“Oh.”
“Give it here,” he says, and takes the cloth from me and dips a clean corner in one of the water pitchers. Before I can object, he turns my chin up and wipes my face, not gently but thoroughly. He’s careful of my nose, though I can’t help wincing when his hand bumps it.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Does it hurt?”
“Naw. My baby brother hits harder ’n him. How ’bout yours?”
“Barely feel it. He shouldn’t have hit you. Ain’t right.”
“I thought you weren’t gonna fuss,” I remind him.
Ben shrugs. I study his face as he cleans mine, trying to see what’s beneath the beard. The eye that’s not bruised and closed is bright and sharp, the light amber of thick honey. Up close I can tell he’s young, younger than I thought; probably not much older than me. The beard, the scowl; I get it now, it’s all to make him seem older, more confident. It’s only artifice, a way to hide that he’s shy and uncertain, just like the rest of us.
“There,” Ben says, sitting back. “It’s gonna look like hell tomorrow, but you’re clean.”
“Thanks, Ben.”
“You’re welcome . . .” He pauses.
“Willie,” I say firmly.
“Not Daisy?”
I throw the bloody handkerchief at him. “No, not rotten Daisy. I’m gonna skin Sam.”
“It don’t suit you anyhows,” Ben says.
“You think so?”
“I never knew a Daisy as could take a punch.”
It hurts my bruised face, but I smile. “Is that all it takes to get on your good side? You shoulda told me that from the beginning.”
Ben ducks his head down. “I reckon I owe you an apology.”
Now that he’s finally offering, I find I don’t want it. “Not necessary. And I’d hate to put you out, especially since I would feel the need to reciprocate.”
“I’m not—I’m not so good at talking to people.”
“Me neither. Ma always said my mouth runs when it should shut and bites when it should smile. Let’s just call it quits and start over.” I hold my hand out. “Hi. I’m Daisy Wilcox, but you better call me Willie if you value your life.”
Ben smiles, the first real smile I’ve seen. It’s crooked and shy, and it makes him look younger, and almost sweet. I can see why he doesn’t do it very often.
“Benjamin Garrett, pleased to meet you.” He shakes my hand firmly. “Now sit still till Doc Junior comes back.”
30.
Despite the throbbing of my face, I can barely keep my eyes open, and Micah has to shake me awake when he and Curtis get back.
“Sam’s still patching up . . . that man,” Micah says, refusing to call Dollarhide by name. “He said he’ll be back right quick and he’ll give you something for the pain.”
“If I lie down again I’m not getting back up,” I tell him, yawning wide. “I’ll wait for him outside.”
The night air wakes me up some and I tilt my head back and stare at the thumbnail of the moon. It’s full dark now, the sky a black so soft it looks touchable. I never get to see the night like this, the stars spread wide and untamed. Nights are for locked doors and shuttered windows, hushed voices and bad dreams. I forgot how vivid the darkness could be, how it can wrap around you like old sheets. I breathe it in like I could keep it.
“Damn Dollarhide,” Curtis says from inside the tent, his voice barely above a whisper. I stay still, listening closely. “What was he thinking, starting something at a station?”
“I shoulda guessed he’d try something, after the last time.” Ben exhales loudly, and I picture his frown. “He needs to be put down.”
“I don’t disagree. I’m sorry we let you down, Micah,” Curtis says solemnly. “We’re used to looking for danger outside the fence, not inside.”
“It ain’t your fault,” Micah says, echoing my words. “Willie’s got a knack for trouble. Always has.” He laughs, but there’s an edge of bitterness to it.
“It was good of you, to come after her. Y’all seem close.”
“It’s just us now. The twins are young, and Pa’s always gone. It’s better that way; he ain’t much help when he’s home. I guess he’s not much help when he’s away, either.”
“And your ma?” Curtis asks.
There’s a long pause and something in my chest twinges.
“Sickness took her,” Micah says slowly. “Last year. We hid it as best we could, kept her inside and away from anyone but us. Maybe it was wrong, but . . . we couldn’t let her die like that, alone and outside the fence.”
