Chapter 51: Injury and Heat

 

Jenny’s left wrist throbbed the next morning and was swollen and stiff. She must have sprained it when she fell in the night. She was so tired of being pregnant—heavy and clumsy. No wonder Mama said women took to their beds in New Orleans when they were “enceinte”.

She carefully maneuvered herself out of the wagon and started breakfast. More fish and flapjacks. She was already tiring of the tender trout. She was hungry all the time, but nothing tasted good. Jenny held the heavy iron skillet in her right hand and tried to turn the fish with her left, but her left wrist wouldn’t bend.

“What are you doing?” Mac asked, as she hefted the skillet off the fire with one hand.

“Turning the fish,” she said.

“What’s wrong with your arm?” he asked, taking hold of her left hand.

She winced and pulled away.

“You hurt it last night?”

She nodded.

“I’ll get Doc.” Mac walked off.

Jenny had the fish fried when he returned with Doc.

“Let’s see,” the doctor said. He confirmed her wrist was sprained, rubbed a smelly, greasy ointment on it, and wrapped it up. “Don’t use it,” he said, then left.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were hurt?” Mac asked. “Aren’t we in this together?”

“Are we?” She was angry all of a sudden. “I didn’t want this trip. I don’t want to be here. I want my home—and Mama and Letitia.” She burst into tears, and the display of weakness infuriated her even more.

“Jenny, you told me in Arrow Rock not to take you home. You said it again in Independence.”

“But I didn’t want to go to Oregon!” she wailed.

“Well, it’s too late now,” Mac shouted. He stomped off a few steps, then turned back. “I’ll wash the dishes. Go sit in the wagon.”

She didn’t want to follow his orders, but she couldn’t work. And she couldn’t get herself into the wagon with one arm.

“Here,” Mac said behind her. “Let me help.” His voice was gentle now. He lifted her into the wagon.

Jenny sat crying softly. Nothing was the way it should be. She shouldn’t be in this God-forsaken land. She shouldn’t be having this baby. She shouldn’t be living with Mac in this wagon. Mrs. Pershing shouldn’t have died. No one could help her, no one understood her dreadful life. She wished she had someone to talk to.

Mrs. Tuller poked her face into the wagon. “Heard you hurt yourself. Can I help?”

“Mac’s washing the dishes,” Jenny said, wiping her eyes.

“Kind of weepy today, are you?” Mrs. Tuller climbed into the wagon, sat on a box, and put her arm around Jenny.

Jenny nodded. “I don’t know why. My wrist doesn’t hurt that much.”

“Women have crying spells when they’re expecting.” Mrs. Tuller laughed. “Why I remember one time I was so mad at the doctor, just because he killed the wrong chicken for dinner. Didn’t really matter—there’d be another neck to wring the next week. But I sobbed all day.”

“I miss my mama. And Mrs. Pershing.”

Mrs. Tuller’s expression grew somber. “We all miss our loved ones back home. And we were all felled by Mrs. Pershing’s death. Feels wrong when a woman dies after giving birth—a loss in the midst of joy.” She turned Jenny to face her. “We’ll have to be family for each other.”

Jenny sniffled.

“I’ll stay with you today.” Mrs. Tuller leaned out and called to Mac. “Mr. McDougall, you tell the doctor I’m riding with Jenny.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Jenny and Mrs. Tuller talked through the morning while the wagons rolled west across a scorched plateau, so dry even the sagebrush looked thirsty. The Snake curved north, but they didn’t follow the river.

“Captain says we’ll get back to the Snake by nightfall,” Mac rode up to tell the women. “I think we have enough water, but drink sparingly.”

At noon Mrs. Tuller cooked for Jenny and Mac as well as for herself and the doctor. Jenny walked around camp after dinner, her back aching from the constant jostling.

“Would you please saddle Poulette?” she asked Mac. “I can’t bear to sit in the wagon any longer.”

He shook his head. “With only one good hand, you might not stop her if she bolted.”

“I guess I’ll walk then,” Jenny said. “It’s flat enough.”

“Won’t you get worn out?” Mac asked.

“I haven’t done anything else today.”

But by midafternoon, after trudging under the hot sun, shaded only by her sunbonnet, Jenny was exhausted. Dust rose with every step, filling her shoes. The children complained of the hot sand burning their bare feet.

“Please may I ride Poulette?” she begged Mac.

“Jenny, you can’t control her if she spooks. Ride with me on Valiente.”

“I’m too big to fit on Valiente with you now.” She marched off with her chin in the air.

By the time Pershing called the halt at a stagnant creek, Jenny felt flushed. She couldn’t catch her breath and slumped to the ground beside the wagon as soon as Mac pulled it into place. Her pulse beat rapidly, and the horizon spun around her.

“Gracious, girl,” Mrs. Tuller said. “You’re plum tuckered out. Let’s get you something to drink.”

“I’m so dizzy,” Jenny said.

Mrs. Tuller handed her a dipper of water from the barrel on the wagon. Jenny gulped it down. The warm water turned her stomach, and she leaned against the wagon wheel.

“What’s wrong?” Mac said. His worried expression brought Jenny some satisfaction.

“Heat got to her, most likely,” Mrs. Tuller said.

“What do we do?” Mac asked.

“Keep her face and neck damp to cool her off. She’ll be all right.”

Jenny heard Mac say something about “silly chit,” as he reached into the wagon to get a towel. He dipped it in the water barrel and handed it to her. “Here,” he said. “Do what Mrs. Tuller says.”

By the time Mrs. Tuller had supper ready—more fish and rice flavored with sage—Jenny felt well enough to eat. Mrs. Tuller and Mac both pressed her to drink. She knew she’d regret it in the middle of the night when the baby kicked her bladder.

At dusk Mac said, “You have two choices, Jenny. Stay in the wagon all night with a chamber pot, or sleep on the ground with me. You can’t climb out in the dark with one hand.”

Jenny blushed. She shouldn’t be talking with a man about chamber pots, even a man she’d nursed through cholera.

“Look, Jenny, I don’t bite.”

“I know,” she said.

“I’m not like those men who hurt you. I’m trying to take care of you.”

“I don’t want anyone to take care of me.”

“You need help.”

She knew she did, but she didn’t like being reminded of it.

“It’s cooler on the ground,” Mac said.

She sighed. “All right.”

Mac rigged a tent beside the wagon and put her buffalo hide and bedroll beside his.

Jenny plopped to the ground clumsily. The shaggy skin was surprisingly cool in the warm evening. She wrote:

 

Wednesday, August 11th—The heat overcame me today. I foolishly hurt my arm and am of little use to anyone.