Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  Her ears rang; the tone pulsed with each heartbeat. She moved her leg and blackness swelled again.

  “There you go, child, you’re okay.” Doctor Fleming stroked her cheek with rough, old knuckles.

  She opened her eyes. Chambers stood behind Fleming, upside down in her sight. Time had passed. He was dressed. She lay crumpled on the floor at the stairwell.

  “There, there, dear,” Fleming tottered as he squatted beside her and she felt the urge to protest the old man doing this for her, but her voice failed. His black bag lay by her head.

  “You have a compound fracture, Emeline, and you must listen. I have to take you to my office, and you will feel pain. Can you be strong?”

  The white-haired doctor’s sanity and gentleness struck her. Her eyes crested with tears. She inhaled. Nodded. Chambers kneeled, worked his thick arms under her back and thighs. He wore cologne. His jugular swelled as he lifted her.

  Her right shinbone protruded white and bloody through her skin and her leg hung beneath, already stiff and contracting. Blackness overtook her again.

  Emeline wakened in Fleming’s office to unflagging, but endurable pain, with her leg immobilized below the knee in a thin cast.

  “Hello, child,” Doctor Fleming said.

  Her first cogent thought was that she was not a child. Doctor Fleming was a quirky soul, liable to cite Gray’s Anatomy or Shakespeare with equal zeal. He’d treated Papa, and though gentle, never minced his meaning.

  “Am I okay?” she said.

  “I’ll have to see you every day until we’re sure you’re not getting an infection, and that will mean removing this cast and applying a new one each time.”

  She accepted his prescription in silence.

  “I’ll drive her home,” Chambers said.

  “Thank you,” Fleming said.

  Emeline shifted; her leg was like a log. “I’ll ride my bike.”

  “Oh no, Emeline. Your leg is broken all the way through.”

  “Let me get you to the car,” Chambers said. “Doc, can you get the door?”

  Her heart hammered. Pressure swelled in her head. “Doctor, I should telephone my husband,” she said. “For propriety.”

  “I’ll telephone for you. But will he answer?”

  “He’ll be at the oil well, right Mrs. Hardgrave?” Chambers said. He lifted her.

  “Let this young man take you,” Doctor Fleming said.

  “Doctor!” she said. “Crutches?’

  “I don’t have any to give you. We can order a set.”

  Moments later she sat on Chambers’ front seat next to the door handle that bruised her scalp, the edge where she wrenched her shoulder, the radio knob still broken from her knee.

  Chambers reached between his legs; a spring twanged and the seat rolled back, opening more legroom. Pain stabbed her shin. Did the baby in her womb share the agony?

  “I mentioned your fall to Mister London and he let me off for the morning. I’ll take you to the doctor’s on my lunch breaks this week, and get you home after my shift.”

  She watched the words form in his mouth and drift out, every one of them perfectly normal, and spoken as if he and she were best friends only now venturing into romance. He spoke a phantom reality as if she might confirm it.

  Emeline looped her index finger through the door release. She waited. As long as he drove toward the Hardgrave farm…

  They came to wheat fields, then cornfields. She cast a hopeful eye, but Deet had no reason to be in the fields; the corn was shoulder high and until harvest, he could be anywhere, working in the barn, fishing at the lake, courting some girl in town.

  “I talked to Angus about staying in the house,” Chambers said. “Paid a half-month’s rent. Ten dollars. I got a right to be in that house.”

  Emeline clamped her teeth.

  “He didn’t mention that to you, did he? Ole Angus? You might stop and think about what kind of man you married. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a squatter. And falling down those steps was your own fault.”

  About to point out the Hardgrave driveway, Emeline refrained. Chambers drifted almost to a stop before turning.

  Doctor Fleming had given her a capful of a new children’s painkiller, Tylenol, and had sent her home with a bottle, but as the Fairlane bounced over the rock driveway, pain jabbed through the monotonous throbbing she had gotten used to.

  Deet emerged from the barn with sawdust clinging to his pants and a red blot on his thumb bandage. He appreciated the car then stooped and met Emeline’s eyes. His smile faded.

