Just get me the phone once you get connected to her, he said. She’s going to hate this. I’m pretty sure she loved my brother. I sure God know he loved her.
The nurse went out and he lay in the bed with the green curtains drawn around him. They had started an IV already and had strapped a blood pressure cuff to his arm and propped up his leg with a pillow. He lay looking at the white tiled ceiling, then he shut his eyes and despite his best intentions to the otherwise he was weeping again. He reached up out of the bedsheet and wiped his face and waited for the nurse to bring him the phone. He was trying to think how he was ever going to tell Victoria Roubideaux about what had happened.
Then the nurse came in with the phone and he said: Is that her?
Yes. I finally located her. Here, take it.
He held the phone to his ear. Victoria?
What’s wrong? she said. Her voice sounded small and thin. Is something wrong? Has something happened?
Honey, I got something I got to tell you.
Oh no, she said. Oh no. No.
I’m just afraid I do, he said. And then he told her.
14
IN THE LATE AFTERNOON TOM GUTHRIE STOOD IN THE hospital room beside Raymond, who lay in the white bed under the sheet in his hospital gown. They had wheeled him into the room after the surgery and they had started to put him into the bed next to the door but he’d told them he wanted the bed near the window.
Along with Guthrie in the room was Maggie Jones, another teacher from the high school. They’d been together since Guthrie’s wife had moved to Denver, though Maggie still lived in her own house on South Ash Street. Now she was sitting in a chair drawn up close to Raymond’s bed. The doctor had set the bone in his leg and put a cast over the leg below the knee, and there were elastic bandages wrapped around his chest to hold his ribs securely and to ease his breathing. His broken leg was raised onto pillows. He breathed shallowly, with little sharp exhalations, and his face showed what he had suffered. His face was drawn and pale, sallow under the red weathering. He looked old. He looked old and worn-out and sad.
I couldn’t stop him, Raymond said. They’re too big. Too strong. I tried but I couldn’t. I couldn’t save my brother.
Nobody could have saved him, Guthrie said. You did what you could.
Maggie put her hand on the old man’s arm and patted him softly. You did everything you could, she said. We know that.
It wasn’t enough, Raymond said.
It was quiet in the room, the light coming in aslant through the window. Outside the hospital along the street the bare trees looked orange in the late afternoon sun. Down the hall they could hear people talking and then there was some laughter. Someone came walking past in the hallway and they looked up when he went by. It was one of the preachers in town, come to call on the sick and the lame.
Tom, can you look after things for a couple days? Raymond said. I can’t think who else to ask.
Of course, Guthrie said. Don’t even think about it.
You’ll need to let the bulls out and check they got water. And then if you’d check the cows and calves to the south.
Of course.
I still got the calves in there with the cows, and every cow and heifer is suppose to be carrying a new calf. They ain’t due till February but you can’t ever tell what they’ll do. He looked at Guthrie. Well, you know all that.
I’ll go out there right away, Guthrie said. As soon as I leave here. What else do you need me to do?
I don’t know. Well, there’s the horses too. If you don’t mind.
I’ll check them.
And can I check on things in the house? Maggie Jones said.
Oh, Raymond said. He turned to look at her. No. I don’t want you to bother. It’ll be a mess in there.
I’ve seen plenty of messes before, she said.
Well. I don’t know what to say.
Just try to rest. That’s all you have to do.