With Thomas gone, Rebekah steeled her jaw and continued to clean the blood from her husband’s mangled face. “Oh Joseph, what happened to you?”
“Sissy! Come quick!”
Rebekah kept her eyes on Joseph, careful to be gentle in her cleaning. “I cannot right now. What is it?”
“Pepper’s back hoof.”
Rebekah finished cleaning one side of Joseph’s face and started on the other. “What about it?”
“It is bloody.” Thomas’s voice sounded meek. “I think Pepper kicked Joseph.”
Rebekah closed her eyes. When she was a girl, Johann Schmaltz, one of their neighbors had been horse-kicked in the head. She remembered her mother, Elnora, working alongside Mrs. Schmaltz to try and save his life. Mr. Schmaltz suffered shaking spells before vomiting through the night. When the morning’s light came, they discovered he had died sometime in the night. Rebekah had waited for her mother outside the bedroom door, having made herself a little pallet on the floor. Mrs. Schmaltz’s scream when they discovered that her husband had passed haunted Rebekah for many, many nights afterward.
It was still there, somewhere, in the back of her mind, and she heard it as she cleaned her unconscious husband. She tried to disremember it. You have to remain positive. No matter what.
“Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Did you get Pepper taken care of?”
“I did.”
Finally, Joseph’s face was clean, but Thomas’s sock would never be the same. Sure enough, a hoofprint had sunken in part of his forehead. And worse yet, Thomas was right. It was mushy to the touch.
“Good,” Rebekah managed. “I need you to do something for me.” She sat back on her heels. “I need you to run to Mater and Fater’s house. God willing, Mr. Fogarty Johnson will be there with his leeches for Fater. I need you to get him and fetch him back here. Can you do that?”
“Yes, Sissy.”
Rebekah smiled wanly up at her brother. “Thank you. And do check on Ma and Pa, that they did not get hurt by the twister.”
“Sissy, look out!”
Rebekah turned to see what he was talking about. Joseph seemed to be choking. Thinking quickly, she rolled him toward her just as he began to vomit. Still, he was unconscious. “It is okay, Joseph,” she cooed, in the off chance he could hear her. “I need to get you inside so we can work on getting you well.” She sounded so convincing, that she was shocked when a tear slid down her cheek. “It will be okay, you will see. You are going to be just fine.”
“Do you want me to help you get him inside before I go to Mater and Fater’s?”
“No, you go ahead. I can manage.” Rebekah stood. Vomit streaked her legs. “And Thomas?”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” He hesitated as though he wanted to say more. However, he only shifted his weight and ground his hat down on his head. “Remember Sissy, you do not worry. I will be back soon. And when he wakes up, tell Dawson not to worry, either.”
***
As soon as Thomas was out of sight, Rebekah sprang to her feet. “I have to get you inside,” she told Joseph. “With this weather, there is no telling what else is coming. Inside is not perfect right now, but it is certainly safer than out here.”
She swiped her arm across her brow and took in the scene around them. The twister had been close, so close she could hear it and feel it. It had blown out all her downstairs windows, too.
How about the upstairs? It is probably a mess, too, but I will deal with that later. If it was so terrible, how do we still have a standing barn? And fence that is still intact?
She thought back to her prayer. How it flew around in her mind then off her lips, moments before the raging wind simply disappeared. Was that you, God, simply answering a prayer and saving your humble, helpless servant?
A wave of gratitude, so pure and so serene, washed over her with an almost frightful power. You have saved us from that storm, God, so I know we shall weather this storm with Joseph, as well. Danke.
All around her, debris of various sorts that she had not noticed before cluttered the land. Wood, buckets, tree limbs, a wayward wheel. A shriek from inside the house snapped her out of her reverie. My bopplin!
Rebekah remembered vaguely Thomas talking about where he had put him, but she could not call to mind rightly where that was now.
Oh, I hope Thomas put you somewhere safe from all the glass.
Her heart thudded in her chest as she took in the vast expanse of land between where Joseph lay in the corral to the front porch. I did not think this through. But if I do not get Joseph inside before the next storm hits…and out of the ice now… She shivered, partially from her charged nerves and partially from the damp coldness that enveloped her.
“Wait one second, Joseph, I will be right back.” I do not know if he can hear me, but what if he can?
She dashed inside and tried to ignore the mess. First, I must find Dawson. She glanced around and followed the angry cries of her upset bopplin. Sure enough, Thomas had tucked him into a nest of quilts in the kitchen. Thankfully it had not occurred to him to crawl out of the blankets, only to sit and screech.
