He looked at her, hardly more than a girl herself, leaning over the child, and blood pulsed in his loins. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to their bedroom and make love to her all afternoon, slowly, tenderly. But he shoved this thought from his mind, because he knew that after the Wilsons left, their little girl healed, or nearly well, that Fern would intimidate him, being a far greater, more gifted person than he, and he would be embarrassed and shamed. Not only that, but their lovemaking was never slow and tender. It was fast and rough, his need suddenly all consuming, and then it was over and he was embarrassed and ashamed again.
He hated this.
Fern was talking quietly to the child. Her big eyes showed white in the red of her flushed face; perspiration stuck her bangs to her forehead like tissue paper. She nodded in response to Fern’s murmured questions.
Fern stood up and turned to Tom. “Please carry her to the bedroom. I need her on the bed where I can get around her.” Tom picked up his daughter and carried her in, laid her down on the brown and gold quilt, then went back to the kitchen. Fern closed the bedroom door.
She sat on the edge of the bed, left hand palm up in her lap. She passed her right hand a couple of inches over the child, from her toes to the top of her head. She could feel the sickness. The throat and the stomach. She laid her hand on the throat, the skin hot to her touch, and closed her eyes. She saw the familiar glittering blue sweep through her upturned palm, streak across her chest and out her right hand into the throat, it was cool and comforting, like menthol ice cream, melting on contact and sinking into the reddened, swollen tissues.
When the flow of blue stopped, she moved her hand to the other infected area, the child’s right side. She felt a corresponding ache in her own side. Ignoring it, she concentrated. She made her conscious mind like a black drumhead, stretched tight. Every thought, every noise made little thumping dents in the fabric, so she shut them out. Pure and black. Peaceful and undisturbed.
Soon she began to get a picture. She felt she was crawling inside the girl’s skin, around the different organs. In front of her were a cluster of polyps, like grapes, black and unnatural amid the pink, red, and white glowing of healthy flesh.
She got down to her knees on the floor, eyes still closed, and put her left hand palm down on the floor. In her mind’s eye, she punctured each grape with a huge hollow-pointed needle, and drained the vile liquid through the needle, up her arm, across her chest, and siphoned it into the floor through her other hand. One by one, the polyps collapsed. When the procedure was complete, she raised her left hand to the sky and a dry wind whistled through her body, into the child’s, turned the residue to dust and blew it away.
She was finished. She opened her eyes, the ache in her side gone. She looked at the little girl’s face, pale, eyes closed. Her forehead was cool. She covered her with the blanket and quietly left the room, shutting the door gently.
An air of solemn expectancy met her as she returned to the kitchen.
“She’ll be fine.”
Mae crossed herself and sank her chin onto her folded hands in prayer.
Fern poured herself a cup of tea and took a sliced fruitcake from the ice box. Her hands felt a little shaky. It was so strange. She had no idea what to do in these cases, but the process was instinctual, automatic, as if someone else was at the controls.
Mae lifted her eyes. “Bless you, Fern.”
It wasn’t me! Fern wanted to say. But something told her that these people needed to place their adoration somewhere. She could only accept their blessings and give thanks in her own way to the God of her own understanding. Later.
“It was your faith,” Fern said gently, touching Mae’s shoulder.
“She’s been gettin’ sicklier and sicklier since fall,” Tom said. “Then yesterday she came down with this sore throat, and I guess she was pretty run-down, because it didn’t look like she was going to be able to manage a simple little thing like this here sore throat. This morning she didn’t even get up to open her presents.”
“Well, she’s going to be just fine. She’s sleeping now. Let’s let her rest for a while; then you take her on home. Keep her quiet for a few days and she should be back to normal.”
“Thank God.”
“Yes, thank God, not me.”
This was just too much for Harry. He grabbed his coat off the peg by the door and slammed outside. He stomped down the squeaky new snow to the barn. Winters were boring. He’d cleaned the barn, fed the cows and horses and chickens, milked, gathered eggs, fixed what needed fixing, and he was bored.
Fern has all her friends, and her sewing and knitting and cooking and cleaning, and all her healing and shopping and more healing, and what have I got. Damn! I don’t even have Fern. I don’t know how to take care of a wife, not a gifted wife like her. We’ve been married less than a year, and she’s brought in more food and more housewares than I have.
He sat on a bale of hay and looked at the snow melting off his boots. She’s a good woman, loving and kind and helpful. I know it ain’t no devil got a hold on her, it’s got to be the Lord’s work. How the hell do you make love to the Lord’s chosen one? Didn’t even give her a decent Christmas present.
He wandered around the barn, then grabbed a broom and started sweeping the already clean floor.
He was rearranging the gardening tools when he heard the barn door open.
“Harry?”
He turned. Her young face looked beautiful in the soft barn light. She was wrapped up warm in boots and a long wool skirt and coat she had made at Addie’s.
“Harry, it’s Christmas. And a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.”
He kept fiddling with the tools. He felt her touch, light on his arm.
“What’s the matter, Harry? Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Come on then.”
“You go.”
“I want to be with you.”
“You want to be with me, but you’re always with other people, healing and doing God knows what all.”
“It’s God’s work I’m doing, Harry. I didn’t ask for this. It’s a gift. And you can’t turn down a gift that God gives you.”
“I know. I just feel, like, I don’t know. I don’t feel like much of a man.”
She turned him toward her with a feather touch. “You’re my man, Harry, and I love you. Can’t you be pleased, excited, that we’re together in this?” Her eyes were moist, her face pleading. “Can’t you see the loveliness of this . . . this gift? This ability to help people and ease their suffering?”
“Of course I can, Fern. I just think nothing comes from nothing. Somewhere along the line we’re going to have to pay our dues. We’ve got it too easy here. I myself think I’d rather work hard—long and constant, and learn about life as it goes on. This seems too much like a free ride. Something bad’s going to happen and it’s going to hurt.”
She stepped toward him, putting her cheek against the sheepskin jacket. His arms automatically went around her, drew her in close. He kissed the top of her head.
“No, Harry. Life doesn’t have to hurt. Life is good.”
They held each other while the cows and horses shifted, scraping restlessly in their stalls. While the barn smell enveloped them in its warmness, deep in Fern’s mind, a little voice said over and over to her, “He’s right. He’s right. Get ready.”
CHAPTER 5
Martha leaned against the doorway and watched the red, orange, and yellow sunset streak across the horizon. Above, the clouds were puffy white, but to the east, they were already dark, night clouds. Her feet were swollen, her ankle throbbed, but she was reluctant to go back inside. The cool of the evening was coming, and it was just beautiful outside.