“What’s the baby’s name?” asked Birdie.
Momma looked puzzled. “You know, I don’t rightly know. Jason didn’t say. He seemed disappointed it wasn’t a boy.” She stood there a few more seconds, frowning. “Fern, did you ever hear Florabelle say what she was going to name it?”
I shook my head, started packing up my sewing box.
“Well, I didn’t either,” said Momma. “I hope she thought of something. Bird, why don’t you give Hazel a ring at work and tell her about the baby. She can tell your Grandma.”
Just then, we heard a loud commotion outside in the backyard. It sounded like several barking dogs. Birdie, wearing nothing but her underwear, ran out.
I ran to the window to look. A pack of strays was on Jimmy. He yelped defensively and disappeared in a whirl of hair and gnashing teeth. Heidi, sensing the danger of the situation, ran wildly about. One of the dogs lurched and pounced on her. Birdie was screaming at the top of her lungs and throwing rocks at the dogs.
“God Almighty,” said Momma, standing next to me. She cranked open the window and yelled at Birdie to get back inside.
I ran upstairs to Daddy’s room, and grabbed a sawed-off shotgun that stood behind the door. I checked the barrel; it was loaded. As fast as I could, I ran downstairs and out the garage door.
I pointed the gun straight into the air and fired. The wild dogs ran back down into the hollow. I looked down at the ground. Jimmy lay in a mangled heap, and Heidi, bleeding from a severe tear in her side, stood over him, sniffing, licking his disorganized little wounds.
It was obvious that nothing could be done for him, but poor Heidi, whining in her grief and pain, looked as though she might have a chance.
Birdie dropped to the ground in front of them, crying into the weeds. Momma had come out and knelt down beside her, stroking her back. She, too, was crying.
I wanted so badly to bury Jimmy, to get him out of Birdie’s sight, but I knew I had to help Heidi before it was too late.
I sniffed hard. “Momma, take Bird inside. I’m going to run down to Clem’s and get his truck. Heidi needs help fast.”
When I told Clem what had happened, he locked up the station and put the “CLOSED” sign in the window. He drove me back up the hill to the house, and together we hoisted Heidi to the back of his truck.
I went back inside to check on Birdie. Momma had carried her into the house, had her lying on the sofa.
“Momma,” I said, “go downstairs and get me an old blanket for Heidi.” It was hard for me to think straight, I was still in shock.
Momma disappeared down the steps and in a few minutes came huffing back up with a quilt. I recognized it as the one the old woman had given me at the first garage sale we’d stopped at that day, looking for a wedding gown. I had meant to give it to Florabelle for the baby.
Momma and I wrapped up Heidi’s wound as tightly as possible with some old scrap rags, then worked the quilt up under her in the truck. Neither one of us said a word.
Meanwhile, Clem had gone around back to dig a hole for Jimmy. When he returned, his eyes were red. “I got him buried, yonder behind Hazel’s trailer,” he said to Momma. “You may want to go back there and pack the dirt down harder.” He dropped his head. “He’s by that pecan tree.” Clem took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his forehead. “There’ll be buzzards,” he added.
Momma nodded, coughed.
“Momma, run in there and call Dr. Erikson. Tell him we’re on our way.”
I rode in the back of the truck with Heidi to keep her from sliding around. Her breathing was erratic, and she whimpered quietly. I supported her head in my lap, smoothing down the hair on her head. “Hang in there, old girl,” I told her. “You hang in there.” She rolled her big blank eyes up towards my voice; they were wide, fearful, searching. I soothed her the whole way there, praying softly.
When we got to Dr. Erikson’s house, Heidi was barely breathing. Clem and the doctor got her inside, laid her on a folding table in the garage. Immediately, Dr. Erikson gave her a tranquilizer, and started to take care of the wound.
Clem and I sat down on two lawn chairs and waited in silence. I couldn’t seem to get the image of poor little Jimmy out of my mind. I couldn’t tell if the pain I felt was a stomach affliction or heartache. It just didn’t seem fair, after what we had gone through to keep him. I remembered Birdie telling me, when we couldn’t decide what to do about Heidi’s pups, that God didn’t put babies here just to die. I’d agreed, had called it bad luck. Now I was beginning to wonder.
