Valley So Low (16 page)

“Is this how it’s supposed to work?” Maude asked.

Granny nodded. “It is. Now we wait and see.”

“When will we know?”

The old woman’s calm expression faltered and for a moment she looked her age and more, haggard and worn. “If he’s to live, he’ll be some better by morning, child.  And if he’s not, then he likely won’t.  There’s reason folks call this the three-day fever.  Either way, it don’t last much more than that.”

Every atom, each fiber of Maude’s being needed Harry to live, but the knowledge the ordeal would end soon, one way or another, offered a strange sort of solace.  Three days seemed like three weeks or years.  One hour moved toward the next, and she’d lost track more than once whether it was day or night.  Everything had become a blur of worry and care, fever and fretfulness.  Lack of sleep flavored her thoughts with a dream-like quality and though Maude believed Granny, none of it seemed real.  Maybe it’s a nightmare, Maude thought, and I’ll wake next to Harry. 

She knew it wasn’t, though.  Instead she faced hours of hard truth, of waiting and wondering and watching.  Maude moved toward the bed and sat down in the chair, her place by right.  She grasped Harry’s hand in hers and marveled at how slack it seemed.  He remained ghost-pale, the brown patches on his cheeks still evident.  The bluish cast she noticed earlier crept farther into his face, eerie and odd.  She knew what it meant—he wasn’t getting enough breath but she hoped the color might recede after the poultice cleared his lungs.

When she touched the back of her hand first to his cheek, then against his forehead, Maude flinched at the high temperature of his skin.  His fever needed to come down too.  Every horrible tale she’d ever heard about someone suffering brain damage, going blind, or losing their hearing from a bad fever haunted her, but death loomed large.  “Oh, Harry,” she said, forgetting of the others in the room. “You can’t leave me.”

Granny spoke. “Maude, maybe you should come on downstairs awhile.”

Despite her respect for all elders and this one in particular, Maude shook her head.  She could be stubborn when it mattered and it did now. “No, I’m staying with Harry now.  If he improves or if he…” Her voice trailed away.  She couldn’t say the word.  If she did, she might speak it into being. “I have to be here with him, whatever happens.”

“It might be best if you’re not in the room,” Miss McBride said as she returned. Maude knew the woman meant well, but the road to hell was paved with good intentions.  If Maude were mistress of this house, she’d make her leave but Maude didn’t have the say here.  “It’s hard to watch someone you hold dear slip away.”

“I agree,” Mrs. Smith said. “You’re very young, dear, and so in love.”

“You’re digging the grave before he’s gone!” Maude raised her voice. “He’s not passed away yet and I won’t give up every scrap of hope.  He’s my husband and I’ll stay with him, for better or worse, in sickness and in health, just like I promised in our vows.”

“Miz Whitney,” the two women chorused.  Maude wasn’t sure if they meant her or Granny until Miss McBride added, “See if you can talk sense into her.”

“It’s Maude’s place and if she wants to be with Harry, I won’t get in her way.  She’s got her mind made up, and I know her well enough to know there’s no changing it.  I’ll get out of her way.  I’ve had my heart broke too many times as it is.  I’d rather not watch my favorite grandson draw his last breath.”

To Maude’s knowledge, Granny never admitted until now Harry ranked as her favorite, but it didn’t surprise her.  Granny put a hand on Maude’s shoulder. “If you need me, child, I’ll be downstairs.  If you want me, I’ll be happy to sit with you and keep watch.  But I’m tired and frazzled so I’ll go sit a spell.  I’ll bring you up a bite to eat and coffee later.”

“Thank you.”

She settled into place beside Harry, her shawl wrapped around her shoulders like a hug. 

By rote she dipped a cloth into the water and bathed his feverish face. 
He looks so terrible.
  The bluish-purple tint spread farther and tinged his skin beyond his face.  Maude noted it spreading around his throat and down onto his chest.  Another coughing fit struck him and although he seemed to be in a stupor, his expression changed to indicate pain.  He moaned a little.  “I’m sorry it hurts, Harry,” she told him. “I’d make it go away if I could. I’d take away the fever and make you well.”

