My stomach heaved. I ducked my head onto my knees, pressed my mouth against my skirt.
“Rope burn,” Truman said.
I’d had a rope burn once. It was just a pink-glazed line across my arm.…
They were turning both hands over now. I heard Aunt Sarah’s breath hiss through her teeth. After a moment Truman said, “Not as bad’s it looks.” Truman has seen people shot with cannons, I thought.
“Are you hurt anywhere else, Harriet? Look at me!”
I raised my big head. I felt dreamy somehow. I didn’t want to speak. Aunt Sarah felt along my legs and arms. I stared off at the little, distant figures in the bean field.
“Well, Harry? You satisfied?”
I jerked all over. Truman’s beard was sucked down into the hollows of his cheeks. His eyes sparked. “Y’drove that horse and drove him till you finally made him hurt you! I just hope—”
“Truman!” Aunt Sarah said, in a voice that was large and deep and soft. “That’ll do! When this girl needs a scolding, I’ll tend to it!” Her voice was so different it didn’t seem like hers. It was changed the way Belle’s voice changed when the colt was born, as if her labor had changed the shape of all her organs. I felt Aunt Sarah’s hands, firm under my elbows. “Can you stand up, Harriet?” My name was musical in her mouth.
“I … think so.”
As soon as I stood, the blood sank and throbbed in my hands. I had to hold them up in front of me, and then I couldn’t help seeing.
“Close your eyes,” Aunt Sarah said. “Looking makes it worse.”
No. I felt better, now that I could see the skin in little crumbs and tatters, the blood trickling. This was no horror. It was like a skinned knee, only more so. A lot more so.
“Can you walk?” Her hot arm felt good around me. We stepped slowly together over the uneven ground. My legs were strong enough but seemed loosely connected. I was glad to reach the shade of the barn and sit down on a crate.
Uncle Clayton drove up, half standing on the cultivator and leaning back on the reins. The team pranced and huffed, ears flat, nostrils red. The colt trotted beside them. His rope was garlanded with bean plants, and brought along a bruised green smell.
“Whoa!” Muscle and tendon stood out on Uncle Clayton’s forearms. “Harry, ye all right?”
“She’s hurt her hands, Clayton,” Aunt Sarah said. She was, for some reason, untying her apron.
Truman went past her, toward the team and the colt.
“Don’t …” I said.
Truman held his hand out. He looked both commanding and ridiculous, thin and old and one sided, still, straight, and calm.
The colt shuddered away from him, blew out a fluttering snort, and snatched at grass. But when Truman didn’t move, his interest seemed to sharpen. He pricked his ears and pushed his muzzle toward the hand, sniffing.
Calmly Truman wrapped his fingers into the loose noseband of the halter. The hand looked huge against the colt’s delicate profile, against the great porcelain nostrils and the tracery of veins in the face. The colt’s eye rolled for an instant. Sinews stood out in Truman’s wrist, and the colt seemed to wilt.
“Help me with the gate, Sarah?”
They hurried down the yard, the colt sidling to avoid the dragging rope. He looked small to me, weedy and undeveloped.
Uncle Clayton got off the cultivator. He looked different, too; I couldn’t say how.
“I’m sorry … your beans.”
He pushed the apology away. “Won’t miss ’em. Want some water?”
I did. He reached inside the barn for the tin dipper and held it under the stream that flowed continually from the soapstone pipe into the water tub.
When he brought the water back, I almost reached for it. I would have sworn I caught myself in time, that I never even twitched, but it hurt anyway. My face heated with it. I felt sweat on my temples.
“Here.” Uncle Clayton put one hand on the back of my head. With the other he held the dipper to my mouth. He tilted it gently and accurately as I drank.
I looked up at his face, closer to me than it had ever been. A spiderweb of lines surrounded his eyes: squint lines and smile lines. His mustache had a kindly sweep.
The colt began to neigh. Aunt Sarah appeared, half running and pulling Whitey behind her. He plodded, and all her hurry only stretched his neck.
“Clayton, harness this horse for me!”
