Stepping Stones

by Steve Gannon

Jessie wasn’t the only one who had made it out.

  Somehow the man had managed to pull himself up onto the ice. Moving on his hands and knees, he started toward us.

  After all that, I thought bitterly, we’re no better off than before.

  All at once the surface gave way beneath him again.

  With a surge of relief, I headed for the shore. Jessie didn’t follow.

  Puzzled, I turned back. “Jessie, let’s go!”

  “No.”

  Fighting panic, I returned and began tugging her arm. “Please,” I begged. “Let’s go!”

  “No, Paul. He’ll get out again. He’ll catch us before we reach the road.”

  I knew she was right. The best we could do was split up. Maybe one of us would escape. “What do you want to do?” I asked, my voice trembling.

  She picked up the two-by-four I had discarded. “Stop him.”

  I followed her out on the ice. Jessie was right. By the time we reached him, the man had moved to a thicker section and already had a leg up over the edge. I watched as Jessie raised the two-by four and brought it crashing down.

  She drove him back into the water. Blood poured from his nose, staining the river around him. But he was strong. He wouldn’t give up.

  But every time he came close to making it out, Jessie was there.

  He lasted about fifteen minutes, maybe a little more. I saw the fury bleed from his eyes, turning to surprise, then pleading, and finally to despair as he realized he was going to die. In the end the current simply took him under the ice. We watched as his shadow drifted downriver beneath the surface.

  “Jesus,” I said, trying hard not to cry.

  Jessie threw her bloody club into the water. It bobbed a second; then the current took it away, too. After it disappeared, she put her arms around me and held me tightly. I could feel her body shaking under her wet clothes.

  “You saved my life,” she said quietly.

  I looked away, feeling a hot rush of shame. “I . . . I wanted to do something earlier, but I . . .”

  “You saved my life,” she repeated firmly. “I’ll never forget it. Never.” Then her voice hardened. “I had to do what I did. He would have caught us and . . . I couldn’t let him get out. You understand, don’t you?”

  I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

  “Then it’s over. We’re not going to tell anyone about this.”

  “But you’re hurt. What will you say to your folks?”

  “I’ll make something up. Please, Paul. I don’t think anyone would understand, not really. And even if they did . . . Listen, I just want to put this behind us. Please. Will you promise not to tell?”

  I thought for a long, searching moment.

  “Say it, Paul.”

  I hesitated a moment more. Finally I took a deep breath and nodded. “I promise,” I said.

  Neither of us ever spoke again of that day, but it wasn’t forgotten. I kept my promise, and it became a covenant of trust between us, a bond that drew us together, something we shared alone. And through all the years that followed, after Dad died and Mom sold the farm to one of the big conglomerates that took over in the late sixties, after Jessie moved to California and I to New York, it held us still.

  I spent most of the evening sitting in the hospital room holding Jessie’s hand, remembering. I did a lot of talking, too. It didn’t matter that she couldn’t hear; it just felt good being with her. As I rambled, I gradually became aware that her fingers were twitching again—not all of them, just her index and middle fingers. First one, then the other.

  One, two.

  One, two.

  Let your fingers do the walking.

  “Jessie, can you hear me?”

  One, two.

  I sat up, suddenly alert.

  One, two.

  All at once I understood. I released her hand and allowed her fingers to inch up my arm. Seconds later her hand opened slightly, then closed on my wrist. With a shock of recognition, I closed my hand too, completing the fireman’s grip.

  “Oh, God,” I whispered. I tried to swallow but couldn’t. Her face hadn’t changed, but her grip was stronger now, unmistakable. Perhaps she simply sensed my presence, perhaps she only recognized the sound of my voice, but of one thing I was certain: Jessie knew I was there. And with a feeling of horror, I realized something else.

  Jessie wasn’t just telling me that she was aware. She was asking something of me as well.

  Once again, she was asking me to save her.

  “I can’t, Jess,” I said softly, wondering why no one had noticed this before. Was it only sometimes that Jessie rose to consciousness, or . . .

  Her grip tightened.