An inarticulate sound came from his lips and she noted how cracked they were from the fever.  Maude made a mental note to use lip balm on them and to comb his matted, tangled hair. 
Might as well make him comfortable if it’s all I can do. 
The apparent finality of Harry’s illness began to sink into her consciousness as a terrible grief knifed through her soul with pain.  Maude teetered on the brink of bottomless sorrow—until he opened his eyes.  Harry stared up at her with a glazed expression and his lips parted. “Granpa says I can count on you, Maudie,” he croaked. 

He recognized her this time but her joy faded with the realization he’d been talking with the dead, or thought he had.  Uncertain whether or not he might be lucid, Maude responded from her heart. “I’ll do anything I can, Harry, you know I will.”

Although the movement was so slight she almost missed it, he nodded. “Don’t let me die.”

A sob caught in her throat, harsh as a fish bone, and Maude choked on it.  Although he’d been delirious and still could be, Harry understood death waited.  Somewhere under the pain and fever, the man she loved cried out for help. She’d almost surrendered to the inevitable without a fight, but an iron determination in her gut revived Maude’s spirits.  She wouldn’t let him go easy or sit idle.  Instead, Maude vowed to make every effort possible, to try anything she could.  If he died anyway, at least she might take small comfort from trying, and if she saved him, they could rejoice together when he recovered.

“I’ll do my best, Harry.  Are you thirsty?”

Once more, he nodded, faint and feeble, so Maude held the cup to his mouth and supported his head.  He drank and then all but collapsed back onto the pillows.  Harry lay so still she almost thought she imagined their brief exchange but she knew better.  His will remained, and if he clung to life, she’d help him.  His breathing became labored once more, harsh and difficult to hear.  As she bathed his face with water, Harry suffered another nosebleed.  Maude wiped it away and staunched the flow with trembling hands. 
I will not accept a bloody nose means he’s gonna die, I won’t.

As she tended him, Maude searched her mind for any remedies they might’ve overlooked or forgotten.  If she could bring down his fever and still his cough, he’d rest easier and conserve his strength.  The relentless fever took its toll as it devoured Harry with heat.  She revived memories dating back to childhood and her own bouts with common illnesses.  Granny knew a great deal but so had her mama.  Maude figured she might come up with something different.  When she had a mental list of things she needed, Maude ventured downstairs.

On her way through the dining room to the kitchen she heard the women talking.

“I think Eddie Tremont’s died,” Miss McBride said. “I looked out earlier and saw a black wreath on his door.  Before I came over here, I lost count of how many funeral processions I saw headin’ out to the graveyard.  I’ve lived through many an epidemic, but I’ll vow I never saw one like this.”

“Oh, the smallpox went ‘round back in 1904 and as I recall, it was plenty bad,” Granny said. “I hope Miz Smith’s not coming down with the flu but if she is, I’m glad she went home.  I don’t need anybody else sick under this roof.”

Maude hadn’t known Mrs. Smith departed or that she’d felt ill.  A twinge of sympathy for the woman came and went.  Although she hoped the woman would be fine, Harry remained her priority. 

Miss McBride sighed. “Oh, you’ve had more’n your share of troubles.  You lost your husband just a few months back, your other grandson, your daughter, and granddaughter too, ain’t you? Now you’re about to lose Harry.  I know it’s hard but at least you’ve got the comfort of your little great-grandbaby.”

Determination eroded any lingering timidity in Maude.  She rushed into the kitchen with speed and must’ve startled Granny.  The woman dropped the coffee cup cradled in her hands and it crashed onto the floor.  Granny glanced up, a stricken expression on her face.

“Maude? Is he…is it over?”

“No,” Maude snapped.  “I don’t intend to give up on Harry without a fight.  I came downstairs to get a few things I need.”

