Bitter Eden

by Salvato, Sharon Anne

  Callie began to giggle in tired hysteria. "He has my arm," she said, still unable to stop laughing.

  "All night! You let me fix that!"

  "No! Let him be. He'll wake up soon."

  Mary Anne gave her a look of disgust. "You're too soft-hearted . . . and soft-headed for your own good. He doesn't even know you're there. Breaking youi

  back for a fellow like that. It isn't gonna do him a bit of good."

  Callie looked tenderly at Peter, touching his hair with her free hand. "Maybe it is I who is being done some good."

  That day was much like the first, and while Callie had seen some slight improvement in Peter, it was very little, and he didn't seem to progress beyond that. His fever remained high, the nightmares continued to plague him, he slept restlessly, and those few moments when he seemed to awaken, he appeared not to recognize her or any of his surroundings. It was as if he remained within the bounds of the nightmare awake and asleep.

  Callie sat through the long idle hours as he clung to her. Yet it was only her hand he accepted. Callie herself might as well not have been in the room, for to Peter she was not. But she left his side only when he seemed to be sleeping quietly.

  She couldn't look at him and not remember him as he had been when she first saw him in London. She stared at the scarred, beaten man lying on the bed and heard long-ago echoes of his jubilant laughter as he went along the hop rows collecting the baskets from the pickers, joking and showing off. She thought of the man who had come to Poughkeepsie filled with visions and hope for the future. He was a happy man, proud of all the things he had done and owned in Poughkeepsie. The bright red sled, ornate and fancy, that he had used in the races on the Hudson in winter still sat as he had left it. It all seemed a lifetime ago, and surely the man she remembered could not be the same man she now nursed.

  Mary Anne popped in from time to time throughout the day. "What's he dreamin' about anyway?"

  "He dreams the same things over and over again," Callie said dispiritedly.

  "You sure he was in prison? Sounds to me like he was in a zoo—dogs, beasts, whales, oxen, horses—it's all he talks about. What kind of a place was this Van Diemen's Land?"

  Callie shook her head. "I don't know."

  "Well, Mr. Stephen is due back some time late tomorrow. Hell know what to do."

  "Tomorrow," Callie breathed.

  "I'll sit with him for a time. You go rest. You haven't been to sleep since he fell through the gate. You're about to fall over, Miss Callie."

  Callie looked up, noting the softening in Mary Anne's attitude. She was not only volunteering to watch over Peter, but she had called her Miss Callie rather than Miss Dawson. "Thank you, Mary Anne. I don't need the rest, but I would be thankful to be able to change my clothes and wash up a bit."

  Callie stepped out of the room. She was too tired to chance lying down. She leaned her back against the cool wall, letting her eyes close for a minute. Shortly, she sighed, opening her eyes to go change clothes and wash her face. Natalie stood in the hall opposite her. "What is it, Natalie?"

  "Is he in there? They said he was back."

  "Yes, Peter's here, but he isn't well."

  "Is he dead yet?"

  "No!" Callie said harshly, then calmed her voice. "Hell be all right. He's going to be well again."

  Natalie stood mutely, shaking her head in wide-eyed negation. "No, I don't want him well. I want him to die. Hell die, Callie. I . . ."

  "Go back to your room, Natalie. Just go!" Callie said, hurrying toward her own door. Natalie followed after her.

  "You cant let him get me."

  "He wouldn't even recognize you. Does that make you happy?"

  "He hates me."

  "Go away, Natalie. I cant listen to you anymore. Just go!"

  As soon as Callie came back, Peter groped for her hand.

  "Now one thing I'm not gonna let you do, Miss Callie, is sit there all hunched over like that again tonight. He don't need your hand. I'll get him one of those old dolls Jamie had when he was a baby. Though what a grown man needs a doll to hang on to for is beyond me."

  Callie shook her head.

  "You can't stay like that. He's a grown man. He should have the sense not to ask it of you."

  "He hasn't asked."

  "I surely do hope he's worth it to you! It's gonna cause a lot of trouble an' a lot of talk. Mr. Stephen won't put up with this sort of nonsense." Maty Anne marched from the room intending to tell Stephen to do something about that as soon as he came home. It was sinful!

