Vows (51 page)

 
"Get off me and let us fight!" With a flying elbow Charles knocked her off and she stumbled backward, cradling one breast, wincing with pain.

 
"
You sonofabitch, you hurt Emily!
"
Tom roared, enraged. The rage felt wonderful! Hot and healing and revitalizing! His knee came up and thrust Charles off, sent him pedaling backward, followed by Tom, who propelled himself through the air with an intensity outdistancing any he'd ever known. Two well-aimed clouts knocked Charles to his back, but he was up in a split second, and Tom took as good as he gave. Both men were powerful, with chests like drafthorses, forearms, thick as battering rams—a blacksmith and a carpenter, conditioned by years of swinging weighty hammers. Augmented by sudden enmity, their strength became immense. When they set out to punish, they did.

Flatfooted, they bare-knuckled one another—faces, stomachs, shoulders—exchanging a flurry of punishing blows and grunts that carried them from one side of the stable aisle to the other. Against a stall door, onto the floor, then up, riding the splintery wood with their shoulderblades, accidentally opening the latch, further adding to the confusion as the horse inside whinnied and pawed in terror. Neither man heard. When Tom upended Charles with a punishing uppercut, Charles picked himself up and returned the favor.

 
In minutes their faces bled. The skin on their knuckles split. Still they fought, growing weaker with each punch.

 
A dying blow caught Charles and sent him stumbling backward, tripping over a buckboard trace. He plopped onto the turntable, setting it in motion, carrying him several feet away from Tom, who followed unsteadily, weaving on his feet. Panting, the two rested for ten seconds before obliging one another again, this time on the floor, rolling, too close for effective swings.

 
Still they tried, cursing, clouting each other with ineffectual close-range shots until they struck the far wall, where they lay in a tangle of arms and legs. Nose to nose, they panted, gripping each other's jacket fronts.

 
Charles scarcely had the breath to speak. Still, he taunted brokenly, "How far … did you… go with her, huh, f—friend?"

 
Tom was in no better shape. "You got a d—dirty mind, B—Bliss!"

 
Dizzy and stumbling, Tom struggled to his feet, hauling Charles with him. He pulled back for another swing but inertia nearly tumbled him backwards. Charles was equally as sapped. He reeled onto his heels with his fists clenched weakly. "Come on … you bastard … I'm not through!"

 
Tom faced off, quarter-bent, swaying, his arms hanging like bell clappers. "Yes you are … I'm m—marrying her," he managed between strident breaths. Talking hurt nearly as much as slugging. Still they hung before one another, close to exhaustion.

 
"You wanna … call it quits?" Tom got out, wobbling on his feet.

 
"Not by a … damn sight."

 
"Awright then…" He hadn't the strength to throw a punch, but came at Charles with his entire body. Backwards they went, stumbling into the opened stall, against the withers of the frightened bay gelding, smashing him against the stable wall as they fell in a loose tangle of diminished force.

 
On her knees near the turntable Emily wept, covering her mouth with both hands, afraid to interfere again.

 
"Please … please…" she prayed behind cold fingers, hunkered forward over her knees.

 
The men crashed out of the stall, falling apart, swaying on their feet sidestepping like drunks, trying to focus through swollen eyes. Their jackets looked as though they'd been worn in a slaughterhouse.

 
"You … had … enough?" Tom managed through battered lips.

 
"So … help … me … God…" Charles never finished. He collapsed to his knees, buckling at the waist.

 
Tom followed suit, falling forward onto all fours, his head dangling as if connected to his body by a mere string. For seconds the stable was filled with the sound of their harsh breathing. Then came Tom's voice, pitiful with emotion, very near tears.

 
"G–Goddamn you … why'd you hafta … b—bring her to my h—house for that shivaree?"

 
Charles wobbled on his knees, barely upright. He tried to point a bloody finger at his foe but his arm kept falling. "You k–kissed her in that g–goddamn cl–closet … didn't you!"

 
Winded, Tom nodded, unable to lift his head.

 
Charles fell off his knees with a loose-jointed thump, dropping to his side and catching himself on an elbow.

 
"What a s–sucker I was, b–building you furniture…"

 
"Yeah … stupid sonofabitch … I'm gonna … take an axe … and b–bust that thing … to smithereens… "

 
"Do it! … g'wan … do it…" Charles let his head flop back against his shoulder. "I don't give a d-damn."

 
Emily stared at them, dumbfounded, crying, with her hands clapped to her mouth.

 
Still on all fours with his head hanging, Tom spoke as if to the floor. "I didn't mean … to fall in … love with 'er, man…"

 
The two men breathed like engines running out of steam, their enmity gone as suddenly as it had appeared, both of them pitiable now as truth came to take its place between them. After a full thirty seconds Charles collapsed onto his back eyes closed. He groaned. "Christ, I hurt…" His right knee, upraised, undulated from side to side.

 
"I think … my ribs're broke." Tom remained on all fours, his forehead hanging inches above the floor, as if unable to rise.

 
"Good. So's my … goddamn heart."

 
On hands and knees, Tom crawled painfully across the aisle until he knelt above Charles and peered down blearily into his friend's face. There he hung, with the breath catching in his throat, until he finally whispered gutturally "I'm sorry man."

 
Charles closed his fingers over a puny lump of hay and flung it at Tom's face, missing. His hands dropped to the concrete, palm-up.

 
"Yeah, well, go to hell, you bastard." He lay exhausted, eyes closed.