Granny eyes widened. “What do you plan to do, child?”

“Everything I can.  I’m going to give him honey for the cough, brew some old-fashioned willow bark tea, and see if I can get him to sweat out the fever.  I’ll do whatever it takes, and if I fail, it won’t be ‘cause I didn’t try.”

Miss McBride gasped and put her hand over her heart.  “Oh dear, I’ve got a bad feeling about all this nonsense.”  Maude glared at her.  “It’s not nonsense,” she began but Granny put a hand on her arm.  She turned to look at Harry’s grandmother and saw the faint light of hope in her eyes.

“Leave Maude be.  She’ll either cure Harry or kill him but he’s dying now so she might as well try.  You’re a brave woman, Maude, to take the chance, and I hope you can save him.  What do you need?”

Maude sat down at the table.  Her legs trembled with tension and fatigue.  If she stood a moment longer they might give out and she’d collapse.  She listed everything and Granny gathered together most of the items.  “I don’t have any of this vapor rub stuff,” she told Maude. “I’ll go downtown and see if I can find a drugstore open if you want.  I’ve got some willow bark but no catnip.”

“I have catnip,” Miss McBride announced. “And I believe I have a new jar of the vapor rub too.  I’ll dash home and fetch it for you.  I didn’t mean to be rude, honey. I admire you for your spunk in trying.  I’d like to see someone live—so many are dying now.”

“Thank you.” Maude meant the words.  Granny placed a cup of coffee heavy with sugar before her and she picked it up, sipping the powerful brew.  “Maude, you need to eat. Let me fix you something, some bacon or oatmeal or fried potatoes.”

She shook her head. “I appreciate it but I need to get back to Harry.  I don’t want him to rouse and be alone.”

“Then I’ll make a bread and butter sandwich and bring it up in a bit.”

Too tired to argue, Maude agreed. Maude took a jar of honey, a spoon, and some lip balm. Then she refilled the coffee and carried the cup in one hand as she mounted the steps with weary tread.  In the bedroom she noticed what she hadn’t before—the overheated room stank.  After three days housing a sick man, the small space reeked of sweat, sickness, and something sour.  The odor of the onions permeated her nose with a thick, oily feeling. Maude almost gagged but she downed the coffee to remove the scent from her senses.  The strong black brew banished the worst of it and she checked Harry.

His fever hadn’t abated in her absence, but she hadn’t expected a sudden miracle. Maude touched his cheek and although he didn’t open his eyes, he stirred a little.  She spread lip balm over his cracked, chapped lips with one finger.  Then she retrieved her own comb from the dresser and used it to tame his wild hair.  Maude used the last of the water in the basin to wet the cloth to bathe his face and neck.  On impulse, one against all folk wisdom and probably any doctor’s advice, she rose and opened the single window a few inches.  Crisp, cold air rushed into the room, so frigid Maude shivered but she savored the freshness. She caught the scent of wood smoke, of evergreens, and wind.

She didn’t dare leave the window open long.  After she closed it, some of the odors were gone.  Maude tucked all the blankets around Harry tight and went to the hall linen closet for more.  She piled them high, and when a coughing outburst roused him, she managed to get a spoon of honey down his throat.  He said nothing this time but she thought he might be aware of her presence.  Maude hoped that he was.

Chapter Thirteen

By the time night arrived, Maude had managed to dose Harry with bitter catnip tea, something she recalled her mother swore worked even in the worst cases.  He’d choked while propped up drinking it, but she followed the brew with a spoon of honey and it seemed to ease him. Every hour, she alternated catnip with willow bark tea, something the old settlers used long before aspirin hit the market.  Since she’d rubbed his chest and throat with the vapor rub, the powerful aroma of camphor hung heavy in the room.  Granny brought a square of flannel and they heated it over the kerosene lamp with care.  The warm material over the greasy rub might soothe and break up the congestion.  Maude thought Harry’s breathing remained too labored and she continued to worry.  Staying busy kept her focused on hope, however, and left little time to despair.

