For the rest of the day, I alternate between patients, feeding them the mix, and helping them to the necessary. I throw dirt into the holes after each use. I mix the salt, sugar, and water, praying I got the ratios right. Then I steep pepper in the kettle.
Andy’s so still and ashen, she looks almost dead. I kneel beside her and take her limp hand in mine. It’s cool, but not cold, and I put it to my cheek.
I want to talk to her, but I can’t with Peety and Cay here. They lie motionless, and it’s hard to tell if they’re sleeping or just resting. So instead, I say a prayer for all of them and hope God is listening.
By my estimates, we are at least twenty days from Fort Bridger. Even if we reached the fort, what could the people there do? Most folks stay as far away from cholera as possible. There is no cure. We must wait for the disease to run its course and keep everyone hydrated.
Cay wakes up shivering, his lips blue. I scoot in behind him and put his head on my lap. Then I hold his cold face between my hands.
Cay blinks up at me hanging over him. “My stomach . . . ”
Another of Father’s methods comes back to me.
“Want to try tui-na?” I ask, using the Cantonese word for a technique that uses pressure on certain points on the body. “I will need to touch your ears.”
“My ears?”
I nod. Chinese people believe the entire human body is mapped on the ears. I don’t remember where everything is, only the key points.
“Does it hurt?”
I smile. “No. You might even like it.”
“Well, okay, but don’t tell Peety.”
Sliding my hands up to Cay’s ears, I tug at his lobes, then circle my fingers around the edges toward the center. There, I find the spot that corresponds to the stomach and press in toward his head.
He closes his eyes. His face twitches at first but eventually relaxes. When I hear him sigh, I begin to knead his earlobes with my thumbs, the loose and easy headtabs that indicate a charmed life, unlike West’s. Some charmed life, nose against death’s door and only eighteen. Maybe earlobes are not the weatherglasses of one’s life that I’ve always believed them to be. Wasn’t it Cay who got the boss’s daughter pregnant? And didn’t West survive that stallion bite? Maybe ears are just ears.
Cay moans, “That . . . feels . . . so . . . ”
West drops down beside us, startling both Cay and me. I let Cay’s ears go.
Cay’s eyes slit open and take in his cousin. “You always spoil the fun.”
“Please, continue,” says West dryly, sweeping his hands at us.
I pat Cay’s whiskery cheek. “I think you’re better now. I’ll go fix the tea.”
As I gently lift Cay’s head, West slides in to take my place. Before I can leave, Cay says, “Why do you always smell so good?”
I choke. Maybe Cay’s delirious. His eyes drift close. West watches me so I give him a helpless shrug and don’t answer.
Cay’s eyes pop open. “I don’t have all day.”
I smile, because he can make me do that, even in my misery. “I smell like horse shit like the rest of you.” My face heats up at my vulgarity.
“Nope,” says Cay. “You smell like jacaranda. Oddest thing . . . ”
Jacaranda? Those fragrant purple blossoms were Father’s favorite. He couldn’t know that. I lower my head while I collect my composure. When I look up again, I’m pinned by a pair of brown eyes and a pair of green ones.
“Cowboys ain’t meddlers, but you got me balled up. Why’re you such a secret?” Cay rasps. “You ain’t no Argonaut, obviously.”
I open my mouth to deflect the question or give a cheeky answer, but close it again, suddenly weary. The boys have been nothing but honest with us, while I have lurked in shadows. Even now, with death knocking, the lies still flock to my tongue like ravens to a kill. What is the worst that can happen if I tell them a little of myself? This is not the time for a confessional, but the least I can do is be straight with him for once, maybe even take his mind off his suffering.
“I come from St. Joe,” I begin.
“Missouri?” asks Cay.
“Yes. Father’s Portuguese partner in New York lost the whole business with one roll of the dice.”
“What’d he roll?” asks Cay.
“Four. That’s an unlucky number for Chinese because the word for four, sei, sounds like the word for death. So Father decided not to rebuild the business and instead bought the Whistle in St. Joe, hoping we would join the pioneers one day.”
I describe the cold welcome we received in St. Joe, then end with the blaze that took Father’s life. “He did not have a proper burial.”
My throat constricts, and I grab a fistful of dirt to distract my mind from the pain, letting it seep out like sand in an hourglass.
“We fought that morning,” I hear myself say. “I didn’t want to move to California. After violin lessons, I sat on the riverbank instead of coming straight home.”
My shameful tears water the dirt as I bow my obstinate head.
I failed you. I should’ve been in there with you. I should’ve pulled you out.
Cay breaks the silence. “So he’s an angel, then. We’ll adopt you. Go on, West.”
West pauses a moment before reciting, in a gentle voice, “Welcome to the family. Keep your neck and hands clean, and scrape the shit off your boots before you come into the kitchen. And don’t pick the crust off the pie.”
I laugh a little at that.
We let Cay sleep. I spread out my bedroll by the fire, and West arranges his next to mine. The two lone blankets side by side bring a blush to my cheeks. I am thankful it’s dark.
“I’ll take bobtail,” says West.
“What’s bobtail?”
“First watch.”
He does not wake me for my shift. Instead, I rouse myself at sunrise and find him kneeling between Peety and Andy. Peety lays comatose, but Andy twitches like she lies on a hill of ants. Did West help Andy use the necessary last night? Surely he would have said something if he learned the truth. Or maybe it was too dark to see.
“Next time, don’t let me sleep,” I plead, carefully watching his reaction.
He drops down onto his bedroll without replying.
? ? ?