Until June

by Barbara M. Britton

  Dropping into the water, Geoff caused a small tidal wave to crest at the rim of the tub. A few drops splashed the side of her dress, hip level. She didn’t mind the dampness. She had to take care of him.

  “Anything else?” She laid a washcloth on the rim of the tub.

  He shook his head. “Come when I call.”

  Josephine jogged upstairs to her bedroom and dead-dropped on to the hospital-white bedspread. She had a double bed all to herself—no Ann—a window with a view of the inlet, and a brand new Singer sewing machine, compliments of Mr. Chambers. She unpacked a few clothes before heading downstairs to check on Geoff.

  “Are you decent?” She tapped on the bathroom door. Water gurgled down the drain.

  “I’m always decent,” he replied. “I’m covered if that’s what you mean.”

  She entered the room and moved a bathmat closer to the tub.

  While the water drained, he grabbed the metal sides and pressed his body into a stand. His soaked underwear dripped water onto the floor, onto the rug, and onto her shoes. She hurried to place a hand under each leg, avoiding Geoff’s perturbed gaze. Her heart sputtered when she thought of what she might touch. Immediately, she shifted her hands toward the ends of his stumps.

  Her foot slipped.

  She fell.

  Horizontal in the air, all she saw was tub and chest. Geoff’s chest. Her body crashed into his damp skin, knocking him downward, and grinding his sores into the metal basin.

  He screamed.

  Shoulder bone constricted her windpipe. She gasped, “Sorry. So sorry. I slipped.” Her breathy voice barked like a seal pup.

  He clenched her arms.

  Her heart thumped, threatening to burst through her ribs and her brassiere and her bodice. She stared at the bottom of the tub. Streaks of blood swirled from underneath Geoff’s body.

  Another mistake.

  She met his piercing gray glare.

  His grip tightened.

  “Don’t move.”

  7

  She needed to get out of the tub. She needed to dry Geoff’s skin and attend to his wounds. She needed a miracle. Geoff’s hands were still wrapped around her arms. Arching her back, she lifted her neck, trying to glimpse the rim of the tub.

  “If you drive my sores deeper into this metal, so help me, I’ll—” His guttural shout shattered her eardrums.

  Up and over the rim she flew, out of the tub, onto the floor.

  She crawled back to the side of the tub and knelt beside it, trying to gather the right words. What could she say to him? The hatred in his eyes burned through her dress.

  “You’ll have to help me to bed.” He panted. “I can’t drag my butt on the floor.”

  He needed extra help because of her mistake. She was not blameless.

  Throwing a towel over his legs, she lifted his stumps out of the tub and rested them on the palms of her hands on the floor. He crab-walked on his arms to the bed. She followed, hunched over, keeping up with his staggered rhythm.

  When they reached the bed, he hoisted his torso up on the mattress and flung himself, face first, into the pillows.

  “Morphine,” he breathed.

  After righting his stumps, she sprinted up the stairs to her room and back down in less than a tick of a clock. Her hands shook with the tiniest tremble as she uncapped the needle, plunged it into his thigh, and released the drug. Perfect.

  Geoff’s head never left the pillow. He lay motionless, lifeless.

  She removed the soaked underwear with its crimson stains. She had never seen a man’s backside before; certainly not one with smashed bedsores and blood clots that looked like strawberry jam. Her stomach lurched at the sight.

  “Sorry, Geoff. I’m so sorry.”

  A rumbling, like a low, far-off foghorn came from Geoff’s mouth. Was it a snore? Or did he accept her apology?

  She dabbed ointment on his wounds and covered them with gauze. Using the extra ointment, she massaged his legs.

  He groaned.

  “Does this hurt?”

  “Feels different. Good pain.” He snorted. “Like there’s…guh…pain.”

  His breathing shallowed. A string of nasally grunts rose from the bed. He had fallen asleep.

  She covered him with a blanket and crept up to her room. Snatching the bedspread, she settled into her new bed, the couch in Geoff’s room. She kept watch, wide-eyed, with this-is-my-fault worry. What if it gets infected? What if he can’t sit in his chair?