  Both Mary Anne and Callie watched the windows anxiously waiting for Stephen. They waited in vain, for the only person to come to the house that evening was a messenger bearing a note from Stephen saying he would be delayed.

  Callie ordered Mary Anne to set up a cot for her in Peter's room. Mary Anne bristled, lecturing Callie about propriety and how angry Stephen would be. "That man could get up any night, and Lord knows what he might do to you, Miss Callie. Think of it. You know the sort that kind is. Why, he might—"

  "Set up my cot, Mary Anne, and keep your thoughts to yourself."

  "I will not! Mr. Stephen-"

  "I am sure Mr. Stephen is going to find your opinions enlightening."

  Callie stayed in Peter's room. Sometimes she felt she'd never again be anywhere else. Infection still raged in him. The fever remained high. The nightmares tortured his sleep. He was not getting any better. Nothing she did seemed to help. During the next two days and nights, however, she began to understand that his nightmares were not the stuff of ordinary dreams. They followed a pattern: they were always the same, and occasionally he would call out a name—John the Pocket, Walter, the commandant, a guard named Gene, someone named Roush. Peter was not dreaming of horrifying fantasies, but of people and experiences he had known and had. She could make little sense of it for his words were too garbled; but she did know he had lived what he dreamed, and she suspected he no longer knew the difference between the nightmare and the reality. It nearly choked her when she began to fully realize that in fact there had been no difference, except perhaps the reality of his life had been far worse than what he now dreamed.

  Late in the afternoon of the fifth day, Callie sat quietly looking at the sky through the window across the room from where she sat. She heard the first sounds of thunder roll and reverberate down the channels of the distant mountains. The Hudson Valley sky darkened, becoming strangely iridescent as she watched it turn the room dusky and then dark. She lit the whale oil lamp at the side of Peter's bed and sat down again in her chair by his side.

  The wind and the rain began pelting the windows.

  Peter stirred in his sleep. Callie liked the sound of the storm. She sat back peacefully as it picked up tempo, the wind blowing with a furious intensity. The windows rattled in their casements. Lightning flashed, illuminating the room with eerie brilliance.

  She replaced the poultice on Peter's back. He lay rigid under her touch. As the thunder crashed again and the windows rattled, he spun in bed, sitting up, staring at the dark side of the room. He cowered at every rushing clap of thunder.

  The whale oil lamp flickered and lowered in the blowing drafts which crossed the room. He reached out, protecting the fire as he had done his fire on Grummet Rock. As he bumped the lamp, black and amber shadows danced and squirmed crazily in writhing configurations on the walls and ceiling.

  "Peter, lie back. You're dreaming again," she said gently, putting her hands on his shoulders to push him back down onto the pillows. He stared straight through her as though she weren't there.

  "Peter . . . Peterl Look at mel" she said more forcibly, moving his head so he faced her. "Peter, I'm here with you. You're at home. Peter! Listen to me."

  He looked at her, and as he had the only other time he had spoken to her, he said her name in the same dreading, bewildered way. "Callie?" Tears streamed down his face; his features were distorted with anguish.

  "I'm right here. Keep looking at me, Peter. I'm here
."

  He shook his head, emitting an unintelligible sound of fright.

  "You're home. You're safe. No one will hurt you here," she kept repeating in the same soft, gentle voice she had learned to use always with him.

  He looked at her with tortured eyes, holding his

  breath. A sob burst from him. "Don't leave me," he whispered.

  "No, I wont leave. I'm right beside you, Peter. I won't leave. Touch me. I'm here, Peter."

  He raised his hand, slowly moving it toward her face, but not touching her. He wouldn't risk that. Too often he had reached out for images of her only to have them vanish into thin air, leaving him alone again. "Don't leave me," he repeated, barely audible. He was trembling, not able to hold back the flood of hope that always tore at him. Once more he lunged for her image. This time it was solid and warm. Peter felt as though everything inside of him had been ripped and torn in that moment. He felt a greater pain than ever before when finally, this one time, the abysmal longing for the touch of another human being in kindness had been granted to him. He buried his face against her. His arms were wrapped so tightly around her they hurt. "Oh, please, God, don't take her away. Don't leave me here," he cried, pressing his face harder and harder into her. She put her arms around him, bending down to kiss his head. She caressed him, holding as tightly to him as he did to her.

