Mark Spragg - Bone Fire

“He’s in Cheyenne.”

“Where’s Kenneth?”

“They’re together. McEban called yesterday afternoon. Said they had plans to tear up the town. He said they’d be home when they were done.”

She could hear the morning downdraft rushing in the trees, the songbirds starting up. “I’m getting off now,” she said.

She was sitting on the porchsteps when he got there, and they went in the house. She picked up the phone to check for a dial tone, then set it back in the cradle. “I need to clean up. I didn’t want to get in the shower until you were here.”

“I’ll come get you if she calls,” he said.

She stripped out of her clothes, and washed her hair twice, soaping and rinsing the woodsmoke away, finally standing braced against the side of the stall, crying until the water turned cold. Her eyes were puffy when she came out in her robe. She sat at the table.

He’d made coffee and poured her a cup, but her throat was so dry she coughed it back up through her nose.

She cleaned her face with a paper napkin, dabbing at the stains on the front of her robe. “Do you ever watch yourself?” she asked.

“Sure. Sometimes I do.”

“I watch myself all the time,” she said, “and right now I’m a fucking mess.”

“I think you’re doing fine.”

She held a hand out between them. It was shaking. “You always think I’m doing fine,” she said.

He took a cribbage board from a drawer and talked her into a game, but she had trouble deciding which cards to play. She folded her arms on the table, resting her cheek against a forearm. He reached over to rub her neck.

“Don’t,” she said.

“I wish you’d tell me why you’re mad.”

“I’m not.” She puffed at her hair and it lifted, falling back against her face.

“Then how come you wouldn’t let me help you finish the firing?”

“I wanted to see if I could do it myself. Straight through.”

He tried to comb his fingers through her hair, moving it away from her eyes, and she sat straight up.

“I was tired of looking at you,” she said. “Okay?”

He studied her face. Mostly she looked just tired. “Okay.”

He took a carton of eggs and a package of bacon from the refrigerator and put a pan on the stovetop.

“I’m not hungry,” she said.

“You could try.”

“I tried a piece of toast when I was waiting for you. I felt like I was going to puke.”

The phone rang and she was up and had the receiver even before he could turn toward the sound.

“Are you there? Hello?” Marin’s voice sounded fragile.

“I’m here.”

“I thought I’d call early. I thought you might be worried.”

“Can I talk to him?”

“He’s still asleep, but he’s going to be just fine.”

Paul was staring at her and she turned away, pacing with the phone.

“I can’t picture ‘just fine.’ I don’t know what that looks like.”

“It means we were lucky to be up here in Billings. So close to a hospital. They did a CT scan and put him on a blood thinner right away. An anticoagulant. They don’t think there’ll be any damage. But he needs some rest, and they want to watch him a little bit longer. See how he does on the medication.”

“Is that what the doctor said?”

“He said it was a wake-up call.”

She sat down at the kitchen table. “That’s such a bullshit thing to say. All it means is he’s not dead yet.”

“I think the doctor meant it to be more hopeful than that.” Marin cleared her throat. “I need to lie down. They’ve put a bed in here for me.”

“I’m coming up.”

“You don’t have to do that. Really. We should be home soon enough.”

“Paul’s coming too.”

She looked at Paul and he nodded. She could hear a door open and close on Marin’s end. Water running at a sink.

“The nurse just came in,” she said.

“Do you need us to bring anything?”

“A change of clothes would be nice. A sweater if you can find one. They keep it cool in here.”

“Toothpaste?”

“I got all that at the shop downstairs. But you could call Marlene Silas and see if she’ll keep Sammy awhile longer.” She cleared her throat again and said something to the nurse, but Griff couldn’t distinguish the words. “When you get here,” she said, “if I’m asleep just let me sleep. I haven’t been able to yet.”

The line went dead.

They gassed up Paul’s car at the Mini-Mart, bought cans of Red Bull and a package of powdered doughnuts and didn’t see a single cop on the Wyoming side or in Montana either, making the one-hundred-seven-mile drive to the hospital in an hour and twenty-three minutes.

He dropped her off at reception, and a nurse took her by the elbow and pointed her down the right hallway.

He was awake when she came in, and when she bent to kiss him he rose up out of the bed and wrapped her in his arms, gripping fistfuls of fabric at the yoke of her shirt, as though only the buoyancy of her young body was keeping them afloat. Then he fell away and lay there smiling.

“I thought your face might be crooked,” she said.

The smile moved into his eyes.

“It’s just his left arm that’s weak.” Marin was standing behind her. “And the leg on that side. Did Paul come?”

“He’s parking the car.” She took his left hand in both of hers and he squeezed lightly. Like a small child might.

“See.” He swallowed. “It’s not that bad.”

She smoothed his cheek. “When can we go home?” she asked.

He looked toward Marin.

“We need to make arrangements for physical therapy,” she said. “They’re satisfied with everything else.”

Griff straightened. “The doctor could show me how. Or the nurse could.”

He squeezed her hand. “Marin’s got it taken care of,” he said.

Paul carried their lunches up from the hospital cafeteria and they ate together, and when Marin curled down on the other bed and Einar drifted off she found his doctor, asking enough questions to believe this was something they could do. And that he would improve.

The next morning at Costco, she bought pillows and a blanket and a CD of great performances by the New York Philharmonic, and they got him settled comfortably in the backseat. They played the CD twice on the drive home, Mahler and Vaughan Williams, Barber and Tchaikovsky, Paul following in the one-ton with Marin’s new furniture.

A physical therapist named Shawnee came up from Sheridan on Thursday and by Friday afternoon he could hobble down the hallway without the aluminum walker. Shawnee said she thought a week of that kind of improvement and she could start tapering off. She scribbled down her phone number, insisting it wasn’t a bother to drive up on the weekend if they needed her, and stayed for dinner when she was asked. They learned she was raised on a ranch in Star Valley.

On Saturday morning he fell in the shower. Griff heard his body hit the porcelain, heard him cry out and found him on his side in the tub. He’d dragged the shower curtain off the rod and was holding it over his groin.

“Where are you hurt?” She turned the water off, kneeling on the floor. “Tell me where.”

“Not you,” he said. “Please.”

“Get a chair.” Marin moved her to the side and kneeled down over him, and by the time she returned from the kitchen he was up, sitting on the side of the tub, Marin holding him steady. They got him into the chair with the shower curtain still across his lap.

“I’m going to call Shawnee,” Marin said.

“Nothing’s broke.” He was still having a little trouble getting his breath. “She doesn’t need to drive over here just to look at some clumsy old son of a bitch.”

Marin draped a towel across his shoulders and he tilted his head to the side, digging a finger into his ear.