by Jason Heit
He staggered back to the house. Inside, he rinsed the bird and tossed it in a pot of water and set it on the stove. He looked in the woodbox. It was running low. He had a vague notion that Katherine had asked him to get some wood; he looked at the string tied around his finger. Yeah, that seemed right. He went back outside and pulled an armful of wood from the stack along the west side of the house. He could feel the weight of it pulling him from this world down into a dream; or was this the dream – Katherine, the children, the chicken, the wood, the flu, all of it? Maybe he was somewhere else, lying in bed or in the back of a wagon looking up into a starry sky.
He grabbed another piece of wood and discovered a bottle of whiskey behind it. He had no recollection of this bottle or how it had come to be there; he suspected it was a gift of forgetfulness on his part. He set down the wood he’d gathered so he could more easily inspect its contents. Swirling the bottle, he could feel its precious weight. His thick fingers were suddenly nimble again as he uncorked the bottle and sniffed the pungent aroma of roasted grains and caramel. He took a swig. The liquid seemed to be everywhere at once: leaching through the cracks of his chapped lips and setting them on fire, while resting on his tongue and warming his gums and the underside of his tongue before it finally hit the back of his throat where the earthy flavours and caramel transformed to sparkles of mind-pleasing medicine. How good it was to find his old friend again. He slipped the bottle in his coat pocket and picked up the wood.
He fetched a few more armfuls of wood. That would have to do. It was all he could muster. Losing his strength, he dropped the last of the wood by the stove and staggered to their bedroom, where he fell onto the bed with his boots on. Nausea overcame him – the room began to spin, but unlike any spinning he’d known before. It was like a wave moving over and through his body. He turned over onto his back and let one foot drop to the ground to steady himself; maybe it would be enough.
He closed his eyes and prayed. Take me, God, and spare them. I know You don’t like me and I don’t have much patience for You, but I’m no more good to this family. I can’t even farm my own land without the neighbours or Katherine and her boy helping me. And the boy ain’t even my own blood. I’m not fit to be their keeper; maybe, before – it’s hard to remember. You save them, God, and take me instead. The fever came over him, turning his eyelids heavy. Behind them, there were flashes of red in a haze of black vapour.
He thought he heard Katherine’s voice talking to him: Bernhard! I can’t do this alone, Bernhard! The children are sick. I fear I may be next. I need you to be strong now. Remember how you cared for me all those years ago, how you made me love again despite myself. Show me that man again. Help me, Bernhard! Help me! Then there was nothing but darkness, a darkness so deep it might be familiar, had he been able to notice it, but the light of awareness had gone out.
At some point there was a woman. She wiped his face clean and he felt both fear and love in her touch. Then more darkness. Later, he saw a man holding a cup to his lips. He tried to take the cup in his own hands, but he couldn’t. “It’s fine,” said the man. “Just drink.” And he fell back into the darkness once more. Until the voice of young Frank called his name: Bernhard. Bernhard. But when he looked up, the boy had turned into a man and he had a mad look about him. You brought this on my family, the man growled. You and your whiskey. Why didn’t you leave us alone?
Bernhard shook his head. No, I didn’t mean for it –
Frank, the man, put a knife to Bernhard’s throat. You brought nothin’ but pain and death to us. Frank thrust the knife and Bernhard woke with a gasp.
A frail boy stood over him when he woke next. The boy’s lips and fingers were frosted blue. Where am I? thought Bernhard. And who was this child?
“We need to help Mother!” said the boy desperately. “She’s sick. Really sick. And I don’t know what to do.”
Bernhard searched the room for something familiar. There was a chair with a coat tossed over it, a pair of boots set neatly on the floor, a dresser, and a woman’s hairbrush on the nightstand, but there was no woman. “Where’s your mother?”
“With Elisabetha,” said the boy. “Uncle Christian was here yesterday. He said he’d be back today, but he hasn’t come.”
Christian? Elisabetha? The names had a familiarity, but he couldn’t draw the faces from the darkness. As for the boy, he knew him. He’d seen him in his dream. He’d have to be careful; if it was a premonition, then death was still close at hand and the boy might be dangerous.
