Hoggee (5 page)

When he woke next, he knew he had to have water. Somehow, he managed to crawl from beneath the hay and inch his way to Molly's water trough. Usually he drank from the pipe where clean water first ran into the barn, but the entry pipe was across the barn. Now he made no attempt to avoid drinking with the mules.

He pulled himself up to the trough, lowered his head to the water, and drank. His face burned with fever. He wanted to use his hands to splash water onto his hot cheeks, but when he let go of the trough to do so, he fell back onto the barn floor. Exhausted, he drifted back into sleep.

In the evening, Cyrus found him there beside the trough. “Boy,” he said to him, “boy, wake up.” Howard did not respond. Cyrus touched his red face. “You're on fire with fever.”

Howard opened his eyes slightly. “Water,” he managed to say.

“I'll fetch you a drink.” He went to the entry pipe, took down a tin cup that hung there, and filled it with water.

Howard tried to sit up as he heard Cyrus coming back to him, but he could not. Cyrus lifted his head so that he could drink. “Thank …” He closed his eyes and could not finish.

“You're sick, lad,” Cyrus said, “real sick. I'll get my daughter and the cart.” He hurried from the barn.

When he came back, he pulled a wooden cart. Mistress Donaldson came, too. She knelt beside Howard, put one hand on his forehead and one over his heart. She made a sad clucking sound with her tongue, then said, “This boy is near dead, Da.”

“I know, daughter. Help me lift him into the cart.”

Howard was aware of their words and of being lifted. The cart had low walls. They folded his legs tight against his chest to squeeze him in. “ 'Tis only a short ride,” Cyrus said, and Howard felt the cart begin to move.

“I can walk,” he murmured as they pulled him out of the cart, but when they let him try to stand, his knees buckled.

“Girls,” called Mistress Donaldson, and her two younger daughters came running from the house. One girl and old Cyrus lifted his head and shoulders; the other girl and her mother carried his legs. They took him to the tiny pantry off the kitchen. A feather mattress had been placed on the floor, and they laid Howard on it.

He slept for a moment. Then Mistress Donaldson knelt beside him. Using a wash pan, she washed his face with a cloth, and the water felt cool and wonderful. Next she removed his shirt to wash his chest and arms. “He's in need of a doctor, Da,” he heard the woman say. “We can't stand by and watch the lad die, now, can we?”

“It will cost dearly,” Cyrus said with a sigh, “still there's nothing for it but to send Laura to fetch Doc Pruett.”

“Send Grace along for company,” said the woman. “Tell them to hurry.”

Howard tried to speak, too, to say that he had money for the doctor, but the thought never fully formed in his mind. He drifted instead into a strange dream in which Mac knocked at the door of Howard's home to complain
about his missing purse. In the dream Howard's mother scolded him loudly for stealing and said she was glad his father had not lived to learn his son was a thief. Howard stood in a corner beside the stove like the one in Cyrus's house, and he felt his face hot with shame. Jack came in, and he fought with Mac. When Jack had beaten Mac badly, Cyrus and his daughter came and took Mac away in a cart.

It was Dr. Pruett who woke him. “Boy,” he said, “can you wake up and talk to me?”

Howard heard the voice, but it seemed very far away and unconnected to him. “What's his name?” the doctor asked.

Without opening his eyes, Howard became aware of Mistress Donaldson kneeling beside his bed. “Let me think now,” she said. “He told us at Christmastime.”

“It's Howard,” said a girl's voice from a little farther away.

“You're right, Laura,” said the woman. “Howard it is.”

“Howard,” said the doctor. “Howard, open your eyes and talk to me.”

His eyelids felt so heavy, but Howard strained to open them. The young doctor leaned over him and said, “That's right, Howard. Come on, now, wake up. Do you hurt anywhere, Howard?”

“My chest feels …” A cough rose up from inside him and shook his body.

When he was quiet, the doctor took a thermometer from the black bag that sat beside him. “Here,” he said. “Close your lips around this.”

