Vows

by LaVyrle Spencer

  Still they tried, cursing, clouting each other with ineffectual close-range shots until they struck the far wall, where they lay in a tangle of arms and legs. Nose to nose, they panted, gripping each other's jacket fronts.

  Charles scarcely had the breath to speak. Still, he taunted brokenly, "How far … did you… go with her, huh, f—friend?"

  Tom was in no better shape. "You got a d—dirty mind, B—Bliss!"

  Dizzy and stumbling, Tom struggled to his feet, hauling Charles with him. He pulled back for another swing but inertia nearly tumbled him backwards. Charles was equally as sapped. He reeled onto his heels with his fists clenched weakly. "Come on … you bastard … I'm not through!"

  Tom faced off, quarter-bent, swaying, his arms hanging like bell clappers. "Yes you are … I'm m—marrying her," he managed between strident breaths. Talking hurt nearly as much as slugging. Still they hung before one another, close to exhaustion.

  "You wanna … call it quits?" Tom got out, wobbling on his feet.

  "Not by a … damn sight."

  "Awright then…" He hadn't the strength to throw a punch, but came at Charles with his entire body. Backwards they went, stumbling into the opened stall, against the withers of the frightened bay gelding, smashing him against the stable wall as they fell in a loose tangle of diminished force.

  On her knees near the turntable Emily wept, covering her mouth with both hands, afraid to interfere again.

  "Please … please…" she prayed behind cold fingers, hunkered forward over her knees.

  The men crashed out of the stall, falling apart, swaying on their feet sidestepping like drunks, trying to focus through swollen eyes. Their jackets looked as though they'd been worn in a slaughterhouse.

  "You … had … enough?" Tom managed through battered lips.

  "So … help … me … God…" Charles never finished. He collapsed to his knees, buckling at the waist.

  Tom followed suit, falling forward onto all fours, his head dangling as if connected to his body by a mere string. For seconds the stable was filled with the sound of their harsh breathing. Then came Tom's voice, pitiful with emotion, very near tears.

  "G–Goddamn you … why'd you hafta … b—bring her to my h—house for that shivaree?"

  Charles wobbled on his knees, barely upright. He tried to point a bloody finger at his foe but his arm kept falling. "You k–kissed her in that g–goddamn cl–closet … didn't you!"

  Winded, Tom nodded, unable to lift his head.

  Charles fell off his knees with a loose-jointed thump, dropping to his side and catching himself on an elbow.

  "What a s–sucker I was, b–building you furniture…"

  "Yeah … stupid sonofabitch … I'm gonna … take an axe … and b–bust that thing … to smithereens… "

  "Do it! … g'wan … do it…" Charles let his head flop back against his shoulder. "I don't give a d-damn."

  Emily stared at them, dumbfounded, crying, with her hands clapped to her mouth.

  Still on all fours with his head hanging, Tom spoke as if to the floor. "I didn't mean … to fall in … love with 'er, man…"

  The two men breathed like engines running out of steam, their enmity gone as suddenly as it had appeared, both of them pitiable now as truth came to take its place between them. After a full thirty seconds Charles collapsed onto his back eyes closed. He groaned. "Christ, I hurt…" His right knee, upraised, undulated from side to side.

  "I think … my ribs're broke." Tom remained on all fours, his forehead hanging inches above the floor, as if unable to rise.

  "Good. So's my … goddamn heart."

  On hands and knees, Tom crawled painfully across the aisle until he knelt above Charles and peered down blearily into his friend's face. There he hung, with the breath catching in his throat, until he finally whispered gutturally "I'm sorry man."

  Charles closed his fingers over a puny lump of hay and flung it at Tom's face, missing. His hands dropped to the concrete, palm-up.

  "Yeah, well, go to hell, you bastard." He lay exhausted, eyes closed.

  Emily watched their breakdown through a blur of tears. In her many years of friendship with Charles, Emily had never heard him curse so much, nor had she ever seen him strike a soul. Neither had she suspected Tom would engage in violence. She had witnessed the past five minutes with horror and fear and a heart that broke for both of them. It was obvious their real pain was not that inflicted by fists. Those wounds would heal.