  The Fairlane stopped with a gentle rocking motion and a billow of dust overtook them.

  Deet stooped at Emeline’s side and looked through to Chambers. “What’s going on, Brad?”

  “She slipped and busted her leg. Give me a hand getting her out.”

  “How’d it happen?”

  “She stopped by the house and didn’t know I’d already moved in. Guess I surprised her.”

  “Fell down the stairs, did she?” Deet stood upright and Chambers exited the driver’s side. The open window framed Deet’s torso and arms. They talked over the roof of the car.

  “I’ll carry her out,” Brad said. “You might not be able to lift her.”

  Deet eased the door open, touched below her cheekbone. “Oh, Emeline. That’s gonna be a shiner.” He cradled her legs and lower back, and extracted her from the seat, careful not to bump her cast on the door. His touch was proper. But she detected something else, a rigidity that Deet projected in order to what? Demonstrate his strength to Chambers? Or her?

  Being carried was like floating over a sea of agony, and every time her legs dipped, pain frothed higher. Deet’s arms quivered as he climbed the steps. She rested her head against his shoulder. He whispered, “You really fall?”

  She nodded. “I did. He was half naked and—”

  “Shh.”

  Deet stood sideways as he worked the screen door handle. Brad trailed to the porch.

  “Don’t bring him inside,” she whispered.

  “Did he hit you?”

  “No.”

  Deet lowered Emeline until the sofa cushions supported her. He rested his wounded thumb at the belt loop by his knife and turned to the sound of the screen door spring.

  “She’ll need to see Doc Fleming every day this week,” Chambers said, and spoke louder for Emeline, “So I’ll come get you on my lunch break. See you tomorrow, Em.”

  “I’m sure she appreciates that, but I’ll take her in.”

  “Thanks, Dieter, but we got things squared away. I’ll be here tomorrow at noon.”

  “I don’t think that’s very smart. You bring her here all beat up and tell me you’re gonna be back tomorrow? I don’t think so.”

  The screen door separated them.

  “She slipped,” Chambers said. “She’ll tell you that.”

  “Thanks for helping out.”

  Emeline watched both the door and the window by the writing table. Chambers stood where she couldn’t see him. After a moment, his heels struck the porch and he crossed the window, scowling.

  She looked at the sawdust on Deet’s clothes and in his hair. “What were you doing?”

  “Pap said to build a pen for some mutts.”

  “A pen for Rebel? How are you doing that, when you just cut off half your thumb?”

  “Trial and error. What happened?”

  “I fell down the stairs. I didn’t know Angus rented the house to Chambers. I saw his car and went inside. I ran from him and fell down the stairs.”

  “Why run?”

  “I didn’t expect to see him.”

  “You saw the car. You expected someone.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this.”

  Deet ran his fingers through his hair, then stood with his hands loose at his side. “Did you go there to see him?”

  “No!” She recoiled. Her leg throbbed.

  “Then you need a better story to tell Pap. Why was you even in town?”<
br />
  “I wanted to buy corn meal.”

  “Corn meal.”

  “Deet, I won’t be questioned. Wrap some ice in a hand towel if you want to help.”

  “It wasn’t a question, and you don’t know what help you need.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You better think of a better story.” He turned and at the door said, “You don’t know what you married.”

  Melted ice dampened Emeline’s hair and a warm, wet towel covered her eye. The whine of a saw blade carried through the screen, but she awoke to rapping on the door.

  “Yoo-hoo!”

  The house was dim but Emeline recognized the pastor’s wife Nancy Denny by her silhouette. She carried a basket and before they exchanged words Emeline knew baked chicken was nearby.

  “Where’s the light switch?”

  “By the door. Lower.”

  The lights came on and Nancy rushed to her side. “Oh you poor thing; Doctor Fleming told me everything.”

  “I’m fine.” She’d wakened several times and rung the cowbell Deet had left on the coffee table, but the saws in the barn never stopped.

  “That smells so good.”

  “Did you have lunch?”

