Leaving work early, Walt stopped at the lake, finding no trace of a hawk other than feathers. He could smell blood, which didn’t surprise him, for that man’s wounds had been severe. Walt didn’t ponder the nature of the man’s odd healing; perhaps he hadn’t been as badly injured as Walt had first thought. By the time he reached home, all he considered was sleeping in his own bed and making love to Dora if she felt better.
He had thought about her for much of the afternoon, all the talk about Kennedy spurring Walt’s considerations. As welding sparks flew, slivers of remorse had pierced Walt, for when he stopped to inspect his work, voices spoke about what a good man they had lost, his poor wife, and those fatherless children. Never mind that half of those men had previously berated Kennedy for this or that action; now all of them tripped over themselves to praise the damn papist as if The Second Coming had been in the guise of a Catholic president. Walt had kept his mouth shut, again hoping all this uproar wouldn’t cause Dora to lose the baby, then feeling guilty for not realizing more sorrow. But he couldn’t help it, he hated Catholics. And with that injured man to tend to, Walt had his own burden to carry.
Parking his truck, he had come to the conclusion that Luke and Hiram couldn’t have shot that man. Hiram probably had a .22 rifle, more powerful than the BB gun Luke sometimes used, but nowhere close to whatever shotgun had nearly torn off the man’s right arm. Walt stared at his house, lit now that dusk was falling, then he shivered. The man’s arm had been hanging from what barely resembled a socket; Walt could have severed it with no more than his pocketknife. But the man had gripped it with his left hand, although Walt had no idea how, for Walt hadn’t spoken, but the man seemed to have understood Walt’s mind. Then that arm was firmly, if not poorly, attached, like a surgeon had come to their house in the middle of the night, sewing that man back together. At lunchtime, Walt had again glanced at that ghostly handiwork, but a more thorough inspection was necessary, if nothing else to give Walt peace of mind. He’d seen plenty of carnage, but had never witnessed a spontaneous healing.
He looked up, finding Luke coming from the back of the house, Tilda and Esther standing on the porch. Esther pointed at her brother, waving him off. Tilda did the same, and Luke crossed his arms, then all the children gazed toward Walt’s truck. Luke came running and Walt got out of the pick-up. “Daddy, oh Daddy, I’m glad you’re home!”
Luke stopped ten feet from where Walt stood. “What happened?” Walt said, wondering why his son didn’t come any closer.
“Mr. Doe’s awake, but he can’t talk. And he needs a bath.”
Walt nodded, relieved but curious. “How long’s he been awake? And why’re you calling him Mr. Doe?”
As Luke answered the first of his father’s questions, he maintained the ten foot distance until Walt stopped in the middle of the front yard. “Luke, c’mere.”
Luke gave his father a cautious stare. “No Daddy, I don’t smell good.”
Before Luke could move, Walt stepped right beside him, taking a deep breath. “You don’t smell that bad.”
Luke’s eyes went wide, then he pointed to his sisters, still on the front porch. “Daddy, can’t you smell it?”
“Well, you need a bath, but….” Walt gazed at the girls, who were snickering. “What?” he called to them.
“Daddy, Luke stinks! So does that man.” Tilda crossed her arms over her chest, then Esther copied her sister.
“I didn’t smell nothing that bad at lunchtime.” Had the man soiled himself, Walt wondered. He pulled Luke away from where the girls could hear. “Did that man have an accident?”
“I don’t think so. It’s not that kinda smell. He’s just really dirty and….”
“What?”
“He smells like blood. Mama can’t get near him, it’s that bad.”
Inwardly Walt trembled. Patting Luke’s shoulder, he motioned toward the shed. “Let’s go check on him. Girls,” he called, “tell your mama I’m home, and that we might be out here a while.”
“You gonna give him a bath?” Tilda asked.
“Maybe,” Walt said, leading Luke around the side of the house.
It took Walt a few minutes to finally notice what everyone else could smell within seconds. Even the man, who Luke referred to as Mr. Doe, seemed aware, but like Walt, the scent didn’t make him ill. Walt wondered if this man, who seemed about Walt’s age, had been in Korea, for that was all Walt could think about once he remembered the origin of that odor. It was of men living for weeks on end without bathing, surrounded by death. The blankets the man was using would have to be burned, Walt realized, and the pallet was probably beyond use too. Not that Walt felt he’d be sleeping out here anytime soon; he hadn’t had a nightmare since Dora told she was expecting. But what would this man, or Mr. Doe, as Luke kept calling him, sleep on that night after Walt gave him a sponge bath?
Dora might have a few spare blankets left, but now that Gail was out of the crib, sleeping next to Esther, no extra bedding remained. Tilda and Luke had their own twin mattresses, and Walt sighed; he would have to add onto the house in the new year, no way to cram one more child in that space. Besides, Luke was getting too old to be sharing a room with three girls. If the next baby was a boy, they could have a room together and….