“Good thing the old doc was home,” Clem said finally.
I nodded, looked around me. All three walls of the garage were covered with faded-out photos and posters of racehorses. There was one picture of Dr. Erikson in a white lab coat, standing next to Willie Shoemaker and Swaps, his racehorse, winner of the 1955 Kentucky Derby. Dr. Erikson wore a medal around his neck, and was pointing to a stethoscope that was hanging around Swaps’s neck. I realized, just then, we had no pictures of Jimmy. Heidi, either.
“Fern,” called the doctor, breaking my trance. “Can you come here a minute?”
I rose from my chair, looked over at Clem who nodded for me to go on back. I walked over to the table where Dr. Erikson was working.
“She’s going to make it,” he said. “The tear wasn’t as deep as it looked, no damage to any organs. She’ll be sore a long time, and you’ll need to keep her inside, but she’ll heal eventually. Nasty bite, though. Has she been vaccinated against rabies lately?” The doctor worked at the last of the stitches.
“I think it was only a year ago,” I said, “but check her anyway.” I sighed, relieved, reached down and petted Heidi’s head. She was sleeping, at peace. “She’s a real fighter,” I said.
“She’s a strong one, all right,” he said. “Nothing but muscle, this one.” He looked at me, his brows crossed. “Brave, too, I guess.”
I nodded, told him the story.
He seemed sincerely sorry. “How long has she been blind?”
“She was born that way.” I said. “We had an old dog on our farm in Ohio who had a litter when she was real old. Two pups were stillborn, this one was blind. We felt sorry for her, so we kept her. Turned out to be a pretty good hunter too, in spite of us pitying her.”
“Was her pup blind?”
“Jimmy? No.” It still hurt to mention him. “He was the smartest of the litter.” I remembered the day he’d climbed in the truck tire to hide from us. “He could see all right,” I said and turned away.
Dr. Erikson waited a few minutes to continue his questioning. He worked quietly; we had been there almost an hour. I stood behind him, arms folded, watching him tie off the last stitches.
Clem rested his head on the back of the lawn chair, eyes closed, legs stretched out in front of him.
“How old is she?” the doctor finally asked.
“About seven years.”
“She shouldn’t be having any more litters, you know,” said Dr. Erikson.
“I know. It’s a problem for us,” I said.
“Tell you what,” he said. “You leave the old girl with me about a week, I got a pen out back. I’ll keep a close eye on her, then when she’s up to it, I’ll spay her. No charge.”
I looked at him, flabbergasted. I didn’t know how to react. “Are you sure you don’t mind having to take care of her?”
He shook his head. “There’s a catch to the deal, though,” he said.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“When she’s ready for spaying, you’re to come back here and help me, learn how to do it.”
I looked at him, puzzled.
“You seem to have a knack for this kind of thing,” he said, putting away his tools. “I watched you stitch that boy up that day down at the station. You know what you’re doing. Wouldn’t hurt you to learn a few more practical skills, especially if you’re a quick start.” He watched my face.
I looked at the sleeping Heidi, patted her ruffled
hair.
“We got a deal?” he asked.
“I don’t know if I can do that,” I said.
“Sure you can,” he said. “You got a good mind, steady hands. Do yourself a favor, go find a library and check out some basic books on biology. Read up on the reproductive system, try to get familiar with the terms. I’m going to help you.” He had begun cleaning up where he had operated.
It seemed an odd offer, but one worth taking. Spaying Heidi would save us a lot of worry at home. Sewing was sewing, I supposed. The books would help. And he had a point, I had done an okay job on Culler. “I’ll try it,” I said. “When do I come back?”
“A week from today. Meantime, I’ll take good care of her here.”
I thanked him and went to rouse Clem.
“How much do we owe you?” I asked the doctor as we were leaving.