  Over and over, her mind replayed the accident. I have to do better.

  “God, help me,” she prayed. “Geoff is my patient.”

  When she opened her eyes, the clock struck 6:00 AM.

  She washed, dressed, and fixed her hair. Useless. Not much could be done with her short hairdo. She raced outside where the hens waited for food. They didn’t care if she stole their eggs as long as she scattered grain on the ground. She tied an apron around her gray gingham dress and set bread to rise before starting breakfast. Her cooking skills were adequate, but certainly not as seasoned as the Chamberses’ private chef.

  “What’s in my chair?” He called from the bedroom. His voice could have been heard all the way to Stephen’s Passage, but to her, his rant was like bright mountain sunshine.

  She walked into his room. He laid on his side, facing the door, the blanket covering his lower-half.

  “Foam. I was going to use it for a pillow, but it should help with the sores.”

  “Don’t you mean craters?” He shifted in the bed. His teeth clenched, flaring his jawbone. “What’s for breakfast?”

  “Scrambled eggs and bacon.”

  “No toast?”

  “I won’t have bread baked ’til later.”

  Geoff struggled to sit up. She should offer to help him get dressed, but he was already undressed.

  “Don’t stand there staring at me. Hand me my clothes.”

  She licked her front teeth and tried to moisten her lips, but her tongue had turned to linen. “Um… do you need any assistance?” She placed his pants, shirt, and underwear on the bed.

  “No, you’ve done enough.” He waved her off like a bad odor.

  She hurried back to the kitchen and prayed she could give Geoff the best care possible. That was her job.

  Fifteen minutes later, he wheeled himself to the table.

  “You should stay off your bu... backside for a while,” she said, setting a plate of eggs before him. “You’ll heal faster.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “Lay on the couch. You could read a magazine or book.”

  “That sounds entertaining.” He shoveled a fork full of egg into his mouth. “There’s hunting books and Mrs. Prescott’s Woman’s Home Companion. That’s not my cup of tea.”

  “Well then, I guess you’ll have to watch me dust the furniture and clean the floor. With the crew in here yesterday, there are more tracks inside the lodge than out.”

  He grimaced and continued eating.

  After breakfast, Geoff stretched out on the couch, facing the coffee table, with the book, Rifles and Guns.

  On hands and knees, she washed the pine floor.

  “Your parents are very nice,” she said, trying to make conversation. Why shouldn’t their time together be pleasant?

  “She’s not my mother.”

  “Oh, I just thought—”

  “You don’t think much do you?” He eyed her over the top of his book.

  She wrung out the rag, giving it an extra twist, trying to ignore his insult. He’s in pain. Pain because of my mistake.

  He slammed the book shut.

  “My mother died when I was six. A year later, my father married Julia. Two years later Bradley was born. Now, here I lay watching a runt wash the floor because Julia’s threatening to leave.”

  “Not because of you?”

  His eyes widened. “She owes me. She has lived very well off the profits from the lumber and land my father owns. He would have none of it if
it wasn’t for the gold. Kat Wil Mine belonged to my mother’s family.”

  “I didn’t know.” She regretted starting the conversation.

  “Julia came from nothing. She was worse off than you.”

  “What do you mean by that?” Her voice rose to match his rant. A shiver rippled through her body. “My mother is the best seamstress around, and my stepfather, well, it’s not nice to speak ill of the dead.”

  He flipped a page in his book. “Some dead deserve it.”

  She jumped to her feet and tossed the wet rag into the bucket. An all-out, drum-beating, banner-waving parade of anger marched across the inside of her chest. “My stepfather married a widow with two young girls, gave us his name, and put food on the table. It’s not my fault riffraff from your mine put a bullet through him. I can sympathize with Julia. I’ve only been around you a couple of days, and I’d like to abandon ship.”

  “If you’re trying to get rid of me, you sure did a bang-up job last night.”

  Her hand shook as she picked up the bucket and turned to leave the living room. No use getting into a fight. Until Tubby returned, she was trapped.

  “I need some fresh air,” she said.

  “Where are you going?”

