Five Ways Heath Didn't Die
By EB
©2005
1.
He's very cold. That's all he can remember: cold, snow, the icicles hanging off the edge of the roof and shining in the moonlight. He can't remember if there was anything before the cold. Seems like it's been cold forever and ever.
Mama sits on the edge of his bed and he can't help but make a little noise, even though he's been trying real hard not to. Ever since that man came, the one who smelled funny and poked him all over and looked in his ears and his mouth. Mama cried after he left, and that made Heath cry, too, because Mama hardly ever cries, almost never. Hannah neither. Seeing 'em cry makes Heath feel all funny inside, almost as funny as he's felt since it got so cold.
But now Mama isn't crying, but touching his face, her smile all warm and familiar, and he wants to tell her how pretty she is and ask her if maybe it's not gonna be so cold tomorrow, but he can't. His throat hurts, and it's so hard to breathe.
"Feelin' all right, starlight?" she whispers, and he nods even though he doesn't. He's been sick since it got cold, and that means forever.
"I got you some soup here to eat. Feel like you could eat a bite? For me?"
He can't, it won't go down, his neck's swole as big as anything and won't nothing go down.
Mama's eyes shine like the moon on the ice, bright as day, and she kisses his forehead tenderly.
"Oughter write his pappy," Hannah says from her seat at the table. "Girl, you know you oughter. Ain't got no money what to pay that doctor."
Mama's still stroking his forehead, her smile gentle. "Can't anyone get here right now anyways. Who'd deliver the letter?"
"Tell him his boy here got the bullneck. See what he say."
Mama shakes her head slowly. "Time he gets it, snow'll be gone."
Hannah doesn't say anything else.
Heath closes his eyes.
"Can't do this for free. I just want you to know that."
His mama nods. "Not expectin' that," she tells the man. "Just want you to help my boy here."
Heath shrinks away when the doctor-man sits on the bed. Heath can't smell him no more, but he doesn't like the man's dirty hands, nor his black eyes.
"Open your mouth, boy, lemme take a look."
It hurts to open his mouth, hurts his throat and his neck, and he starts to cry while the doctor-man grasps his jaw and pulls it wider. "Gotta be taken out," he says. His thumb presses behind Heath's teeth. "Nothin' else for it. Gonna need you, and the colored woman, too."
His mama sits behind him on the bed and holds tight, and Hannah grabs his wrists and won't let go while the doctor-man gets something out of his bag. It's shiny metal, and Heath thinks it looks like the thing John Farmer used last spring, the thing that made that colt squeal like he did. Heath draws back and shakes his head, and the doctor holds his face with one big hand, fingers hurting his skin, and sticks the metal thing inside Heath's mouth.
It hurts, hurts so bad, and Heath screeches and then there's blood all over him and Hannah and the doctor-man. Something's attached to the metal thing, something gray and limp, and Heath coughs and sicks up on himself, trying to scream because of the blood and all.
"Might get better now," the doctor-man says, and sticks the metal thing back in the bag. "Can't never say for sure."
"Thank you, sir," Mama says softly while she wipes Heath's mouth. "Sure do appreciate it."
He can't breathe. Every time he tries it's like sucking air through a pinhole. He doesn't feel like moving, or eating, or even smiling when Hannah sings him his favoritest hymn. It hurts so bad to swallow that he can't make himself do it.
Nobody goes to bed that night. He thinks it's a little strange, but he doesn't mind it; Mama sits by his bed, reads him Bible verses and then tells him stories. He's too tired and hot and hurting to care what the stories are, but he likes the sound of her voice, and the cool cloth she uses to wipe his forehead and his mouth.
But finally Mama runs out of stories. She climbs on the bed with him, and it hurts when she moves him, but he doesn't mind it neither, because her arms are tight around him, and that feels good. Hannah sits rocking by the fire, her apron over her face. He can't quite hear what she's saying.
"Now just you sleep now, starlight," Mama whispers to him, her lips next to his ear. "And when you wake up, all the snow's gonna be gone. You know that? Sun's gonna be shining and the birds singing so pretty. Don't that sound good?"
He tries to nod, but his neck won't let him. Mama's crying. It scares him, like before. But he can't turn around and wipe away her tears.
