A Place of Peace (12 page)

“Help me!” she startled Holcomb out of his staring.  “Don’t just sit there.  Hold him still!”

Her voice was stern, and Holcomb suddenly felt that if she suddenly told him to go jump off a cliff in that voice, he would do it.  Her voice held that much power.  He climbed down off the wagon’s seat and came around the wagon, coming up behind Colby and gripping him by the shoulders.

“I’ve got to prepare a fresh bandage,” Lilly said, continuing her lecture.  “If you have to do this, this is how you do it, so pay attention.”  When she was finished, Holcomb looked at her in amazement.  Her hands moved with a skill that was otherworldly in their efficiency.   Colby’s leg was tightly bandaged, fresh and white, and Holcomb relaxed his grip, feeling Colby go limp beneath him.

Holcomb looked at Lilly, who was cleaning her hands with rainwater.  Her work on Colby’s wound was remarkable: an elaborate criss-crossed bandage applied with dizzying speed.  He picked up the bourbon bottle offering it to her. 

“A drink to a job well done,” he said.  She took the bottle and drank a deep swallow.  With not so much as a grimace, she handed the bottle back to Holcomb.

“We can set up a camp here,” she said.  “In the morning I’ll show you the logging road.”

She placed a slender hand on Colby’s forehead, caressing his cheek a little.  “He’s going to be fine.”  Her eyes softened as she said the words.  Holcomb shook his head.

A prisoner and didn’t even know it.

chapter fourteen

She kept a constant
lookout on the road that passed the Johnsons’ farm.  Often, she would sit out on the porch, Frank’s rifle loaded in her lap, and stare down the road, almost expecting another column of troops at any moment.  Melinda knew she couldn’t keep living like this: constantly paranoid and watchful, living each moment as if she was going to be attacked, but she found herself doing it anyway.  With Joan bedridden and wasting away, she felt like she had no other choice. 

Joan had not eaten much since Frank died.  At the most, Melinda could get her to sip some broth or chew on a crust of bread softened by a bit of milk.  As a result, Joan had lost quite a bit of weight.  Her skin was becoming loose and her eyes sunken and shallow, ringed with dark circles.  Melinda tried the best she could to take care of the woman but wasn’t having much success.  Joan seemed determined to join Frank in the hereafter.   She stayed in bed most of the days, mumbling to herself and wringing her hands in a strange pattern.  Sometimes Melinda could hear her having conversations with Frank, speaking to him as if he was standing there beside her bed.

Now Melinda rocked in Joan’s old chair, rifle propped up next to the porch railing.  Joan had still been asleep when Melinda came outside.  She would probably sleep most of the day. The late June morning was already growing hot, burning the last of the early fog away and forecasting another scorching day.   She had written another letter, sending it to wherever the army was currently encamped, not holding out any hope she would find any answers, but she felt she had to keep trying.  Her father was out there somewhere, and whether he was a prisoner or dead, Melinda had to know.  The not knowing was destroying her a little more each day.  Joan was wasting away and could barely speak more than a few isolated grunts and syllables.  Melinda began to understand what she was saying, like a mother could come to understand a small child by their own system of sounds and gestures.

Then Melinda began noticing that Joan was not moving her arms as well as she used to.  One side of Joan’s body was rigid, and the corner of her mouth sagged on the left side.  This had moved past the category of simply being in shock: Melinda knew something was seriously wrong with Joan, but she had no way of knowing what or how to fix it.

She stood from the porch and looked down the road leading into Gallatin.  Ten miles away might have been the distance to another country for all the good it did her.  She doubted she could find a doctor there anyway, especially one who would come back out to the farm, and though Joan was not quite as heavy as she used to be, Melinda could still barely move her and she surely could not load her into a wagon to transport her up to Gallatin. 

Besides, there was no horse.  Clover the mare had been taken when the cavalry had departed that night: the night that left Melinda with the position of caretaker for Joan Johnson.  Still, wouldn’t Joan have done the same for Melinda if the situation were reversed?  Of course she would have.  So whenever Melinda felt a bit of resentment or guilt, she remembered all the good things Joan had done for her and her family over the years, and it made it much easier to deal with the situation.