  But now that it was over her stomach trembled and reason rushed in, bringing with it justifiable anger. How horrible that two human beings would hurt each other so.

  "You're both crazy," she whispered, wide-eyed. "What good did this do?"

  "Tell 'er, Jeffcoat."

  "I would, but I dunno. I feel like a chunk of beef that's been put through the meat grinder … both ways." Tom sucked in his belly and tested it tenderly with one limp hand.

  "Good."

  "I think I have to puke."

  "Good."

  Still staring at the floor, Tom spit out a mouthful of blood and the nausea passed. "Ohhh, gawwwwwd!" he groaned, settling back gingerly onto his heels. "Oh, holy … jumpin' … Judas." He closed his eyes and cradled his ribs with an arm.

  Charles opened his eyes and rolled his head. "They broke?"

  The pain became so intense that Tom could only shake his head and mouth the words, I don't know.

  "Emily?" Charles said thickly, the word distorted by his bruised lips as he blearily searched for her.

  She sat above and behind him. "What?"

  He skewed his head and peered at her backwards. "Maybe you better go get the doc. I think I busted his ribs."

  Instead, she sat where she was, appalled by what they'd done to one another.

  "Oh, look at your faces, you fools, just look at them," she cried plaintively.

  They did. Surprised by her vehemence, Tom and Charles took a good look at the carnage they had reaped and it mellowed them further. Emily's outburst seemed to snap belated common sense back into both men's heads and make them realize they'd fought first without discussing anything—just slammed each other with fists, as if that would fix everything. But it wouldn't. They'd have to talk, and as they rested on the bricks, emotionally as well as physically exhausted, the realization came slowly, bringing with it a pathos magnified by Charles's first question.

  "All right … so how did it happen?"

  Tom shook his head, studying his soiled knees despondently. "Hell, I don't know. How did it happen, Emily? Working with the horses together, playing those stupid damn parlor games, I don't know. How does it ever happen? It just does, that's all."

  "Emily, is he telling it straight? Did you tell him you'd marry him already?"

  "Yes, Charles," she replied, studying the top of Charles's head as he remained on his back on the floor.

  "He's an asshole, you know." Charles's voice held a trembling note of affection. "You want to marry an asshole who'd steal his best friend's fiancée?"

  She swallowed and felt tears forming afresh, watching the two men stare at one another.

  Tom's voice softened and became as emotional as his friend's. "I wish it could've been another woman. I tried Tarsy. I wish to hell it could have been Tarsy. But she was like … like too much divinity … you know what I mean?" His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I tried, Charles, but it just didn't work." After a long pause he touched Charles on the hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

  Charles shook him off and flung an arm over his eyes. "Aw, get out of here. Go on, get out of here and take her with you!" Horrified, Emily watched Charles's Adam's apple bob and realized that beneath his bloody jacket sleeve he was battling tears.

  She struggled to her feet, her skirt wrinkled and strewn with straw.

  "Come on, Tom…" She took his arm. "See if you can get up."

  He drew his sad eyes away from Charles and straightened like an arthritic old man, accepting her aid. He hobbled as far as the open stall door an
d clung to it for support. When he'd caught his breath he remembered.

  "You all right, Em?"

  "Yes."

  "But you caught an elbow, I saw it."

  "I'm not hurt. Come on," she whispered. "I think Charles is right. I think we ought to find Doc Steele and have him take a look at you."

  "Doc Steele is a quack, and cranky to boot. Everybody says so."

  "But he's the only doctor we have."

  "I don't need any doctor." Walking half the length of the barn proved too much for Tom, however.

  "Stop," he pleaded, slamming his eyes shut. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you'd better go get Doc and bring him back here. That way he can check both of us."

  She lowered Tom where he stood, and left him sitting propped against a wooden half door on the cold brick floor.

  Three minutes later, when she beat on the front door of Doc Steel's house, Hilda Steele answered, wrapped in a robe with her hair in a frowsy braid.

  "Yes?"

  "It's Emily Walcott, Mrs. Steele. Is the doctor here?"

  "No, he's not. He's out on circuit till the end of the week."

  "Till the end of the week?"