  She shook her head. “I shouldn’t eat dinner until my husband comes home.”

  “You think he’d know if you just took a little bit? I’ll fix you a plate and moosh around what’s left so he won’t know what we started with.” She found the kitchen and a moment later rattled plates and silverware. Nancy returned to Emeline with a plate of paprika-red chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, with a side of peas.

  “Would you mix the peas with the potatoes?”

  Nancy rolled the green orbs into the potatoes, scooped a spoonful. Emeline took it from her and ate.

  Emeline searched Nancy’s face. What mechanics of character made a woman good and a man bad? Or a boy mostly good while another was evil? One patient and caring, the other fascinated by tearing wings off flies, stepping on ants, raping girls? She swallowed. The potatoes were lumpy and the gravy was salty. Perfect.

  “Thank you.”

  Nancy watched her. “You’re welcome.” She hesitated. “It’s none of my business…”

  “Maybe.”

  “Did you meet Mr. Chambers? On purpose?”

  Emeline groaned. “I didn’t know he was there.”

  Nancy filled the spoon with white meat and potatoes and passed it to her. “You’ve been funny about him—changing your mind about him renting.”

  “I didn’t change my mind!” Her leg pain flared and heat washed across her face. She forced the mouthful down. “I didn’t change my mind. Angus rented the place to him, I guess. I stormed in like a fool thinking he was squatting. He chased me and I fell down the stairs.”

  Nancy nodded, wiped the corner of a doe eye. “Did you have a black eye before you went there, this morning?”

  “I fell down the stairs.”

  Nancy leaned conspiratorially close. “Only two weeks have passed. We can get you out of this.”

  “Out of what?”

  “This mistake.” She glanced about the room. Exhaled.

  “This mistake was an answer to prayer, Nancy Denny, and it was done in a house of God.” Emeline winced. “Would you get that bottle on the end table? Says ‘Tylenol.’”

  Nancy pressed her shoulder. “You don’t have to be this brave.”

  Emeline adjusted her weight. The sofa cushions sagged and the support joist pressed her mid-back. The damp, rough upholstery irritated her arms.

  “I’ve seen a lot of troubled girls,” Nancy said, passing the Tylenol. “I recognize trouble.”

  Emeline drank from the bottle. “Give me more of those potatoes and gravy. Please.”

  Nancy obliged. “Your daddy passed away and a month later you married a man you didn’t even know. A bad man. I tried to tell you. You could’ve had any of a half-dozen nice young boys in town, and you chose Angus Hardgrave. Didn’t even know you were Mrs. Hardgrave Number Four. Didn’t even know what happened to his eye. And you don’t want to, either.”

  “It was from Normandy,” Emeline said.

  “Not Normandy. Paris. When he found out his son had a Nazi name.”

  “What?”

  “I shouldn’t say this—but I have to. You just run off on a whim. Now look at you. Beat up, broken down, and defiant as a game cock—”

  “That’s not—”

  “But it’s going to get worse and worse! Each time you get your back up, like you’re doing now, he’s going to knock you down! This man has history.” Her voice broke. “He didn’t shave for your wedding. What kind of man is that?”

  “I made him shave for Mitch McClellan’s funeral.”

  Nancy rolled her eyes. Emeline took the spoon from the plate and ate peas and potatoes.

  “You’re going to disappear like Lucy Mae. I can’t bear the thought.”

  “That’ll be a trick in this cast.”

  Nancy wiped her cheeks. Shook her head. Feigned a smile.

  “Lucy Mae. What a dear. Wasn’t hardly more than a child when he married her, and looked like one, not four feet tall. At the wedding she was the tiniest woman I ever saw.”

  Nancy studied Emeline, then sat upright and patted her arm. “I’ll warm the oven so Angus has something to eat when he comes home, and maybe that’ll stay his hand

  Nineteen

  I park in front of the barn. Light’s on and the smell of sawdust and burnt blades comes through the open truck window. I told Deet to size boards for a kennel, though he might waste a truckload of lumber learning the tools.

