Forever Mine

by Charlene Raddon

  "Damn Lenny Joe, his fault," Hester muttered. "He did it to me, he's the one."

  Ariah glanced up at Bartholomew. "She's not making sense anymore, I think she's delirious."

  He slumped down in a chair and said nothing.

  "Damn 'im, damn 'im." Hester's head tossed back and forth on sweat-soaked pillows. "Don't want baby, curse it to hell. Curse it to hell and Lenny too."

  Ariah covered her mouth with her hand as she looked at the woman, and at the man in the chair. "Gracious Sadie. She had a baby?"

  "No, Papa, no. I'll get rid of it. I'll get rid of it. Damn Lenny Joe, damn him to hell."

  Wearily Bartholomew rose to his feet and motioned for Ariah to follow him into the hall. He shut the door behind them but Ariah could still hear Hester ranting, sobbing, cursing. Ariah's heart went out to her. "Oh God, poor Hester, no wonder she's so bitter. Did you know, Bartholomew? Did you know about the baby?"

  He hugged her to him, loving her for her concern. Ariah glanced up. Seeing the guilt on his face, she guessed what he wasn't saying. "This was the threat you held over her. You were going to expose her secret, weren't you?"

  "Yes," he said miserably, "but you know how little good it did."

  She stepped away, her eyes wide with shock. "How could you? Think what that poor woman has suffered. She was probably very young when it happened, and innocent."

  "Sixteen," he said with a sigh. "Her family disowned her for it. She was going from family to family, working for her keep when Ma sent for her to come and help us out. She was twenty-five then." He rubbed the back of his head as though it pained him. His face was a mask of anxiety. "But that's all in the past now. I only wish I knew what to do for her until Dr. Wills gets here. She hasn't a moment to waste. If something isn't done about that leg soon, she'll die."

  "Are you sure it's that bad?"

  He took her back into the bedroom and forced her to look at the swollen, discolored leg. "See those red streaks up her leg? That's the final stage of gangrene. For all I know, it may already be too late to save her."

  At his raised voice, Hester stirred. Her body writhed as though she fought with imaginary foes, muttering incoherently. Ariah felt the woman's panic crawl down her own spine, slither inside and curdle her warm, living blood.

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and Pritchard burst into the room, holding his nose. "Aunt Hester?" He stopped halfway into the room, his gaze going to his aunt's hideously swollen and discolored leg. "Holly… What happened?"

  "What in the hell are you doing up here?" Bartholomew growled between clenched teeth. "Didn't Seamus tell you to go for the doctor as though your life depended on it?"

  "Yes, but—"

  "There isn't a second to waste, damn you. It's gangrene. If you don't get the doctor here immediately, she's going to die."

  "Oh, God. But the tide's going out, how—"

  Taking the boy's coat lapels in both fists, Bartholomew hauled him to the door, letting anger block out the fear and guilt he found more difficult to deal with. "Drag the damned boat over the mud if you have to. Crawl, but get Dr. Wills. If you aren't back in a few hours, I'll have to take the leg off myself."

  Pritchard gulped as he stared into eyes like black ice. "Take the leg off?" He glanced once more at his aunt's flailing body, and tore down the stairs.

  After that began a period of waiting which threatened to drive Bartholomew insane, until Ariah, remembering Dr. Chase's book, raced to her house, returning with the tome in hand. In a low, calm voice, she read aloud the description of gangrene and its symptoms. "Oh, Bartholomew, this says that in order for the treatment to be at all effective, it must be given before the blisters appear."

  He nodded as if unsurprised. "What's the treatment?"

  "It says to raise the temperature of the skin, first by a succession of warm poultices and bottles of hot water, then with stimulants, wine, quinine and opium, to rouse the circulation. There's a recipe for a poultice."

  Bartholomew expelled his breath and shook his head. "It's too late to worry about improving her circulation."

  "But anything is worth a try, isn't it? It would certainly be better than pacing the floor and twiddling our thumbs while we wait."

  "All right, I guess we could try the poultice. What do you need for it?"

  "Camphor water, aromatic confection, carbonate of ammonia, laudanum, aromatic tincture, tincture of bark, and spirits of sulfuric ether."

  "Aromatic confection? What in thunder is that?"