  Refusing to answer would bring another verbal assault. “There’s a path out back, and I’m going to follow it.”

  “So help me, if you leave this lodge without me, your mother won’t see another penny.”

  “We agreed on payment until June.” Josephine’s voice squeaked like a shy school girl being reprimanded in front of her class. “My mother is sick and a widow.”

  “Let’s get one thing straight.” He threw the book onto the coffee table. It sailed across the oak wood and over the edge. He didn’t seem to care that she would have to pick it up later. “Our agreement is not about supporting your family. It’s about me. And you taking care of my needs.”

  She put down the bucket. Her hand couldn’t seem to hold the wobbly handle. Maybe a walk in nature was what they both needed. Maybe surveying his new property would take his mind off the pain. Maybe seeing God’s creation would lift his spirits. No more rants, no more put downs, no more hurt feelings. At least not for the rest of the day.

  She moved his wheelchair closer to the couch. “Hop on then.” She braced the wheel with her boot.

  He shifted himself into the chair, easing his weight onto the foam cushion. Snapping his fingers, he pointed to the stuffed bear’s head above the fireplace. “Get the rifle down from its mount. Check to make sure it’s loaded.”

  She froze. Mrs. Prescott had said no sharp objects. She never mentioned guns.

  “I’m not going into the woods without protection and neither are you.” Geoff shook his finger at the gun. “I don’t want the bears to mistake me for one big huckleberry.”

  This wasn’t downtown Juneau. A trophy head of a black bear threatened the living room. She blew out a breath and relented. Standing on a stool, she retrieved the rifle, checked the chamber for bullets, and handed it to him.

  He jerked it from her hand and laid it across his lap.

  She pushed him through the kitchen, picking up a small woven basket that she wedged between his thigh and the arm of the wheelchair, much to his chagrin.

  The path leading from the lodge had been cleared of bushes, ferns, and trees, but the roots of old-growth pines had risen to the surface, to freedom. Nature’s sprawling hurdles reached up and grasped Geoff’s wheelchair, showing no mercy to the dead-tree wheels.

  “You’re jiggling me too much,” Geoff complained. “Keep this up and I’ll need a transfusion.” He grasped the wheel rims and cursed the basket.

  She removed the obstacle. “You should really watch your swearing on such a glorious fall day.”

  She strolled on ahead admiring the fuchsia fireweed with its pulled-cotton seedlings while Geoff maneuvered the path’s minefield grumbling with every I-can-do-this breath.

  He lagged.

  Her route ended at a creek. A blissful creek fed by a waterfall. The churning white water threw itself over a rock cliff and hugged the granite on its way down to earth. Mist cooled the air, the plants, and her face.

  Geoff came alongside her.

  “This is wonderful. We should put a bench out here,” she said.

  “I come with my own seating.” He opened and closed his hands as if they had gone to sleep.

  Red indentations marred his palms. Guilt hollowed her stomach. No matter what, she would push him back to the lodge. She didn’t need his hands butchered like his bottom.

  “Ah, it seems the bears have left you some huckleberries.” Marching off the path to a bush brimming with dark-blue berries, she popped a few in her mouth. “They’re almost too ripe and definitely too sweet for you.” She tossed a berry at him to lighten his mood.

  His head jutted forward like a trained seal in a circus. He caught the berry with his mouth, swallowed it, and grinned.

  “Don’t miss and stain that beige shirt.” She tossed him another berry.

  And another.

  Both caught.

  And eaten.

  Clapping, she said, “I’ve never seen anyone catch three in a row before.”

  “There’s not much to do in a trench.” His smile vanished. His gaze pinned her skirt to the nearest spruce. He lifted the rifle from his lap. Slowly. Expertly.

  “Come here,” he commanded. “And quickly.”

  How could she move with a bullet aimed at her shoulder? Or was it her heart?

  8

  She stared at the rifle. He wouldn’t shoot. Would he? Were the rumors Ann heard true? He was crazy. Shell-shocked. Bright spiraling lights like the wave of centipede legs blurred her vision, casting a halo around Geoff, the chair, but not the rifle. The barrel remained a vivid bronzed-black vision.

