She could not pretend to not notice the gloomy look that had overtaken his face since the start of this conversation.
“So,” he said, “thanks to my intervening, instead of throwing the boy overboard to his certain, watery death, they put us both to shore, right there in Tennessee, the heart of the south. That poor soul had only me standing between him and death by drowning, and he was out cold. Never even knew of all these goings-on.” His pinky began to twitch as he spoke. “So, I found myself in the charge of a man, horse kicked and unconscious, on the shores of the mighty Mississippi in Memphis, Tennessee, which had—a couple of weeks prior—been deep in enemy territory.”
Rebekah felt like she was off on a grand adventure without even having left her kitchen. “What did you do?”
“Well, I had next to no medical training, but I did my best by that boy. He never woke up. He quit breathing while I was trying to get a fire started.” He gazed off into the past. “You see we were put to shore about midnight and the world had changed so drastically, even sleeping outside meant a restless night. Bounties were on heads and…” He cut off his sentence. “Anyway, the wind was so terrible and cold, it was impossible to start a fire. At least for little, old scared me. When I turned back, he had quit breathing. I cannot rightly recollect how long it had been, but he had already started to turn blue. So instead of making us a fire, I dug his grave.”
Rebekah drew in a shuddery breath.
His words hung there in her kitchen, heavy with war hurt. Rebekah did not know what to say. Finally, she found her tongue. “I am sorry the young man died. However, I am sure it was a better death than had he been thrown into the water like garbage.” She offered him a smile. “You did the only humanly thing in an inhuman situation. God will bless you for that.”
Fogarty did not meet her gaze. “Little did I know, the worst was yet to come.”
Rebekah searched the deepest recesses of her Englischer vocabulary for just the right word. “Bandits?”
“Worse.” He smiled a wan smile. “Before I could get the poor fellow planted, a great explosion from the direction of the river lit up the night sky. The Sultana had exploded.”
Rebekah was speechless. “I…I…”
“I know. There are no words.” Fogarty reached across the table and patted her hand. “I attribute your fine nursing skills to your husband’s having survived this long. You did everything right, Rebekah.”
Warmth replaced the war-hurt chill that had befallen the table.
“Did you enjoy your surprise coffee, Dochder?” Samuel’s bright voice interrupted the solemn moment.
“Pa!” Rebekah turned to see her father and son in the doorway. “And Dawson!” She stood. “Yes, we did. But I caught a different flavor. Did you brew it in a fine piece of new apron linen?”
Samuel returned her jest as she filled a cup for him. “Is that not the only way to brew delicious coffee at, or at least somewhere around, sunrise?
“Good thing I saved you some.” She sat the cup down in front of Samuel, who slid into her chair.
She took Dawson from him. “What have you two been up to while I napped?”
“We have been to visit Grossmammi. And I must say, she was so fetching today, just as she is every day. Dawson enjoyed squealing with his Uncle Beanie.” The smile on her fater’s face fairly lit the room. “Tell me something. Have you heard anything from Thomas? It is not usual for him to be missing.”
Rebekah giggled. “He is keeping different hours than us on account of his pack of wild bopplins, who are not so wild anymore. I suppose some would say he is keeping the night shift since that is when his pack is active. He says it is his job to do so since he is responsible for their upbringing and all. So, he stays up with them during the night, then he sleeps with them during the day in the barn.”
Dawson screeched, long and loud, and grabbed one of her covering strings.
Rebekah bounced him in her lap and kissed his fine head as she worked the covering string free of his chubby fingers.
“I know that screech,” Samuel said.
“Me too,” Fogarty said. They exchanged a knowing glance.
“Tell me, Dochder,” Samuel said, “what do you make of that squeal?”
Rebekah shrugged. “I suppose I will see if he wants to eat.”
“And if that is not it?”
She thought for a moment. “Try to put him to sleep?” Rebekah shrugged. “Rub his gums. Whatever soothes him, I suppose.”
Samuel reached over and took the bopplin from her. “When you were little, you used to do the same. Sit and screech just like a bopplin screech owl.”
“I did?”
“Jah, you did.” Samuel bounced Dawson on his knee as the bopplin chewed his slobbery fist. “There was not anything that could soothe you. Then one night…”
A noise sounded from upstairs.
Rebekah shot to her feet. “Joseph!”
Samuel smiled, not at all annoyed about having been interrupted in his reverie. “Has he spoken today?”
She glanced from her father to Fogarty and forced a smile. “No, not today.”
Fogarty returned her smile. “Maybe he will.”
“Well, maybe he just needed a rest.”
Her father’s shiny outlook on this drear situation warmed her insides. “Excuse me.”
Excited, Rebekah hurried up the stairs. The sight that greeted her may well have cut her off at the knees. She stood in the doorway, witness to a horrific scene.
Joseph, contracted on his side, had vomited again, this time on the bed. His face was strangely strained, and a smell wafted from the room that stung Rebekah’s nose.
She grabbed the basin of water, which she had smartly filled during the night, and a towel. She moved them to the nightstand and sighed. My poor, sweet husband. How painful it is to see you this way.
A rogue thought of the nameless boy who died under young Fogarty’s care came to her mind. He had nobody to love him. To clean him. To make sure he was dressed in fresh clothes and in a soft bed. She steeled her mind and grit her teeth. But Joseph has these things, all these things, all wrapped up in me. And I will provide them, not just for Joseph, but for the nameless boy, too.
She began as she had before, by removing the quilt in such a way that all the vomit was on the inside. Then, she rolled the sheets up toward him. Just before she tucked it beneath him to introduce the clean sheets, she discovered the source of the smell. Joseph’s bowels had let go, and his bladder too.
Rebekah’s heart sank. Her strong, handsome husband was completely dependent on her in ways that he would be mortified to learn of later. Her love for him, however, grew even more.
“In sickness and in health, my love,” she said. “I will take care of you always, no matter what life throws our way.”
She cleaned his face first, careful to make certain his mouth was cleaned well. She leaned down close to him and, even though his eyes were closed, squeezed his cheeks gently. “I love you, Joseph Graber. No matter what. This is your wife speaking to you, and I need you to get well.”
Once the vomit was cleaned up, she tended to the rest of him. Careful to preserve his dignity, she cleaned her husband with all the love and gentleness he deserved.
And that the young nameless man also deserved but was unable to receive.
Once Joseph was clean, Rebekah decided to go ahead and give him a bed bath. She chattered away as she washed his hair, arms, hands, chest, and back. Ever careful, she washed around the dressing. Then, she figured why not go ahead and change it?
So, she did.
With slow, deliberate movements, she peeled back the dressing and examined his wound. Strangely, it was not nearly as bad looking as it was yesterday. Sure, he had two shiners and a horrible cut and a large, mottled, discolored bruise, but it was not the horrific sight it had been the day prior. She dabbed the wound to clean it and was pleasantly surprised when it did not feel as mushy and put a fresh bandage over it. For a moment, she thought she saw Joseph wince.