In her quest to save his life, Maude broke every rule.  She’d let fresh air into the sickroom, and after he managed to take honey from a spoon, she fed him a bit of chicken broth.  What Granny’d said about starving a fever earlier stuck with Maude and she thought some sustenance might help Harry more than hurt.  He needed strength to pull through and Maude agreed with Granny his crisis would come soon.

Although she ate the bread and butter Granny delivered, drank the coffee, and appreciated the assistance, Maude insisted she would keep vigil alone.  As the hours passed, Harry became increasingly still.  He hadn’t spoken since he’d startled her with what Granpa said and begged her to keep him alive.  Sometimes he opened his eyes and seemed to focus on her but often he stared unseeing.  His coughing diminished and she thought the honey must be working, but she could tell no real difference in the heat of his fever.  His nose bled twice more, the second time a heavier flow than before.  To Maude, it seemed it was still an effort for Harry to breathe.

At midnight, Maude heard the bells ring the hour from the Episcopal church.  She counted each of the dozen chimes, their deep sound echoing off the hills surrounding town. The somber sound suited her mood.  A few minutes later, Granny, clad in a long nightgown and with an old-fashioned mob cap on her head, peeked into the room.  “I’m heading on to bed unless you need me,” she told Maude. “I’m tired.  How’s Harry?”

“He’s about the same but no worse.”

Granny sighed. “I’ll say my prayers before I go to sleep and we’ll hope for the best.  Good night, Maude.”

“’Night, Granny, and thanks.”

Restless, Maude considered changing into her comfortable gown but rejected it.  Although tired to the bone, she wasn’t sleepy at all.  She busied herself by tucking the blankets tighter around Harry and smoothing back his hair.  Then she wandered over to the window, tempted to open it once more but she resisted.  The night air would be much colder, and she didn’t want to risk harming Harry’s condition.  Maude leaned her forehead against the glass and peered out.  The strip of sky visible above the rooftops and winter-bare trees sparkled with stars, and the moon cast a radiant light through the few clouds.  Mostly clear skies meant temperatures would drop, and she shuddered.  She pulled the curtains back in place and settled down beside Harry to wait.  For the immediate moment there wasn’t much she could do but keep him covered and perhaps put a compress on his hot brow. 

She could pray, like Granny, but Maude doubted she would.  Although raised to fill a pew on the Sabbath and taught to know most of the Bible, Maude doubted God would hear her humble plea.  So much had happened in her life and so many losses, she leaned toward the idea maybe the Lord might be too busy to care about a woman’s heart or one sick man.  How many, she wondered, would die tonight in town? And maybe she’d done wrong and Harry had been struck down because of their sin.  Bits and pieces from the Good Book drifted through her weary mind, rules against fornication and sins of the flesh.  A flicker of guilt licked around the edges of her conscience like a flame, but Maude pondered the love she shared with Harry, the powerful force of it.  And she couldn’t believe it wrong, not by any law, be it human or God’s.

The Savior she recalled wouldn’t be so cruel, not when he wandered around raising the dead and performing miracles.  Memories of their sweet lovemaking, the pleasure from between her legs to her lips, and the way Harry gazed into her eyes, filling up her soul, supported her belief. 
What we did wasn’t wrong.
  Maude might not approve reckless, wanton behavior, but love shared between a man and a woman had right.  Even Granny’d said in the pioneer days, couples started keeping house without benefit of a preacher or church blessing, not much different from what she and Harry had done.  But Maude still couldn’t find the words to pray.

Time slowed down to a turtle’s pace.  Although there was no clock in the bedroom, Maude endured the longest minutes, the slowest hours she’d ever experienced.  Each time she heard the church bells ring the hour, she thought it should be later and morning near.  As the night passed, Harry remained unresponsive.  He made no sound and his earlier restlessness yielded toward calm.  He’s deathly still, Maude thought, and then wished she could erase the notion.  As morning drew closer, the overheated room became chill and Maude pulled her shawl closer.  Fatigue burned her eyes worse than dust during a summer drought and her body craved rest. 