  "Oh, my dear love, what have they done to you?"

  He kept on praying and pleading his single prayer. "Oh, please, God, don't leave me here alone."

  Chapter 41

  Mary Anne ran up the stairs to Peter's room. "He's home, mi$s! I heard the carriage. Mr. Stephen is home!"

  Callie glanced over at Peter sleeping. "Sit with him, Mary Anne, and call me if he awakens before I come back. I don't want him alone."

  Mary Anne made a face and sat down. "Hurry up, go see Mr. Stephen. I wont let any bogies get our bogie man."

  Stephen came in the front door just as Callie left Peter's room, dropping his luggage and gear on the floor. "Callie!" he shouted happily, then saw her coming down the stairs. "I did it! We've got the biggest cargo of silks and laces and calico you've ever seen." He put his arms out for her to come to him.

  Callie hesitated, a step away from tears. "Oh, Stephen," she cried and went to him.

  He kissed the top of her head. "Why tears? Everything is good news."

  Once started and feeling safe, she couldn't stop crying.

  "Weren't you able to get my message to Tom?" he asked. She shook her head against him. "Don't let it upset you. Tom stays in Poughkeepsie for some time between trips. As soon as he rests his greedy eyes on the cargo, hell do whatever I want. Cheer up, Callie. Everything is going to be all right. Well be on our way to get Peter in less than a month. No more tears . . . it's almost over."

  "Peter's here," Callie choked out

  "What?"

  "He's here . . . upstairs."

  "He got here on his own?"

  "Yes, but Stephen . . ."

  "Well, I hope you want a lot of calico dresses. You've got a whole shipload of the stuff." He laughed, hugging her.

  "Stephen . . . please . . . Peter . . . he's so ill."

  Stephen looked at her closely for the first time. "He's ill? My God, you're not far from it yourself. What's happened?"

  Still crying, she began to tell him.

  "Never mind, Callie. I'll find out I want you to rest now."

  "No—I've got to get back to him, Stephen. I can't leave him alone. You don't know . . ."

  "Callie, you're ready to drop. I'll see to Peter."

  "No! No, I've got to be there for him . . ."

  "Listen to me, I'll care for Peter just as carefully as you."

  "Oh, Stephen . . ."

  "Go to bed now. You'll be fresh and able to be with him when he needs you. I promise."

  Stephen walked upstairs with her, leaving her at her door. She looked back at him, still reluctant

  "I love him too, Callie," he said softly and walked down the hall to Peter's room.

  Peter was asleep when he went in. Stephen stood quietly at the foot of the bed gazing at his brother. Peter's hands and forearms were scarred from innumerable logs hurtling down the slide to gouge into him, from the lumber he handled at the sawmill, and from the lash of the driver's whip. Stephen turned his head away when he first saw Peters back. His stomach rolled uneasily, and he drew in a deep breath wondering how Callie had managed alone, before he looked back.

  Mary Anne, drowsing, opened her eyes, getting to her feet. "Mr. Stephen!"

  He put his fingers to his lips, frowning in warning. "How is he?" he whispered.

  "Oh, he's gonna make it. Only the good die young. The fever's nearly passed, but you shoulda been here. That Miss Callie's worn herself to nothin' . . ." Mary Anne turned to point accusingly at the cot near Peter's bed. " . . even slept in here, she did. She won't listen to me. You're gonna have to do somethin' about it."

  Stephen's eyes remained on Peter. "I will," he said absently.

  "Then I'll just stay put and look after him while you tell her to get herself to bed and stop all this nonsense about him. He doesn't need her being here. She hasn't seen the bedsheets since he fell through the front gates. Why, the way she caters to him you'd think . . ."

  "I'll be staying with Peter, Mary Anne. You go on— Jamie has been looking for you."