"Dear Jesus," Hannah moans from the fireplace. "Oh Lord, save dat precious boy. He's a good boy, don' take him from his mama jus' yet, praise Jesus."
Mama whispers, "I love you, Heath Thomson. I love you so much, starlight boy."
He thinks, I hear them icicles drippin' on the porch, it's spring now, so nice and warm, and he goes to sleep.
2.
His uncle's mad at him. Mad as a wet cat, and when he sees Heath he's gonna whale the tar out of him. Done it before, and now he's gonna do it again.
Heath glances around, peering out of the barn. His stomach is a big cold ball of dread. If he can get home before Uncle Matt sees him, why, Mama ain't gonna let him do that again. Not hit. He can holler and cuss, but not even Uncle Matt dares raise a hand when Mama's around. She's half his size and twice his mettle, and they all three know it.
But there's a shadow coming, and he knows he's plumb outta luck.
"Heath! Boy, git your hiney out here NOW! You and me gonna have a talk! Yessir, heart-to-heart talk! Come on, boy, don't make me any madder 'n I already am."
He won't. Not in a month of Sundays is he gonna go out there now. Nossir, no how. He ducks back into the barn. There's one thing he knows, as sure as he knows he won't be sittin' down for weeks if Matt gets him, and that's Matt's scared of heights. Can't even go upstairs in the hotel without feeling all swoony. Heath isn't scared of heights. Sorta likes 'em, in fact, and so he scrambles over to the ladder, puts his hands on the warped rungs.
"Don't you do that, you little shit," Matt bellows. His shadow drapes over the floor, reaching for Heath's feet. "Come down here! Boy, you mind me now!"
Heath glances over his shoulder, and then starts trotting up the creaking ladder.
The barn is tall, soaring way over his head, and he's been up here hundreds of times. Knows the place like the back of his hand. He climbs up on the top floor and smells fresh dry hay. Below, Uncle Matt is smaller, kind of silly standing there at the bottom of the ladder, shaking his fist.
Ain't gonna whale on me today, Uncle Matt. Reckon I could stay up here a good long time.
"Can't stay up there forever," Matt says, voice high and tight with rage. "Gonna get hungry, think you can sneak out later. But you can't hide from me forever, you got that? Nossir, you ain't gonna get away this time."
Heath lies down in a patch of golden sunshine, belly cushioned on soft hay, and leans his chin on his hands.
He stays up there so long he falls asleep in that ray of warm light, and only wakes up when the sun's headed down in the west, spreading red and orange across the horizon. Heath blinks drowsily and stretches, and then sits bolt upright. Mama'll be home now. Wondering where he is.
He peers over the top of the ladder. No sign of Uncle Matt. No sound of him, neither. John Farmer sits on a stool, murmuring to the black-and-white cow while milk sprays into the bucket.
"Hey, Mr. Farmer!" Heath calls.
Mr. Farmer jumps, and the milk bucket tilts over, spilling creamy white onto the straw. "Tarnation, boy," he cries. "What're you doing up there?"
"Sorry," Heath says contritely. "Guess I done went to sleep."
Farmer picks up the bucket. "Well, come on down outta there, then," he says. He doesn't sound mad, just sort of tired. "Reckon your mama's wondering where you got to."
He likes John Farmer. From this height he looks small, but he's a big man, hands big as dinner plates, and when things get bad Heath sometimes thinks about John Farmer and how things might've been like if he'd been Heath's daddy. Maybe Mama wouldn't've had to do washing then. And Uncle Matt would've been shown his place. Nobody'd say the kinds of things like Trent Upjohn did last week. About how Heath didn't have no daddy at all, and that made him what they called a barstid. Heath didn't quite know what a barstid was, but he reckoned it meant boys like him, boys didn't have no daddy, and although he didn't know what having a daddy was like, he knew he wanted him one.
John Farmer didn't have no family at all. Heath puts his hands on the ladder and wonders if maybe people like Trent Upjohn had words for that, too. Can't imagine anyone saying anything mean to Mr. Farmer. But might be why he nearly always looked so sad.
"I c'n help you with that milkin'," Heath calls down. "Be right down, Mr. Farmer!"
