“Nothing wrong with any of that.”
“Nothing wrong with going to a hospital, either.”
“My business. What’d Johnny shoot me for, anyhow?”
“I guess that’s his business,” Botree said. “Why’d you shoot your leg?”
“I don’t rightly know.”
“There’s plenty of people out here who’ve killed themselves. But you’re the first dumb enough to try it in the knee.”
“I guess I thought shooting would knock out the bullet that was already in me, like driving two pool balls into a pocket at once. I didn’t think the second bullet would bust up like it did.”
“You didn’t think at all,” Botree said. “About like every man on this land.”
Joe’s anger flared, then faded as quickly as it came. He couldn’t recall ever having been so volatile and wondered if the medication was responsible. The pain in his leg was part of his being and he tried to accept it. Another part of him, deep at cellular level, craved the sweet release of narcotics. Getting mad temporarily alleviated the need.
“Is this your house?” Joe said.
“No. It’s Coop’s.”
“Who all lives here?”
“Me and the kids, and Coop, Owen, and Johnny.”
“So they’re your brothers.”
“I’m in the middle. Owen’s oldest, Johnny’s the baby,”
“He’s not a baby.”
“Johnny doesn’t feel too good about what happened.”
“I don’t either.”
“He wants to come and see you.”
“Why’s that?” Joe said, “To finish the job?”
“Talking to you would make him feel better.”
“I know he’s your brother and all, but how he feels ain’t exactly high on my list right now.”
“What is?”
“Walking,” he said.
Botree rose from the chair. At the door she turned, a grin lurking in the lines of her mouth.
“A neck,” she said, shaking her head. “A neck.”
Joe didn’t want her to leave.
“Your kids?” he said.
“Yes. You have any?”
“No, but I like them. What’s their names?”
“Dallas and Abilene.”
Joe lifted his eyebrows.
“It’s where their fathers are from,” Botree said. “I lived in Texas for a while. Long story.”
“They’re good boys.”
“It’s nice you think so. Their uncles are hard on them, and Coop doesn’t have much use for lads.”
“I never understood people like that.”
“I do,” she said. “People who don’t like kids don’t like people.”
“Yeah, so.”
“And if you don’t like people, you generally don’t like yourself.”
“How about if you like animals?”
“I guess there’s hope,” Botree said.
“My daddy always said animals and kids were a lot alike.”
“That sounds like something a man would say.”
She left the room, easing the door shut, and Joe stared at the ceiling. The dull pain was deep in his leg like the ache of a mountain after the coal was removed. He ate four more ibuprophen. His father had died in a bed at home and Joe decided that tomorrow he would rise.
In the morning he asked Botree to stay after she’d changed the dressing on his leg. The wound was healing gradually, like earth set-ding on a fresh grave. Both legs had withered from disuse. He care-fully pivoted his hips to move his bad leg to the edge of the bed. Bending the knee produced an enormous pain. Breath blew from his mouth in a harsh gust and he squeezed the mattress until his hands hurt. He refused to look at Botree. He sat until his breathing was normal. Slowly he stood on his good leg, using the bed for balance, and prepared for what scared him the most — taking a step.
He tested the weight on his bad leg. It didn’t hurt as much as he’d anticipated. Encouraged, he moved his bad leg forward slightly, one hand placed against the wall. He stared at the six inches he intended to walk. He stepped forward and his bad leg buckled and he fell against the wall. When the pain subsided, he leaned backwards until he found the edge of the bed, and lowered himself to sit. Hours seemed to have passed, but he knew the entire action had taken a few seconds. Sweat trickled down his back.
He began the slow process of lifting his bad leg, leaning backwards, scooting sideways on the bed, and swinging both legs to the mattress. Botree moved to help but he waved her away. He lay on his back panting like an animal.
“You did good,” she said.
He nodded.
“You’ll walk,” she said. “I know you will.”
After she left he took more ibuprofen and slept. When he woke, the pain was worse and the wounds were seeping. He called to Botree, who changed the dressing.
“I hate you having to do this,” he said.
“It doesn’t bother me,”
“I don’t like needing help.”
“Nobody does.”
“Or owing anybody, either.”
“You don’t owe me nothing, mister,” she said. “I’m just paying off people who helped me already.”
From, outside the door came the sound of running feet, and the children raced into the room. They wore small cowboy boots. Dallas spoke while Abilene stared at Joe.
“What’s the difference between a lake and a creek?”
“A creek moves,” Botree said, “and a lake doesn’t.”
“No, Mommy,” Dallas said. “A lake moves. Just real slow. Only people who move slow can see it.”
Joe chuckled and Botree gave him a quick smile.
“I guess I could see it, then,” Joe said, “Nobody moves slower than me.”
Abilene whispered in his brother’s ear, Dallas looked at Joe.
“My brother wants to know if you’re going to die there.”
“Dallas!” Botree said. “That’s no way to talk.”
“It wasn’t me, it was him. He said it.”
“No,” Joe said. “I ain’t dying here. But I was wondering if you can tell me what kind of skulls these are.”
The children remained with him the rest of the afternoon, Dallas identified all the bones and feathers of the room, and labeled the variety of cattle outside his window. Abilene occupied a three-year old’s world that was wholly his. At six, Dallas was twice his brother’s age. They’d never be as far apart as they were now, and Joe tried to explain this to Botree when she brought him a plate of supper.
“Maybe that’s why you got a way with kids,” she said. “How you dunk’s not like most.”
“Most people don’t think.”
“I know, I been around them all my life.”
“Well, maybe I think too much.”
“There’s something you think too much about.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “But it’s there.”
Joe turned away too fast, driving a pain into his leg like a knife between the bones. When he turned back to her, she was looking out the window, allowing him the space to recover. He wondered if that distance was her own style, or the way Montanans were.
The next day she brought him a set of aluminum crutches and accompanied him outside. He felt the strain in his triceps and his wrists. The wing nut for the adjustable handhold caught his pants pocket and ripped the fabric, tumbling him against the wall. He asked Botree for something to cover the wing nut and she brought him a roll of black electrical tape. As he bound the metal, he recalled winding the same material around the barrel of the pistol he’d used on Rodale. It seemed like years ago.
He hobbled down a long narrow hall to a large room, with a fireplace and high ceilings. Beyond it was a kitchen and another long room that contained a table and chairs. The house was the longest Joe had ever been inside, very different from the cramped houses of Kentucky. Botree guided him through a utility room, where a washer and dryer stood beside a freezer, a row of hooks, and a large wash basin. They went outside through a side door. A breeze cooled Joe’s face, the first fresh air he’d felt in weeks. The light burnished the metal roof of an outbuilding, causing him to look away. They circled the house. He took small steps with the crutches, glad for the hardness of the earth. At home, the tips would have sunk deep into the soil.