  Mary Anne's lips pursed; she shook her head disapprovingly as she watched Stephen take the place Callie had last sat in. Stephen smoothed Peter's hair back from his forehead; then he took his brother's hand. Mary Anne left the room muttering to herself.

  Stephen stayed with Peter throughout the day and night. The first night he went through the same horri-

  fying nightmares with Peter that Callie had gone through. He watched his brother writhe in fear and pain on the sheets while he stood by helpless to break through the veil of horror that enclosed Peter. Then as Peter fell into an exhausted sleep, Stephen slumped into the chair and wept for Peter, for Callie, and for himself.

  At dawn of the second day there was finally a change in Peter's condition. The fever broke, and for hours Stephen changed bedsheets and mopped at his brothers wet body. When it was over, and Peter's forehead was cool, he slept, a natural sleep for the first time.

  In the morning Peter opened his eyes without the fevered haze of distortion. He glanced furtively around the room; then he saw Stephen sitting in the chair beside the bed. Quickly he glanced at his brother, then lowered his eyes as he had been brutally trained to do, not daring to look Stephen in the eye. Stephen spoke softly, his voice cheerful. 'Welcome back."

  Peter glanced up again, a look no longer than a blink. The gnawing pain was deep in his vitals, and his throat was thick. "Stephen?" "Yeah. You look better . . . you feeling better?" Peter nodded, still looking perplexed and frightened. He examined every part of his brother, daring to raise his eyes as far as Stephen's chest, but not to his face. Then he looked about the room. The pain grew stronger, tightening around his chest. His clothes hung in the cupboard as they always had. The clock on the mantel was there. It looked as though it hadn't been touched in the entire time he had been gone, but it was strange to him. He could no longer tell reality from dream. Many times he wasn't even sure if he was alive or dead. Nothing made sense any longer, and he

  hadn't the strength or the courage to examine anything very closely. He startled at the sound of Stephens voice although he spoke softly and with an overtone of love that Peter hadn't remembered a mans voice could hold.

  "You gave us quite a scare for a while."

  Peter longed to ask him if that meant he was really here, and it wasn't another phantom of a tortured imagination; but he dared not. He kept his eyes down.

  Watching him, Stephen felt his own stomach tighten, but he forced an easy-sounding laugh. "You don't remember? Well, believe me, big brother, you gave Callie the battle of her life."

  For the first time Peter looked up and met Stephen's eyes for a moment. "Callie? I
thought . . ."

  "She was a dream?" Stephen smiled. "Well, I don't blame you. Waking up and seeing Callie is most likely to make any man think he is dreaming. But she was no dream. She was with you day and night."

  Peter's face twisted; he laid back against the pillows, his eyes closed holding in the tears that burned.

  'Would you like to see her? She's waited a long time for this moment."

  Peter remained still with his eyes closed, the tears slowly trickling from his eyes.

  Stephen went to Callie's room, knocking gently on the door. She opened it immediately, looking anxiously at him. "You shouldn't have let me sleep like that, Stephen! All day and . . ."

  "He's going to be all right," Stephen said quickly. "He's clear-minded and awake—I think he'd like to see you."

  Callie ran from the room only to be halted by Stephen's voice. "Callie . . . don't expect too much from him. Not yet."

  She shook her head. "I won't." She ran the rest of the way to Peter's room.

  Daring something he had not dared in over a year, and risking what he didn't know, Peter watched her as she walked toward him, never taking his eyes from her. She meant everything good to him. She had meant hope when there was none. Somehow when everything else became terrifying Callie had remained the one safe harbor in his mind. He had lost his courage, his sanity, his faith in everything but her. He had clung to the thought of her through everything, and he couldn't, no matter what it cost him in pain or punishment, take his eyes from her now. Slowly he moved his hand up to his chest to cover the brand.

  "You look better today," she said, suddenly shy, faced with him awake and looking at her in naked wonderment.

  "You were here? All the time?"

  "Always," she smiled.

  It was like seeing the sun come out. It blinded him. He looked down at her hand, remembering her touch, but not moving his own from the brand.