  I sat for several minutes, trying to sort things out. If this were something new, did it really change anything? Jessie was still unable to move, to see, to breathe on her own—forever entombed in a body that for all intents and purposes was a prison. I tried to imagine the suffocating horror she must be experiencing. . . and failed.

  Finally I put my lips to Jessie’s ear and told her that I loved her. I told her that I needed time to think. I told her that I was afraid. But only after I promised to come back, no matter what I decided, did she relax her grip.

  I spent the remainder of the evening in the hospital cafeteria drinking coffee and watching bleary-eyed medical personnel drifting in and out on their breaks. Repeatedly, I ran it over in my mind. Jessie was aware, at least part of the time, but imprisoned in her own body . . . without light, without hope.

  How long had she lain there, struggling to cry out?

  And now she wanted me to end it.

  I knew from her grip what she was asking of me. I knew it as surely as if she had spoken aloud. Again, I felt like a frightened boy cringing in the woods, wanting to help but too terrified to move. Yet I knew I couldn’t abandon her now, any more than I could then. But could I bring myself to do what she wanted?

  And even if I could . . . did I have that right? Did anyone?

  The horizon was awash with the first glimmers of dawn as I rode the elevator back up to the ICU unit. Numbly, I walked down the corridor, nodding to the bright young faces at the nurses’ station as I passed. After all these months they knew me by name, didn’t care that I was there before visiting hours.

  Moments later I stood outside Jessie’s room. Across the hallway, the door to another room stood open, the bed beyond deserted. Gazing out a window beside the bed, I watched as the sun began to rise on a new day, absently thinking that it’s a blessing men don’t have the power to gaze into the future. I hesitated for what seemed an eternity, searching my conscience.

  Then, at last, I opened Jessie’s door and stepped inside.

  The Green Monkey

  The evening sun had settled low on the horizon when I noticed Christy Sullivan and her mother pulling their handcart up the dirt road. Curious, I watched from the solitude of the Farraguts’ barn as they approached. I could see that fourteen-year-old Christy was doing most of the pulling, head lowered, a determined set to her shoulders. She had on a blue hand-me-down dress that had been patched many times and looked too big on her. When they got closer, I could also see from the dusty smears on her cheeks that she had been crying.

  I was working on Sandy Farragut’s mare at the time. She’d gone lame a few days back. The big bay was part of a matched pair Sandy was mighty proud of, and he wanted her back in front of his buggy as soon as possible. I’d done my share of work for Sandy over the past year, and as he was both my patron and one of my biggest clients, I aimed to oblige.

  Eighteen months earlier I had started taking care of the Farraguts’ livestock for my room and board. Before long word had spread that I was good with animals, and now I’m doing vet work for most of the town. In a farming community like Danville, animals are near as important as people—sometimes even more so—and I’ve done well. In a few years I may have enough saved for a small place of my own. I’ve done well, all right, but I’ve kept to myself. I hav
e no friends in Danville, not really. I prefer it that way.

  I was making progress with Sandy’s mare, but curiosity finally got the better of me and I stepped from the barn and out into the yard. By then Christy and her mother had their cart pulled over in the shade by the main house. Mrs. Sullivan spotted me as I rounded the corner.

  “Howdy, Seth,” she said.

  “Evenin’, Mrs. Sullivan.” Mary Sullivan was a tall, attractive woman in her late thirties, but farm life had left her looking older than her years. Her face was filled with concern, but I could tell from the way she kept glancing at her daughter that it was Christy she was worried about, not the injured dog in the cart.

  Without being asked, I examined the dog. A farm breed, he appeared to be mostly Irish Setter with something else thrown in, maybe Australian Shepherd or Border Collie. He was a handsome animal—shiny tan and white fur, brown eyes, intelligent face. Blood had seeped from his mouth to form a dark puddle beside his head. One of his legs was flopped off at an angle, and I could see bone sticking through the fur. His gums were white and he was panting, rapid and shallow, like he couldn’t get his breath. I didn’t need to search around inside to tell he was dying.

  “Can you fix him, Mr. Neuman?” Christy asked, her eyes holding mine, willing me to say yes.