The doctor pointed to the bruises on Howard's body and face. “He's been injured,” he said, “badly injured.” Next he took a stethoscope from his bag, fastened
the tubes into his ears, placed the round part on Howard's chest, then listened. “Congestion,” he said, more to himself than to the listeners. He took the thermometer from Howard's mouth and held it up to read. “He is burning up,” he said, nodding to Mistress Donaldson. “This boy has pneumonia.” He shook his head sadly.

“What's to be done for him?” Cyrus asked.

“Not much, I'm afraid. Give him water, and cool his face and arms with a wet cloth.” He took a bottle from his bag. “Try giving him a drink of this once in a while. It might help cut the phlegm.”

“You'll bleed him, though, won't you?” asked Mistress Donaldson.

Howard heard her, and he opened his mouth enough to get out, “No,” but they did not seem to hear.

Doctor Pruett was getting up and reaching for his bag. “I don't believe in bleeding,” he said. “Most doctors today agree it only weakens the patient.”

Mistress Donaldson pursed her lips. “Old Doc Conklin bled my mum, he did, and she had pneumonia.”

Young Doctor Pruett smiled. “And did your mother recover?” he asked.

“She did not,” said Cyrus. “Leave the doctoring to the doctor, Mary.”

“This boy may not live, either,” said the doctor, “but if he doesn't, it won't be because he is too weak from loss of blood to fight the disease.”

“What's to be your fee?” old Cyrus asked.

“You have taken the boy in from the goodness of your heart,” said the doctor. “I'll not be charging you to boot.”

“We can pay,” said Cyrus.

The doctor shook his head. Then his eyes fell on the table and an apple pie still warm from the oven. “I'd be pleased, though, to have a piece of that pie.”

For the rest of the day Howard slept and woke, slept and woke. Mistress Donaldson brought him cups of water to sip from. The boy was amazed to wake once and find old Cyrus washing his face. No one else was around, and the old man talked to the boy.

“I never had me a son,” he said, “nor a grandson. I don't know as I've ever washed a boy's face before, not since I washed my own.”

Howard wanted to say thank you, but he was too tired.

Young Grace brought him a pillow. “Here,” she said, and she lifted his head to slide the pillow beneath it. “You can have my pillow. I don't need it much.”

It was Laura who spooned a bit of broth into his mouth. Howard was aware when the lamps were blown out, and the family went to bed.

Sometime during the night, he woke. Someone was pulling the blanket up around his shoulders. He opened his eyes. It was Sarah. Next she lifted his head and helped him drink a few sips of water. The girl sat beside him until he went back to sleep, but she did not speak a word.

It took Howard a long time to learn what caused Sarah's sorrow. He lay on his feather mattress, spending his days and nights in strange dreams. Outside, the wind howled and snow swirled. After a week or so, Mistress Donaldson began to feed him spoonfuls of soup instead of clear broth. “I believe you're going to live, Howard, boy,” she said after the first soup was swallowed.

Sometimes he was confused and thought that Mistress Donaldson was his mother. Old Cyrus frequently knelt down to put his hand on Howard's forehead to check his fever. “You're not so hot,” he declared one day, but Howard still felt as if a fire raged somewhere inside him. He still coughed, too.

At night, Howard often thought of the light that would be shining out the window into the darkness. He was inside the house now, but he still felt lonely. It was the youngest girl, Gracie, who first began to visit him for no reason. She would push open the pantry door, grin at him, and close the door.

On the third time he was ready for her. “Want to hear a rhyme?” he said when her head appeared.

She cocked her head, studied him for a moment, then came into the room, plopped down cross-legged on his mattress to wait.

“Hey diddle, diddle, / The cat and the fiddle, / The cow jumped over the moon, / The little dog laughed, / To see such a sport, / And the dish ran away with the spoon,” Howard said, and Gracie laughed.

“You aren't a ruffian,” she said. “Grandpa always told us hoggees be ruffians.”

“Well,” said Howard. “Maybe he meant other hoggees. I don't suppose he would let me sleep in his house if I were a ruffian, now, would he?”

Gracie smiled and nodded. “Very well,” she said. “I will be back to listen to more rhymes.” She got up then, and without another word, she left the room. Then she stuck her head back in briefly to make a funny face, her eyes bulging out, her nose and eyebrows twitching.