My shoulders hunch up and I press my feet farther down into the dirt. I don’t want to hear this, and I certainly don’t want the Garretts to hear it.
“Pa came home for a while, but he left before the end. Wasn’t strong enough, I guess.”
My throat gets hot. It should have been him. It was his responsibility, his wife. No one wants to become a shake, so the merciful thing to do is have someone end it for you, end it before you hurt the people you love. Ma put on a brave face, she fought as long as she could before she asked for help. It was Pa’s burden, and he couldn’t even give her that bit of peace.
“Ma didn’t want to lose herself, didn’t want us to see her . . . like that. Like she wasn’t our ma anymore.” Micah keeps talking, and I wish I could shut out the sound of his voice. “But Pa said he couldn’t. I think I hate him, just for that. He left her, left her when she needed him most. She tried so hard to fight it, but she was so sick—”
“I think that’s enough, Micah,” I say loudly, cutting him off before he says something he can’t unsay. My voice is harsh in my ears, and I swing back into the tent abruptly. “Or did you want to air more of our dirty laundry?”
Micah won’t meet my eyes, but at least Ben has the courtesy to look embarrassed.
“I’m sorry,” Curtis tells me. “It’s none of our business.”
“We lost our mother almost thirteen years ago.” Ben’s voice makes me jump. I turn to him, and he nods solemnly. “Out east, in Ennis, where we’re from. Smallpox. I don’t remember it well. They wouldn’t let me too close, on account of me being so young. Mostly I just remember how the whole house smelled of illness. Even after she was gone, it took ages for the smell to finally leave my clothes.”
“What did it smell like?” It’s an inappropriate question, but I want to know if it’s the same smell I remember. Or does each disease have its own particular scent, the way some people smell like cut tobacco or old soap?
“Sweet, mostly. Like melted butter, but with something rotten underneath.”
I can almost smell it, and I shake my head to clear it out. The pox is almost as bad as the sickness, but at least some folks come through it with only scars to show. Every now and then it roars through a town to remind us there’s more than one way to die. Last time Best had a pox outbreak, Ma took Micah and me straight to Doc Kincaid for vaccination. He pricked us on the arm with the cowpox inoculation and afterward we both got lesions for near a week, but Ma said we had enough to worry about besides the pox. I reckon I should get the twins in sometime, but I’ll probably have to hold them down.
I should say something else to Ben, thank him, maybe, but that would sound strange. Maybe it’s enough to say I’m sorry, but Sam returns and saves me the trouble of figuring it out.
“I can take a look at that eye,” he says to Ben.
“I don’t think so, Doc.”
Sam doesn’t even try to argue, and I glare at him while he opens his pack, digging around until he finds a vial. Maybe it’s the beard; I would grow one if I could, and the unfairness stings.
“Here, drink this,” Sam says, and gives me a spoonful of clear liquid. I obey without arguing and swallow it. Bitterness coats my tongue, so sharp it burns. He hands me a canteen of water and I down it in one gulp, washing away the acrid taste.
“Sakes alive, that’s awful. What kind of snake oil are you giving me, Sam?”
“It’s just la
udanum; it’ll help dull the pain.”
“How’s our friend?”
“Worse off than you. I’m pretty sure you cracked his cheekbone, but there’s nothing to be done about it.”
“That’s a shame,” I say, examining the knuckles of my hand. “I hope it doesn’t give him much pain.”
“It surely will,” Sam says.
“Pity.” I shake my head sorrowfully. “Thanks for patching me up, Doc. I owe you.”
“On the house,” Sam says, smiling. “I figure I’ll get plenty of business from you in the future.”
I smack him on the shoulder, like he’s one of the twins, but he catches my left hand.
“What’s that?” Sam turns over my hand, looking at the cut on my palm.
“Proof that I’m clumsy,” I tell him, snatching my hand away.
“You need to dress that, Willie, it looks infected.” Sam frowns at me until I nod my compliance. “Good. And next time don’t let it go so long.”
“What do you mean?”
