Dunaway's Crossing (20 page)

“I’ve kept myself isolated,” Will replied.

Ralph sighed and nodded, then rubbed his eyes with his spare thumb and forefinger. “How is she?”

“Just fine when I left her. She’s getting uncomfortable, but otherwise healthy. Any message you want me to give her?”

“Just give her my love.” Ralph stared at his dusty shoes. “Tell her I miss her, you know, all those things the women want to hear.” He looked up at Will, his face pale as paste. “Spare her the details of what you’ve seen in town. You know how she worries.”

Will knew.

“Any relief?” Will asked.

“Wish I could say so, but every time someone dies in the hospital or in here…” Ralph pointed to the house behind him. “…another patient takes the empty spot.”

“What do you mean ‘in here’?”

“Hospital’s full. We’re using my house as overflow, and we’re still out of beds.”

Will’s gut tightened in alarm. Netta would have kittens if she knew her home were a hospital annex. “Can’t you bring some more doctors in to help?”

Ralph held his sandwich-free palm up. “I’ve been begging for days. The state medical board says there are no doctors to spare. They’re either at war or overwhelmed with their own flu patients. My nurses are either sick or overtired.”

Will knew the feeling. “You’re not showing symptoms yourself are you?”

Ralph shook his head and rubbed his fingers through his dirty hair. Will wondered when Ralph had bathed last. Or slept.

“Why haven’t you caught it yet?” he asked.

“Hard to say,” Ralph replied. “Maybe I have a stronger constitution.”

He certainly didn’t look like it.

“But I wonder if it has anything to do with the flu I had last spring.”

Will leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. “You were sick last spring?”

“Yeah, while you were away. Several folks had flu last March. Typical kind, though, not what we have now. I had it. Bradley at the pharmacy had it. So did Harley. None of us are sick now. Can’t help wondering.”

“Harley’s trying to get everybody to rub down with salad dressing.”

Ralph huffed a short laugh. “Thieves’ oil,” he said. “Some people swear by it.”

“What do you think?” Will asked.

Ralph shrugged. “Can’t hurt. Might help.”

Will took up the reins again. “You look like hell.”

Ralph raised one eyebrow. “You seen a mirror lately?” He tossed his half-eaten sandwich into the bushes, then stood slowly and stretched his back. “Look after Netta for me, Will. I wish I could deliver the baby, but chances are slim.”

“The Taylors are checking on her daily,” Will said, straightening his spine to stretch it. “Eliza can help Bea Dot. We’ll phone you if we need to.”

“Thank you. I’d best get back to work.” He turned and climbed the steps slowly, his back hunched, as if he were a convicted felon on his way to sentencing. Before he could enter the house, a voice called from across the yard.

“Doc Coolidge!”

Will and Ralph turned in the direction of the voice. Netta’s maid Lola ran across the yard, her dingy apron flapping over her frayed skirt and worn boots. “I need your help,” she said as she approached.  “My Jim Henry, he mighty sick, Doc. I need you to come see him.”

Ralph sighed heavily and descended his front steps. Before turning his wagon around, Will watched Ralph put his hands on Lola’s shoulders as he listened to her tearful plea.

Netta paced around the kitchen table, one hand at her lower back, the other arm scooped around her round middle, the baby’s weight pulling at her torso like a ten-pound sack of flour under her skin. Rest came only in spurts these days. Walking settled the baby, but fatigued Netta, who could hardly stay on her feet more than a few minutes at a time. If only she could go back to town, she’d welcome the baby. But with no word from Ralph and each day drawing nearer her due date, her fear escalated that she’d give birth at the crossing.

She stopped at the end of the table, leaned on it with her left hand, and rubbed her back with her right. Then she turned to face the table and placed both hands on its top, gaining some relief. Sighing, she bent all the way over, resting her forehead on the smooth pine. The baby was still. The throb in her back ceased. She breathed in the scent of pepper and grain.

I might just fall asleep right here
, she thought.

