Delphine sat beside her friend in the little room off the kitchen, a room filled with jars of canning. That was where Eva had asked Fidelis to set up her bed. A good-size window looked out of that room into the backyard, which was her reason for wanting to die in that tiny place. From there, she could watch the boys complete her chinchilla-moneymaking scheme. They had constructed the cages out of wire netting salvaged from other people’s failed coops, and pounded together nesting boxes out of scrap lumber. It was a diversion, Delphine thought now, with sudden understanding. Watching her friend drift into a short nap, she suddenly realized that the odd, rabbity creatures were a clever way to take the boys’ attention off their dying mother.
They’d closed the shop at noon for July 4. Now everyone in town was celebrating. Fidelis had the old chairs and table out there, and on the table he had laid out beer sausage and summer sausage, a watermelon, and bowls of crackers. Beer bottles sweat in a tub of ice underneath the tomato plants, beer to wash down the high-proof alcohol that Eva already knew they were hiding. It was funny, watching them sneak their arms into the gooseberry fronds and snake out the bottle. With a furtive look at the house, they tipped it to their lips. Even Fidelis, so powerful and purposed, acted like a guilty boy.
Delphine watched Cyprian stroll through the rickety back gate. Laughing, he set his own offering beside the sausages. Aged whiskey, probably from a recent border trip. Cyprian was an occasional visitor ever since he’d run the store that first week, when Fidelis and Delphine were down at the Mayo consulting with the doctors. He did all right with the store and nothing disappeared, so Fidelis wanted to hire him, but Cyprian said the meat business wasn’t for him. He’d had enough blood and guts in the war. Anyway, he was much better at running liquor and it paid better, he told Delphine, who didn’t like it but what was she to do since the car was half his and he was after all a grown man?
He had joined the singing club, though his voice was average. A slightly singed baritone. And he had set himself up to look like a traveling salesman. He even had samples of his supposed wares—hairbrushes, floor brushes, dog fur brushes, horse brushes, long broom brushes, potato brushes—stashed in his car to foil the inspectors at the border and answer the questions of neighbors. Sometimes they bought the brushes, too. Mainly, he was paid by criminals. Dangerous men out of Minneapolis. Delphine not only didn’t like that he took the risk, but hated that he dealt in the despised substance. Still, as he didn’t drink it much himself for fear of losing his balancing skills, which he still practiced between runs, she let it go. Besides, she was caught up in helping Eva die.
There was no saving her, they were well beyond that now. The first treatment, after her surgery, consisted of inserting into her uterus hollow metal bombs, cast of German silver, containing radium. Over the weeks Eva spent in the hospital the tubes were taken out, refilled, and put back several times. Once she was sent home, she smelled like a blackened pot roast.
“I smell burned,” she said, “like bad cooking. Get some lilac at the drugstore.” And Delphine had bought a great purple bottle of flower water to wash her with, but it hadn’t helped much. For days, she’d passed charcoal and blood, and the roasted smell lingered. Also, the treatment hadn’t worked. The cancer spread. Doctor Heech then gave her monthly treatments of radium via long twenty-four-carat gold needles, tipped with iridium, that he pushed into the new tumor with a forceps so as not to burn his fingers. She took those treatments in his office on Sundays, strapped to a table, dosed with ether for the insertion, then after she woke, a hypodermic of morphine. Doctor Heech became so angry at himself when he gave her the treatments, which he feared were useless, that he left the room cursing under his breath. Delphine stayed to sit with her, for the needles had to stay in place for six hours. Threaded with black waxed string, they made a spoked wheel poking into her stomach.
“I’m a damn pincushion now,” Eva said once, rousing slightly. Then she dropped back into her restless dream. Delphine read, or dozed and knitted, for she couldn’t always read. It was the old thing happening, as with the drunks and her childhood neighbors. Again she witnessed great suffering she could not stop. This time her body tried to share the agony: shooting pains in her own stomach as the needles went in, even a sympathetic morphine sweat. A bleak heaviness that accompanied Eva’s passages of charcoaled flesh. Dull aches that overcame her sometimes and made her want to lie down forever and be done with things. But she kept on going, never let up, never showed her sorrowing pains. As she approached the house now, each day, she said the prayer to God she used as the most appropriate to the situation.
