “She’s meaner than a ol’ cuss. She won’t let Mossie cross over to her side of the room to water the plants in the window sill, and yells at her for blocking the hallway with her wheelchair.”
“It’s going to take time for her to get used to sharing a room with someone, that’s all. She’s had a house to herself for so long,” said Momma.
“Well, that old Mossie woman is cuckoo,” said Florabelle.
“Now, Florie, she can’t help it,” said Momma.
“Mossie Greene,” I said. “I heard her son married Patty Prettyman.”
“That slut,” said Florabelle.
“Florabelle,” scolded Mom.
The pressure cooker whirred.
“Who’s this?” asked Hazel.
“This girl from our high school who screwed practically everyone in Carlisle. Look’s like now she’s moved her bumps and grinds across the state line.”
Momma pulled a beater out of the mixer, walked over to Florabelle, thwacked her between the shoulder blades. “That’s enough, Miss Foulmouth. She was at the wedding, Hazel,” said Momma.
“And who invited her, I can’t figure. I sure didn’t ask her to come, and I don’t even think Jason knows her,” said Florabelle.
Natural Bridges Page 10