At seven months, Dawson could expertly roll from front to back and back to front. He could even crawl when he really needed to, but there was only one time he was especially happy. That was when he could find his toes and hang onto them. He had the most musical laugh, too, something straight from heaven, but right now he was alone in a strange room, and even grasping his toes could not make it better. Dawson’s little face was beet red, and his cries were high-pitched and furious.
Rebekah scooped him up and spoke calmly, despite her shaking hands. “Sweet bopplin, shush your cries, you are safe. You are loved,” she cooed. “Your Mater and Fater are here. You are so strong and brave.”
She bounced baby Dawson on her hip and carried him upstairs into his nursery room. “You are going to be angry for a moment, but Mater must sit you in your crib.” Rebekah took care to keep her voice calm and low. Dawson did not need any more excitement to upset him further.
Samuel and Joseph had worked together for three days to build Dawson’s crib, and the craftsmanship was superb. No splinters and the rails were wide enough to allow Dawson to peek through, but not poke any of his body parts through, including his head. Also, the sides were tall, so even when he began pulling up, which should be any day now, he would be safe inside with no fear of falling out.
They had chosen tulip tree wood, which retained its sweet, soft aroma even after it had been molded and worked from a tree into a crib. Rebekah prayed Dawson would remember it always, somewhere in the recesses of his mind, so that the scent of tulip trees and the feel of the smooth wood against his hands would always bring him peace and remind him of home. And of how incredibly loved he had always been, and always would be.
“Into your crib you go, sweet bopplin,” Rebekah cooed. Thankfully, she had left the upstairs windows open this morning. Strangely, none of them were blown out by the sudden, ferocious twister. Interesting. I will remember that from now on. If only I had cracked the downstairs windows, I might still have windows downstairs with no glassy mess to clean.
She haphazardly filed that piece of information away in her mind for use another day as she installed Dawson into his crib. He began to hiccup and “tune up” as she and Joseph called it, the threatening little cries that bespoke a bigger, unhappy cry yet to come, but Rebekah thought fast. She picked up his little family of dolls, all sewn by his grossmammi Elnora, and scattered them around him. He was sitting up, so patting the dolls and picking them up shifted his tune from wanting to be held to wanting to explore the dolls.
Elnora had made the little family of dolls for Dawson when he was a tiny bopplin. Sewn from the cloth of outgrown clothes and dressed like each family member, she had expertly crafted a grossmammi Elnora doll, a grossdaddi Samuel doll, a mater Rebekah doll, a fater Joseph doll, and even an oncle Thomas doll. Each one sewn with prayers and love, each one sporting a covering or hat, and each one faceless, lest they be made a graven image. Rebekah smiled down at the family of dolls that had captured her sohn’s attention.
There now, you are safe, she thought as she opened the window wide before tiptoeing from the room. I can hear you if you cry, and even call up to you. Perhaps hearing my voice will calm you until I can get your fater safely inside.
Once downstairs, Rebekah grabbed the quilt that had moments before held her bopplin and carried it outside.
For one brief, hopeful moment, she hoped it had only been a bad dream. And that Joseph was there, healthy and fine, working in the barn. But it was not so. Joseph still lay in the corral, unconscious. Rebekah had never seen him look so helpless and small before. His skin had paled, and beads of sweat dotted his face. The ring of blood around his head had darkened to an ominous black.
Rebekah swallowed her fear and ignored her thundering heart. “There now, I told you that I would be right back, did I not? And here I am. Your sohn needed attention and I needed to tell him how much his fater loves him.” She tried to keep the tremble out of her voice. “Of course,” she continued, “that quieted him down. I still think that it is you who is his favorite parent. What do you think?”
As she talked, she rolled half of the quilt, praying she was doing it correctly and that she would not hurt her husband more than she would help him. She tucked the long roll of quilt against the length of his body. “Now,” she explained, “I am going to roll you away from me and tuck this quilt beneath you so I can pull you into the house without hurting you.”
She did so, and still, Joseph remained eerily quiet. He would have seemed lifeless, if not for the occasional rise and fall of his chest.
Rebekah was well aware of her own heavy breathing once she got the roll of quilt tucked beneath him on the freezing ground, which was turning quickly from glistening ice from the heavens into a muddy, wet mush. On trembling legs, she stepped to the other side of him.