  I looked away. I knew from her expression that her dog was probably the most important thing in her life, at least right then, and I didn’t know what to say.

  “Can you?”

  Turning back, I regarded her again, struck by something in her deep blue eyes that reminded me of Ma. “What’s his name?” I asked.

  “Lucky.”

  “Lucky, huh?” I said, skipping the obvious comment. “Well, he’s hurt bad, Christy. You know that.”

  She swallowed hard, fighting tears. “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Sullivan placed her hand on my arm. “Seth, may I speak with you in private?”

  “Sure, Mrs. Sullivan.”

  Christy’s eyes followed us as we walked to the corral. When we were out of earshot of her daughter, Mrs. Sullivan said, “I don’t know how to tell you this, Seth.” She stood for a moment worrying a loose thread on her sweater. “We . . . we’ve been having a hard time of it this past year, what with crop prices and that dry spell and all. Fact is we just don’t have any money to pay for doctoring that dog. He means a whole lot to the girl, but we just . . .” Her voice trailed off. Then she shrugged sadly. “I reckon he’s dyin’ anyway. I would appreciate it if you’d just put him down.”

  I looked across the yard. Christy was leaning over the cart ministering to Lucky, her hands trying to give comfort. I watched briefly, then came to a decision. “There won’t be any charge for the doctoring,” I said.

  “You don’t have to do that, Seth.”

  “I know, Mrs. Sullivan. I want to.”

  She gazed at me for a long moment, then smiled sadly. “Well, thank you, Seth. And God bless you.”

  I turned away. God has already blessed me, I thought bitterly. Blessed me and damned me in the same stroke. “Tell me what happened,” I said.

  “It was an accident,” Mrs. Sullivan answered, seeming to sense by my change of mood. When I remained silent, she shook her head and went on. “Christy and Lucky were down by the landing watching workers unload the barges. I reckon you heard what happened up at Auger’s Crossing. People have been heading downriver steady for the past couple days now. Anyhow, Lucky was chasing some livestock and got caught under one of the big wagon wheels. Wasn’t nobody’s fault.”

  A chill ran through me. It was a cool evening, but I could feel sweat beading on my forehead. “What happened at Auger’s Crossing?”

  “You didn’t hear?”

  “No.”

  “Well, it looks like the radiation poison is showing up again. Imagine, after all these years. Nobody can figure where it’s coming from, but all of a sudden lots of folks there are coming down with cancer. Them that’s able are leaving as fast as they can.”

  “What kind of cancer?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

  “Bone, I think,” she answered, eyeing me curiously. “Fifteen so far. Come to think of it, you’re from up that way, aren’t you? Got any kin there?”

  I nodded.

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Me, too.”

  I walked back to the cart. Mrs. Sullivan followed. On the way over I thought about what she’d said. I had tried to forget what had happened upriver, but I guess some things won’t stay forgotten. In the back of my mind I’d always known it was sure to surface. Now it had.

  Fifteen men.

  That left four still to go.

  Christy glanced up when I returned. I didn’t make her ask. “I’m going to do my best to help Lucky,” I said. A hollow feeling welled up inside me as I watched her eyes fill with the tears she had held back earlier.

  Christy and Mrs. Sullivan helped me get the dog into the barn. We laid him on a clean bed of straw and covered him with a horse blanket. Then I waited till they were gone. Next, before starting, I steadied myself for what was to come. I needed to find out how bad the dog was hurt, and there was only one way to do it. Taking a deep breath, I sent my mind into him, steeling myself against his pain as my senses seeped into his suffering.

  Fighting the impulse to withdraw, I closed my eyes and began my search. His heart was racing in quick, hurried strokes, not doing much good. Blood was pooling in his abdomen, and not enough was returning to his heart for it to beat properly. There were two main areas of bleeding—one in a kidney, another in an artery running to the broken leg.

  I repaired them as quickly as I could.