“We’ll work it out next week,” he said. He shook hands with Clem, said good-bye, winked at me. “You get to a library now.”
I nodded.
On the way home, Clem never spoke. When we got to house, he said, “You want tomorrow off?”
“No, I’ll be there. Thanks, Clem.”
“Hey, don’t mention it.” He waved, shooing me out of his truck.
“Clem?”
“What now?” He looked tuckered out.
“Tell your wife Florabelle had a baby girl,” I said, slammed the door, and went inside.
21. Across The Woods
All the books on uteri were on the top shelf. I looked around and found one of those little footstools the librarians stand on to shelve books. I pulled down a book called Biology of the Uterus, looked in the index under H for Hysterectomy, discovered over three hundred listings. Then I found a vacant sofa and sat down to read.
It was a Saturday afternoon, and I was in the Transylvania University Library, reading up on how to spay a bloodhound. I tucked my feet under me, tried to get comfortable, but the sofa was stiff and seemed new. I didn’t remember all this furniture from before. I used to come here pretty often when we first moved to Leeco.
Back before I got hired on at Clem’s and had more free time, I’d come in and just read mystery novels. Of course I wasn’t allowed to check out books and take them home; you had to be a student. So I’d just catch an early bus to Lexington on Saturday mornings, come here and spend the day reading, then ride home. I think some of the library staff had caught on to what I was doing, but they had never said anything. Whenever I couldn’t find something, they were always very helpful.
I turned to the table of contents and read all the chapter titles. I would never have guessed that anyone could write so much about fallopian tubes. It seemed odd this time to be here to study something, not to just read to pass the time. I felt like a real college student.
I looked around me. There was only a handful of students reading and searching through the narrow rows of books, but it was the weekend, and Transylvania was a small school to begin with. It was a four-year liberal arts college, but the average enrollment was only about a thousand. Back when I first started coming here, I used to pick up brochures at the check-out desk, pretending to look for enrollment information. It seemed silly, knowing full well we’d never have the money for me to go to college, but I used to have fun imagining.
The name Transylvania always fascinated me. Not because it made me think of Count Dracula, but because the word comes from a Latin phrase meaning, “across the woods.” I looked it up once. It seemed to suit the name of a college perfectly, because from my experience, any place or opportunity out of reach, going to college to name one, always seemed to be across the woods. Just too far away.
Another neat thing about the school was that it was established by Daniel Boone in 1780, over two hundred years ago. I always believed him to be the most courageous of all pioneers. Secretly, he was my hero. I always admired his legendary frontier spirit and the way he outsmarted the Indians. He was a much better hunter than he was a student, history books say, and yet he founded this school, the first medical school west of the Allegheny Mountains. I liked that about him. I wished I’d known him.
I had got through almost two chapters when a girl in a red Transy T-shirt walked by carrying an armload of books. She looked vaguely familiar, but I didn’t know anyone in Lexington. I read the spines of her books. Accounting and Finance, mostly. Watching her struggle with the load, I wondered if she had to read them all today.
Suddenly her stack gave way. I don’t know if she stumbled on the corner of the rug or what, but the top three or four books fell off her pile and crashed to the floor. The library ceilings were high, and the noise of the drop echoed off the tall shelves.
She looked embarrassed, tried to lower the rest of the books down to the floor and pick up the ones that had fallen.
I got up from the sofa. “Here,” I said, picking up some, “where are you sitting? I’ll carry them for you.”
She smiled, thanked me, and pointed with her chin in the direction of her table.
I followed along. “You have to read all these?” I asked.
“No; I’m writing a case study.” She panted. “This is research.”
When we got back to her seat, she dumped the books onto the table. Again, the noise echoed. I quietly set down the ones I had carried.
“Thanks again,” she said, poking out her lip and sending a large breath of air up to her bangs. Her face was splotched.
I was glad I didn’t have to do whatever it was she had to. “Good luck,” I said.
“I’m going to need it. I don’t even understand any of this garbage.” She wiped her forehead, sorted books. “Have you taken Basic Accounting with Milstead?”