 
Emily watched their breakdown through a blur of tears. In her many years of friendship with Charles, Emily had never heard him curse so much, nor had she ever seen him strike a soul. Neither had she suspected Tom would engage in violence. She had witnessed the past five minutes with horror and fear and a heart that broke for both of them. It was obvious their real pain was not that inflicted by fists. Those wounds would heal.

 
But now that it was over her stomach trembled and reason rushed in, bringing with it justifiable anger. How horrible that two human beings would hurt each other so.

 
"You're both crazy," she whispered, wide-eyed. "What good did this do?"

 
"Tell 'er, Jeffcoat."

 
"I would, but I dunno. I feel like a chunk of beef that's been put through the meat grinder … both ways." Tom sucked in his belly and tested it tenderly with one limp hand.

 
"Good."

 
"I think I have to puke."

 
"Good."

 
Still staring at the floor, Tom spit out a mouthful of blood and the nausea passed. "Ohhh, gawwwwwd!" he groaned, settling back gingerly onto his heels. "Oh, holy … jumpin' … Judas." He closed his eyes and cradled his ribs with an arm.

 
Charles opened his eyes and rolled his head. "They broke?"

 
The pain became so intense that Tom could only shake his head and mouth the words,
I don't know.

 
"Emily?" Charles said thickly, the word distorted by his bruised lips as he blearily searched for her.

 
She sat above and behind him. "What?"

 
He skewed his head and peered at her backwards. "Maybe you better go get the doc. I think I busted his ribs."

 
Instead, she sat where she was, appalled by what they'd done to one another.

 
"Oh, look at your faces, you fools, just look at them," she cried plaintively.

 
They did. Surprised by her vehemence, Tom and Charles took a good look at the carnage they had reaped and it mellowed them further. Emily's outburst seemed to snap belated common sense back into both men's heads and make them realize they'd fought first without discussing anything—just slammed each other with fists, as if that would fix everything. But it wouldn't. They'd have to talk, and as they rested on the bricks, emotionally as well as physically exhausted, the realization came slowly, bringing with it a pathos magnified by Charles's first question.

 
"All right … so how did it happen?"

 
Tom shook his head, studying his soiled knees despondently. "Hell, I don't know. How did it happen, Emily? Working with the horses together, playing those stupid damn parlor games, I don't know. How does it ever happen? It just does, that's all."

 
"Emily, is he telling it straight? Did you tell him you'd marry him already?"

 
"Yes, Charles," she replied, studying the top of Charles's head as he remained on his back on the floor.

 
"He's an asshole, you know." Charles's voice held a trembling note of affection. "You want to marry an asshole who'd steal his best friend's fiancée?"

 
She swallowed and felt tears forming afresh, watching the two men stare at one another.

 
Tom's voice softened and became as emotional as his friend's. "I wish it could've been another woman. I tried Tarsy. I wish to hell it could have been Tarsy. But she was like … like too much divinity … you know what I mean?" His voice dropped to a near-whisper. "I tried, Charles, but it just didn't work." After a long pause he touched Charles on the hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered.

 
Charles shook him off and flung an arm over his eyes. "Aw, get out of here. Go on, get out of here and take her with you!" Horrified, Emily watched Charles's Adam's apple bob and realized that beneath his bloody jacket sleeve he was battling tears.

 
She struggled to her feet, her skirt wrinkled and strewn with straw.

 
"Come on, Tom…" She took his arm. "See if you can get up."

 
He drew his sad eyes away from Charles and straightened like an arthritic old man, accepting her aid. He hobbled as far as the open stall door and clung to it for support. When he'd caught his breath he remembered.

 
"You all right, Em?"

 
"Yes."

 
"But you caught an elbow, I saw it."

 
"I'm not hurt. Come on," she whispered. "I think Charles is right. I think we ought to find Doc Steele and have him take a look at you."

 
"Doc Steele is a quack, and cranky to boot. Everybody says so."

 
"But he's the only doctor we have."

 
"I don't need any doctor." Walking half the length of the barn proved too much for Tom, however.

 
"Stop," he pleaded, slamming his eyes shut. "Maybe you're right. Maybe you'd better go get Doc and bring him back here. That way he can check both of us."

 
She lowered Tom where he stood, and left him sitting propped against a wooden half door on the cold brick floor.

 
Three minutes later, when she beat on the front door of Doc Steel's house, Hilda Steele answered, wrapped in a robe with her hair in a frowsy braid.

 
"Yes?"

 
"It's Emily Walcott, Mrs. Steele. Is the doctor here?"

 
"No, he's not. He's out on circuit till the end of the week."

 
"Till the end of the week?"

 
"What is it? Is it something serious?"

 
"Would you … I … no … I'm not sure … I'll get my father."

 
She ran home instinctively, her mind empty of all but worry for Tom and Charles. When she burst in the front door Edwin and Fannie were seated side by side on a sofa. Earl had gone home and Frankie was nowhere in sight.

 
"Papa, I need your help!" Emily announced, wild-eyed and breathless from running.

 
"What's wrong?" He met her halfway across the parlor, taking her icy bare hands.

 
"It's Tom and Charles. They've had a fight and I think Tom has some broken ribs. I'm not sure about Charles. He's lying flat on his back at Tom's livery stable."

 
"Unconscious?"

 
"No. But his face is a mess and I can't move either one of them. I left them there and ran to get Doc Steele but he's gone somewhere and Tom can't walk and … oh, please, help me, Papa. I don't know what to do." Her face crumpled. "I'm so scared."