“Spit in your eye.”
Her curse wasn’t much, it didn’t register the depth of her feeling, but at least she was not a hypocrite. Why should she even pretend to pray? That was Tante’s field—she’d mustered a host of pious Lutheran ladies and they come around every few afternoons to try to do their business on a Catholic. When Eva became too weak to chase them off, Delphine tried, but as her position was inferior to Tante’s own she had great trouble at it and used other strategies, whatever she could think of, to keep them from crowding around the bed like a flock of turkey vultures and pressing together their bony claws in a gloating, sucking prayer circle. Even now, Delphine thought, she’d bake a sugar cake while Eva was sleeping, in case the mealy-mouths showed up. Feeding them was actually her best strategy, for they filed out quickly when they knew there was grub in the kitchen for the taking. Tante, with crumbs on her mouth, led them away after they’d gorged on Eva’s pain and her signature linzertorte, which she’d now given Delphine instructions to prepare, one small step at a time.
Outside, it was a perfect day, sunny and with a slight, cool breeze. Sure to bring Tante out, though Delphine hoped her goody-goody cohort would be dishing out potato salad and slicing watermelon at some civic function. The men’s voices rose and fell, rumbling with laughter at the big tales, stern with argument at the outrages committed by the government, and sometimes they even fell silent, or stuporous, and gazed into the tangled foliage of Eva’s garden blank with speculation. As always, Fidelis was the center of these gatherings, prodding slightly bolder stories out of the men or challenging them to feats of strength.
In the kitchen, sun calm in the window, Delphine cut cold butter into flour for a pastry. She had decided to make pies for the Fourth of July supper, which the men would need to cut the booze. Potatoes were boiling now. She had a crock of beans laced with hot mustard, brown sugar and black-strap molasses. There were of course more sausages. Delphine added a pinch of salt, rolled her dough in oiled muslin, and set it in the icebox. Then she started on the fruit, slicing thin moons of yellow-green rhubarb, peeling off the toughest bits of rosy skin. It’s nearly time, she thought, nearly time. She was thinking of Eva’s pain. Her own sense of time passing had to do with the length of a dose of opium wine, a cup of it flavored with cloves and cinnamon, or a stronger dose of morphine that Doctor Heech had taught her to administer, though not too much, lest by the end, he said, even the morphine lose its effect.
He’d taught her to make up Magendie’s solution fresh to eliminate the development of any fungus, and now, hearing Eva stir, Delphine straightaway set aside her pie makings. She put some water on to boil, to sterilize the hypodermic needle. The night before she had prepared a vial and set it in the icebox, the one-to-thirty solution, which Heech had told her she was better than any nurse at giving to Eva. Delphine was proud of this. The more so because she hated needles, abhorred them, grew sickly hollow when she filled the syringe and felt the penetration of her own flesh when she gave the dose to Eva. Without being asked, she knew when Eva needed the dose. She did not go by the time elapsed, but by the lucid shock of agony in Eva’s stare. Her mouth was half open, her brows clenched. She would need the relief very soon, as soon as the water boiled. Delphine thought to divert her friend by massaging her sore hands.
“Ah,” Eva groaned lightly as Delphine worked the dips between her knuckles. Eva’s fore
head smoothed, her translucent eyelids closed over, she began to breathe more peacefully and said, faintly, “How are the damn fools?”
Delphine glanced out the window and observed that they were in an uproar. Sheriff Hock was holding forth and Fidelis was standing, gesturing, laughing at the big man’s belly. “We are potched!” she heard him roar in good humor. Then they were all comparing their bellies. Cyprian’s was the flattest one. Delphine knew that his stomach, as her own, was divided into hard and even ridges of muscle that he, anyway, could flex like a keyboard. In the lengthening afternoon light, Cyprian’s face was slightly agape with the unaccustomed drink and the fellowship of other men, too, for he was used to being isolated on the farm with Roy or out on the road. There was a sheet pinned on the clothesline and the bellies were pale falls of flesh in its shade.
“They’re showing off their big guts to each other,” said Delphine.
“At least not the thing below,” croaked Eva.
