Once Is All You Get
Zeke and Worth Latham are two brothers who roll around in the dirt, beating the hell out of each other more often than I care to count. Hearty, hefty boys who work like dogs on their father’s farm. At fourteen and sixteen, they can do the work of any man.
It’s faster for me to run up through the forest the half mile than go back to the church and drive the winding four miles of road. But I can’t help the feeling I’m not alone in these woods as I make my way there.
I don’t know which Latham boy is hurt, but I hope it’s not Worth. I’ve already talked the death out of him once before. He was barely four at the time. A bad fever stiffened his neck and worked its way to his brain. Meningitis, they said. Fourteen-year-old me crawled up in the bed, we snuggled close, and I talked the death out of him.
Once is all you get. I’ve never tried to talk the death out of somebody twice.
I’m out of breath by the time I make it there. A white clapboard farmhouse with a fresh metal roof. Clumps of moss hang from old hearty oak trees anchoring the property. The home goes back generations, but the Lathams have taken great care of it.
“She’s here.” Zeke hops up off the porch at the sight of me. Dread washes over me. It must be Worth that needs me. Zeke’s a burly kid with strawberry blond hair that looks more like a man at sixteen than most do grown. He rushes over, blood staining his shirt.
“What happened?” I ask, still trying to catch my breath.
“We were looking for a place to build a deer stand when we saw...” His eyes scan my face. There’s a petrified fear shrouded in those gray eyes of his, like whatever he saw will forever haunt him.
“Saw what, Zeke?” A knot thrums in my throat where my heart got stuck.
“You’ll just have to see for yourself.” He shakes his head, like he’s pushing away the horror. “Worth found him first,” he says. “He tripped, his foot sunk into a hole—almost like a grave or something.”
“He who?” I ask as he opens the front porch door for me to go in.
“Ellis Rutledge.”
I freeze. A half-second hesitation, really. A Rutledge is dying—Stone Rutledge’s son. How I feel about it tests my good nature.
Between a crack in the porch boards, the tiniest of a black frond peeks through. The coil of its foliage unfurls like an open palm.
“Praise Him.” Miss Caroline Latham greets us from the living room. Her fair skin and apricot hair, just like her boys’, makes her look frailer in this situation. Worth looks seasick, green as celery, as he waits on the couch, wringing his hands. Miss Caroline drags toward the rear of the house.
The smell of Ellis’s death trails down the hallway. Not the traditional smell one might think of, like an animal rotting on the side of the road. No, this is the curdled smell of soured milk; reminds me of the bibs and burping cloths at the church nursery.
“We called his family, they’re on the way. He’s too bad to transport.” Her voice cracks. “We called Dr. York, but he’s all the way in Mercer at a family reunion. So we called you.” She pushes into the bedroom. Facedown on the bed is Ellis Rutledge, shirtless. A towel soaked in blood covers the upper part of his back and shoulder. Closest hospital is almost an hour away. With that much blood, he wouldn’t last the trip. I should have brought Davis.
“She’s here, honey. She’s here.” Miss Caroline’s voice is shaky but full of relief. She kneels on the floor to look Ellis in the face. I nod a hello to Mr. Latham who stands in the corner, trying to keep it together, but looking like he’s going to vomit.
“Um...hey, Ellis.” I kneel beside Miss Caroline, feeling very conflicted about helping someone whose family caused mine so much pain. Ellis’s brown eyes find me, and he attempts to smile, but his mouth barely twitches. He’s much slimmer than the chubby cheeked boy I met as a child. His curls longer and fluffier than back then.
Miss Caroline lightly lifts the bloody towels at his neck to show me. A punctured hole, where the neck meets the shoulder, weeps with blood. She quickly covers it. “Boys say they found him with a branch pierced through his neck. He must have fell back and speared himself.” Just hearing this makes me queasy.
Ellis’s head wobbles and a spittle of blood splatters on the pillow when he tries to speak.
“Don’t try to talk,” I tell him.
Death is so thick I can barely hear his soul-song—the soft sweet sound of a violin. A weeping sound that tugs at your heart and makes you feel sorry for it.
“I’m gonna see what I can do for you, okay?” I say to him. “At least until the doc comes.” I stand and look at Mr. Latham. “We need to get him on his back. It’ll work better if we can.” I glance up to Zeke and Mr. Latham, expectant.
They exchange looks, as if checking with the other whether they think they can or even should move him.
“Hurry!” I urge, getting them to snap to it. Mr. Latham and Zeke jump into motion. They fold the covers from the opposite side of the bed over his body, sandwiching Ellis in between, readying to flip him.
“Miss Caroline, I need a mug. Some kind of coffee or teacup,” I instruct her. She nods, leaving to go fetch one. “One that’s never had whiskey in it,” I add.
She glances over at Mr. Latham, who promptly looks away, unable to attest that such a cup exists in their house.
“I’ll find something.” Miss Caroline disappears into the hall.
On the count of three, they flip Ellis over. He makes a god-awful garbled scream, one that’ll surely be in my brain for the rest of my days.
Miss Caroline returns with an old tin cup with BABY engraved on the outside, a common heirloom around these parts.
“I use this for cutting biscuits.” She passes it to me, her hand shaky. “Should be safe from whiskey.” She cuts a glare to Mr. Latham. He nods a confirmation.
“Y’all know how this goes. Let me do my work.”
Hurriedly, everyone leaves the room.
Miss Caroline pauses at the doorway, her blue eyes pinning me. “It’s a good thing what you’re doing. Helping this young man, despite...all that’s happened.” Then she shuts the door, leaving me alone with Ellis.
And death.
I wonder if the Lathams weren’t here, would I still do this? If no one would know, would I just walk away and let him die? But no, he didn’t kill Adaire; he shouldn’t be made to pay.
Bubbles of blood foam around Ellis’s mouth; he sputters a cough. I use the wet washcloth to wipe clean his chin.
“She’s—” Ellis tries to speak, but it comes out more like a hiss.