She dreaded the thought of lugging the endless buckets of water out into the gardens today.  The air was buzzing with heat and insects, and the last bit of coolness the dawn held had evaporated.  Melinda, mad at herself for letting the time slip away from her, slung the rifle across her back with a leather strap she had rigged from the tack left in the barn.  She didn’t feel safe without it anymore, and it was almost like a third arm now.  Frank had stored a few boxes of lead minie balls in the cellar behind the jars of apple preserves, and Melinda had taken them all, hiding them in the house closer to the door, where she could reach them in a hurry.

Tin cans had been set up in neat rows along one of Frank’s rail fences, and Melinda practiced out there almost every night.  She would wait until dusk, when the last light of the day would gleam off the cans and then fade, leaving them barely visible.  Melinda figured that if she could become a good shot when there was little light available, targets in the daytime would be no problem.  Frank’s rifle tended to pull to the right, and she figured that’s probably why she missed when she shot at the Union soldier on the porch.  Now, she adjusted, and the loud thunderclap of the rifle was followed by a steady clink of lead on tin as the
minie ball would rip a hole through the cans and send them flying.

Her new confidence with the rifle would have made both her father and Frank very proud of her.  Now as she shouldered the rifle and grabbed the wooden buckets to head toward the pump, she realized how much she had changed in the last two months.  Would her father even recognize her now?  The carefree girl who skipped down the road kicking rocks to the side was gone.  The woman who trudged through the field hardly sloshing a drop of water over the sides of her buckets had taken her place.

She watered the tomatoes, which, she noticed, were thriving much better than hers had ever done.  Perhaps Frank knew a secret she didn’t.  What looked like hundreds of little green balls threatened to pull the plants over with their weight.  Another week or so, and they would turn a bright red, and then it would be time to pick them, which was another chore Melinda was not looking forward to.

There was a faint crash that seemed to come from the house.  Melinda looked up, dropping her bucket and dousing her boot with its water in the process.  She unslung her rifle and began running back to the house.  Another crash, and Melinda saw smoke drifting out of one of the windows.

“Joan!”  She called as she ran.  “Joan!”

She bounded up onto the porch and yanked open the door only to have a wave of black smoke roll over her, causing her to tear up.  She hacked and coughed and pushed on into the house.

Through the smoke she saw the glimmer of yellow flames licking through the house.  Her boot crunched on shattered glass, and she saw one of the kerosene lamps at her feet, broken and its fuel splashed across the floor.  Flames were dancing along the liquid, consuming it and anything else it touched.

“Joan!”  She screamed, trying to keep from breathing in huge mouthfuls of smoke.  “Where are you?”

A small moan from the other room.  Melinda stepped through the flames.  She kicked another destroyed lamp in the process, sending the broken glass globe clattering across the floor.  More kerosene: the room was almost drenched with it, and the heat was burning her as she felt her way into Joan’s room.  She couldn’t see anything as the smoke wrapped around her head and blinded her.

“Joan!”  She called again.

Melinda made her way into the old woman’s room and saw her lying in a crumpled heap near the side of the bed.  What in the world was she doing trying to get up?  She reeked of the smell of kerosene, almost as if she had doused herself with it in addition to breaking all the lamps.

Trying not to panic, Melinda hooked her arms around Joan’s shoulders.  Terrifying flashbacks of her own house burning almost paralyzed her, but she fought them back.  Joan was moving, trying to push Melinda away from her, but Melinda held fast, even when one of Joan’s wild swings connected with her cheek, rattling her teeth.

She looked up, moving over to the window and opening it.  A gust of flame roared into the room, drawn and fed by the sudden air that flowed into the room.  An edge of a flame caught Joan on the arm, and the sudden scream she let out was one that would haunt Melinda for the rest of her life.  The kerosene that had soaked the woman’s clothes ignited before Melinda could get back to her and drag her over to the window.

She yanked the blanket off the bed and fell on Joan, pounding at her, trying to smother the fire.  Joan wasn’t moving, and smoke curled up from beneath the blanket.  Melinda tied the corner of the blanket into a knot and, using the blanket as a stretcher, began to drag it across the floor as best she could.  When they reached the window, the hot summer breeze felt like a douse of cold water to her, and she gulped down fresh air while she watched the flames
trickle into the room, following the trail of kerosene across the floor and consuming everything else it touched.

The bottom of the window was three feet from the floor and from there it was about a five-foot drop to the ground outside.  She dragged Joan as close as she could to the bottom of the window, not knowing how she was going to be able to lift her those three feet.

But Joan was moving, twitching under the blanket Melinda had wrapped around her.  She was muttering something, random sounds that Melinda tried hard to piece together.