  "I believe a confection is merely something sweet, but I would suppose that here they would mean a particular sort of sweet medicine."

  "I'll bring sugar and honey." He headed for the door. "It's all we have. We'll have to hope it's close enough. The rest should be in Hester's medical supplies."

  While he was gone, Ariah sat beside Hester and soothed the older woman when she became agitated.

  Outside, rain pelted the earth, driven by fierce winds that whistled about the houses and through the forest, reminding Ariah of her wedding day. How ironic if Hester should die, now that Ariah was married to someone else. The Fates were not above playing nasty little games, it seemed. She wondered what more they had in mind.

  In the barn, Pritchard leaped bareback on the first horse he came to, panic riding him as surely as he rode the startled horse. With both of the boy's booted heels jabbing him in the ribs, the buckskin bolted out the open barn and up the road. When the steep wet trail began its descent into Barnagat, the horse slid most of the way down.

  At the dock, Pritchard leaped into a rowboat and took up the oars. The small skiff bobbed and pitched on the waves, seeming to go nowhere. Before he could reach the deeper water of the river channel the bay became so shallow that the oars whapped into the muddy bottom on each downward swing. Frustration drove him hard. No matter how he hurried he would never make it back before the tide receded, leaving the bay empty of everything but mud. He cursed, knowing the trip home was going to be long, difficult and—for his aunt—deadly.

  By one in the afternoon, three hours after Pritchard's departure to fetch the doctor, it became obvious that Dr. Chase's suggested treatment was having no effect. Bartholomew went downstairs, leaving Ariah to change the poultices and to force hot tea laced with laudanum and quinine down Hester's throat.

  Ariah supposed he was going for coffee and hoped he'd bring a cup back for her. Thanks to the opium, Hester had quieted. Ariah rose from the chair she'd placed at the side of the bed and went to the window where she parted the drapes to gaze out into the gloom of the gathering storm.

  A single gull hovered and swayed with the violent wind, a slash of white against the purple-gray sky as it struggled to reach the shelter of the bluff. The wail of the wind under the eaves was like restless spirits crying for release from their eternal struggles. Or for Hester to come and join them. Ariah shuddered at her morbid imaginings, and the house trembled as gusts battered its ungiving bulk, as if to remind the impotent mortals inside of the power of God's wrath.

  "I'm going to carry Hester downstairs."

  Ariah whirled, startled by the sound of Bartholomew's voice. She had been so lost in her thoughts that she'd failed to hear him come up the stairs and into the room.

  "Downstairs. Why?"

  He went to the bed, flung back the covers from his wife's frail body and lifted her in his arms.

  "Even if Dr. Wills gets here in the next hour, he'll have no recourse but to remove the leg," he said as he started for the stairs. "To do that, he'll need her on a firm surface with plenty of warmth and light. The kitchen will work much better than here. We might as well have her ready."

  As Ariah followed him into the kitchen she noticed the neat arrangement of supplies on the counter near the table: rags, disinfectant, bandages, leather straps, three knives—the edges gleaming from being honed to razor sharpness—and a handsaw. Steam rose from a large kettle of boiling water on the stove. More filled the reservoir at the side. Bartholomew laid Hester on the tabl
e and tucked a blanket around her.

  "Is all this necessary?" Ariah motioned to the grim instruments on the counter. "Won't Dr. Wills have his own implements?"

  "Yes . . .but if he doesn't arrive soon, I intend to do the job myself. Those red streaks are almost to her groin. If they go any higher, it'll be too late."

  "Oh Bartholomew, how can you? Such a drastic—"

  "Would you rather I simply let her die?" he snarled.

  "No! No, of course not."

  She covered her mouth with her hands. Could he actually believe she would want Hester dead? It was true that with Ariah's marriage to Pritchard unconsummated, a quick annulment could easily be obtained. With Hester out of the way, Ariah and Bartholomew could be together. But she would never want that at the risk of anyone's life. Not even Hester's.

  "What's happening?" a weak voice said from the table.

  They turned to see Hester looking at them through eyes glazed with pain and the fading effects of the opiate. Ariah's gaze flicked to Bartholomew as she waited to take her cue from him. The look he gave her was one of fear, guilt and pain.

  "The doctor isn't here yet, Hester, but we can't wait any longer. It may be too late already."