  "What is it? Is it something serious?"

  "Would you … I … no … I'm not sure … I'll get my father."

  She ran home instinctively, her mind empty of all but worry for Tom and Charles. When she burst in the front door Edwin and Fannie were seated side by side on a sofa. Earl had gone home and Frankie was nowhere in sight.

  "Papa, I need your help!" Emily announced, wild-eyed and breathless from running.

  "What's wrong?" He met her halfway across the parlor, taking her icy bare hands.

  "It's Tom and Charles. They've had a fight and I think Tom has some broken ribs. I'm not sure about Charles. He's lying flat on his back at Tom's livery stable."

  "Unconscious?"

  "No. But his face is a mess and I can't move either one of them. I left them there and ran to get Doc Steele but he's gone somewhere and Tom can't walk and … oh, please, help me, Papa. I don't know what to do." Her face crumpled. "I'm so scared."

  "Fannie, get my jacket!" Edwin sat down and began pulling on his boots. Fannie—a bundle of efficiency in an emergency—came running with his jacket, already thinking ahead. "What do you have in your medicine case for setting bones, Emily?"

  "Adhesive plaster."

  "A styptic?"

  "Yes, crowfoot salve."

  "We'll need some sheets for binding. Edwin, go along while I get them. I'll follow as soon as I can."

  Hurrying down the snowy streets, Edwin asked, "What were they fighting over?"

  "Me."

  "I thought as much. Fannie and I spent the evening speculating about what was going on. You want to fill me in?"

  "Papa, I know you're not going to like it, but I'm going to marry Tom. I love him, Papa. That's what we went to tell Charles tonight."

  Jogging, Edwin spoke breathlessly. "That's a hell of a thing to do to friends."

  "I know." Tears leaked from Emily's eyes as she added, "But you should know how it is, Papa."

  He jogged on. "Yes, d—damned if I don't."

  "Are you angry?"

  "I might be tomorrow, but right now I'm chiefly concerned about those two you left bleeding down there."

  On their way past Walcott's Livery Emily tore inside, snatched her bag, and joined her father on the run. They entered Tom's place like a train of two, bumping nose to shoulder blade. The scene inside was ironically peaceful. The single coal-oil lantern cast murky light over the near end of the corridor where Tom sat propped against the right wall; farther down, Charles sat against the left. Beside the turntable one stall door gaped open. The bay gelding had roamed out and stood peering inquisitively into the dark smithy at the far end of the building.

  Edwin hurried to Tom first and dropped to a knee beside him. "So you've got a messed up rib or two," the older man observed.

  "I think so … hurts like hell."

  "Fannie's bringing something to bind them up with."

  Emily explained, "Doc Steele wasn't home. I had to get Papa."

  Edwin moved on to Charles. "I'm glad to see you propped up. She said she left you laying flat on your back and not moving. Scared the daylights out of us."

  Through swollen lips Charles said, "Unfortunately, Edwin, I'm not dead or even close to it."

  "That face is a mess though. Anything else hurt?"

  Staring morosely beyond the turntable at Emily and Tom, Charles wondered aloud, "Does pride count, Edwin?" Then he glanced away.

  On her knees beside Tom, Emily wailed, "Oh, Thomas, just look what you've done to yourself. Who asked you to fight over me?"

  "I guess you're not too pleased."

  "I should put another lump on your head, that's what I should do." She touched his cheek tenderly, whispering, "Don't you know I love this face? How dare you mutilate it?" They spent a moment delving into each other's eyes—hers troubled, his bloodshot and swollen—then she rose from her knees. "I'll get some water to clean you up." She found a chipped enamel pail in one of the stalls and returned with it full of water, knelt and retrieved gauze from her veterinary bag. When she dabbed at the first cut, Tom winced.

  "Good enough for you," she declared unsympathetically.

  "You're a hard woman, tomboy, I can see that. I'm gonna have to work on softening— ow!"

  "Be still. This will stop the bleeding."

  "What is it?"

  "Crowfoot weed—old Indian cure—modernized some."

  "Humph."

  Fannie bustled in, hatless, toting a striped canvas bag with handles. "Whom should I see to first?"

