The Last Days of Dogtown Page 20

  At first light, he heard a sound in the distance. Lifting his head, Cornelius thought he saw a brown skirt receding down the road. He lay back, wishing he’d fallen in the woods, where he might have died in peace, and closed his eyes again until a hoarse bark roused him. A wet nose grazed his cheek and a woman’s voice called, “Poppa?

  Poppa, come here.”

  The white dog turned at the sound, trotted a few steps toward it, reconsidered, and returned to Cornelius’s side, where he resumed his short, husky yapping. “Here, here, here,” he barked.

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  “Poppa!” The voice was cross now and louder than before until Polly Younger was standing over him.

  “Cornelius?”

  “It’s my knee,” he said.

  “Oh, dear,” she said. “I don’t suppose you’d be lying there if you could walk, would you? I’ll go fetch Oliver.”

  He watched her yellow gingham disappear, the dog waddling behind. Time passed and he began to wonder if he’d only dreamed that Polly had been there, or perhaps she had simply gone the way of the brown skirt. But then she was back with Oliver, dragging a rough plank sled.

  “Sorry it took so long, old man,” said Oliver. “I knew I’d never be able to carry you on my own, so I had to borrow this old thing. We can at least get you home on it.”

  Cornelius blinked at the barrage of cheerful words, and he did what he could to help get himself onto the plank.

  Oliver took up the rope and started dragging him, as slowly as he could, to ease his way in and out of the ruts, some as deep as a horse trough.

  “Sorry, old man,” he said at every bump. “I never forgot how you helped me out of that scrape at Peg Low’s tavern.

  Course, that was before I was a married man. You don’t find me in a tavern these days.”

  “There are plenty of married men in those places,” said Polly.

  The sled hit a big rock and Cornelius groaned.

  “Sorry,” said Oliver and Polly in unison.

  “I think Easter might be best for looking after that leg,”

  said Polly. “She’s good with the rheumatiz, isn’t she?”

  “We could ask Judy, too,” said Oliver.

  “She’s not much for bones, is she?”

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  “No need,” Cornelius said.

  The house wasn’t much more than a hundred yards past the bend in the road where Cornelius had fallen. A baby wailed, and Polly ran toward the sound while Oliver settled him against a tree.

  “I’ll be right back,” he said and followed his wife inside.

  Cornelius could hear their voices but not what they were saying. He tried to move his leg again, but the pain pinned him flat. He could not stand, couldn’t even move away to relieve himself, a need that was becoming urgent. The baby’s cries had ceased. Cornelius could not remember the last time he had felt so helpless or so afraid.

  “It’s far too hot inside the house for you,” said Oliver, bringing him a cup of water. “You’re better off out here where there’s a chance of a breeze. I’ve got to get into work, but I’ll stop and let Somes know about the accident. Polly will see to you until I can fetch Easter this evening, and then . . .”

  “I’m afraid, I mean,” Cornelius interrupted, “I don’t, I mean I can’t . . .”

  “No need,” Oliver said, rushing to reassure him that thanks were unnecessary. “What would have become of me if you hadn’t dragged me home that day? What would have become of you if our foolish Poppa hadn’t found you, eh?”

  Cornelius shook his head.

  Polly stood at the door with her new baby, David, on her shoulder. Three-year-old Natty peeked out from behind her dress. “Kindness is its own reward,” she said.

  “Not in my experience, Missus.”

  “I suppose not,” she allowed.

  Cornelius gestured for Oliver to bend down. “Mr.

  Younger, I must ask you to, I need to . . .”

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  “What is it, old man?” Oliver leaned in.

  “Perhaps Mrs. Younger could go inside so I, with your help, if I could just . . .”

  Oliver finally understood the problem. “Polly, my dear, if you’d excuse us, Mr. Cornelius and I will be just a moment.”

  As soon as she left, Oliver hoisted Cornelius up and supported him as he hopped a few feet toward the woods and left him leaning against a tree to do his business.

  Cornelius cleared his throat to signal that he was done, and Oliver helped him back to where Polly had set a pallet out under a tree. After Oliver left for work, she brought him a piece of cold corn bread and a cup of cider.

  “I’m afraid I haven’t much more to offer till dinner,”

  she said. “Oliver brings us fish for supper and whatever else he can pick up that’s not too dear. My garden didn’t do so well,” she said, ducking her head. “I couldn’t get to the watering in the last few weeks of my confinement and Judy was watching at Mrs. Cook’s every day. Ollie was busy looking after Natty and me and, well, we lost the beans and squashes. I think we’ll save the turnips and pumpkins.”

  “Thank you, Missus,” said Cornelius, chewing the bread. “This is plenty. Thank you kindly.”

  Polly went indoors to nurse the baby and set some clothes on to boil. She returned after a while with a bowl of water and some cloths. “I don’t have poultices or anything like that, but I could clean you up a little. It might make you feel better.”

  She spoke in tones she might use with a child and Cornelius bristled, wondering if she thought he was stupid.

  But her hands were so gentle as she draped a cool cloth over his ankle; a sigh of relief escaped him.

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  “Better?”