  Supper can wait. Fixing the widow’s tenon and reassembling the rails, stiles, and panel is an easy job—but not with new tools. Might take an evening or two. I swallow Wild Turkey. Though the whiskey tastes as good as it ever has, it’s like slipping a wet dowel in a square hole. The corners stay dry. Part of me ain’t satisfied. I pack my lip with snuff.

  Rebel’s head pops over the plywood pen at the far end of the barn bay; he watches with one eye and grins. I can’t help but grin back, him one eye, me one eye. So long as his nuts are whole, his value is secure.

  Deet kills the table saw motor. He looks at the dark outside and all of a sudden starts toward the bay door. Dust floats in a yellow glow over a stack of boards he’s sized. “That’s a lot of cutting. Rips too. You size em right?”

  Already at the foot of the slope by the truck, Deet says, “I wasn’t thinking. We best get inside and look after Emeline. She’s busted her leg.”

  “Busted?”

  “Fell down stairs at her old place. That fella with the Fairlane brought her here. Her leg’s busted good, and she’s got a shiner.”

  “I wish I’d seen it.”

  “Seen your wife smacked around, that it?”

  “Watch your tongue. I’d maybe put a shiner on him, is what I meant.” I nudge the stack with my toe. “What about these boards?”

  “She just dropped by her place on the way to the grocery.”

  I nod. “What about these boards?”

  Deet looks toward the house. “Everything’s sized like you said. You didn’t write out the floorboards, but I did the math and I’m finishing them now.”

  “Got a good idea how to put it all together, do you?”

  “It’s in your drawing.” He paces back inside the barn.

  I lift a board, hold a square to the cut, then eye-plumb the rip. “Got the warp out. Guess you figured how to use the jointer?”

  Deet nodded.

  “Maybe you got a knack. Let me show you this panel door.”

  “Emeline’s inside. Ain’t been checked on for a while.”

  I feel my brow pinch under my eye patch. “Is she dyin’ right this cussed minute?”

  We move to the workbench. I arrange the pieces of the cabinet door and hold the left stile for Deet to examine. “This is a mortise. See the bottom slot? That’s where the tenon goes. Just like the birds and the bees. Slip it
in, like so. Good and snug. You got to cut this tenon flush, put a mortise in here, and size a floating tenon.”

  “Two slots, and one—”

  “That’s right. Drill the holes, chisel em square, and size the tenon by hand so the outsides are flush, you follow?”

  “Like this?” Deet holds three machined blocks of maple, and assembles them in the manner of my proposed joint.

  I take the unit from him. Break it apart. Study the craftsmanship. “When you do this?”

  “Gave it some thought this morning.”

  “Yeah, right. Why don’t you fix that door tomorrow?”

  Deet looks toward the house.

  “Then get the pen done.”

  I move over to Rebel, check his eye. “Let’s see about Emeline.”

  A minute later I enter the house. Smell chicken. I cross the living room to Emeline, pull a blanket from her and peer at a cast on her leg.

  “How you feel?”

  “It hurts.”

  “You lived in that house all your life. How’d you slip?”

  “I didn’t know you’d let the house out. I ran when he came out the bathroom.”

  I take her chin in my hand. “Looks like a knuckle-made shiner to me.”

  “Well, you’ll have to talk to the stairs, ‘cause they’re the ones that did it.”

  “Unh. How’d you cook supper?”

  “Nancy Denny brought chicken over. It’s warming in the oven.” She looks away. “I need help…I haven’t been upstairs all day.”

  “What?”

  “The toilet. You got to carry me, Angus.”

  I look at her leg and then her face. “Didn’t they give you any crutches?”

  “Doctor Fleming didn’t have crutches. The bone was right through the skin, meat and all. I can’t breathe without it screaming pain like murder at me. Angus, you got to carry me right now!”

  I shift back and forth, bend, and slip my arms beneath her. She embraces me around the neck. I lift, prop my knee on the couch. Stand.

  “How long the doctor say you got to stay off it?”

  “He didn’t. I have to go in every day for him to clean it.”

  “That’s a load of bullshit. How we gonna pay for that?”