Each day Howard had another rhyme ready for her. Then one day Laura stood in the doorway with Gracie. She looked at the floor. “I don't have a lot to do right now,” she said, and she shrugged her shoulders. “Mayhap I will pass the time along with Gracie listening to your rhymes.”

Gracie came in, settled on the mattress, and Laura pulled a kitchen chair into the tiny room.

“How about a riddle instead?” he asked when they were ready.

Laura frowned. “I don't know what
riddle
means,” she said softly.

Surprised, Howard pushed himself up to rest on his elbow. “It's a mystery, like a question for studying out the
answer. Here's one. ‘Runs all day and never walks, / Often murmurs, never talks, / It has a bed and never sleeps, / It has a mouth and never eats.'”

Thinking, Laura twisted her face, and in just a moment, understanding flashed into her eyes. “Oh, I know!” She clapped her hands. “River! It's a river.”

Howard smiled and lay back on the mattress. “You're quick,” he said. “Why don't you go to school?”

Laura shook her head. “Grandpa doesn't hold with girls getting schooling. He thinks reading and writing wouldn't do us no good. He says me and Gracie will just grow up and get married, and it don't take learning to do that.”

“What about Sarah?” he asked. “What will become of her?”

Laura scooted closer, then leaned toward him. “Sarah helps mother,” she said very softly, and she looked over her shoulder. “Don't let Ma or Grandfather hear you asking such. They'd be awful vexed.”

Howard nodded. He lay back on his mattress and thought. What was wrong with Sarah, and why were the grown-ups determined that he should never talk to her? He was almost certain that her mind was not bad.

He had seen Sarah carrying in firewood, and he had seen her clearing the table after family meals. She had never spoken to him. Then he realized that he had never heard Sarah say anything to anyone in the family. Even with the thin door closed, he could hear them talk at supper. Now that he was better, Howard frequently listened to the conversation. Old Cyrus talked mostly of the weather and of the mules. Mistress Donaldson spoke of what she had seen or heard at the village market.
Laura and Grace made small comments about their daily lives. Only Sarah remained always silent.

After the day of the riddle, both of the younger girls began to spend more time with Howard. Even before he was well enough to sit up, he liked to talk to them until he grew too tired. He told them about Molly and about his family. He did not tell them about burning the house. He remembered it often, though, the smell strong in his nose.

For a long time he did not speak about Jack. He felt, somehow, that telling them about Jack would be the beginning of losing their friendship, as if anyone who knew about Jack could not value Howard. Yet it seemed disloyal not to mention Jack at all. Then one day he forced himself to talk about his brother. “Jack's the oldest,” he said. “Jack is strong and quick. He always does what's right and doesn't make blunders.” Suddenly a memory came to Howard, and he smiled. “Well,” he said, “Jack did get fooled once.

“It happened during that year after our father's death before we left for the canal. I got tired sometimes, Jack forever telling me what to do and being perfect. It was my job to gather the eggs, but one day I didn't do it. I stayed behind the henhouse until I heard my mother call out the door for eggs. ‘I'll fetch them,' I heard Jack yell. ‘Howard's gone off somewhere.'

“There was a tiny crack in the henhouse wall. I had pushed through a strip of black cloth into the first hen's nest. Through the crack, I could just make out Jack's form reaching into the nest, and I pulled the cloth at just the right moment.

“‘Snake!' yelled Jack, and he jumped back, dropping
an egg. I yanked the cloth hard back through the crack and stuffed it in my pocket.

“ ‘I'll help you,' I called, and I ran around the henhouse and went inside. Jack had a hoe ready to kill the snake, but it had disappeared.

“‘I'm not sure there was really a snake,' I told our mother that night at supper.

“‘I didn't imagine it,' Jack said, and he glared at me.

“I couldn't let it go with Jack not knowing that I had put one over on him. That night I put the strip on Jack's pillow and waited for him to pull back the cover. ‘Snake!' I cried, and I broke into laughter. Jack, of course, caught on at once. He had a dipper full of water from the drinking bucket, and he threw it on me. I didn't mind being wet, not one bit.”

Howard raised himself up on his elbow. “If you meet him in the spring, it might be best if you don't mention snakes in the henhouse.” He laughed. Then he grew serious. “Jack would never have let himself get down sick this way.”