Bernhard tried to press himself up off the bed but was too weak to sit up. The boy reached his hand to him and on his second attempt he found the leverage he needed to sit. The boy held onto Bernhard’s hand and led him out of the room. He could sense the desperation in the boy’s weak but constant grip.
The woman lying in the bed was terribly sick. She looked cold, frozen – her skin was a dark hue of blue, not quite purple; he’d never seen anything like it. Yet there was something in the features, the strong chin and the high cheeks, that he recognized. He knew that he loved her, but her name was far from his grasp.
“How long has your mother been like this?”
“I don’t know,” said the boy. “She was like this yesterday, too.”
Next to her, Bernhard saw the little girl. She was like something from a dream, a little angel that had visited him many years ago. This, he guessed, was the Elisabetha the boy had mentioned. She appeared to be better off than the woman; like the boy, the blush of blue was mainly around the girl’s lips and at her finger tips. He reached down to pick up the child and was surprised to see that his own fingers were also a sickly blue. Feeling faint, Bernhard paused to collect himself before picking up Elizabetha. She was heavier than he’d imagined, or, rather, he was weaker than he’d thought. He took a deep breath and stepped toward the door; his forearms ached from the weight of the child, but he continued on to the other bedroom and laid her down on the bed. He covered her in the blankets. For a moment, the little girl looked at him. There was no message in the eyes, only a weariness, then they closed and the child was asleep. He wanted to stay with the dear thing, but Katherine – yes, that was her name – needed him.
He returned to the children’s room. The boy was wiping blood from Katherine’s mouth. “What happened, Frank?” he blurted. The name had returned to him.
“I didn’t do anything,” Frank cried.
A wave of dizziness came over Bernhard as he stepped toward them. He reached out to brace himself and pulled the crucifix from its place on the wall. He clung to the crucifix as he found his feet.
“You have to help her, Bernhard,” the boy wailed.
Bernhard set the crucifix on the bedside table and knelt down next to Katherine. He traced his finger under a loose piece of her dark hair and carefully set it over her ear. Then, taking the cloth rag from Frank, he wiped away the trail of blood from her nose. It continued to trickle.
“Why is she bleeding?” Frank asked.
“I don’t know.”
“Make it stop.” The boy trembled like a tree in a cold wind.
Bernhard ran his hand through Katherine’s hair. He held it close and breathed in her smell. It was all wrong. He’d expected vanilla and sugar; instead she smelled like rotten meat baked on a sheet of tin metal. How long had she been like this?
“Katherine,” he whispered into her ear. “Can you hear me?”
She didn’t respond.
“I need you, Katherine. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.” He took her hand in his. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He’d made a deal with God.
Katherine moaned, “Go away.”
“It’s me, Bernhard.”
Her breathing quickened. “Don’t! Get away from me.”
Bernhard was confused. Was she speaking to him? Her eyes were squeezed shut, her face strained, gripped in pain.
He turned to t
he boy. “Get a wet cloth.” The boy stood there, frozen. “What are you, useless?” Bernhard growled. The boy shook his head and hurried out of the room.
“Get off me,” she said.
“I’m not on you.”
Her breathing grew faster. It seemed she was fighting for each breath.
“Katherine, stay with us.”
The boy returned to the room with a wet cloth in his limp hand and held it out to Bernhard, who took it and set it upon Katherine’s forehead. Beads of cool water dripped from her brow and down the sides of her face.
“I know what you did,” she mumbled.
He looked to young Frank. He felt ashamed. Had he hurt her? Of course he had. Was there anyone he hadn’t hurt?
“It was you, Frank,” she breathed out.
Bernhard looked to the boy. “No,” he said. “It’s me, Bernhard.”
The trickle of blood from Katherine’s nose began to run like a stream. Bunching up the wet cloth, he pressed it tight against her nose as he tried to staunch the flow. The cloth stained red, but it seemed to hold back the blood. He noticed Elisabetha’s pillow beside Katherine; he slipped it under her head to help keep her from choking on her own blood.