To prevent falling asleep, Maude began talking out loud to Harry, just her scattered thoughts at first, and then her dialogue became a plea. “It’s night and cold,” she told him. “You’ve been so sick with the Spanish influenza, and everyone but me thinks you’re about to die.  But I’m not giving up.  You’ve been out of your head with fever but you told me Granpa said you can count on me and you can.  I won’t stop trying to make you better as long you’re drawing breath.  I love you so much, Harry.  You’ve got to fight so we can go home, back to our life with George.  I want more babies too, and I miss George.  I bet he misses us too.  He adores you and you’re his daddy, only one he’ll ever know.  We’ve made it through so much, you got out of jail, and we’re married, so c’mon, Harry.  Don’t you dare die on me.”

His slack face didn’t change so she shifted to the past.  Maude chattered about memories, about swimming in the cold waters of Shoal Creek on hot summer evenings, the few square dances they’d attended together, and how they danced to the music he made not long ago.  She talked about people they knew, things they’d done, and even about the food she’d cook him when he got well.  Maude spoke about Granpa, Granny, and Jamie.  She described the way the fields bright with purple coneflowers and golden brown-eyed Susans appeared in sunshine.  She talked until she couldn’t think of anything else to say, because it all came down to the simplest things—how much she loved him, needed him, and wanted him to live.

Maude fell silent, more than a little discouraged at Harry’s lack of response.  It wasn’t that she expected him to sit up and join the conversation, but she’d hoped he might open his eyes or say something.  When he didn’t, she sighed.  By rote, she put balm on his lips, combed his hair, bathed his forehead, and held his hand.  Sometime after the bells chimed four o’clock, she began to sing in a soft voice, more to pass the time and keep her mind from dark thoughts than anything else.  She hoped Harry heard her at some level, wanted to think he’d heard all she’d said.  Even more, she hoped he gained some comfort from it.  Music seemed all she could give him now.  With no change, no marked improvement in his condition, she struggled against despair.

The old ballads, the one Jamie complained about, flew from her lips, old songs about lords and ladies, beggars and lovers in disguise.  Some of them her mama sang to her, others she learned from Granny who’d sung them to George.  Maude learned a few of the tunes at school and others at gatherings.  Some were popular tunes, others hymns.  Although she’d found it impossible to pray, an old song her mother often crooned to her in childhood came out of her mouth, unbidden but familiar and soothing.

“Do Lord, oh do Lord, oh do remember me,”
Maude sang. She remembered each of the stanzas and repeated the chorus.  Maybe the Lord might remember her or Harry or at least take pity on them.  Her voice grew weary and strained but there remained one song she wanted to sing, the one she recalled Harry singing to George more than once.  The homespun favorite revived her failing voice enough to finish as she sang one last time,
“Down in the valley, valley so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow.  Hear the wind, love, hear the wind blow.”

Those words evoked the valley where the farm lay, cradled by the hills and homesickness so strong it came close to making Maude cry struck.  Her mind’s eye saw their home, knew every bit of worn-out furniture and faded wallpaper.  She glanced down at Harry, hopeful he might have roused to her voice, but he hadn’t moved.  Limbs stiff, Maude came to her feet.  As she did, Harry shifted position and he quivered from head to toe within the blankets tucked tight.  He thrashed from side to side without opening his eyes and then he stilled.  His face slackened and seemed to droop.  Harry’s head canted left in an odd position.  In the quiet of the room Maude realized she no longer heard the labored struggle of his breath, something she’d become so accustomed to hearing she almost failed to realize it had ceased. 