  Hester blinked. "Too late for what?"

  He took her hand. It was icy cold. He rubbed it between his, wishing there were any alternatives other than the one he knew he must take. "We can't save your leg, Hester. The only thing to do now is to remove it. If we don't, you'll die."

  Hester's brow furrowed, her eyes filled with confusion. "Remove my leg? No, no, let me die. Don't—"

  "I can't do that, Hester. I can't sit here watching you suffer until the poison invades your entire body and finally ends your misery."

  "Don't deserve to live. Sin . . . God punishing me . . . for sin." Hester's face was flushed with fever. She struggled to rise and fell back, defeated by a weakness she could not fight.

  Bartholomew had never seen his wife cry before. She was a hard, intractable woman, but no less so with herself than with others, though he doubted anyone else realized it, since only he knew all the secrets of her past which tormented her so. To see her this way transformed her from a scheming, unfeeling bitch to a pathetic human being, twisted by life's unforgiving cruelty. How much of that cruelty had he dealt her himself? And how would he ever forgive himself for it, if she died?

  Ariah sponged Hester's face to bring down the fever and soothe her. Hester's fingers clutched fitfully at the blanket and her head tossed back and forth. For a moment Bartholomew watched, seeking deep into his soul for the courage to face what must be done. Finally, he dropped the knives and the handsaw into boiling water.

  "Fetch Seamus." One by one he lit the lamps he'd placed about the room. "We may need him to help hold her down while we put the straps on her."

  When Ariah turned to go, he waylaid her with a hand on her arm. For a long moment he stared at her. His face gentled and he almost smiled. "It's windy. Be careful and keep hold of the cable between the houses. That’s why it’s there, to keep us from being blown away."

  Ariah saw in his tormented eyes the words he had not said: Don't make me have to deal with losing you, too. Through the hand that so tenderly embraced her cheek, she felt the trembling of his body.

  "Bartholomew, are you sure you're doing the right thing?"

  "I've never been surer of anything."

  But the trembling of his body said differently. He was terrified. Terrified to attempt the awful surgery that might save Hester's life, terrified not to. Her heart ached for him, yet there was no way she could help him, except to give her support in every way she could. At the door, she paused. "Bartholomew, what happened to the baby? Hester's baby?"

  "That's where the real sin comes in, I'm afraid," he said softly. "She gave birth in the woods, took it to the town dump and left it there. It was a girl."

  Ariah gasped. "But . . .didn't someone find it? Didn't they look for it? They would have known she'd had it."

  "Life is hard in that part of Georgia. Too hard," was all he said.

  Afraid to ask any more questions, she let herself out, closing the door softly behind her.

  When everything was ready, they strapped Hester to the table with the leather bands, one across her shoulders, and another across her hips. She struggled feebly, mumbling about sin and love and Lenny Joe. Bartholomew forced Hester's mouth open, dribbled in brandy laced with laudanum, and massaged her throat to make her swallow. It would numb the pain, if nothing more. Ariah bathed the rotten leg with boiling hot cloths dosed with carbolic acid to kill germs and infection.

  Bartholomew laid the sterilized instruments, rags and bandages on a small side table for easy access. Suddenly, Hester froze. Her eyes went wide as she stared at the handsaw, the hazel orbs surprisingly lucid. She opened her mouth and screeched at the top of her lungs. Foam dribbled from her mouth and down the sides of her face.

  "No! No! No!" The room reverberated with her cries.

  Bartholomew glanced at the clock. Even considering the weather, Pritchard should have been back by now. Rain spattered the glass panes while wind whistled through minuscule cracks between the sills and window frames. Outside, the afternoon had grown dark as night. The storm was in full gale. He flexed the hands he had bathed in alcohol and hot water. At his side, Ariah waited quietly while Seamus finished fastening the leather tourniquet.

  Bartholomew closed his eyes and his lips moved in silent prayer. His Adam's apple bobbed once. He opened his eyes, glanced briefly at Ariah and at Seamus, who was now standing ready near Hester's good leg, to use his old man's strength to hold it still. Everything was ready. He picked up the knife.