I didn’t like to have Uncle Clayton bossed like that. But he snapped to the task while she hurried toward the house, half running again, with an extra little skip every few steps as if she couldn’t bear her own weight and slowness.
I let my head tilt back till it rested on the hot barn boards. The world had slowed down and come into unnaturally clear focus. I saw Truman coming. I saw how old he looked, how his gait was loosened.
He went into the barn, brought out the milking stool, and placed it beside my crate, arranging it with some care. Then he sat down.
“There! Floatin’, Harry?”
I didn’t even want to nod. “Mmm.” Truman knew all about being hurt.
“You’ll be all right.”
Some quality in his voice made me wonder, and I found that by gently rolling my head to the side, I could see him.
He was smiling. Deep in his beard, hidden under the straw hat that had tipped down over his eyes, he undoubtedly smiled. I saw his thin chest rise and fall, the undershirt limp with heat. Short white hairs curled at the base of his throat. He looked … satisfied. Amused and satisfied.
We didn’t speak. The sun pressed on our fronts, and the hot boards burned our backs. Uncle Clayton harnessed and hitched Whitey. The team ducked their heads into each other’s necks and stamped at flies.
The kitchen door banged. Aunt Sarah came carrying a carpetbag and thrust it under the buggy seat. “Can you two manage here? Take care of the milk right away, Clayton, and you’ll have to churn tomorrow. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Harriet, let me help you.” She put her arm around me, and we went to the buggy.
I couldn’t get in. Truman at least had one hand; I had none.
“I’ll give you a boost,” Uncle Clayton said. I was lifted from the waist, as I hadn’t been lifted since I was a little girl. I bumped my elbow on a strut and fell awkwardly on the seat with my hands tucked up near my chin.
The buggy sank as Aunt Sarah climbed in. She clucked to Whitey, and he heaved himself into a trot.
I couldn’t help gasping at the jolt. Aunt Sarah slowed him, and that was better, until we hit a rock. Then all the blood in my body hammered into my hands. I bit down on my lower lip. Aunt Sarah noticed even that and made Whitey walk. I held my hands up out of my lap; it seemed to keep the bumps from transmitting to them.
The main road was even rougher and did away with the floating sensation. I was right down inside my body, inside my hands and sweating brow. When I swallowed, my tongue made a sticky sound.
“Fool!” Aunt Sarah said. “Why didn’t I bring some water?” She stared intently at Whitey’s slow haunches. She could have picked me up and run with me faster than this.
We crawled down the fence line of the big pasture. I could see the house and barn, the bright copper spot that was the colt flashing back and forth, the little toy team and the toy old men. Watching, I forgot to hold in my gasp when we hit the next washboard on the road.
Aunt Sarah reached under the seat and pulled her carpetbag forward, without slowing the buggy. I watched her hand fumble with the catch. She felt inside and drew out a flow of white muslin: my nightgown and hers.
“Fold these—no, you can’t.” She looked ahead at the empty road, then dropped the reins on the dash and put her foot on them. She folded the nightgowns into a broad pillow and put it on my lap. “Rest your hands on this. It might feel better.”
I made myself notice the softness of muslin on the backs of my hands, the very slight cushioning, the very slight improvement. I made myself hold my hands so blood would not spot the cloth.
We reached the tree line. Here I had first met Truman. Ca-thlop ca-thlop, went Whitey’s big hooves. Lacy shadows slid over his back. The sight made me dizzy. I looked down. Here was my nightgown sleeve. Here was a bit of lace, a building up and crisscrossing of one single thread. Mother made that lace. With my eyes I followed every crisscross, up and down, up and down.
Out of the birches now, between the old pastures where the blackberries grew. Ca-thlop ca-thlop …
“How do you feel?”
My mind had gone broad and shallow, like water spilled on a table. “All right. All right.”
Ca-thlop ca-thlop, past a farm, past the pasture where I had picnicked with Luke and her mother, past the rosebush, the white roses all turned brown with rain and heat. Ca-thlop ca—
PUT-put-put-put!