Try as she might, Maude failed to see his chest move at all and she thought with a terrible wrenching of grief, pain, and anger, that he had gone.  In a moment she would confirm it, she thought, and then she’d wake Granny.  Together they would begin the last service they could perform for Harry.  Tears weighed heavy on Maude’s chest but she didn’t weep.  She couldn’t.  If she got started, she might never stop until her tears made Noah’s flood look like a puddle.  Instead, she stepped to the window, pulled out the curtain and gazed out as she tried to collect her thoughts.

The small town spread out beneath the moonlight, white and almost pure with the coating of snow.  Nothing moved as far as Maude could see, although lights burned in other windows, a certain sign others sat up with someone sick.  Her breath frosted the glass as the chill seeped around her but she didn’t care.  If it wasn’t for her son, she wouldn’t mind if she froze to death or caught the same fever or died.  Without Harry, Maude feared she would float through the remainder of her life, a gray ghost.  Nothing would ever be the same.  All the vivid colors would lack luster, and the best she might hope would be to feel the awful numbness she did now.  Such cold lethargy would be better than the pain lurking to pounce, to seize her body and soul to devour.

Her mind drifted for a few moments and she watched the wind rattle a few dead leaves on the tall oak adjacent to the window.  They danced on the breeze and Maude wished she could rip them from the branch.  Their existence, dead and brown as they were, offended her, and she tapped her knuckles against the glass in protest.  Maude willed them to drop, wanted to see them fall to the ground.  A senseless desire to smash the glass and bloody her hands swept over her and she might’ve done so if she hadn’t heard something small.

At first Maude took it to be the scrape of a small branch against the windowsill, a noise she’d noted before.  She dismissed it but it came louder, more of a croak than physical creak.  In her mindless grief she searched for explanations.  Maybe Granny moaned aloud down the hall or the wind groaned beneath the eaves.  An errant, wide-awake squirrel might be scratching for entry into the attic.  A mouse might be creeping downstairs in search of a crumb.  Her emotional pain smoldered like a hot coal dropped into her chest.  Any moment it would flare into full fire and burn her to ash.

What she heard sounded like her name. Maude refused to yield to imagination, to awaken false hope, so she ignored it. The Episcopal bells rang out five times and she counted each stroke. When the reverberations faded away, she heard her name again and realized it was no mistake, no aberration.

“Maudie.”

She whirled around to face the bed and stared.  Harry’s eyes were open wide, and even from a few feet distant in the dim room she saw the perspiration beaded across his face.  His vulnerable expression speared her heart and as she moved to his side, Maude walked like a woman caught in a dream.  “Harry?” she asked as if she feared it wasn’t him but a stranger. “Harry, oh, Harry, how do you feel?”

She touched his forehead, cooled from the intense fever heat to ordinary warmth.  Her fingers stroked his face and without conscious thought she picked up the rag to wipe away his sweat.   His mouth moved but nothing came out.  Maude thought he must be so weak that speaking was difficult.

“Are you thirsty? I’ll get you some water.” She poured it and let him drink from the cup, but he could manage no more than a few sips.  He lay back against the pillows, pale and weak, but she swore a smile flirted with his lips. She thought he looked terrible, spent and pale, but some of the bluish cast had receded from his face. “I thought you were gone, Harry.  You need to rest but the fever’s broken.  You’re going to be fine.”

He smiled then, a quick fleeting expression, nodded in agreement, and shut his eyes. Stunned from the swift change, Maude didn’t react.  She straightened the bed covers, applied balm to his lips, tucked back his tousled hair, and sat down on the edge of the bed.  Maude lifted his hand and gripped it, pleased when his fingers moved in a faint response.  She held his hand in hers for a long time, until after she heard the six o’clock bells ring out.  Then, unable to contain all the emotions she’d repressed any longer, Maude untangled her fingers and dropped to her knees.  She buried her head into the mattress to muffle the sound and sobbed.  As she vented all the worry, the fear, and the grief, her fatigue increased, heavy as a warm blanket.