He puts his foot on the top rung, and hears it creak. For a second he thinks, Oughta hold. But it doesn't, it's splitting under his bare foot, a sharp splinter driving into the soft part of his sole, and he draws a breath and winces and the whole thing gives way. He gives a breathy cry and grabs onto the top of the ladder, but it slips through his fingers and is gone, and he thinks, Feels like I'm flyin', and falls.
The black-and-white cow gives a startled grunt, but Heath doesn't feel himself hit the barn floor. He sees John Farmer's shocked face
Could have been my dadd
and there's an odd sound, like timber breaking up on the hills, only this is inside him, and he takes a breath and stops.
3.
There's a routine to a place like this. He's familiar with routines, and it hasn't taken long to find the rhythm of this one. Just another kind, that's all.
But today the rhythm is broken.
Heath stares at his feet, feeling the men to either side of him. Standing in ragged ranks, just like morning inspection, except it's high noon now, hot and muggy and stinking, and it isn't time for inspection. Been here two months now, and in that time hasn't been but one day when they was called out to line up during the middle of the day. That time it was because four men done broke out, made a run for it. Didn't get nowhere, of course; wasn't nowhere to go. But on account of what they done there wasn't no supper that night, and none the next night either.
He wonders if this means no supper tonight. He's awful hungry already.
"Look up, boy," someone hisses at him. "'Less you want a rifle butt in the face."
He looks up, and just in time. Bentell smirks at the ranks, hand resting lightly on his sidearm. "Well, aren't you all a sight for sore eyes. Makes my eyes sore lookin' at you, and that's a fact. Sorriest buncha shit I've ever seen."
Heath keeps on gazing at the back of the man in front of him. He can see the fleas hopping on the man's shoulders. His own head is an itching misery from all the lice. He doesn't dare scratch. Even if he goes crazy from it, his hand ain't gonna move.
"Seems to me," Bentell continues, walking slowly down the line, "we've had a discipline problem lately. So that's what we're going to drill today. Discipline. You know what that means, boys? That means you do as you're told, or suffer the consequences. Now it's kinda hot today, I realize, and that's never when you feel your best. And it's for that reason that we'll drill a bit today. Discipline is not learned through easy circumstances. No, it's gained through hard experience, and today's gonna be hard. Real hard."
Bentell stops and puts his fists on his hips. "But since discipline is new to you pieces of shit," he pronounces with relish, "I'll make it easier on you today. Consider it a warm-up, if you will. All you'll be doing is standing. No calisthenics, no work. Maintain your ranks until you are told to do otherwise.
"Now what do I mean by maintaining the ranks? I'm glad you asked me that." He smiles. "I mean standing in formation, as you are now. No fidgeting, no shifting, but standing at alert readiness until you are told to stand down."
He pauses. "The consequences of breaking rank will be…distasteful," he adds silkily. "But I find discipline best enforced by the strictest measures. I would advise you to refrain from testing my resolve here, men. I do not joke about such things."
Heath swallows and keeps on staring at the soldier's back. The fleas are having themselves a party, looks like. For a moment he feels bleak despair – fleas on human beings, ain't the first time he's seen it but never liked it, never felt it was right, fleas went on dogs, not men – and has to resist the impulse to sigh.
It isn't so bad at first. He's one of the lucky ones: he's got boots that fit him, even if there's a couple of holes in the soles. Lost his socks some time back, but his feet feel all right, and his legs are strong. Heat doesn't bother him like it does some, either. Some of these men grew up in places like New Hampshire and New York State, and this awful heat is a cruel burden for 'em. But Heath can take it. He will take it. Got no other choice.
Lord, he wants to go home. Had enough of this god-forsaken war, even before he was took prisoner. Two months here feels like two years, two years in Hell, for sure, and right now all he can think about is Mama's cooking. Chicken and dumplings, and corn, and a blueberry cake. Boy howdy, he'd like to be settin' down to that meal. Listenin' to Hannah say grace, and picking up his old battered fork and diggin' in. Was any of it real? Been so long, he couldn't rightly say. Felt like a dream. A cool, sweet-smelling dream.
A shot rings out, and he can't help flinching. Just a little flinch, and nobody sees it. He doesn't dare look to see who got shot. Hears it, the thud of deadweight hitting the ground, and that's all.