“Oh, for shame!” Delphine laughed. “No, they kept their peckers in. But something’s going on. Here, I’m going to prop you up. They’re better than burlesque.”
She took down extra pillows and quilts from the shelves, shoved the bed up to the window, and propped Eva where she would see the doings in the yard. She went back, put one syringe in the water, finished up the pies and put them in the oven, then brought a little tepid water in a cup for Eva to drink. She did drink, which was good, and her color was up. Her eyes brighter.
“Come on,” Eva said, “sit down here.” Her hand flopped on the bed. “I think they are up to nothing good!”
Now it looked as if they were making and taking bets. Bills were waved, laughingly. They weren’t stumbling drunk, but loud drunk. Roaring with jokes. The boys appeared, clambering up the rails of the stock pens to take in the men’s action.
“Eva, do you see?” Delphine pointed to them. Nodding, Eva made a face. What examples! These men! All of a sudden, with a clatter, the men cleared the glasses and bottles, the crackers and the sticks of sausage, the bits of Cheddar and the plates, off the table. And when the table was clear, to a great burst of hilarity, Sheriff Hock lay down upon it. He lay on his back. The table didn’t reach down his whole length, so he was a boatlike hulk, balanced there in dry dock, his booted feet absurdly sticking straight up and his head extended off the other side. His stomach made a mound and now on the other side of the table, directly before Eva’s window, Fidelis stood. He’d unbuttoned the top buttons of his white shirt and rolled his sleeves up over his thick forearms. His suspenders were unstrapped and his grin was huge, tossing back a jeer.
Suddenly, Fidelis bent over Sheriff Hock in a weight lifter’s crouch and threw his arms fiercely straight out to either side with a showman’s flair. Delicately, firmly, he grasped in his jaws a loop that the women now saw was specially created for this purpose in the thick belt of Sheriff Hock.
There was a moment in which everything went still. Nothing happened. A huge thing happened. Fidelis gathered his power. It was as if the ground itself flowed up through Fidelis and flexed. His face and neck went thick with a brute, red darkness. His jaws flared bone white on the belt loop, his arms tightened in the air, his neck and shoulders swelled impossibly, and he lifted Sheriff Hock off the table. By the belt loop in his teeth, just a fraction of an inch, he moved the town’s Falstaff. Then, the women saw it, Fidelis paused. His whole being surged with a blind, suffusing ease. He jerked the sheriff higher, balancing now, half out of the crouch.
In that moment of tremendous effort, Delphine saw the true face of the butcher—the animal face, the ears flaming with heat, the neck cords popping, and finally the deranged eye straining out of its socket, rolled up to the window, to see if Eva was watching. Delphine felt a thud of awful sympathy. He was doing this for Eva. He was trying to distract her, and from that, Delphine understood Fidelis loved her with a helpless and fierce canine devotion that made him do things that seemed foolish. Lift a grown man by the belt with his teeth. A stupid thing. Showing clearly that all his strength was nothing. Against her sickness, he was weak as a child.
ONCE FIDELIS TOOK two mammoth steps and dropped the sheriff on the ground, to roars of laughter, the men began singing again. Now they sang rougher tunes to go with the rising level of their drunkenness and hilarity. They grew louder, desperately raucous, defiant. Death was watching them, through Eva’s eyes, from the pantry window. “Jimmy Crack Corn.” “The Wabash Cannonball.” “I’m Forever Blowing Bubbles.” German drinking songs. A sad, lugubrious ballad about the longing of a sailor’s wife. Delphine went back into the kitchen to fetch the solution for Eva. She opened the door of the icebox. Looked once, then rummaged with a searching hand. The morphine, which Fidelis had labored with vicious self-disregard to pay for and which Delphine had guarded jealously, was gone. The vial, the powder, the other syringe. She couldn’t believe it. Searched through once again, and then again. It wasn’t there, and already Eva restless in the next room.
Delphine rushed out and beckoned Fidelis away from the men. He was wiping his face and neck down, the sweat still pouring off of him.
“Eva’s medicine is gone.”
“Gone?”
He was not as drunk as she’d imagined, or maybe the effort of lifting the sheriff had sobered him.
“Gone. Nowhere. I’ve looked. Someone stole it.”