Whitey stopped, raised his head high, and higher. He looked like a statue carved in ivory.
Put-put-POP-put!
A car!
Whitey’s sides heaved. His nostrils fluted out in wide cones with each breath. Far ahead the Model T seemed to leap and skip over the ruts, heading straight toward us. I heard a little whimper come out of my mouth, and I hid my face in Aunt Sarah’s shoulder.
For a moment she was there, a warm wall. Then she was gone. The buggy jounced, creaked, and she was at Whitey’s head. She gripped the reins close to the bit and forced his face toward the side of the road. “Whoa! You whoa! Stand—now shhh! Shhh!” The knuckles shone white on her big red hands. “Shhh, now!”
Whitey’s breath rattled like falling hail. His hooves minced up and down. His tail swished. If he got away, there was nothing I could do to save myself, not even hang on. I looked at the ground, just three feet away. Jump! Jump now!
“Can you wave him by?”
I didn’t understand. It was the same voice she was using on Whitey, mixed in with orders and hissing. One of Whitey’s ears curved rigidly toward her. The other swiveled back and forth. “Harriet, can you wave him by? I can’t let go—shhh! Whitey! Shhh!”
The car. Wave the car by.
The right hand hurt less than the left, but it felt heavy, stiff, and curled. The air hurt it, moving hurt it, and the driver of the Ford took a long time to understand. Then he came cautiously, creeping along the very edge of the ditch. He wore goggles and a long white scarf. Between them little could be seen of his face. He seemed more like a bug than a human, but his mouth dropped open in human curiosity as he passed.
When the sounds died away, Aunt Sarah came back, keeping the reins tight and smooth. They never sagged once, even when she climbed into the buggy.
“Now walk, you old fool!” Whitey set off high headed, almost prancing. It was several yards before his body slackened and his head came down.
For the first time since the car had appeared, Aunt Sarah took her eyes off him and looked at me. She looked away again. “Did that scare you?”
I couldn’t understand why she was even asking. It had panicked me, disintegrated me. I nodded, barely. She seemed to see it out the corner of her eye.
“If he saw more cars, he’d get over his foolishness.”
I listened hard to the words. My hands hurt more than I’d ever known anything could hurt. Even shame didn’t matter. Talk, I thought. Maybe that would help. “The Mitchells trained Tulip,” I said. My tongue felt heavy, and the worlds came slowly. “They can lead him from their Model T.”
“Can they?” She didn’t like to hear that the Mitchells had done something clever. “That must be handy, though.”
“But Tulip is the calmest horse in the world.” I wished talking helped more. “Tulip could fall asleep on an active volcano, Mother used to say.”
Aunt Sarah’s breath made a little snort. “The opposite of your critter.”
“Yes.” I glanced at my hands, and every nerve in my stomach twanged. I closed my eyes.
We met no one else. The stone walls and blackberry pastures slipped by. After a time I smelled fresh pine sawdust, and the roofs of West Barrett came into view, few and small among the trees. Down, down we dipped, past the mill, past the little gray house—
My heart knocked. Our door stood open, and two small girls in grubby pinafores sat beside the step, stirring the dirt in the flower bed with spoons. Red checked curtains at the windows … It wasn’t our house anymore. I hadn’t realized it would change.
Aunt Sarah pulled up at Althea’s gate. Before she had to shout, the door opened. “Morning!” Aunt Sarah called. “Has Andy Vesper been this way?”
Althea shook her head, coming slowly forward. She stared at my hands. “What on earth—”
“It’s a rope burn,” Aunt Sarah said, as if that were nothing much. “If you haven’t seen him, we’ll go on down. Do you need a drink, Harriet?”
I nodded. Without a word Althea went back into the house. The pump handle squeaked, and she came out with one of her white mugs, cracked and tea stained. Aunt Sarah said, “Would you mind standing at this horse’s head while I help her drink?”
Althea went to hold Whitey. She looked small and distant. Aunt Sarah held the cup to my lips, and I drank. Water slopped up my nose.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Sarah said.