“Daddy, where’s he gonna sleep tonight?” Luke’s voice was a whisper, but as Walt gazed at his son, he felt other eyes on him. He stared at the man, who nodded, then shook his head.
“I mean,” Luke continued, “if we give him a bath, he can’t sleep on this bed no more. He’ll smell just the same in the morning.”
Walt nodded absently, then knelt beside the man, finding the bandages were damp, but the blood wasn’t fresh. “I don’t wanna move you more than I hafta. Gonna need to clean this up anyways, probably call the doctor too, smells a little nasty.”
“Do you smell something different Daddy?”
“Yeah Luke I do.” Walt stood, then scanned the room. Nothing resembling a mattress caught his eye, then he smiled briefly. “Luke, you stay here with Mr. Doe. I’m gonna see if Mr. Bolden has any spare beds.”
“Okay.” Luke sighed, then he looked at the man. “Mr. Doe, you mind if I sit near the door?”
The man shook his head, a small smile on his face. Walt chuckled to himself, for now that he recognized the scent, it wasn’t pleasant. He disallowed the memories, concentrating on Luke’s displeasure. And that the man felt well enough to understand the joke. “I’ll tell your mother where I’m going, might take a while.” Then Walt gazed at the man. “You hungry?”
The man shook his head as Luke spoke. “He didn’t want no chicken soup, doesn’t seem to like it. Daddy, am I gonna have to take a bath tonight too?”
Walt nodded, but kept his gaze on the man, who seemed to have made a vast improvement in only two days. That he couldn’t talk didn’t trouble Walt, but other notions were puzzling. “Yeah Luke, we both will.” Then Walt faced his son. “The women won’t let us inside unless we hose off out here first.”
“That’s what I figured.” Luke sighed, then sat cross legged beside the open door. “Well, ask Tilda if she can bring out some soup. Sorry Mr. Doe. Maybe you don’t like it, but I’m starving.”
“I’ll do that. Actually, Luke, you follow me.” Walt gently patted the man’s left shoulder. “I’ll be back soon,” Walt said to him, then he headed for the door, Luke on his heels. As they reached the front of the house, Walt pulled his son aside. “Why do you call him Mr. Doe?”
“He doesn’t know his name, I don’t think he knows who he is.” Luke explained the one-sided conversation from earlier, making Walt shudder. But it was dark out, and Luke hadn’t noticed his father’s reservations, for he kept speaking, that Mr. Doe had fallen asleep after Luke ate the first bowl of soup, and that he had only stirred right when Walt had gotten home. “He seems a lot better after he naps,” Luke added. “Maybe once he gets a bath, he’ll sleep real good, then tomorrow he’ll know his name.”
“We’ll see.”
Walt looked up, finding Dora standing on the porch. “How’re you feeling?”
“Better,” she smiled. “But you two aren’t coming in till after you….”
“We know,” Walt chuckled. “But first, that man needs a new bed.”
“Mr. Doe, Daddy,” Luke gently corrected.
“Where you gonna get a bed from?” Dora asked.
“Gonna go see Callie.” Walt cleared his throat. “In the meantime, Luke needs some supper, just put a bowl out here for him.”
As Luke backed away from the porch, Dora nodded. “But what about him, isn’t he hungry?”
“Doesn’t seem to be. I’ll take care of him, you just….” Walt ached to hold her, but that wouldn’t be for hours, and only unless she felt the same. He sighed, then gazed at the starry sky. “Gonna be a long night. Better be on my way.”
Dora nodded, edging her way to the end of the porch. “Be safe,” she said softly.
“I will. Luke, eat your dinner and keep, uh, Mr. Doe company.”
“Yes sir.”
Walt inhaled, only detecting a hint of that odor. He wondered if Callie would smell it, he probably would. Both men had served in Korea, although not in the same units. If Callie Bolden asked, Walt wasn’t sure what he might say. Callie would be neighborly and discreet. Right now, discretion was nearly as important to Walt as any kindness Callie might offer.
Walt returned with several ragged blankets, but they were clean, what Dora acknowledged with thankfulness in her voice, standing inside the house, the screen door separating her from Walt, who placed the makeshift bedding on the porch. “He say anything to you?” she asked her husband.
“Only talked about the weather and Thanksgiving.” Walt smiled. “Said Susie would bring us a pie tomorrow.”
Dora shook her head. “I got nothing to give her.”
“He said don’t worry about it, I think we’re ahead of them anyways.” Walt looked toward the shed. “Did Luke eat?”
“Two bowls,” Dora smiled. “You hungry?”
“Just leave me some bread. Gotta get him cleaned up first.”
“Walt….” Dora sighed. “Luke says his shoulder’s, that it’s….”
“I know. Don’t understand it, but I ain’t gonna question it neither. Just leave some bread on the corner, I’ll send Luke for it.”
