Comes a Time for Burning Page 9

  “What did you want him to do?”

  The question surprised Thomas, but he could see that the timber foreman was genuine in his curiosity.

  “To keep it dry and clean, for one,” the physician said. “It was splinted, and should stay that way until the bones and ligaments have a fair chance to mend. As it is, the young man is working as hard as he can to win an amputation—if infection doesn’t kill him first.”

  Bertram frowned and looked off into the distance. “Well, he’s going to do what he’s going to do. I put him on count to keep him out of trouble. He’ll be all right. Come on,” Bertram said, beckoning. “Tie off that horse and let me show you.” He led Thomas to the precipice. Beyond the last flume gate, a simple three log trough, one log contoured as the bottom, larger logs laid along the sides, plummeted with the terrain, a frightening drop to the water far below.

  “You ready now?” the foreman shouted, and the photographer waved a hand. “Don’t know how he’s going to do it, but that’s his business.” The photographer had moved his bulky camera to the very lip of the bluff.

  Thomas watched in astonishment as the iron sluice valve was spun open with a burst of escaping water. Loggers with heavy cant hooks urged the mammoth log along in its own gush of water. It floated until its weight tipped into the chute, and then gravity took over. With a howl of its own, the log shot away, accelerating wildly on the steep initial section, its passage slicked by the spray of water. One after another, logs tipped into the chute.

  He hadn’t counted the seconds, but the logs became a smoking blur, and seconds later smashed into the inlet far below, sending geysers of water high into the air. By the time they hit the water, the multi-ton logs were but tiny, black dashes against the exploding water. What the camera could record was a mystery to Thomas. Certainly nothing was holding still for the sensitive film.

  “There’s been talk,” Bertram explained, “that you could ride a log down the flume. I hear that every day. And you know, someday some crazy youngster with more nerve than brains is going to try it.”

  “We can hope not,” Thomas said.

  Bertram adopted a thoughtful stance, one hand on his bristly jaw. “You know, a man might save himself a hell of a long hike to town by hookin’ a ride down the chute. I hear a man in the Klamath tried it on the Pokagama, longer’n this.” Bertram grinned at his own jest. “Schoolyard dares, Doc. That’s the way I figure it. These are good boys. Work hard, play hard. Sometimes drink too much.” He shrugged.

  “I’m planning to talk to Mr. Schmidt about the possibility of a telephone up on the lease.”

  Bertram’s expression went blank. “How’s that?”

  “I’ve given it a lot of thought. If we had a central location up here on the lease where a ring could summon help…imagine the time to be saved.”

  “A telephone…”

  “Exactly. The cities have exchanges now. Both Seattle and Tacoma, and more coming every day. I spoke with an engineer from the company just a few weeks ago. It would be possible.”

  “I’ve heard of ’em,” Bertram said. “Don’t give it much account. You’re sayin’ that a man gets himself hurt somehow, and we find this telephone?”

  “Exactly. In fact, this wonderful chute gives us a route up the headland for the wires. How hard could it be to run poles right up the route cleared for the chute? Much of the work has already been done.”

  “Somebody gets hurt, we just take care of ’em here, or find a way into town,” Bertram said. “You know that.”

  “And that’s what kills more often than not.”

  “You think so?”

  “I do. Most certainly I do.”

  “Huh. The telephone wouldn’t have done Sonny Malone a damn bit of good.”

  “Not that particular case, but useful for other things as well, I should think. Mr. Schmidt requires a fair accounting of the logs that leave the headlands, does he not? Huckla is proud to be counting, back at the pond.”

  “Schmidt’s got himself some new accountants,” Bertram said. “Always countin’ things. That’s what they do. Number of logs that leave the timber, number into the chute, number down at the inlet. Number at the mill. Numbers, numbers, numbers.”

  “Well, then. The mill would not have to wait for that information. The telephone could make short work of such.”

  Bertram shook his head slowly. “Used to be a man went into the woods with an axe and a crosscut, and earned his way one tree at a time. Now we got to count this, and count that.” He grimaced. “Anyways, you do what you got to do, Doc.” He pointed to the north. “Don’t know how you came up the hill, but you cut off that way a bit and you’ll find the lease trail. Take you down to the inlet road. That’s the way your driver come up earlier. Be easier going.”