Sun's angling in his eyes when there's another shot, and another just a minute or two after. He's never been thirsty like this, not this bad, and his knees feel like rubber. Out of the corner of his eye he can see a body, lying between two men. The man has blue eyes, and Heath remembers him sharing his vittles one night, early on. Wasn't much, cornbread and a thin piece of jerky, but Heath had missed out on grub, and he ate it all down, bugs and all. Now the man was dead, because he couldn't take it. Musta flinched, or moved, or done something. From Vermont, perhaps, someplace like that. Had a funny way of talkin. Wouldn't do no more talkin' now.
In front of him, the flea-bitten man gasps, very quietly. Every nerve in Heath's body goes tight. Will he fall? Will he move, and the guns ring out again?
"Lord have mercy, sweet Jesus have mercy," somebody whispers, and Heath knows it's him. He's breaking, he's cracking right there, and Heath draws a deep breath and holds very, very still.
He's fourteen. He ain't ready to die yet. Not yet.
Mama, he thinks, blinking the hot sweat out of his eyes. Mama, I'm ready to come home now. Didn't realize how much I miss you till now.
With a low howl the man in front of him scratches his head, a fast dog-like movement with his fingers. Bentell walks leisurely up to him, close enough Heath can see the color of his eyes.
"Too bad," Bentell says evenly, and places the gun against the man's forehead.
The shot drives him backward, point-blank shot and bullet singing out the back of the man's head and past Heath's right ear. Heath catches him but can't hold him; the man's nearly a foot taller than he is and even skinny he's a lot heavier. They go down together, and Heath shoves him aside best he can and scrambles to his feet, up to stare at Bentell's eager dead eyes.
"You broke ranks, boy," he says, and his teeth glint in the sun.
The tip of the gun is hot from firing.
Pork chops, and peach cobbler. Mama, I want to go home.
4.
The shot takes him unawares. It's over now, no shooting, no fight. The railroad's beat. Where'd it come from? It feels like a bee's stung him. He gazes down stupidly at himself. The blood's hard to see. No one does see it, no one but him, and he thinks, I should sit down. Just take a little breather. It's just a scratch.
"Nice work today." Jarrod gives him a grim smile. He doesn't see it, either. "It could have been much, much worse."
Heath nods, and dizziness creeps over him. Jarrod's tight smile fades. "Heath? What's the matter?"
His brother. He marvels at that, clinging to Jarrod's arm. His oldest brother.
"Are you hurt?" Jarrod grabs him by the shoulders, glaring at him. "Nick!" he flings over his shoulder. "Come here!"
He's just winded, that's all, and he tries to tell Jarrod that, just a ding, nothing more, but he can't find the breath for it. He sits down hard, and suddenly the pain that was missing is here, screaming up from some dark invisible crevice he hasn't noticed until now. His chest burns, his lungs are on fire. How can it hurt this much? Only a lousy beesting.
"Lie back, Heath," Jarrod says, quiet and tense. "Don't struggle."
"What the hell?" Nick is leaning over him, eyes wide. "Heath? You hit, boy?"
He feels Jarrod opening his shirt, and thinks, My brothers. This is my family.
Jarrod looks at Nick. "We'll have to hurry. Send someone for the doctor. Tell them to run."
Nick bellows something over his shoulder, and then he has Heath's right hand, and Jarrod his left, and Heath smiles. It was worth it. It was all worth it. Made things right. Anything else he has no right to ask for.
Blood bubbles from his mouth, thick in his throat. The pain is much better now. He feels warm, kind of comfortable.
"Now don't you even THINK about dyin'," Nick says. His voice is hoarse and soft, utterly unlike his usual bellow. Heath likes this tone. Sounds good. Sounds like a brother. "Not havin' any of that. Nossir, not today, not tomorrow. You just take it easy and we'll get you fixed u –" His quiet voice cracks, and Heath hears him swallow. "Fixed up in no time," he croaks.
"Glad I come," Heath says, and does his best to squeeze both their hands. "Glad. Brothers."
Jarrod's face twists, and then he smiles and nods. "Yes, brother Heath," he says gently. "We're just as glad you came. Couldn't have done it without you."
"Won't have to next time, either," Nick says harshly. "Where's the damn doctor?" he bellows.