“Heiligeskreuz . . .” He whirled around. That was just the beginning of what he was going to say, and Delphine left before he went any further. She went back to Eva and gave her the rest of the opium wine that was hard on her stomach. Spoon by spoon it went down, in a flash it came back up. “What a mess,” said Eva faintly. “I’m worse than a puking baby.” She tried to laugh but it came out a surprised, hushed groan. And then Eva was gasping and taking the shallow panting breaths she used to keep from shrieking.
“Bitte . . .” Her eyes rolled back and she arched off the bed. She hoarsely shrieked, gestured for a rolled-up washcloth to set between her teeth. It was coming. It was coming like a mighty storm in her. No one could stop it from breaking. It would take hours for Delphine to get another batch through Doctor Heech, wherever he was celebrating the Fourth, and then find the pharmacist. Delphine shouted out the garden door to Fidelis and yelled at Cyprian to take the pies from the oven. She sped out the other way. As she ran, a thought jogged into her mind. She decided to act on it. Instead of steering straight for Heech she gunned the car and stopped short at Tante’s little closet of a house two blocks from the Lutheran church, where she prayed every Sunday that the deplorable Catholic her brother married desist from idolatry and saint worship, and return the boys to Lutheran ways.
“Was wollen Sie?”
Tante opened the door. Her face had all the knowledge in it and Delphine knew she had guessed right. Delphine remembered her clucking over the dose of the drug with her prayer friends in whispered consult as they pressed up crumbs of lemon pound cake with their fingers.
“Wo ist die medicin?” Delphine asked, at first in a normal tone of voice, only slightly panicked. When Tante gave a cold twist of a smile, she screamed. “Where is Eva’s medicine?”
“Ich weiss nicht.”
Tante affected ragged High German around Delphine and made great pretense of having trouble understanding her. Delphine stepped in the door, shoved past her, and went straight to the refrigerator. On the way there, an outraged Tante trailing, she passed a table with a long slim object wrapped in a handkerchief. Delphine grabbed on instinct, unrolled it, and nearly dropped the missing hypodermic.
“Where is it?” Delphine’s voice was deadly. She turned, jabbing the needle at Tante, and then found herself as in a stage play advancing with an air of threat. It was the feeling of being in a dramatic production that suddenly gave her leave to speak lines she wished were written for the moment.
“Come on, you rough old bitch, you don’t fool me. So you’re a habitual fiend on the sly!”
Delphine didn’t really think that, of co
urse, but she wanted to make Tante so indignant that she would tell her where the morphine was; her aim was just to get the stuff and get it back to Eva. The hollow suffering in Eva’s eyes had burned into her. Tante gaped and couldn’t rally her wits to answer. Delphine rushed frantically back to Tante’s little icebox, rooted through it. With a savage permission, she tossed all of Tante’s food out, even breaking the eggs, and then she turned and confronted Tante. Her brain was swimming with desperation.
“Please, you’ve got to tell me. Where is it?”
Now Tante gained control. She even spoke English.
“You will owe me for those eggs.”
“All right,” said Delphine. “Just tell me.”
But Tante, with the upper hand, enjoyed her moment.
“They are saying that she is addicted. This cannot be. The wife of my brother? It is a shame on us.”
Delphine saw that she had been extremely stupid in allowing herself to antagonize the only person who could provide morphine quickly, by merely handing it over. She’d blown her cover, and now she would never get Tante to cooperate. She regretted her self-indulgence, grew meek, and tried to hide her panic and pride. She thought that perhaps if she humiliated herself Tante would be placated and let down her guard.
“I beg you,” she let a groan out. “Come, you know the truth. Our Eva is suffering. You only see her when she’s comfortable, so of course how can you possibly know how the agony builds? Tante, have mercy on your brother’s wife. There is no shame in keeping her comfortable, Tante, the doctor said so.”
“I think,” said Tante, her black figure precise, “the doctor doesn’t really know Eva the way I do. He feels too sorry for her, and she is addicted, that is for sure, my good friend Mrs. Orlen Sorven can tell this.”
“Tante, for the love of God . . .” Delphine truly begged from her heart at that moment. She thought of falling on her knees. Tante’s cold little mouth twitched and her eyes glowed with rigorous triumph.
Master Butchers Singing Club Page 14