  Thomas accepted the offered hand. “It appeared that Huckla’s companion was feeling poorly this morning,” he said. “Sitzberger? He’s working now?”

  “Suppose he is, but I couldn’t put my finger on just where right at the moment.” He turned at the waist, watching the flume crew work the sticks through the chute. “The kid workin’ the pig there,” he nodded at the last log in the chain, “that’s Todd Delaney. He shares the tent with Sitzy. He’d know, if you wanted to ask.”

  “Well, if he feels poorly enough, he’ll seek us out,” Thomas allowed.

  “’Spect he would be. That your man?” He pointed behind Thomas. Sure enough, a horse and rider had emerged from the timber, cutting across the open ground toward the flume. Thomas first recognized the fisherman’s knit cap, and then the tight, collected posture in the saddle. Howard Deaton didn’t allow the mare to slacken pace until horse and rider were nearly upon them. The mare danced to a halt, blowing hard.

  “Doc, sure do needja down in town.”

  “I was just on my way. What is it?”

  “It’s Mrs. Parks, Doc.”

  Thomas’ heart leaped. “She’s fallen?”

  Deaton had already turned the mare toward Port McKinney, and she danced sideways at the delay.

  “She’s…she’s had the baby, Doc.”

  “My God.” The mare’s excitement had awakened the gelding, and Bertram caught the bridle even as Thomas stabbed a boot into the stirrup.

  “You watch yourself,” the timber foreman said, but Thomas had already given the heel to the gelding.

  Howard Deaton and his mare certainly knew the way, and Thomas urged Fats to keep pace. Myriad questions flooded Thomas’ mind, but he was caught, with nothing for it but to ride as he’d never ridden before. Reaching the village, Deaton chose one of the quiet back alleys of Port McKinney, and in a moment they burst onto Gamble Street, passing the clinic in a burst of hurled mud.

  Deaton slipped off the mare and grabbed the gelding’s reins as Thomas dismounted. His fingers felt like sausages as he fought with the ties that secured his medical bag and then he was flying up the front porch steps of 101 Lincoln.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Congratulations, old fellow,” Dr. Lucius Hardy said. He put a hand on Thomas’ chest, effectively blocking his way for just a moment. “You have a healthy son.”

  “Alvi…”

  “As perfect a delivery as I’ve ever seen.” Thomas slipped past, but as he did so, Hardy added, “Go easy, Doctor.”

  The room was flooded with soft light, only the fine inner curtain drawn over the window.

  “She is asleep,” a woman’s voice said. Thomas stopped at the foot of the bed as a short, powerful figure rose from the bentwood straight chair.

  “Mrs…”

  “Mrs. McLaughlin.” Thomas could see that the folds of her voluminous white dress and apron were blood and fluid stained. “Yes, we’ve met on occasion.” Her voice, almost gruff, was barely a whisper. “Your wife summoned me this morning.”

  “I…”

  Why hadn’t he been summoned, Thomas thought in a whirl of conflictions. Those conflictions were written clearly all over his face, and Mrs. McLaughlin reached out a hand and
touched Thomas’ forearm. “I know.”

  “You know? What do you mean, you know. I talked with my wife at luncheon this very day. The child is…the child is…” and Thomas could think of nothing further to say. Alvi must have known that birth was imminent, and yet had said nothing to him. Still, such things sometimes came as a surprise, he’d been told. One moment all is fine, the next moment, the water breaks and the infant demands to meet the world.

  “Your son is perfectly formed in every way,” the mid-wife said with considerable satisfaction. “And he sleeps like a perfect angel.”

  Holding his breath, Thomas drew near. Alvi’s serene expression showed no traces of the agonies that Thomas had come to associate with childbirth. His wife was so beautiful, lying against fresh white linens, her reddish-blond hair fanned around her head. The infant, in fine white muslin, lay in the crook of one arm, and Mrs. McLaughlin drew back a corner. The infant was indeed perfect, a little wash of black hair on the front of his skull.

