36
TEA. WE BOTH NEED A CUP OF TEA.
Father and I drank chrysanthemum tea to calm nerves, but since we don’t have that, I fill West’s cup with our blackberry brew.
West kicks at the ground and yells in frustration, walking in a rough circle with his arms wrapped around his head. “That was the Broken Hand Gang, wasn’t it,” he states more than asks.
I push the cup at West. Then I stand back, wringing my fingers so hard, my joints crack.
He mutters a curse then, “I’m sorry.”
Dropping the cup, he grabs my hands. My heart pounds at the intimacy of it. All I can do is gape.
“You’re trembling. What happened?” he asks.
I pull away. “The boy had a bullet in his leg,” I tell him in the calmest tone I can manage. “They needed help removing it.” I look down at my fingers, still stained with blood, too much blood. Suddenly, I wonder whether I did the boy more harm than good.
West’s shadow reaches out to me. Reflexively, I step back. Like Franny, I somehow connected with his motion.
“Don’t,” I say, unprepared for the moment, and in danger of falling for him again.
? ? ?
The next day, instead of going out, West sprints each horse across Eden, winding around pine trees and over shrubs. The sound of their hooves crescendos and diminishes as he takes them back and forth.
I examine the invalids closely for any signs of improvement. Their skin looks no less chalky, and I despair again of them ever leaving this mountainside.
Cay’s eyes open and he blinks at me, trying to straighten his vision. After he swallows his salt water, he says, “I know why you smell good. It’s okay.”
“What’s okay?”
His eyes study my face so intently I begin to sweat, sure that he’s figured me out. “That you’re a filly.”
“A what?”
“A filly,” he whispers.
A girl? Or the common term for a man who enjoys the company of other men? I don’t breathe. It must be the latter or else why would he use the word filly and not girl?
“I am not,” I say with mock indignation, playing along.
“I know it ain’t my business. To each his own.” He grins. “But you run funny, and you ain’t hairy.”
“Maybe you should save your air for breathing.”
“Plus, you used to stick around West like a burr.”
“A burr,” I repeat as my face heats up for real.
“Don’t hold it against him, Sammy.” His eyes shift around like West could be hiding somewhere in a bush. “His father got soaked often and beat him oftener. Burnt quirleys on him.”
The round scars on his arm. Shock replaces my mortification.
“Once, he caught West drawing pictures. Called him a filly. His daddy beat him so bad, West didn’t remember his name when the sheriff brung him to us. Asshole.” Cay’s breath grows shallower.
“Shh. Stop talking.” I swab his face. His locks grab my fingers like the tendrils of a sweet pea.
After Cay falls asleep, I seek out the comfort of Paloma’s snowy white mane. My thoughts are a jumble as I groom her, fresh from her run. When I brush against the direction of her hair coat by mistake, she jumps.
“Sorry,” I mumble, smoothing the hair back down. Then I rest my forehead against the slope of Paloma’s back, letting my guilt pile up.
Did you think your father’s words were true because of me? And you still saved my life twice, even killed the cholera man so I wouldn’t have to.
Father always said, Give a man a mask if you want to hear the truth. But even with a disguise, I could not be honest. Now it is too late. You will never trust me again.
I swipe my eyes with my sleeve and busy myself with my patients, whether more for their sake or mine, I can’t be sure. After giving them their salt water, I wash Andy’s hair using our frying pan as a basin. She hates to be dirty. She falls asleep as I wrap her head in a rag I warmed by the fire.
? ? ?
In the late afternoon, West shoots a turkey that wandered near our camp. I avoided him all day but now get to my feet as he approaches.
Dark half-moons underline his eyes since he refused to wake me again for last night’s watch. There are a million things I want to say to him, but my stubborn tongue refuses to port them out of the tunnel.
“Let me,” I say lamely, holding my hand out for the bird.
“’S all right. I’ll do it.”
“No, you should rest.”
“I rested enough.”
“Well, someone better cook it or I’m getting up and doing it myself,” says Andy.
I gasp and drop down by her side. Her eyes are clear and her face, tranquil. She stretches her arms over her head and pats at her hair wrap.
“How come I got this woman’s rag on me?” she asks in a loud voice, then slyly winks at me.
“Andy,” I cry out.
Peety opens his bloodshot eyes and squints. “Sammy, you write my eulogy yet? I hoping you could say, ‘Pedro Hernando Gonzalez, he rode his horse to the end.’”
“More like, ‘He rode the end of his horse,’” mumbles Cay, though his eyes are still closed.
I touch both of their foreheads, which are cool again. Oh, Father, I think your salt mix worked. I choke back my emotion.
“You three are worse than a herd of acorn calves,” West says.
? ? ?