At the sound of wood scraping against wood, she called lethargically, “I’m so glad you closed the store today, Bea Dot. No worries about people seeing the circus fat lady.”

Netta frowned at the following silence. Then her heart sped at the fading thump, then subsequent crescendo of heavy footsteps, clomps too heavy for Bea Dot’s shoes. How did someone get in the locked door?

Netta crept on stockinged feet to the doorway leading into the store and peered around the telephone stand, but saw no one. Frowning, she called again. “Bea Dot?”

From behind the dry goods shelf appeared a tall man in a dirty wool coat, a blue bandana around his face. His red-rimmed eyes frightened her more than his size, and Netta screamed, her heart pounding like a cleaver on a chopping block.

“Get out!” she screamed, backing away. “I have an axe in the kitchen! My husband is just out back!”

The man held his palms up and walked toward her.

Muscles tensed, Netta backed into the kitchen until her backside bumped against the table. She patted its top behind her with searching fingers. Where was the kitchen knife?

“Netta, it’s all right,” a familiar voice said. The man reached behind his head and untied the bandana, revealing a filthy, scruffy Will Dunaway with a moss of whiskers on his cheeks and chin and two hammocks of dark circles under his eyes. When he removed his hat, brown locks jutted from his head in all directions, as if they’d never met a comb. And was that hay poking out of it?

Netta slumped into a kitchen chair, one hand on her still pounding heart, the other on her belly. “Have mercy, I almost dropped this baby right here!”

“I’m sorry to scare you,” he said, coming into the kitchen. “I forgot I was wearing this bandana.” He kneeled in front of her. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, taking a deep breath, trying to slow her heartbeat. “I will be. Give me a moment.”

“Let me make you some tea,” he said, stepping to the wood stove. He picked up a cup, then scanned the cupboard and table.

“Don’t worry, Will. We’ve run out of tea, but I don’t want any.”

He scooped some water out of the bucket on the counter and brought it to her. She took it and thanked him, even though she wasn’t thirsty. As he crossed over to sit in the other chair, Netta caught a whiff of him and immediately covered her nose with her palm. He smelled just like Jim Henry after a summer day trimming hedges.

“I was just bringing in the supplies from town,” he said.

“Did you see Ralph?” she asked, her heart accelerating again at the thought of her husband. “Is he all right?”

Will nodded, resting his elbows on the table. “Yes, I saw him just before I left town. He’s tired, but well.”

Netta sighed with relief. “Did he send me a letter? Any message?”

“No letter.” Will lifted his eyebrows slightly as he replied. “He’s too busy to sit down and write, but he sends you his love, and he asked how you’re feeling. He’s mighty sorry he can’t be with you right now.”

Netta slumped back in her chair, an ache spreading in her chest as if a hole were forming. Of course, Ralph was too busy to write, but she couldn’t help feeling neglected, having never been away from her husband so long. Impending childbirth made the distance seem even greater.

Will continued, “Where’s Bea Dot?”

“She’s gone to the Taylors’ house,” Netta explained, “to see if she could borrow some eggs.”

This time Will slumped in his chair. “I shouldn’t have stayed away so long. You ladies must be out of everything. I won’t let that happen again.” He rose to browse the cupboard, finding it almost empty.

A pang of regret shot Netta. Here was Will bringing her supplies, and she’d greeted him with screams and a complaint about no tea. “We’ve been able to manage,” she said. “Terrence comes by once a day. He’s been a great help.” After a pause, she added, “You look exhausted.”

He nodded. “I worked through the night so I could come home today.” He ran his grubby hand through the brown mop on his head. “I’m going to finish unloading the wagon and put Buster in the barn. Then I’ll get some sleep.”

Still supporting her unborn child, Netta stood also. “Do you know what will help you rest more?” she asked. “A nice bath. I’ll put some water on the stove and then let you have the kitchen.”

“Thank you, but don’t worry about the water. I’ll take care of it myself.”