  He nodded. “Thank you, Missus.”

  The knee was not so easy to get at. Polly’s attempt to roll the trouser up hurt so much that she finally said,

  “I think you must remove your britches, Mr. Cornelius.”

  She went inside and returned with a thin blue quilt, turning aside while Cornelius struggled to get free of his pants.

  After an agony of twisting and pulling, he finally got them off and lay back, panting and bathed in sweat.

  “Oh dear,” said Polly, looking at his knee, which was twice the size it should have been. The compress helped a little, but as the day wore on, Cornelius felt the joint get stiffer and hotter. He pretended to sleep so Polly would leave him to his despair: a lame old African on his own might as well be dead.

  Oliver returned bearing more than his usual number of bundles. After handing Polly a large fillet of mangled cod and a few carrots, he sat down beside Cornelius and fidgeted with a burlap sack. Finally, he said, “I’m sorry, old man.

  I went over to see Somes to warn him that you’d had a spill and might be a few days. But I saw his wife first and when I told her what happened, she said . . .” Oliver stopped. He would not repeat what she’d said. “She claims Mr. Somes had already decided to . . .”

  Cornelius saved him the trouble of lying. “I won’t be going back there.”

  “She gave me your things,” Oliver said, handing him the bag. “Maybe you can talk to Jacob when you’re up and about.” The two men sat in silence until Natty toddled over and climbed onto his father’s lap.

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  “How’s my boy?” he whispered, nuzzling his fine blond hair.

  After a while, Polly laid an old sheet on the ground and set their dinner on it. “It’s so much cooler out here,” she said,
running in and out of the house with plates and forks, a platter of fried fish, a bowl of boiled carrots.

  “Thanks, Missus,” Cornelius whispered, whereupon Natty walked over to him, took a carrot from his plate, and patted his cheek. Oliver grinned and between bites said,

  “I’m going to fetch Easter.”

  “Could you look for a raspberry bush on the way?”

  Polly asked.

  “’Sberry?” chirped Natty.

  “If there’s a berry to be had, you’ll have it,” Oliver promised as he set off.

  “Don’t you worry, Mr. Cornelius,” said Polly, as she cleared the dishes. “Easter will know what to do. I expect you’ll sleep better tonight.”

  Cornelius doubted that. Even if Easter had magic at her command and could get him dancing a jig by morning, his prospects would keep him awake. He’d lost both his job and his home.

  He was so occupied by these unhappy considerations that Easter’s face was a few inches from his own before he realized she’d arrived. “Cornelius Finson, as I live and breathe,” she proclaimed. “I ain’t seen you in a dog’s age.

  Not that you were ever much of a visitor. Now let me have a look at what you’ve done to yourself.”

  She removed the cloth from his knee. “Ugly,” she grimaced. “I’ll wager it was paining you even before you took that fall. And what were you doing out on that road so early

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  in the day, my good man?” she teased. “A city fellow like yourself, though Oliver here tells me that I might be seeing more of you up in Dogtown soon. I believe Charity Somes may be the worst-named woman I never did like.”

  Oliver gave Cornelius a sheepish look, embarrassed that he’d told Easter all of his business.

  “I’ll do what I can with what I brought,” she said.

  “Polly, could you fetch me some boilt water for this roasted sorrel? We’ll let it steep awhile. It makes a nice poultice when it’s cooled; helps with lameness sometimes, not that it’s going to fix this mess. Not by itself.”

  She got up and headed for the door, calling, “Polly!

  I need a cup of cider, too. I know you don’t have any ale, though I keep telling you it’s good for the milk. And how is your milk coming these days? Is that pretty baby fattening up?”

  Oliver grinned. “She’s a lot of noise, isn’t she?”

  Cornelius nodded.

  “Then again,” Oliver muttered to himself as he followed Easter inside, “between the two of you, it works out.”

  Easter applied the poultice, laying the soggy leaves so that none of them crossed. Then she wrapped the pile of it with a bandage made of stained and raveled muslin. “Does it hurt?” she asked. When Cornelius shook his head, she tightened the bandages until they were just about too snug for comfort.

  “That’s all for now,” Easter said. “I’ll be back with something else. Root of water lily might do for the swelling.

  I wager that fancy Dr. Beech in town would stick his little knives into it.” She put her finger up beside her nose and said, “There’s the real witchcraft, if you ask me. I don’t care

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  if he calls himself doctor or professor or His Majesty; only the devil asks for blood.”

  She dismissed Oliver’s offer to walk her home with a wave. “I’m fine. You take care of each other and have a good night, my dears. Good night to you, too, Cornelius.”

  After she left and a comfortable silence settled on the house, Natty piped up, “’Sberry?”

  “Oh, my sweet boy,” said Oliver, lifting his son up.

  “I didn’t forget, but all I found was still green and bitter.

  We’ll go back in a week and gobble ’em right off the bush, just you and me. Will that do, my pet? My handsome fellow?”

  Cornelius was exhausted. The avalanche of talk, the pain in his leg, the loss of his livelihood—he closed his eyes, hoping for sleep. But Oliver tapped him on the shoulder.