“What does your mother mean?” Bernhard asked, desperately.
“I don’t know,” whispered Frank.
“Tell me.”
Young Frank shook his head. There was fear in the boy’s eyes. Bernhard reached out to pull the boy closer, but Frank took a step back.
“Get back here,” Bernhard barked.
The boy shook his head fearfully. “I didn’t do anything.”
Bernhard heaved a great sigh and turned back to Katherine. Her breathing had become slower, shallower. He removed the blood-soaked cloth from her face, brought it to his side and squeezed it in his fist. Blood rained onto the bedroom floor. In that short time, the blood from her nose had poured down onto her nightgown. There was too much of it for the cloth. He pulled off his shirt and held it to her face. Then, quite suddenly, her head and chest heaved toward him.
“Get some water!” Bernhard shouted at Frank. “Bring the bucket. And another cloth.”
Bernhard removed the blood-stained shirt from her face. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. He carefully wiped the blood from her dark blue skin as her convulsions weakened, then stopped. “Katherine, can you hear me?”
Blood bubbled from her nose and mouth. Her body lay slack.
“Katherine!” he shouted, but nothing happened. Her chest didn’t rise; she didn’t gasp one last final breath. She was gone.
Bernhard’s heart pounded. He wanted to break something. God had cheated him. Had broken the rules. Bernhard stood up and turned around to find Frank had returned, struggling to carry the bucket. His face tightened. The boy looked back at him with sad, fearful eyes. Bernhard grabbed the crucifix from off the bedside table and stormed out of the room through to the kitchen and opened the door to the world. The daylight overcame him. He took two blind steps and threw the crucifix across the yard. “To hell with You!” he swore.
Returning to the house, he kicked at the first thing he saw, a child’s stool, but his foot shot wide and he nearly fell to floor. “Goddamn it,” he cursed. He went back to Frank, and to Katherine. The boy had hunched up on the floor next to the bed, sobbing. Everything was off balance. Murky. He was fogged in on all sides, the air heavy with the smell of sickness and death. He really needed a drink. In the kitchen, he began rifling through the pantry, tossing pots and pans from the shelves, looking for a bottle, but he found nothing. Then some other thought brought him to his bedroom, where Elisabetha slept, her tiny chest moving in shallow breaths. The poor child would wake up motherless. He felt the girl’s forehead. It was cool. Bernhard covered her with the blanket, then sat down on the chair next to her. Dazed and tired, he stared at his stocking feet. He was never going to see Katherine’s smile or hear her laugh again. It was as though his life with her had been a happy dream, and this was its end.
The boy’s cries travelled from the other room and cleared the fog of Bernhard’s mind. He stood up and, picking the coat up from the chair, felt a familiar heaviness in its weight. He reached inside the pocket and found the thing he’d been looking for. He pulled the cork and took a swallow. The liquid seemed to melt in his mouth and to settle the storm clouds in his mind. Then the sound of choked sobs reached him once more. He plugged the bottle, slipped the coat on over his bare chest, and went to the boy. “Frank,” he said from the bedroom doorway.
The boy turned to him, his eyes red and full of salty tears. He said nothing.
“Come with me.”
Bernhard led Frank into the kitchen and told the boy to take a seat as he picked a cup up from the kitchen floor and set it on the table. Bernhard poured a shot of whiskey into the cup while Frank stared at the table.
“I’m sorry,” Bernhard said.
The boy sat, wiping away silent tears.
“How old are you now?”
“Nine. I’ll be ten in spring.”
Bernhard nodded and passed the boy the cup.
“This will help,” Bernhard said. “Drink it.”
The boy looked at him and Bernhard took a swig from the bottle.
“Go on,” Bernhard said.
The boy picked up the cup with his two small hands and took a sip. Frank’s face tightened. “It burns,” he said, grimacing. “I don’t want it.”
“It’ll make you right,” returned Bernhard, and he took another swig to prove it. “It’s time for you to be a man now.”
The boy cried, “I want my mother!”
Bernhard poured another shot into the cup. “That’s for you, for later. I need you to warm up the soup and watch your sister.”