  Next I decreased the blood flow to several other injured organs and constricted some of the surface vessels, too—getting the pressure up enough so his heart could work right. At that point I began to think Christy’s dog had a chance. But as I continued to explore his injuries, I discovered I couldn’t feel anything in his hind legs. I couldn’t make them move, either. Working my way back up the big nerve bundle in his spine, I found the problem. Several vertebra had been shattered by the wagon wheel, crushing the nerves inside.

  Lucky’s other injuries could wait. If he were ever to walk again, I had to mend the spinal nerves right away. “Take it easy, pup,” I said. I smoothed the fur on his head and took away the pain. I had found out what I needed to know; there wasn’t any reason he shouldn’t be comfortable. I still felt his suffering, though, as sharp and penetrating as ever. I had never learned to get around that.

  “Go to sleep, boy,” I whispered, giving him another nudge with my mind. He let out a long sigh and closed his eyes.

  By then the sun had set, but I didn’t bother lighting the lantern. For what I had to do, I didn’t need to see. Night gradually enveloped us. I remained on the straw beside Christy’s dog, linked together with him as if we were one. And gradually, as I worked, the pain I felt flowing from him began to ease. And as it did, I allowed my thoughts to drift back to Auger’s Crossing . . . back to the day that had forever changed my life.

  * * *

  Come hell or high water, Pa had decided we were going to move that boulder in the north field.

  It was one of his projects, one of the ones he would dream up whenever he had a skinful of liquor—like the time he decided we were going to dam the river. It couldn’t be done, but it was easier to just go along than try to persuade Pa otherwise. Right from the start I knew this was going to be another of his fiascos. We had been plowing around that rock for as long as I could remember, just like Grandpa had, and Grandpa’s father before him. It was just too big to move.

  We had cut our hay weeks earlier, but then the rains had come with a vengeance, preventing us from getting our crop off the ground. Eventually the sun had come out, once more turning the weather hot and dry, and we’d finished the harvest at last. As far as I was concerned the season was over, but Pa unexpectedly announced that we had one more chore. We were going to move t
hat rock before the ground froze, and there was no use arguing.

  Georgie woke me at first light. “Seth, get up,” he whispered, lowering his voice so’s not to disturb Pa. He needn’t have bothered. Pa had spent most of the previous night at the tavern. Since Ma had died he’d taken to drinking there on a regular basis, and it was a safe bet he wouldn’t be up before noon.

  “Lemme sleep, Georgie,” I mumbled. “We don’t have to start this early.”

  “C’mon, Seth. Let’s surprise Pa. Let’s do it all by ourselves.”

  Aw, Georgie . . .”

  “Please, Seth.”

  I propped myself up on one elbow, squinting in the half-light at my older brother Georgie. He was big, with thick blond hair that stuck up in back in the worst cowlick you ever saw. He had a huge grin on his face, and I could tell he was excited. Georgie saw moving that rock as a chance to please Pa. He didn’t understand it was just too big to move. Georgie didn’t understand a lot of things.

  I had turned fifteen earlier that summer. Georgie was four years older than me and half again my weight, but I still thought of him as my little brother. “Okay,” I groaned, realizing there was no way I would be getting any more sleep that morning. “I’m getting up.”

  We dressed quickly, pulling on our clothes over the long johns we had worn to bed. It took me longer to get ready than Georgie because I had to take a couple new turns of tape around my boots. I needed a new pair, but there never seemed to be enough money. Although tape was cheaper than boots, things from the city, even tape, were getting harder to come by.

  We left the cabin out the back door, Georgie making sure the screen didn’t bang. With the sun barely peeking over the ridge, we crossed the old wagon road and headed up our shortcut along the creek to the north field. It was a crisp fall morning, so clear and cold it stung my nose when I breathed it in. A mist hung over the stream, drifting in and out of the oaks on either side. The crows were already up and scolding us from high in the trees, their metallic cries echoing in the still mountain air.

  Minutes later a breeze began moving up from the valley below. Georgie was ahead of me on the trail, a pick in one hand and a heavy oak beam slung over his shoulder with the other. Although I was only carrying a pair of shovels, I was having trouble keeping up. “Georgie, slow down,” I called.