“That looks like you let it fester a couple days. If you’d come to me sooner, I coulda fixed you up.” Sam gives me half a smile. “Now get some rest and stop trying to make my job harder.”
I lay down flat on my back, staring at the blank white walls until my eyes feel numb to the world. Curtis and Ben are talking softly to one another, though I can’t make out the words. Micah and Sam start up a game of mumblety-peg, which Sam will win like always. Micah’s a better shot, but you should never go against a doctor with a knife. They tried to teach the twins how to play; I found all four out back throwing knives at the side of our house. I put such an end to that, Sam didn’t come over for nearly a week. Seems silly now.
I turn over onto my side and slowly open my hand. The pink line of the cut rakes across my palm, definitive and resolute. From one corner of the wound pus weeps out, yellow and evil. Angry red streaks creep along my hand and move up my wrist. The skin is puffy and smooth, all the lines in my skin erased by the pressure underneath. My fingers start to tremble. It’s been hours since I cut it, not days; infection shouldn’t move this fast. Couldn’t move this fast, not unless—no. I turn the truth over in my head until it loses all semblance of sense. It doesn’t matter; I know what it means. I put an open wound in diseased water. It makes no difference if I bandage it or bleed it; no one survives once the sickness takes root. I have only days until the infection reaches my brain and I forget everything that makes me me. I’m going to lose myself, and Micah and the twins will lose the last parent they have left.
The pain in my nose is nothing compared to this. I feel like I’m drowning, like I cannot breathe. I know what happens next, I remember too well the madness and the pain and the stink of blood. This is not how I wanted to go, it was not supposed to be this way. Nothing in my life was supposed to be this way.
I’m not ready to die.
The laudanum is dragging me under, and I fight it. I have so few hours left, I don’t want to spend them sleeping. But the drug is too strong, and I am too weak. Sleep takes me roughly, and I have only one thought as I surrender: I’ve damned us all.
PART THREE:
THE
STORM
A woman in the shape of a monster
a monster in the shape of a woman
—Adrienne Rich
31.
I’m swimming, which is strange, because I don’t know how to swim. I’ve never even seen anything bigger than a creek, but here I am, weightless in water black and thick as oil. I swim deeper, farther into the darkness, each movement becoming harder as the water turns denser. It’s not water I’m swimming through, but blood; the blood of the already dead, congealing and hardening, so red it looks black. I open my mouth to scream and the blood pours in, coating my tongue and throat with its hot metal taste.
I wake up panicked, gasping for breath. This part is familiar, and I tell myself to calm down, that I’m safe in my house in my own bed. But that’s not true; this isn’t my bed and my face feels wrong and something terrible hovers at the edge of my consciousness. The night before comes rushing back, and the knowledge is no less painful with time to dampen the impact. I curl up, hugging my knees to my chest, making my body as small as it will go. I used to rock myself to sleep like this, when I was a child and so afraid of the world outside my door. If I could make myself small enough, I would disappear; if I could hide I would be safe. But I can’t hide from what’s inside me, and I can’t run from myself.
“Will, you up?” Micah’s voice pierces through my thoughts. I want to answer, but my mouth is not responding to my mind. I’m so tired; even drugged, the intermittent gunshots were loud enough to wake me up throughout the night.
“Let her sleep,” I hear Curtis say.
I can feel the sun streaming bright through the tent, but I keep my eyes shut and listen to the bustle around me; the clearing of throats, the splashing of water, and the clink of guns being polished and loaded. Everyone is moving, busy, so aggressively alive. It’s not fair.
Stop it, I tell myself. I am not some self-pitying fool, given to bouts of misery and mawkish tears. My mother did not weep when she got sick, or if she did she didn’t let us see. Maybe I’m wrong; maybe it’s not the sickness, only some fast-moving infection from whatever lingered on my knife. Whatever it is, I will not spend my last days curled up with my grief. I will be strong, and I will be silent. I can’t tell anyone, not yet. If I tell them, they’ll kill me. Or the Garretts will make us turn back, and I can’t let that happen. I need to find Pa, because my family needs him now more than ever. So I’ll wait, until I know for sure, until the very last moment. I’ll hold on as long as I’m able, and then do what needs to be done. I won’t let myself become a monster, I won’t hurt the people I love. I will bring Pa back and it will be the last thing I do.