  “They must both sleep,” the mid-wife said. She touched Thomas’ hand to intercept as he reached out to stroke the infant’s forehead. He waited for her to withdraw her hand, then with a feather-light brush of his fingers, watched the wisp of hair rise and then settle on the almost transparent skin.

  “The birth was without complication, and the little boy was most prompt in joining the world. One of the quickest deliveries I’ve ever seen. But even so, rest is the best thing.”

  Thomas stood by the bed, at a loss. He surveyed the room, and saw the minimal trappings of labor—the small cart with its twin pans, an abundance of clean towels that apparently had not been used, the black rubber pad folded in a bucket on the table’s lower shelf. And he had not been present.

  “How has the episiotomy been managed?” he asked finally, the only thing he could think of, so flummoxed was he by this turn of events.

  “The smallest amount of tearing,” the mid-wife assured. “Nothing that might warrant even a single suture.”

  “And injury to the pelvic floor?”

  “Doctor, there was none.” Mrs. McLaughlin folded her hands in self-satisfaction.

  “But the infant weighs…” Thomas could see the outline through the muslin, and was certain that the boy surely totaled six or seven pounds.

  “A healthy, full-term infant,” the mid-wife said. “What more could you wish?” Full-term. The impossibility of the words echoed in his brain.

  “Assuredly,” Thomas said, and for a moment was sure that he would pass out on the spot. “Bleeding…” He said the single word with his eyes closed, waiting for the world to steady on its axis.

  “Little. And now fully subsided.”

  Thomas could think of nothing else to say, so Mrs. McLaughlin said it for him.

  “You have a healthy wife, and a fine, healthy baby boy. You should be most pleased.”

  “I am…I am.”

  To her credit, Rachel McLaughlin did not laugh, even though Thomas was certain that she understood his consternation. She remained tactfully silent, letting the obvious speak for itself, allowing Thomas’ thoughts to jumble unhindered. He started to reach out toward Alvi’s right hand, curled in complete relaxation on the coverlet, but he stopped.

  “She is a mountain for seven,” Lucius Hardy had said.

  “And how could I…” he started to whisper to himself, but stopped. “When did my wife first contact you, Mrs. McLaughlin?”

  “That would be yesterday afternoon,” the woman said.

  “She informed you that her labor was imminent?”

  “She did so.” Mrs. McLaughlin leaned closer and lowered her voice until Thomas had to watch her lips to be certain. “She said that she wanted me to know, since you are so often called for emergency surgeries, Doctor. Just to be prepared.” That made eminent sense, of course, and Thomas could fully imagine Alvi, in her own thoughtful way, making such a preparation.

  “And today?”

  “Shortly after lunch, Miss James came to fetch me.”

  “Gerti did?”

  “Yes. It is my understanding that you had just gone up on the headlands. The moment the event seemed certain, Alvi requested that Mr. Deaton find you.”

  He could feel the hot flush on his cheeks. “And did it occur to you that I would certainly not have ridden anywhere had I known the birth was imminent?” He sounded petulant, he knew—but in large part it was directed at himself. As a physician he should have known that birth was near and not two months distant. Yet he could not shake the revelation that so much had apparently transpired behind his back. Part of him said that he had no wish to argue with this capable mid-wife, but he couldn’t stop himself.

  “I wouldn’t presume to say, but I would suppose so, Doctor.” She leaned just heavily enough on the final word that her meaning was clear. “And you know perfectly well that your wife is a woman of strong convictions.”

  “That’s the truth,” Thomas said, and let it go at that. Mrs. McLaughlin was right, of course. Alvi’s independence was part of the young woman’s charm. She did not ask permission to take walks, or have the old dog in the house, or arrive at the clinic whenever she pleased, or talk with patients unannounced.

  He leaned over and touched his lips to Alvi’s forehead, just a slight brush. “And we all love her for it, don’t we.” He straightened up and nodded at the mid-wife. “Thank you, Mrs. McLaughlin. I am forever in your debt.” Her wide face split in a smile.

  “I will attend her until evening,” she announced. “And then I shall return in the morning. But there is no cause for any concern. Not even a little bit.”