“Joan,” she said to her, leaning very close to the older woman’s ear.  “Joan, the house is on fire.  You’ve got to try to help me, or I won’t be able to get you out.  Do you understand?”

She pulled back the blanket from the Joan’s head and saw where the fire had already touched her on the side of her face.  It was red and blistered, and the fire had scorched and blackened her hair.

Joan tried to speak, but Melinda couldn’t understand what she was saying.  Joan’s right arm pushed the girl away, as if telling her to leave her there on the floor.

“No,” Melinda said, shaking her head.  “No.  Joan, help me!  Do you understand?  Help me!”

But Joan refused to budge, and Melinda tried to lift the woman up to the window despite not having any help.  Melinda felt her back pop with the effort, and the muscles on her arms twitched, but she managed to prop Joan up to a sitting position beneath the window.  Now, if only she could somehow lift the woman’s feet, she might could push her through the window, and she thought a five -foot drop was a lot better than being burned alive.

Melinda felt tears begin to stream down her face.  Whether it was from the smoke or from frustration, she couldn’t tell.  Joan was pushing her away again, her eyes on the fire and gleaming brightly with the flames’ reflection.

The flames had reached the bed, and the room was suddenly filled with the stench of burnt feathers.  If they waited much longer, the fire would be near them.  It was already impossible to escape back through the house.  The window was the only way out now, and Melinda wanted to scream at Joan, to shake her and make her come to her senses: to snap out of whatever it was that was making her so uncooperative.

Joan turned to look at the girl, sudden recognition springing into her face.  Melinda wanted to collapse, but she decided she would be strong: for her father and for Frank.  Frank would not have wanted this.  Frank would have told her to get up and get moving.

“Come on, Joan!” Melinda practically screamed in her ear.  “Help me get you through the window!”

But another push, surprisingly strong, almost knocked Melinda down.  Joan was being stubborn, and was watching the fire come at her with a strange look on her face.  There was a pitcher of water on the night table and Melinda grabbed it, throwing it at the fire in a last desperate gesture.  The fire hissed and consumed the water, and it was gone. 

“Joan,” Melinda said, not screaming, but almost weeping.  “Joan, please.  Don’t do this.  Frank wouldn’t want it.  He would want you to get out and save yourself.  I can’t lift you through the window.  I can help, but you have to help me, too.  Do you understand?”

There was no response from Joan.  A crack and roar, and part of the ceiling collapsed in the front room, threatening to send more roof beams down, probably directly on them.  Melinda tried one last time, hooking her arms around the older woman’s shoulders and yanking as hard as she could.  Joan moved, a little, but it was not enough.  More of the ceiling began to fall in, weakened by the fire that was blazing with a fierce heat.  Melinda knew they didn’t have much time left.

“Joan…” Melinda didn’t want to say goodbye.  If she left now, it would be almost like murder.  “Joan, please…”

The smoke was making her dizzy and lightheaded, and Melinda stuck her head out the window, breathing in more precious fresh air.  Behind her was only the dark heat and smoke of death, and Joan was going to be content to let it wash over her and carry her away.

“Joan, please,” Melinda was begging.  “Please don’t do this.”

A thunderous split from overhead, and Melinda had a flash of sudden blue sky through the rift in the ceiling a split second before the rest of the roof started coming down on their heads.  A shaft of sunlight burst through the smoke and lit up the room in a yellow glow.  The sky had never looked more blue or more perfect in that split second before the roof came down.  Melinda suddenly had visions of angels possibly swirling around in the smoke and riding down on the beam of sunlight.

She coughed again, the smoke filling her lungs. Perhaps Joan had the right idea.  Perhaps it would be better to end it here than to go on.

Her father’s voice in her head told her not to be foolish, and she found herself leaping out of the window as the splitting turned into a roar and the house collapsed behind her, burying poor Joan in the rubble and leaving Melinda, weeping, face down on the grass outside.

She lay there, dazed, until the sun decided it had enough and mercifully shrouded her in darkness.  The fire smoked and burned behind her until there was nothing but a skeletal shell of blackened wood and ash left standing.  It occurred to her, as she lay there in the grass and the summer crickets began to chirp their nightly symphony, that Joan had broken those lamps on purpose.  It might have been an accident, but Melinda knew better.  Joan had wanted to go ever since the night Frank had died.  Maybe she thought Melinda wouldn’t come back to the house, or maybe she wanted her to think it was an accident.