She nodded, then watched as he slipped around the side of the house. Then Dora stepped onto the porch, but that smell lingered. She wondered how Walt hadn’t noticed it yesterday, although she knew why. Yet, it had been so bad…. Dora collected the stack of blankets, not wanting them to pick up any trace of that foul odor. She inhaled them; they smelled like the Boldens, warm and friendly. Then Dora smiled, thinking of Susie’s good sweet potato pie, and how that woman wouldn’t ask a single question about why the Richardsons needed what amounted to practically a new bed. When Walt got paid next, Dora would buy some fabric and start a quilt for the Boldens, maybe setting aside scraps for a baby blanket. Then Dora shook her head, too soon to be thinking such thoughts. She left the stack on the far side of the porch, then went inside, slicing off a hunk of bread for her husband. As she took it out, Luke approached. He grinned at her, but stayed back. “Daddy got the man to his feet,” Luke said. “Hope he doesn’t mind a cold bath though.”
“You neither,” Dora smiled.
“Yeah, I know.” Luke shrugged, then moved toward the porch. “Hope I don’t smell like this tomorrow. Nobody will play with me.”
“Don’t worry ’bout that. Take that to your father. Maybe the man will have some.”
“I told Mr. Doe I was going for some bread, he looked interested.”
As Luke picked up the bread, Dora breathed through her nose, but she still detected that odor. She hid her tears as Luke trotted off, praying that none of this would stir Walt’s nightmares. There was no place for him to sleep them off now, what with that man in the spare bed. Mr. Doe, she thought, stepping into the house, no longer smelling anything but chicken soup and her own home.
Luke didn’t fall asleep until well past his usual bedtime, his sisters all snoring loudly. Those sounds didn’t hamper Luke’s slumber, for he was weary, also clean. So was Mr. Doe, he thought, as unconsciousness fell over him like a warm blanket. Luke dreamed of that strange man who couldn’t talk, but by evening’s end no longer smelled worse than a dead skunk.
Walt came to bed smelling of rubbing alcohol, but that was better than other things, Dora considered, as her husband pulled the comforter over their naked bodies. They made love, then he held her as she wept, for she had missed him, and had spent the evening thinking of melancholy events within their marriage. Her miscarriages were top of that list, followed by his spells of insomnia, always triggered by his nightmares. His tour in Korea had left no visible injuries, but his days as a sniper would haunt Walt until he died. Dora stroked his face, wondering if there was some way he could ever release that weight. Maybe caring for this man might ease his conscience, as he started falling asleep within her arms. His hand rested on their baby, and she didn’t move from his touch. The only time he was soothed from those terrible dreams was during her pregnancies, not that she was again carrying a child simply to ease his mind. But it seemed more than a coincidence that when she was pregnant, he was calm, or more calm than usual. Maybe something about making a baby erased all the killing he had done over there.
Out in the shed, the man had started thinking of himself as Mr. Doe; he’d appreciated Luke’s intellect for bestowing that name. But try as he might, the man had no idea of who he was, how he had gotten there, and why he was so injured. Although, he sighed, at least his arm was still attached. He couldn’t feel anything along his right shoulder, but as Walt had pointed out while redressing that area, at least he had a shoulder now. The man took Walt’s word for it, yet a memory lingered, that of his arm dangling loosely along his body as if one false move would sever it for good.
Now having been bathed and with a little food in his stomach, the man tried to remember what had happened; all he recalled was being watched, then wounded. But who had shot him and why? He was in Texas, Luke had told him during the afternoon, although it meant nothing; it was as if the man’s entire history had been wiped from his brain. Yet, a few items had caught his attention; the thought of chicken soup made him nauseous, although the bread had been delicious. He couldn’t talk, for he had tried when alone, and the only noises to escape his lips were animalistic. He had stood only when Walt supported him, otherwise he was extremely weak, but that was most likely from having been shot. The man glanced at his heavily strapped right shoulder, which now sloped awkwardly, through no fault of Walt. That man possessed a rudimentary knowledge of medical skills, yet no doctor had been called. The man wondered if that was due to suspicion on the part of the Richardsons; maybe fearing they were harboring a criminal, it was better to do what they could. The man also appreciated their wariness; maybe he was an escaped convict, a murderer even. That would explain his amnesia, he sighed to himself. Yet, within his heart, the man didn’t think he was evil, only unlucky. Or perhaps blessed to have been found before he’d bled to death. Walt had mentioned that after Luke went inside for the night. Walt had spoken bluntly, that if they hadn’t found him when they did, he wouldn’t have survived. But Walt’s voice carried a hint of astonishment, for after clearing his throat he noted how quickly healing was progressing. For now, the man would take Walt’s word for it; he could just wiggle his fingers, but beyond that the arm was useless. Maybe in the morning, he yawned, a little more healing would have occurred. Luke’s last words to him had been to sleep good. As the man closed his eyes, he prayed to do that, and tomorrow to at least remember his name.
Chapter 164
The Hawk: Part Nine Page 7