  “Thank you.” He did not bother to remind the woman that there were now two physicians in the house. Had he done so, he thought, her laughter might awaken both infant and mother. “Was it you who summoned Dr. Hardy?”

  This time, Mrs. McLaughlin looked uncomfortable. “I don’t know the gentleman, sir,” she said. “But it is my understanding that Mr. Deaton informed the doctor before Howard rode out into the timber to fetch you.”

  “And Dr. Hardy assisted you?”

  “Well…” she began thoughtfully, “he offered one or two notions that were certainly helpful.” She looked pleased that she had managed to be so tactful.

  Chapter Twelve

  “What am I to do?” Thomas asked, and for a long time, Dr. Lucius Hardy let the question hang, as if unsure that the younger man actually wanted an answer. The evening was splendid, a few clouds scattered on the horizon, just enough to spread the final burst of sunlight. Thomas sat in one of the wicker rockers on the porch of 101 Lincoln, Prince curled nearby, watching. The dog had studiously ignored Hardy, instead positioning himself so that he could see through the front door to the interior of the house. Thomas knew that the animal was waiting for Alvi’s appearance, fretful that he hadn’t been allowed in the bedroom.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” Thomas prompted. What’s done is done, he kept telling himself.

  “I hadn’t examined your wife before I was summoned,” Hardy replied carefully. The physician’s large hands were quiet in his lap, wrapped around a fragile tea cup. He had refused an offer of brandy, but Thomas had served himself a generous portion. Hardy held up a hand. “I speak as an outsider, of course, and that’s easy to do. But I see a certain priority here. The child has arrived, he’s safe and healthy, as is your wife.”

  “He cannot be mine.” It was the first time Thomas had actually given voice to the thought, and he was surprised at the awful lump that it produced in his throat. His voice dropped to a whisper as he repeated himself. “He cannot be mine.”

  Hardy regarded his cooling tea. “How old is your wife, Thomas?”

  “She will be twenty-seven in July.”

  “And what month did you arrive in Port McKinney?”

  “My ship docked on September twelfth.” He frowned and tried to clear his throat again. “Almost exactly eight months ago.”

  The corners of Hardy’s eyes crinkled, but it was sympathy that p
rompted his amusement, not mockery. “You fell for Alvina immediately, I would say.”

  “Yes. I like to think that it was mutual.”

  “And you thought that the child was conceived a month or so after your arrival? That’s why you so firmly believed that she was seven months along?”

  “One month, perhaps two.”

  “Obviously not, then. I mean no insult, but Alvina was pregnant with this child some weeks before your arrival.”

  “Why didn’t she tell me?”

  “And at first, why should she? Let me play the devil’s advocate with you, Thomas. Please be patient with me.” Hardy stretched his legs out, and reached down to place the cup and saucer on the porch deck. “An attractive young woman, then twenty-six years old—why should she not have relationships? At the risk of seeming crude, my word. At twenty-six, many women—most women—have an entire family under their roof.”

  “I suppose…”

  “You saw no signs during the long days you spent recuperating in this wonderful house? No one coming courting? No obvious interest in another’s presence?”

  “There were some signs that she enjoyed a friendship with her father’s assistant. He shared the dinner table with the Haines family on a regular basis.”

  “A friendship?”

  “Yes. That’s what I thought. Even more than cordial.”

  Hardy chuckled softly. “Ah, Thomas. You’re wonderful.”

  “I feel I should be offended by that.”

  “Please, no. At the risk of sounding like a court’s advocate, let me ask this. At some later time, after the two of you had become intimate, did you ask her about this friendship?”

  “No, of course not. On what grounds should I do that? What she did before my arrival is hardly my concern. Even after my arrival, I might add. But then her father passed away, and that consumed us both. The bond between us grew rapidly. And the gentleman in question had left Port McKinney shortly thereafter. Alvina seemed entirely content in my company. There seemed to be nothing between Alvina and the gentleman in question at that point, no lingering attachment, if that’s the word. When it became obvious that she was with child, sometime around Christmas, I think, we were both delighted. Both of us. And I just assumed.”