  Emily answered. "Get Tom's shirt off while I see after Charles's cuts."

  While Edwin and Fannie stood Tom on his feet, Emily slipped across the aisle and knelt uncertainly beside Charles. How awkward, looking into his bruised face, meeting his hurt, reproachful eyes.

  "I should get rid of some of that blood so we can see how bad the cuts are."

  His reproof continued as he silently stared at her. Finally he demanded in a grieved whisper, "Why, Emily?"

  "Oh, Charles…" She swung her gaze high, trying not to cry again.

  "Why?" he entreated earnestly. "What did I do wrong? Or what didn't I do right?"

  "You did everything right," she replied, abashed, "it's just that I've known you too long."

  "Then you should know how good I'd be to you." His eyes, already bruised, looked even sadder as he spoke.

  "I do … I know … but something was … was missing. Something…" Searching for graceful words, Emily studied her thumbs, which were needlessly flattening a wad of wet gauze.

  "Something what?" he insisted.

  She lifted dismayed eyes and whispered simply, "I've known you too long, Charles. When I kissed you it felt like kissing a brother."

  Above his beard a pink tinge appeared between the bruises on his cheeks. He sat in silence, digesting her words for moments before replying with hard-won approbation, "Well, that's a damned hard one to argue with."

  "Please, could we talk about it some other time?"

  Again he fell silent, his mood deteriorating before he agreed dully, "Yeah, some other time…"

  When she washed his face and knuckles he remained stoic, studying a wheel hub on the wagon. She swabbed his bruises with damp gauze, then applied the styptic salve, touching his face, his eyebrows, his beard, his lips for the last time. She discovered in a hidden corner of her heart an undeniable ache because it was the last time, and because she had hurt him so terribly, and because he loved her so much. She wrapped his bruised knuckles, tied the last knot, and sat back dropping her hands primly into her lap.

  "Is there anything else?" she asked.

  "No." He stared at the wheel, stubbornly refusing to look at her. Oddly, she needed him to look at her just then.

  "Nothing feels broken?"

  "No. Go on. Go bandage him up," he ordered gruffly.

  S
he remained on her knees, studying him, waiting for some sign of exoneration, but none came. No glance, no touch, no word. Just before rising, she gently touched his wrist while whispering, "I'm so sorry, Charles."

  A muscle contracted in his jaw but he remained taciturn, distant.

  She crossed the corridor to tend Thomas, aware all the time that she had at last attracted Charles's attention. His hard eyes followed every move she made, like ice picks in her back.

  Edwin and Fannie had rolled down the top of Tom's underwear and had implemented an uneducated fingertip examination.

  "Fannie and I think something's broken."

  Having touched Tom so few times before and never this intimately, Emily was naturally reluctant to do so now before three pairs of watchful eyes. She swallowed her misgivings and traced his ribs, submerging personal feelings and watching his face for reactions. His wince came on the fourth rib she tested.

  "Probably fractured."

  "Probably?" Tom asked.

  "Probably," she repeated. "A green-stick fracture, I'd guess."

  "What's a green-stick fracture?"

  "It breaks like a green stick—curled on the ends, you know? Sometimes they're harder to mend than a clean break. I can plaster it or you can wait till the end of the week until Doc Steel gets back," Emily told him.

  He glanced from Edwin to Fannie to Emily before inquiring dubiously. "Do you know what you're doing?"

  "I would if you were a horse or a cow … or even a dog. Being a man, you'll just have to take your chances on me."

  Sighing, he decided. "All right, go ahead."

  "When I plaster an animal I shave the area so it doesn't hurt when the plaster comes off. We'll bind you first in sheeting, but sometimes the plaster soaks through."

  Tom dropped a baleful glance at the wedge of black hair on his chest. Emily averted her eyes out of self-consciousness, feeling Charles's watchful stare as well as Fannie and Papa's closer regard.

  "Oh, hell … all right. But don't take off any more than you have to."

  She shaved the point of his hirsute arrow from waist to midway up his pectoral arch—an unnerving personal area made the more distracting by the fact that he kept jumping and flinching from the cold soap and blade, and because it was, after all, the naked stomach of the man she was going to marry.