“I’m awake,” I say, my voice raw. I sit up clumsily, my limbs heavy from the drugs, my back sore from the cot. My head begins to pound as soon as I raise it, but my eyes are clear and the pain in my nose is bearable.
Curtis whistles when he sees me. “That is one colorful face, little lady.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“What about mine?” Ben asks. His eye is a smarting shade of purple tinged with pink.
“It looks better on Willie,” Curtis says.
I rummage through my sack until I find my mirror, glad to have use for it. I press the catch and flip it open to examine my face. It’s not as bad as I thought; my nose is swollen but not misshapen. I angle the mirror up and see what Curtis meant: the skin beneath my eyes is bruised blue and green. I grimace and snap the mirror shut.
“Not the worst I’ve had, but bad enough,” I tell Curtis.
“What was the worst?”
“That honor goes to one Micah Wilcox,” I say, pointing at my brother.
“I had to do something to stop you kicking me,” he says, grinning. A stab of regret clenches my stomach, and Micah’s smile falters.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, forcing a laugh that echoes harsh and hollow in my ears. “Just trying to remember why I was kicking you.”
Micah frowns, but I hold a smile on my face like a false note hanging in the air long after it’s done sounding. Finally he shrugs. “I think I put a scorpion in your bed, but it could’ve been a snake.”
“Scorpion,” Sam says. “I helped you catch it.”
“Then I owed you those kicks,” I tell him. I put on my gun and knife and gather all my belongings together with my duster and blanket. When no one’s looking, I change my ripped shirt out for the spare one and hope it lasts longer than its predecessor. Before I get up, I strip off a length of fabric from my rag bundle and tie it around my hand, then tug my sleeve down as far as it will go. I can’t let anyone see the infection, whatever it is, spreading up my arm.
When the boys have their coats and bags together, I tug on my boots and we leave the tent. It’s early morning yet; the moon is still visible in the sky, a g
hostly horseshoe mocking the sun. My legs are stiff and my muscles protest moving again so soon. We stop by the hitching post on the way to the mess, empty now except for Nana. She looks mighty put upon as we load her up, like a tired mother trapped with unruly children.
The mess hall is quieter than it was last night; there’s no relaxed chatter or drunken laughter. Breakfast is a somber affair when no one knows what the rest of the day will bring. And I suspect the drinking last night didn’t improve anyone’s mood this morning.
Our group, too, is quiet while we eat. Breakfast is a plate of eggs over mashed beans, with real boiled coffee to go along. I’ve been drinking watered-down belly wash so long, I forgot how good it tastes. It’s strong and sweet, and after my second cup I feel wide awake and looser. The coffee fills me with an optimism I know is false, but I can’t help feeling hopeful; even my headache is better.
“Listen up, folks,” Curtis says as we finish eating. “The second day is always the hardest. You’re tired from yesterday and we got even longer to go. But this is where we’re gonna start to see some action, so I need y’all alert and focused. Understood?”
We nod solemnly across the table; I understand the stakes out here now more than anyone. I knew when I left Glory that I was risking my life. Would I have chosen differently, if I had known what would happen? Even now I can’t say for sure. I did what I thought I had to do, and I have to live, or die, with the consequences.
We fill up on water and leave the station with little fanfare; the gate closes behind us and it’s like we never left the open desert. As we head forward, I take a quick inventory of my injuries: bruised face, stiff legs, cut hand, and a poison spreading slowly through my body. I’ve never started a day off in worse shape. But I’m still here. I’m still here, and I’m still walking. And for now, that’s enough.
32.
We see a body the second mile in. Ben, from the lead, whistles two notes, high and then low. I shield my eyes from the glinting sun and look where he points, to a mound of rags off the road. We make our way over slowly, subdued by the presence of death so early in the day. It seems out of place, in the brightness of morning.
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