I start with his shirt, unbuttoning each button and pulling his arms through one at a time. His skin is cool, and it’s like working stubborn hinges as I try to bend his arm and twist it, slowly, tenderly, and peel the damp shirt away. Daddy leans over me, pointing when I’ve missed a button, using his one long fingernail, the one on the pointer of his right hand, to scratch at a leaf stuck to Dale’s chest. Juna keeps her place in the corner, hands clasping under her belly, her long yellow hair hanging over her shoulders, hiding the oversize neckline that sags.
Someone hands me another shirt, a dry one. It’s Daddy’s—flannel, soft from all the wear. I work Dale’s arms again and thread them through each sleeve. I don’t bother with the buttons, but instead, because it’s so big on him, I tuck the shirt around him, swaddle him. With the same rag I used to dab at Juna’s burned skin, I clean Dale’s face, arms, and hands, being careful of the swelling and bruising. Next, I grab at the snaps on his britches, but John Holleran takes Daddy’s place over my shoulder and gathers my hands with both of his.
“Better not,” he says, and with a knife cuts a half dozen inches into the fabric, and with both hands pulls until the pant leg has torn through. He does the same on the other side, and then I see.
Dale’s left leg is broke such that the bone has popped right through the skin, and his foot is twisted at an ungodly angle. I had worried when Dale wouldn’t open his eyes. Not once as I pulled off his shirt and cleaned his face and neck with a damp cloth and laid a towel under his head did he open his eyes. I’m glad of it now.
“What do we do?” I say.
“Doctor’ll be here shortly,” John says. “Clean him. He should be clean. And keep him warm.”
I stay far from the jagged tip that sticks out of Dale’s right shin. It’s like a twig, a slender branch whittled straight and smooth. The skin is puckered where it tore through and red with smears of blood, but not as much as I’d have thought. He was in the river. Somewhere, all this time, he’s been in the river. I know the leg will be tender to the touch. Someone sits a pan of warm water next to me. I turn to thank Juna, but she still stands in her corner, hands still clasped like she’s cradling a basket. Abigail brought the water. She stands next to me, staring down on Dale. Her eyes first land on his face, but they slowly slide over his body and stop at his leg. I wave for one of the men to take her away even though she cries out for me to let her stay. When she has gone and the room is quiet again, I soak the rag, wring it good, and wipe it across Dale’s sunken cheeks, over his small mouth, along his neck and up under his chin. I follow behind with a dry towel, blotting the damp skin. Two, three times, I clean him.
“Where was he?” I ask. “How did you find him?”
“Joseph Carl,” John says.
He pauses, stares at the ground like he’s thinking what to say next and how he ought tell me.
“He told Sheriff Irlene. Finally told where we’d find Dale.”
But Juna’s story. It hadn’t been right. Joseph Carl wouldn’t have asked after fresh, cool water deep enough to wade in. He would have smiled at Dale like all folks did. Juna’s story hadn’t been right.
“He done it, Sarah,” John says, staring down on Dale’s tiny, beaten body. “Joseph Carl done this.”
“I don’t believe it,” I say. “I know Joseph Carl. Known him all my life. I don’t believe it for a minute. It was someone else. Someone else did this to Dale.”
John steps close, leans in, and talks in a low voice no one else will hear. “Only way we found Dale was because Joseph Carl told us where he’d be. Ain’t no way Joseph Carl would know unless he done it. I’m sorry, Sarah. Don’t know what possessed the man, but he done it.”
Twice, John hollers at the other men to get along home, and then the doctor comes. He wears a long black coat to fend off the morning chill. The damp wool brings the sour smell of a wet animal into the house. It’s a reminder of the cold Dale suffered in nothing but his undershirt and britches. After removing his coat, the doctor drapes it over my arm and doesn’t bother taking off his hat. His white beard is neatly trimmed and just nips his chest when he nods his thanks. It’s been a good five years since I last saw him, but he’s aged a good many more. Still his eyes are clear, his hands steady. As if to warm himself, he rubs those steady hands and weaves his long, slender fingers together.
“Hell of a fall,” the doctor says, leaning over the bed for a good look at Dale’s twisted leg. He came from twelve miles south and so doesn’t know about Joseph Carl and the things he’s done.
“Wasn’t no fall,” Daddy says, and because he shakes his head and scrunches up his nose like he’s smelling milk gone sour and can’t quite let his eyes settle on his own son, the doctor doesn’t ask after what did happen.
“Which of you will it be?” he asks instead, pulls a cotton kerchief from his front pocket and wipes his hands.
They must know what the doctor means to say, Daddy and John, but I don’t. John gives a nod that sends Daddy out of the room. He’s happy enough to go, doesn’t look back or do any insisting. Juna follows, and I start to dip my rag in the water that’s already gone cold. John shakes his head.
“He’ll not shout out,” John says. “But best you’re not here.”