Frank nodded.
“You’ll sleep with Elisabetha in your mother’s and my room.”
Frank nodded again.
Bernhard clapped him on the shoulder. “When your sister’s better, we’ll go see Uncle Nels and Aunt Aggie.”
The boy looked up at Bernhard and said nothing. Bernhard lifted his hand off Frank’s shoulder and returned to the children’s room.
Bernhard gazed at Katherine’s body lying on the bed: her long hair knotted and strewn about, her face stained red, and her nightgown soaked in blood. He knew there’d be no one to help with the body. There were no wakes, no funeral ceremonies, for the ones the flu had taken. Whatever needed to happen was his work now. He fetched a small knife from the kitchen, with which he pierced the cotton nightgown below the collar, and sliced it lengthwise from hem to hem. After he removed the gown from under her body, he tore it into a half-dozen pieces. It was strange seeing her this way. He knew her body in the darkness, a silhouette cast in dim moonlight creeping through the window. But this was improper. He focused his gaze on her face. He took a piece of her gown and dipped it into the bucket of water, then gently squeezed it. He dabbed the cloth on her brow and down the sides of her face, working carefully to remove the blood, to dignify her. And so he worked from head to toe. After he’d finished, he permitted himself one final look at her.
This was a different Katherine than the one he knew and loved: her skin too dark, the belly too small, and the child inside her either dead or dying. He turned his back to her, hoping he might cry, but there was nothing but anger and exhaustion inside him. A few coughs were all he could muster. He began to dress her in her Sunday clothes, working slowly as his strength continued to flounder; when he grew tired, he rested beside Katherine’s body. Touching her face, he felt there was nothing left but cold emptiness where there had always been warmth and gentleness. At some point, he fell asleep beside her.
The next morning, he went out to do the chores. He was weak and moved slowly as he hauled water from the well and fed the animals. There was a ruckus among the hogs as they jostled for their turn at the trough. They had gone w
ithout food for a day or two. The boy had tried to feed them the day before, but didn’t have the strength to carry a pail of chop. The horses and cattle had fared somewhat better with the extra hay someone – likely, his brother, Christian – had put out. It was the milk cow that was worst off. It bawled from the pain in its udders. The poor animal stomped and kicked its feet as Bernhard approached it. He fed the cow a pail of chop to help it settle but still it was a challenge to get close enough to pull on its red and hardened teats. “Scheisse! Scheisse!” he swore up and down. The poor thing. He’d have to keep an eye for infection or there’d be more death on his hands. Once he finished the milking, he left the sour milk for the dog and the barn cats.
The smell of burnt oatmeal greeted him when he entered the house.
Frank scraped the bottom of the pan onto a plate. He looked up to Bernhard in fear. “I burnt it. I didn’t mean to.”
“And what am I supposed to eat?”
“I hate you,” said the boy.
Bernhard’s jaw tightened and he raised his hand to the boy, but Frank didn’t flinch. He looked at Bernhard straight on; his eyes willing Bernhard to strike him. Bernhard lowered his hand. Softened. “It’s fine, Frank,” he said. “I’ll make something else.”
The boy stared at him.
“Go watch your sister. Bring her a cup of water to drink.”
A little while later he tiptoed into the room and found Elisabetha still sleeping; her forehead was now warm to the touch. The girl needed medicine. Sinking to his knees and bracing himself against the bed, Bernhard poured a spoonful of whiskey and, carefully, let it drip into the girl’s mouth. The child winced and cried out.
“Shh.” He hushed the child and held a cup of water to her mouth. “It’s Papa. You need to eat. Can you eat?”
The girl shook her head.
He took another pull of whiskey – the wrong parent had died. He gave the bottle a swirl and downed the last of it.
“Frank,” he hollered. “Get your things ready. I’m taking you and your sister to Uncle Nels and Aunt Aggie’s.” Bernhard went outside to hitch the team. When he returned to the house he bundled up Elisabetha, while Frank stuffed a pillowcase with his and Elisabetha’s clothes. On the sleigh, holding Elisabetha in his arms, Bernhard passed the lines to Frank.