  Hester sweated profusely. A muscle in her jaw flexed like a nervous tick. She gabbled something incoherent, her eyes staring at the corner of the ceiling as though seeing monsters there. Her eyes rolled back in her head. A thin, birdlike whistle emitted from her throat. Her mouth yawned open, then snapped shut on her tongue. Bloody, foaming saliva dribbled onto her chin, and her limbs began to jerk violently.

  Ariah's hand flew to her mouth as she stared in horror. "Oh my Lord . . . what . . .?"

  "She's havin' a fit." Seamus moved quickly to the head of the table and tore at the strap binding Hester's shoulders. "Gotta turn 'er over or she'll choke on 'er own spit."

  Bartholomew dropped the knife and reached for the strap around her waist, his heart thundering in his ears. "Damn," he muttered softly. "Ah, Hester . . . Damn, damn, damn."

  "Turn her head to the side." Even as Ariah cried out the words, she was seeing to the task herself.

  Hester's face was yellow. Her body arched against the loosening straps as her limbs continued to jerk. Suddenly she went still. For an instant, her eyes appeared normal. Then the lids eased shut. The stench of feces and urine tainted the air. The three people frantically working over her froze.

  "Hester?" Bartholomew jiggled her shoulder. There was no response. He felt for a pulse in her neck.

  "She gone?" Seamus asked.

  "No." Relief was evident in his voice. "She's breathing."

  "Plumb passed out then, thank the Lord."

  Silence fell over the room. Even the storm seemed to abate as they stood there staring down at the woman on the table. It was Ariah who first heard the pounding hooves, and the slamming of the gate. Before she could open the door that gave access to the back porch, Pritchard burst through the other door into the hall. He started up the stairs, the doctor close behind.

  "In here, Pritchard," Bartholomew called.

  The footsteps reversed themselves and the two men appeared, dripping wet, in the doorway. Pritchard's glance went to the still figure on the table and he paled.

  "Are we . . .are we too late?" His chest heaved from his difficult labors of the past few hours. His legs shook.

  Dr. Wills shoved his way to the table and examined Hester's leg. "Good Lord. How did she let it get so bad?"

  There was no answer and no one tried to offer one. Wills tu
rned to Bartholomew. "Why didn't you bring her to see me?"

  Bartholomew bleakly shook his head. "She wouldn't listen. I didn't know about her leg until this morning. I . . ." Pain and guilt darkened his expression. He looked ready to collapse.

  "It's all right, son, you did what you could." Dr. Wills lightly squeezed Bartholomew's shoulder.

  But Bartholomew went on, as though he needed to get it all out. "She never said a word about her leg. Not one goddamned word." He dragged in a deep breath and turned away to hide the moisture gathering in his eyes.

  "Is there anything you can do, Doctor?" Ariah asked.

  Wills checked Hester's vital signs, and removed the tourniquet. "She's in a coma. I doubt she'll ever come out of it. Did she go into convulsions before she lost consciousness?"

  He looked from Ariah to Bartholomew, who was staring out the window. In the background, Pritchard sobbed quietly.

  "Had a fit, if'n that's what ye mean," Seamus offered.

  "That's what I mean, all right." Wills straightened and heaved a weary sigh. "It's the diabetes. According to the letter I received from my medical friend back east, in answer to my inquiry, this was to be expected. My guess is that she was too far gone before you ever even came to see me, Bartholomew. The vital organs go first, the patient slips into a coma, and dies. The coma is a blessing, actually. Doubly so, coming when it did. She'll go peacefully in her sleep now, no more suffering."

  Bartholomew turned from the window. The man had aged five years in the few days since Wills had last seen him. Guilt was etched as clearly in his face as the grain in a slab of water-polished driftwood. Wills pursed his lips.

  "I see you were prepared to take off the leg," the doctor said, glancing over the instruments laid out on the side table. "Have to commend you, Bartholomew. Not many men could even think to do what you had already made up your mind to do."

  The doctor covered the angry, swollen leg with a blanket. "But it would have been a waste of time. Plain fact is, that the woman sealed her own fate, hiding her condition the way she did. That gangrenous wound wasn't any new injury. If you'd gotten her to let me examine her the Sunday you came to see me, I might have saved her life by amputating the leg then, exactly as you were going to do today. Even so, it would have been only a temporary stop-gap. The diabetes would have gotten her anyway, in time."