He's very sleepy. It's been a hell of a long day. He swallows blood and says, "Boy howdy. You Barkleys keep a man – on his toes."
"You mean 'us Barkleys,' don't you?" Nick asks.
Heath gazes at him, and Jarrod says, "Of course you do."
Nick holds Heath's hand, and shakes his head. "Not fair," he mumbles. "You just got here."
I'm sorry, Heath wants to say. Didn't mean to check out early. But at least I found you. At least we got that.
And then Nick smiles, although his hazel eyes are swimming with tears. Wonderingly, Heath presses Nick's fingers as tight as he can. And closes his eyes.
5.
She's making a bed in the corner room when she feels a pain in her belly. Low down, in her abdomen. Hand pressed over the hurt, she swallows a jolt of fearful wondering: what was that? Not too terribly painful, but enough to get her attention. She's felt so good lately, it's unexpected.
After she's fluffed the pillows, she gets another pain. And there's another while she's walking down the hall, but this one is real pain, sharp and stabbing, like a knitting needle jabbed into her abdomen. She doubles over, and feels wetness between her legs. From her private parts. Wet, blood?
Home, she must get to her own room. Lie down. She's just overdone it today. It must not be anything else. The baby is only four months along; it's much too early. She hardly even shows yet, and no one knows. No one but Hannah, of course, and she won't tell.
But the hot trickle between her legs is much heavier by the time she trudges up the stairs to the top floor. The pain has eased a little, but there's so much blood. You can't come out yet, she thinks blindly, staggering as she walks inside the stuffy little room. You hear me, little one? It's not time yet. Not even close. Lots to do before then. I have clothes to knit, a coat and matching booties. Already bought the yarn for it, paid fifty cents. You'll have the prettiest little clothes. You'll see.
"Miz Leah?" Hannah stares at her, and then rushes over to grasp her arm. "You all right?"
"Just – need to lie down for a moment. That's all." She hobbles to the iron bed, and thinks, This is where you were made. This is where your daddy and I made you. And we're not ready for you yet. He doesn't even know, and I haven't figured out how to tell him. Whether I even should. There's plenty of time before I have to decide. Plenty, so you just hush now, be quiet. Rest.
"Aw, Miz Leah," Hannah moans. "Dey so much blood."
She draws her legs up, covers her belly. Not so very much. It'll be all right. Stay, sweet one, all will be well. I loved your daddy so much. And he'll love you one day. He'll be so proud. You're a boy, aren't you? A sweet boy, a good boy, and you'll grow up to be strong and tall and handsome, just like your daddy.
Pain blazes through her belly, and she utters a lorn, helpless cry. No. No, it can't be. He's gone, strong beautiful Tom, gone back to his life, and if I lose this what will be left of him? Nothing. Nothing but my memories. No, it must not be. It must not, it must not.
When it's over, she lets Hannah clean her off. The blood has soaked into the bedclothes, and she's exhausted, but her eyes are dry. She can't cry. Won't. Not for something that never had the chance to be anything but a dream.
"Miz Leah, you gots to drink this now." Hannah holds out a steaming tea cup. It smells like her willow-bark tea, acrid. "Drink up, come on now."
She takes the cup and sips, and lies back. "I think I'll sleep for a bit, Hannah," she says dully. "I'm very tired."
"Aw, Miz Leah. Gracious lord have mercy. You needs a doctor."
"No." She shakes her head firmly. "I don't. I'm fine, Hannah. It's -- Everything's all right now. But I really would like to sleep now. For a bit."
Hannah gives her an uncertain nod, and takes the cup away.
She can sell the yarn. It isn't so much, and there are other babies who'll need coats and booties and bonnets. She can use the fifty cents.
Her dry, burning eyes slide closed. There now. Now Tom is truly gone. There is no tiny life inside her, no lingering tie with the man whose brief presence brought her a kind of joy she didn't think she would ever know this side of Heaven. That is gone, and so is he. Back to whatever it is he left behind.
It's better this way. Far better, really. She has no business bearing a child now. Who knows what sort of life he would have led? A hard life, likely, and she never wanted that for any child.
No, it's much, much better this way.
She presses her face against the hot pillow, and when the tears finally come, she feels cleansed. All over now. Goodbye, Tom. Goodbye, my love.
END