  “I can’t let you stay out here, old man,” he said. “The mosquitoes will chew you up.”

  Cornelius was too tired to disagree and let Oliver do with him as he wished, which was to settle him on the bed where he’d seen Judy Rhines lay her head many times. He slept badly in the heat and woke up sore and thirsty, determined to be as little bother as possible.

  He ate when his hosts ate, slept when they slept, and spent the rest of the day sitting in the shade. And although he did nothing, Cornelius wore himself out traveling the distance from boredom to misery to resignation, and back again.

  After three identical days, he finally noticed the ceaseless activity going on all around him. Polly washed the baby’s bottom, carried the water, aired the linen, and all the while chattered to Natty, encouraging him to name his nose, his

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  knees, the bucket, the dog. She cooked and served and washed dishes, washed the baby again, set more water on to boil, and sat down only to nurse.

  Once Oliver returned in the evening, Polly had still more to do: cooking the fish and then clearing the dinner, handing Oliver the baby so she could hem the petticoats sent by ladies in town. Cornelius grew weary watching her go from one task to the next.

  The next morning Polly had to lay down her bucket three times to attend to David, who kept wailing regardless of her every effort to soothe him. “He must be getting ready to cut a tooth,” she said, wiping her brow.

  “Sorry, Missus.”

  Polly considered his apology for a moment and held the red-faced baby out to him. “Would you hold him so I can get to the stream?

  “He’s a good boy, honest,” she said, arranging him upon Cornelius’s chest. “Mostly what he wants is to be held so his belly is warm. I don’t know why. Natty wasn’t that way.”

  The baby settled the moment his stomach touched

  Cornelius, and Polly set off for the stream at a trot, glancing back three times before disappearing. Natty did not follow at his mother’s heels as usual, but stayed and watched as the big man cradled his tiny brother. David smiled whenever Cornelius stroked his tiny bare feet, which provoked an unselfconscious smile in the big man as well.

  When Polly returned, David was fast asleep where she’d put him. “You sure you don’t mind, now?” she asked from time to time, taking David up only to feed him or clean him.

  That night in bed, Polly told Oliver about Cornelius’s talent as a nursemaid. “I think he might enjoy it,” she

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  whispered. “I’m sure that I saw him kissing David’s forehead. Can you imagine?”

  The next morning, Cornelius reached out for the baby before Polly could ask. He was grateful for the distraction, and also fascinated by the feel and smell of the infant, and the way he responded to touch. When Polly disappeared into the house or down to the stream, he ran a light finger over David’s hands and feet. He traced the bare outline of his eyebrows, the warm crooks of his elbows. He took the whole of David’s hand on his thumb, in awe. But when he cupped a hand over the top of the baby’s skull, Cornelius nearly jumped out of his skin.

  The moment Polly returned from the stream he said,

  “Missus?”

  “Yes, Cornelius,” said Polly, eager for any word from him.

  “I fear that David’s head is not right.”

  Polly froze.

  “There, on the top.” He pointed. “Like a melon, Missus, with a soft place. It’s not right. I’m so sorry. I didn’t do anything . . .”

  “Oh, no,” said Polly, who felt her heart begin to beat again. “That’s just how babies are made. The soft part there closes over soon enough. Natt
y’s head was like that, but it’s hard as a nut now. See?” She made him put his hand on the older boy’s curls. “But I suppose it’s not something you know till you have a baby of your own.”

  Cornelius nodded and Polly went silent, afraid she’d said something hurtful. Not that she had any hope of knowing the heart of this quiet shadow of a man. But she did know, and with complete certainty, that he treated her

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  sons with the same affection and patience as Oliver or Judy.

  And she knew that he was grateful for every small kindness he was shown.

  Cornelius’s pain eased slowly, but his knee still throbbed and swelled whenever he put weight on it. “It’s the dog days, that’s what it is,” Easter said, when she stopped to pack his bandage with a foul-smelling concoction of pickled burdock leaves. “This is the worst time of year for healing, and that’s all there is to it. A few more weeks of rest will be the cure of you, and not even this heat can stop that. If you do as I say and keep off that peg of yours, you’ll be on your way soon enough.” Cornelius had little choice but to keep still and hope the old woman was right.

  One day was much like the next, which made little events stand out: the late raspberries ripened and they all ate their fill. A few squashes added a tasteless but filling accompaniment to whatever leftover bits of cod or haddock Oliver brought home.

  The weather cooled for a few days but then grew

  unspeakably hot again, and even sweet-tempered Natty turned sullen. One afternoon, when his mother was occupied with the baby and Cornelius was dozing, the usually tractable little boy started to wail. “Judy. Where is my Judy?

  I want my Judy!”

  “Hush,” said Polly. “Your Judy is tending Mrs. Cook, who must be very ill, indeed, else she’d be here. She’s never been away from you so long, has she?”

  Polly turned to Cornelius and explained, “Judy Rhines has been like a sister to me since Natty was born. He dotes on her but we haven’t seen her in so long, have we, Natty?

  I’ll go call at the Cooks’ and have a good long chat with her,

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