He’d said, “See?”
She had to agree, it did feel some better. She’d kept it wrapped and was sure it would heal now. But no, after a couple of weeks, it took to smelling bad. The pain came back, worse than before. The skin blackened, and she felt sickly with the fever.
Warren had sent for Doc Perdue, who took one look and said, “You got the gangrene.”
Rae Lynn had said, “What can you do?”
“Got to take it off at the first joint, maybe a touch more.”
Mouth open, she’d looked over to Warren, his hangdog expression hard to read. Doc Perdue had pulled a metal syringe out of his black leather bag and injected her finger with something to numb it. From that moment on, she’d not been able to watch, but she heard, smelled, felt what was happening because the numbing solution didn’t work completely. Pressing her lips together at the snipping sound, her stomach protested again, especially after the few seconds of sawing. She felt the tug and pull as he stitched her finger, and started to feel some better. After it was over, her finger resembled the end of a pillow, and she hadn’t been able to quit looking at it.
Like now.
Billy continued to shove and push, working hard, but the barrel was winning due to gravity, and the fact it was so heavy. Rae Lynn was certain she’d seen ten-year-old boys bigger than him, and it was likely the barrel weighed more than he did. Billy inched it along, rolling it up the two crudely made slats, and the farther he went, the more they bent. The one slat on the left especially looked like it was about to give. The boards had been filled with termites, and she’d told Warren so.
“Them ain’t gonna last, especially that one, it’s riddled with holes. Look a there.”
Warren had considered the plank before waving his hands through the air, swatting her words away. Like they’s gnats bothering him, she thought. Billy’s shirt hung off his bony frame, soaked through, and here it was, not yet going on nine o’clock. He wore a straw hat shoved back on his head, and a bit of white-blond hair stood out against his reddened face. All of twenty, wiry and eager, he’d started off strong but appeared like he was already on the verge of petering out.
He gasped and swore, “Dammit all!”
Warren stood in the back of the wagon and encouraged him. “Doing fine, son.”
Billy hadn’t made much progress. His feet pointed outward, the tips of his shoes so worn they’d lost their stitching and hung open. She could see holes in his socks, pink toes. Like a baby’s. God bless him. He needed somebody to mend them. Maybe she could do that for him, if he stuck around.
Warren said, “Ain’t but a couple a feet and you’re home free.”
Not quite, Rae Lynn thought. They had lots more barrels to load. The crack of splintering wood was quick, the sound sharp as gunfire. Billy attempted to keep the barrel from rolling back on him, a valiant effort, except he listed to one side, quivering against the weight. Warren’s hopeful face collapsed in dismay. Billy, face purple with effort, gave a strangled groan. He was clearly disadvantaged. The barrel landed on his foot and his howl echoed through the tops of the pines and into the deepest part of the woods. A crow flew away, cawing “uh-uh, uh-uh” across a pewter-colored sky. Warren jumped off the back of the wagon, and Rae Lynn rushed forward.
Billy screamed, “Lordamighty!”
His body went one way, then the other in a twisty move like he wanted to yank free but didn’t have the nerve.
Warren started to roll the barrel off, and Billy hollered, “No!”
Warren stopped, unsure of what to do.
Rae Lynn stood beside Billy and said, “We got to move it. Can’t see what’s happened, how bad it is and all.”
Warren paced, and swore. “I will be damned.”
Billy gasped, hands at his head, crushing his hat.
He said, “How bad? It’s bad!”
Rae Lynn said, “Well. You wanting it to stay there?”
Billy panted, puffed. “I reckon not!”
The last word was like a screech. Rae Lynn left Billy’s side and dashed into their house. The interior was dim after being out in the bright sun, but she knew what she was after, and she went right over to the huge cast-iron sink where they had a pump for water and got the bottle of whisky off the small shelf over it. She rushed back outside, screen door banging behind her, and gave the bottle to Billy. He snatched it, took a swig, then another. Warren motioned at her, and she went to his side to help. Billy had taken to moaning.
“Look here, son. Now. We’re gonna move this off’n your foot.”