“Why... yeah, little. How’d you know?”
“I didn’t, until I gave you that little chore, so I could get a look at your hands.”
“They’re not broke up at all.”
“Quit cracking dumb, you know what I mean. Not even a picture actor handles them nice as a fighter.”
He was a thick, blocky guy of thirty or so, kind of good-looking, though his wife wasn’t, being a thin wispy woman you’d hardly look at twice. He pulled up his right and I cupped both hands over it, which seemed to please him. He said: “O.K., Duke, you’re in. Take care of my little sister.”
“I’ll do my best, Mr. Hollis.”
“Don’t let her work too hard.”
“I certainly won’t.”
They drove off, after kissing sister good-by, and she went in the house, while I went back to my tree. The next step was my blocks, which had triple pulleys, and should give me traction, if I put them on right. I revved the rope through two of them, climbed up and put on a chain, maybe fifteen feet from the ground. I dragged my first block up and hooked it on the chain. I put a second chain around another tree, but closer to the ground, and hooked on my other block. I took the free end of the rope, tightened up my slack, caught hold of a third tree, and muscled up for the pull. My tree bent, not much, but enough to show the thing would work with a little more clearance below. I pitched in, using the mattock, and really dug trench.
By then it was coming on noon, and when I heard my name called, there she was again, blowing hard from the walk, and making signs I should stop. She had changed her dress to a light blue gingham check, and said it was time for me to eat. I said her husband had given me lunch, a take-out carton from his restaurants, and pointed to it, under some bushes, with a Thermos of hot coffee beside it, and another of cold water. She said I was entitled to a regular lunch, to come in and she’d fix it. I climbed out, put on my jumper again, and started to do as she said. And then all of a sudden it happened.
She’d been interested in my gear, and reached out to feel the rope. If she lost her balance, the ground gave way, or what, I don’t know, but whatever the cause, she slid. She slid down in my trench, so the breath squashed out of her and she wedged tight at the hips. I grabbed, but too late, and her head rolled. I jumped down facing her, caught her head, and held it. I said: “Hang on, Mrs. Val, don’t let yourself go! Don’t do it, or I’ll never get you out!”
“It’s my heart.”
“Don’t give in to it! No!”
“I can’t breathe.”
“Try! You must try!”
“...Wipe my face. Please.”
Sweat was all over it, and I got out my handkerchief and wiped it. Then I fanned her, using the handkerchief as you use the towel on a fighter, snapping it into her face. She said: “I’m slipping. I can’t touch with my feet.”
“Keep talking, Mrs. Val. Fight.”
She screamed, then screamed again, from the pain. She said: “I can’t stand it! I can’t!”
“Hang on! Fight!”
Chapter II
All that took time, long, terrible seconds, but I couldn’t help it, because what stymied me was the certainty that if she ever actually passed out I could never move her dead weight, and by the time I got to the house, looked up numbers, and called for help, she’d be gone for the big count. But the pain did what no pep talk could do, whipped her to life, and I could get at the rest of it. I let go her head and knelt in front of her, squinched in so tight one leg was back of the other. I took one of her feet, put it on my knee, said: “Now — your arms — wrap ’em! Around my neck — tight! Lean on me — throw your weight! Twist your hips and pull!”
She did, and I felt her move. She gasped: “Oh — thank God — I can breathe! But — let me rest — please.”
“That’s it, relax.”
She let herself down, a little, and I felt her weight, so heavy it was frightening to think what it would have been like if I’d had to move it alone. I said: “Feel better?”
“Yes, but my leg’s cramped.”
“O.K., straighten up.”
She couldn’t, and I stopped her, to save her juice. I slid her foot down and put her knee on my knee, so she wouldn’t be doubled up and could get some force to her push. I said: “All right, you raise up three inches. You twist your hips and sit. On the edge of the trench you sit, then raise your feet — don’t worry about me, I’ll close my eyes. When your feet are out, roll over, and that’s it. Ready?”
“I’ll try.”
“It’ll hurt. You’re cut.”
“I’m all over blood, from these root ends, and it tickles where it’s running down. But never mind that—”
“Let’s go. One, two—”
Her scream, the grunt of the ground, and my heave came together, as one. I’d let her rest too long, and the tree moved, against the sky, like some terrible fingers. I bunched myself up, got under her, and somehow pushed her out. The tree was already pinching me, but as she rolled I clawed and came out. Then, just exactly then, when her gingham dress, which had been ripped clean off her, bellied out in the breeze and settled on my head, like some crazy blue sail. I tore clear and the tree was still falling, though not in an arc to threaten us — until my shackle tightened. Then it swung straight at us. I grabbed, threw her over me, and did it again. The ground jumped at the crash, and the butt whipped out of the hole.
She was out cold, face in the grass, and except for pants, belt, bra, and the blood smeared all over her, as naked as the day she was born. I took the dress, what was left of it, and spread it over her, then fanned her with my jumper. She hardly breathed, and her face looked blue, the little I could see. I turned her head, to give her air, unscrewed my water Thermos, slopped splashes on her cheek. She moved her hand I should stop, so at least she was partly conscious. I wiped off the water, said: “Mrs. Val, can you hear me? You understand what I say?” She nodded and I asked her: “What’s the name of your doctor? Or do you want me to call Mr. Val, first of all?”
“No! Help me in!”
“You mean, to the house?”
“In a minute, yes.”
“Mrs. Val, listen, you’re in bad shape, you’ve taken one hell of a beating, you need a doctor, right out here now, and—”
“I — said — no! I’ll go — directly.”
“I’ll do what I can. I’ll get stuff to make it easier. Stay where you are until I come back.”
I hustled to the cottage, which was a little one-story shack with a front porch, four rooms, and a little hall. From the bed, where I’d parked my bag, I grabbed up a blanket, and from the parlor two company chairs, which were the kind with chromium pipes and green plastic seats. When I got back she was sitting up, her face hanging in folds, her hair in her eyes, and her breath coming in puffs, but still more alive than she had been. I said: “O.K. First we put on the blanket, keep you a little bit warm. Then you let me help you into this chair I’m putting right here. Then you rest. Then you let me help you to the other one, which I’m putting a few steps nearer the house. Then you rest. I move the first chair nearer, you get to that and rest. Pretty soon, taking one hop at a time, you’ll be there. O.K.?”
“That way I can do it.”
She made it, leaning heavy on me, but at the last stop she sat there, staring off at nothing, as though thinking of something. Then: “Duke, can I ask a favor? That may sound kind of funny?”