THE SECOND TUESDAY IN AUGUST WE were back in the hay field. To be real honest, I was right happy about it. Hauling hay was hard work and real hot, but I didn’t mind. That was on account of Kimmerly.
For two weeks after the rattlesnake almost got me, there was no shaking Kimmerly. She hung around me almost all the time—except in the hay field. I couldn’t even feed the chickens without stepping on her. She had to sit next to me at dinner, and every night at bedtime she came in our room and gave me a big hug and kiss and told me she was glad the snake didn’t eat me. I told her that snakes didn’t eat people. She didn’t listen. She just hugged and kissed me. The sweet little hugs weren’t that bad. But she always managed to get the side of my cheek wet when she kissed. I would just sit and smile at her until she went back to bed. Then I’d wipe my cheek off.
The whole day was unusual hot, even for August. The thing that made it seem worse was that the wind wasn’t blowing. The wind always blows in west Texas. Only, there was no wind—not that day.
Last week Daddy and Andrew took turns driving the horses around the hay field. The Deering binder-harvester that they dragged behind the team cut the tall, grass hay and left it in neat rows—all bound up with string. After the rattlesnake thing, Daddy told us we had to use pitchforks—no picking up bundles with our hands. We let the hay cure or dry Friday, Saturday, and on Sunday, too, while we were in church. Come Monday, Andrew and Daniel drove the team and wagon to the barn and threw or forked the hay bundles up to the loft. There, Daddy and Patrick used their pitchforks to move the bundles back and keep a clear path for more hay. Matthew, Luke, and I stayed in the field, piling up the bound hay. That way it was easier to pitch into the wagon.
By Tuesday we had it about half done. Mama and Deloris were frying chicken and taters. Esther got to come over for the day, and she was setting the table and fixing tea. Kimmerly was supposed to be with them, only Kimmerly never stayed much where she was supposed to.
She was the one who found Daddy. How—I don’t know. And why she come running to me instead of to Mama or Andrew … well, I don’t know that neither.
One minute I was minding my own business, piling hay and wiping sweat from my forehead with my shirtsleeve. The next Kimmerly was slapping me on the back so hard it stung and motioning for me to follow her. She didn’t even say nothing, just kept whacking me and waving her arm.
Kimmerly was about the biggest pest there was. Most times I would have backhanded her for hitting me. Only this time—something about the look on her face or the tears in her eyes—this time I just dropped my pitchfork and chased after her.
Daddy was at the edge of the cotton field. The hoe lay beside him on the ground. He was as white as death.
I dropped to my knees beside him and leaned my ear near his lips. I couldn’t hear any breath coming in and out. I pressed my ear against his chest. I couldn’t hear the pounding of his heart. I rocked back on my heels. Looked at him. His color was a ghostly white, almost gray.
I knew my Daddy was dead.
I don’t even remember yelling for help. But I must have. And that yell must have come clean from the heels of my bare feet—not from my throat or chest nor even way down deep in my belly, but clean from my heels. Because Matthew and Luke heard it, way out in the hay field, and come a-runnin’. Andrew, Daniel, and Patrick were all three in the hayloft. They come a-runnin’, too. I sent Kimmerly to fetch Mama from the house. Later she told me that Mama and the girls were already past the gate by the time she got across the creek.
Luke was the first to reach us, and Matthew was only a couple of strides behind. But like me, all they could think to do for Daddy was stand and yell for help. Andrew got there next. He shoved the twins aside and dropped to his knees beside Daddy. He yelled at him to wake up, then he shook his shoulders and yelled again.
Daddy didn’t move.
Andrew lifted his head and patted him on the cheek. “Wake up, Daddy.” He patted his cheek a little harder. “Come on. Wake up!” Andrew patted his cheek so hard it was more like a slap.
When Daddy moaned, my heart might near leaped clean out of my throat. I was still scared and worried, but hearing a sound from him … knowing he was alive … well …
The hope and happy jumped in for only a second. Then the scared chased it away again.
Andrew rolled him from one side to the other, to see if he was hurt anyplace.
Matthew looked at me, then back at Daddy.
Andrew pulled his pant legs up and looked there. He grabbed Daddy’s shirt up near the collar and yanked. He didn’t take his shirt off, he ripped it off. We all looked him over as Andrew pushed and tugged him from side to side. There were no holes. No fang marks. Andrew lifted his head and started patting his cheek again.
“What happened?” Mama was puffing and out of breath.
“Don’t know.” Andrew shook his head. “Bailey and Kim found him. Can’t see that he’s hurt no place. Not snake bit. He won’t wake up!”
Mama dropped to her knees on the other side of Daddy. “John, what’s wrong?” she pleaded. “What is it, John? We can’t help you ’less you talk to us. Wake up! Talk to me!”
Daddy kind of moaned again.
Suddenly a strange look swept across Mama’s face. She put her hand on Daddy’s forehead. Frowned. The frown drew deeper lines in her face when she looked around, found his shirt on the ground, and felt of it.
“He’s burning up, but he’s dry as a bone.” Her upper lip kind of stretched down and she nibbled on it with her lower teeth. “Shirt is even dry.”
She looked at Andrew, then quickly scanned the rest of us. We were all dripping sweat. Hot as it was and hard as we’d been working, not only our shirts but our pants—at least down to the knees—were as wet as could be.
She frowned back at Daddy. “T’ain’t right. Ought to be sweatin’. Just ain’t right …”
Suddenly she blinked. Her head kind of whipped around toward the creek.
“The spring!” she shouted. “Get him to the spring!”
Mama tried to lift his shoulders, but Andrew nudged her aside. The instant he got Daddy under both arms, Daniel and Patrick reached down and took hold to lift his back and hips. I started for his feet, but Matthew and Luke pushed me back and picked him up. Mama led the way to our spring. About halfway down the hill, she stopped and turned.
“Bailey. Fetch Doc Harrison!”
My feet took over, just like always, and I was gone before the end of “Harrison” left her lips.
It never occurred to me that taking one of the horses would be faster. Never entered my mind that it was a six-mile run to Doc Harrison’s office above the Abilene Mercantile. Didn’t even think about it being the hottest day of August. I just ran. My bare feet pounded the hard, Texas dirt. That and my breathing were the only sounds I could hear. I ran harder. Soon the sound of my heart pounding echoed inside my head. I sucked deeper breaths. Pushed myself. Ran harder.
Inside my head, words pounded louder than my heart or my feet hitting the ground. The words even drowned out the raspy sound of my ragged breathing.
“Fetch Doc Harrison! Fetch Doc Harrison. Fetch Doc …”