“No …”
Whitey snorted and shoved his head against Althea. She nearly fell.
“Whitey! Stop it!” Aunt Sarah said. “We’ll be going.”
Althea didn’t step out of the way, didn’t come to take the cup, for several seconds. “Stop back,” she said when she did come. “I want to know how Harriet is.”
“All right.” Aunt Sarah let Whitey go.
The Old Lady was weeding her garden, out behind the Vespers’ low Cape. She straightened, looked hard at our buggy, and headed at once for the house. “He’s up the street. I’ll telephone.”
We were left alone in the hot, sunlit yard. How—
“Come in!” Mrs. Vesper shouted from the doorway, and disappeared again.
How would I get down? On elbows, on knees, with Aunt Sarah’s hands around my waist. She tied Whitey to the ring in the barn wall and opened the door for me.
“Yes, it’s Harry!” Mrs. Vesper shouted into the telephone mouthpiece. “What? I don’t—” She turned to look at me. “Oh, my goodness! It’s her hands, Andy! Get right down here!” She clashed the earpiece back on its hook. “Harry, sit down! What can I—oh!” She hurried into her pantry and came back with a sweating pitcher. “Lemonade!”
Aunt Sarah stood in the middle of the room, hands hanging at her sides. Mrs. Vesper almost knocked into her, rushing at her cupboard. “Oh! Sit down! Won’t you sit down?”
Aunt Sarah sank onto a kitchen chair, obliterating it from sight. She stared past me, past the wall, past the glass of lemonade that was put in front of her. After one quick look at her, Mrs. Vesper helped me drink.
We waited. The kitchen was dim and still. I could almost hear my hands throb.
A buggy rattled past the window, and a moment later Dr. Vesper came through the door. He looked at my hands and whistled. “What happened?”
None of us answered.
“Sarah! Snap out of it! Are you hurt, too?”
Aunt Sarah stirred and slowly turned to look at him, as if coming from a long way off. “No.”
“Then tell me what happened!”
“Harriet was … training that horse of hers.” Her voice was soft, almost too low to hear. “He … ran and dragged her.”
“Rope burn,” Dr. Vesper said as if that solved everything. “Come on in my office, and I’ll patch you up.”
I stood, feeling as if my legs were made of glass, and went with him into the bright little room off the kitchen. Aunt Sarah followed as far as the doorway.
He leaned over my hands, so close I could feel his breath, and looked them over methodically, section by section. “Harry,” he murmured, “you’ve got to learn to let go!”
Aunt Sarah almost said something. I heard her breath draw in and then sigh out harmlessly.
“Well, it’s not so bad but what it could be worse. Let’s see what we can do.”
I didn’t watch. There was something wet that stung so much sweat popped out on my forehead. Later there was a dressing, and in the middle of that, while I stared intently out the window at the house next door, he suddenly pulled down on the fingertips of my left hand.
“Aaah!” It was a real shriek. Suddenly Aunt Sarah was right there beside me.
“Sorry,” Dr. Vesper said. “But if it heals flat, it won’t heal short. You’ll thank me next time you play the piano.”
I couldn’t make even the first twitch of a smile. He finished the dressing; only the tips of my thumb and fingers showed. Then he started the other one. He was going to do it again.
“I’m going to do it again. Ready? There, was that so bad?”
Someone’s hand gripped my shoulder. “Andy, don’t be an idiot!” Aunt Sarah said.
“Now if you can, Sarah, I wouldn’t mind you two staying until tomorrow afternoon. I can get a pretty good idea of what’s going to happen by then. You can stay right here in the spare bedroom. Maybe Harry’d like to go lay down awhile?”
I nodded. My head felt huge again: big cork head. I followed Mrs. Vesper upstairs, into a hot, dim little room with two beds. Sat down. Aunt Sarah took my shoes off, and I placed myself on the pillow, hands at my sides, palms up.
I thought I didn’t sleep. I thought my hands hurt too much. But after I had opened and closed my eyes a few times, it was evening.