  “Now, Jo.”

  The tuning fork hum in her ears distorted his voice. Scrambled eggs from breakfast scorched her throat. Gagging, she covered her mouth and forced herself to swallow.

  The huckleberry bush rustled.

  An animal became visible. Was it a wolf? It looked like a wolf, but it had auburn streaks in its pewter mane, a leather band around its neck, and no fierce growl.

  She stepped toward Geoff, never losing eye contact with the animal.

  “Hurry, I’ve got a clean shot.”

  Her knees were limp as cooked dumplings. She imagined fangs ripping into her flesh.

  Step toward Geoff.

  The beast continued its approach. It stopped and sat on its haunches.

  “Shift to your left. I don’t want to hit you.” Geoff’s voice was eerily calm.

  She pictured the wolf’s carcass and the blood and the scavengers.

  “Do any of our neighbors have a dog?” she half-whispered.

  “Neighbors? Are you insane? We have no neighbors. Listen to me.”

  “Don’t shoot it. I think it lives here.”

  “There are a lot of animals that live here. We don’t need any pets. That beast could devour a runt like you in no time.” The echo off the rock cliff agreed with his arguments.

  “Please Geoff. If I walk back to you, and it doesn’t follow, don’t shoot it.” She met his stare, and it faltered for a second. “Please?”

  “Start walking.”

  She moved, slow as a Sunday stroll, to his side and gripped the arm of his wheelchair.

  The beast stayed put. Its tail whacked the bush, back and forth, knocking a few berries to the ground.

  Geoff raised the rifle to his cheek. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  “Don’t,” she screamed, knocking the stock against his face.

  A shot rang out.

  The animal scurried into the woods.

  He thrust the butt of the rifle into the foam cushion. “Why did you do that?” he shouted, swinging his fist in the air.

  She ducked even though his knuckles didn’t come close to hitting her. She’d had plenty of practice dodging Ivan’s outbursts.


  “I could have shot you by accident.” He rubbed his reddening cheek. “What would I tell Tubby?” He slumped in the chair and winced. “Huh? What would I say when I handed him your rotting corpse?”

  He didn’t have to say you idiot. Her chest cramped as if Geoff’s fist had struck its target.

  She tapped her boot heel into the ground. “You promised if it stayed in the woods you wouldn’t shoot it.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “Maybe it’s Mr. Gilbertsen’s dog?”

  “Old man Gilbertsen was a hunter. He didn’t take care of predators. I should have shot that half-breed.”

  “Then we’d have to fend off all the bears and wolves coming for the carcass. Whatever it is, at least it’s not aggressive.”

  “I don’t care. Next time I’m shooting it. I can’t afford to lose any more limbs. Or blood.”

  His last remark hurt more than if that wolf dog had bit through her bone. She gripped the handles of his wheelchair and started pushing him down the trail.

  “I’ve got it,” he said.

  “No.” She pushed his hand away. “Stand watch with the gun.”

  He turned and gave her a that-isn’t-funny glare.

  “I’ll push. I won’t shoot.” She steered around a rock embedded in the path.

  “Get the basket. You owe me muffins for this bruised face.”

  “It doesn’t look bruised.” She leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look at the damage.

  “It sure feels bruised.” His fingers prodded his cheekbone. “I should demand a refund. How many mistakes is this?” He began counting on his hand. “Three, four…”

  “Stop that.” She pushed his chair with a little more force to stop his joking. As she retraced their trail, she scanned the forest floor for any movement. The area should have been cleared of game by the gunshot.

  Nearing the lodge, she jogged to build up steam and push his chair up the back porch ramp. “You should go lay on the couch. You’ve been sitting for a while. Flip sides.”

  He gave a disgruntled sigh and wheeled himself into the living room.

  “Do you mind if we eat an early dinner and skip lunch? We’ll conserve food that way and do our part for the troops.”

  “Sure, knock a barrel into my face and starve me. This is why I pay you?” He wheeled into the kitchen and through the dining room. “I need morphine.”