Will shuffled back to his storage room, his shoulders slumped, as if walking in his sleep. Flecks of saw dust released their grip from his wool coat and fluttered to the floor. He disappeared into the small dark room like a sequestered monk. Shame enveloped Netta again. All the while she’d been at the crossing, her thoughts had revolved solely around her pregnancy, her husband, her problems. Since she and Bea Dot moved in, Will had slept on a mat on the floor. Now that he needed a bath, he would have to wait until she got out of the way.

Finally, she realized what Bea Dot had understood from the beginning. True, Bea Dot had grown too fond of Will, but maybe that fondness had grown from a desire to give back.
I’ll just have to change my tune,
Netta resolved.

At the sound of the front door closing, Netta peered through the window. Will led his horse to the barn.
Might as well start changing now
, she thought as she stepped onto the back porch. The cold air relieved the heat in her cheeks. Finding the wash tub in the corner, she clutched its rope handle and dragged it indoors into the kitchen and put a large pot of water on the stove to heat. Then she went into the bedroom, shutting the kitchen door to give Will privacy when he returned.

She’d rested on her bed several minutes before realizing her baby wasn’t kicking. She chuckled. Maybe all it needed was a good scare. Relishing the inner calm, she reached for her knitting needles and worked with clumsy, tingly hands.

#

Will awoke to the sound of shuffled footsteps, followed by a man’s voice. Through the window, the southern yellow pines swayed in a slight breeze against a bright blue sky. The shadows on their trunks revealed he’d slept until afternoon. The late October chill penetrated his wool blanket.

Netta’s voice slipped under the storage room door. “Schools will remain closed until further notice…” Will smiled. She was reading the newspaper to Mr. Floyd. He rose and dipped a rag into his bucket of cold water. Shivering, he washed his face, then dipped his comb in the water and winced as he dragged it through his tangled hair. By the time he’d made himself presentable and entered the store, it was empty. He shuffled into the kitchen, finding Netta at the wash pan with a bunch of collard greens, her shoulders stooped as if the leafy greens were made of lead. At the sound of his steps, she turned her head.

“Good morning,” she said, her tired face pink from exertion. “I’m glad you rested.” She wiped her nose on her apron before returning to the collards.

“The hot bath helped,” he said with gratitude. “And it felt good to shave again.” He rubbed his fingers over his jaw; then he shivered. “It’s chilly in here.” He moved to the wood stove, and finding the wood box empty, opened the stove’s door. “Why haven’t you lit a fire? Where’s Bea Dot?”

“She’s out gathering pine cones and sticks. We’re out of kindling, and we didn’t want to wake you.”

Will’s heart plunged into his stomach. “I’m sorry, Netta. I should have cut some for you last night.”

“No apologies,” Netta said, waving her hand. “I’m actually fine.” She patted her stomach. “This baby keeps me warm. Bea Dot will be back in a few minutes. We knew she could get a flame going with pine cones.”

In spite of Netta’s good nature, Will blushed with embarrassment. He should have come home earlier. “I’ll get this fire going in just a few minutes.”

He went out the back door and split several logs from the woodpile, reminding himself to sharpen the dull axe. Then he carried in an armload of kindling and lit a fire in the stove to warm the kitchen. Next, he returned to the chopping block to split enough logs to fill the wood box. Back inside, he filled a pot with water for Netta and placed it on the stove so she could boil the greens.

“Thank you, sir,” Netta said, as she placed the rinsed collards into the pot. “This baby has grown so much that he gets in the way of everything I do. I feel like a clumsy old bear.”

Will smiled and opened the ice box, finding a ham hock on a plate. He pulled it out and held it out to Netta. “Will you need this?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. She put the ham in the pot with the greens. “Now we just need this water to boil.” She wiped her hands on a towel before taking a seat at the table. “I hope you like collards.”

“I like any meal someone cooks for me,” Will said, smiling. He sat at the table and faced her.  “I’m on my own so much that I’m used to grabbing a bite here and there.”