I shook my head.
“You’ve heard of him, haven’t you?”
“I think so,” I said, and turned away.
“He’s whacko. Just wait,” she said. “I can’t grasp anything from that space case. My brother’s supposed to meet me here later and tutor me. Better hope you never get Milstead.”
“Thanks for the warning,” I said. “See you.” I went back to my sofa and sat down. She still seemed familiar to me, but I couldn’t place her face. She’d been pleasant, down-to-earth, not like some of the kids I’d run across on the campus, who were snobby to me, eyeing my clothes, hair, or whatever it was that didn’t meet their approval.
I felt bad telling her a white lie, acting like I was in school, but I knew I’d never have to see her again. Although she probably could have made a nice friend.
That was something I really missed. In Ohio, I had had a lot of girlfriends my age, ones I’d gone to highschool with, girls I’d known from Four-H.
Now, I really had no friends, except Clem. And Brother Brewer, if a fellow car hound counted. I had felt especially lonely that night, when Clem had dropped me off after coming back from Dr. Erikson’s. Momma and Hazel had gone to the hospital to see Florabelle and the baby. Birdie was asleep on the sofa; Momma had made her drink a remedy she’d concocted to get her to quit crying and get some rest. It consisted of lemon juice, warm milk, and whiskey, did about the same job as Nyquil would have, but Momma had no confidence in over-the-counter medications.
When Daddy came home, I told him about the stray dogs, broke the news about Jimmy and Heidi. He didn’t say much, just wanted to know in which direction they’d run off. Momma called later that night and asked Daddy to bring some of her clothes to Florabelle and Jason’s. She was going to go home and stay with them a few days, until Florabelle felt better.
So I was left all alone. I really wanted someone to talk to that night, but there wasn’t anyone. That’s when I really started wishing for a friend, some girl my age, besides Florabelle, to talk to. The house was dead quiet. Anyway, silence in the house, instead of calming, was disturbing. Our home, in such a short time, had gone from a sanitarium to a mortuary.
I turned to Chapter Three on reproductive organs, skimmed through the pictures. I was surprised to discover that a uterus looked like a
n upside-down pear. I guess I’d never given it much thought before. I turned the book upside down, studied the illustration.
“Fern,” said someone, standing before me.
I looked over my book. My heart stopped. It was Culler.
He smiled at me. “What are you doing here?” he asked, tilting his head to read the title of my book.
I slammed the book closed, set it down beside me, facedown. “Reading,” I said, shocked to see him. I took a deep breath, paused, waited to regain my composure. After a few moments of him just standing there, arms folded, looking down at me, I said, “I’m trying to get a little background information to perform an operation on an animal.”
“Well,” he said, reaching to rub his neck, “you’ve had experience on a human, so I’m sure you can handle an animal just fine.”
“I’m sure I can, too,” I said.
“It’s all healed up, you know,” he said, turning for me to see. “Just a little scar now.”
“That’s good,” I said. Of course my scar was still there, I thought. I hadn’t yet healed from being blown off by this guy.
“How’s your family?” he asked.
I couldn’t tell if he was being sarcastic or not. “Everyone’s fine,” I said. “How’s school? I thought you told me you’re going to U of K.”
“I do.”
“What are you doing here at Transy, then?” I asked.
“Helping my sister with some accounting homework. She’s over there.” He pointed.
I followed his finger. It was the girl with all the books. Then I realized where I’d seen her before. She had been in the jeep with him, in the backseat, when they’d come through for gas at Clem’s that first time.
She was watching us. She waved when I looked.
I smiled faintly, nodded. “So,” I turned back to Culler. “You miss your girlfriend?”
He rolled his eyes. “May I sit down?” he asked.
Reluctantly, I scooted over on the sofa, made room.
“Look, Fern, I know you’re probably a little bitter at me for never calling you, when I said I would, but—”
“Who’s bitter?” I said, perhaps too quickly. “All we did was go fishing.”
Natural Bridges Page 13
