Lonesome Dove 孤鸽镇

“I think you’re mean,” Sally said. She was quick to attack mother and sister alike. “Daddy’s sick, or he’d talk.” “All right,” Clara said. “I’ll take that back.” In fact, she could remember a thousand meals when Bob hadn’t said a word.

“I think you’re mean,” Sally repeated, not satisfied.

“Yes, and you’re my equal,” Clara said, looking at her daughter.

July realized it all had something to do with him, but he couldn’t get his mind on it. He carried his plate to the sink and thanked Clara for the meal. Then he went out on the front porch, glad it was a dark night. He felt he would cry. It was puzzling; he didn’t know what to do. He had never heard of a wife doing any of the things Elmira had done. He sat on the steps of the porch, sadder and more bewildered than he had been even on the night when he got back to the river and discovered the three bodies. There was nothing to do about death, but Elmira was alive. He had to do something—he just didn’t know what.

The girls came out and chattered behind him for a while, but he paid them no mind. He had a headache and thought he ought to lie down, except that lying down usually made his headaches worse.

Clara came out, still holding the baby, and sat in a rocker. “You seem to be feeling poorly, Mister Johnson,” she said.

“Just call me July,” he said.

“I’ll be happy to,” she said. “You can drop the Mrs., too. I think we know one another well enough for first names now.” July didn’t think he knew her very well, but he didn’t say it. He didn’t think he knew any woman.

“I need to ask you a favor,” she said. “Could you help me turn my husband, or are you feeling too poorly?” He would help her, of course. Several times he had helped her with her husband. The man had lost so much weight that July could simply lift him while Clara changed the bedding. The first time it bothered him a good deal, for the man never closed his eyes. That night he worried about what the man might think—another man coming in with his wife. Clara was businesslike about it, telling him what to do when he was slow. July wondered if the man was listening, and what he was thinking, in case he was.

Clara handed him a lantern and they went inside. She left the baby with the girls for a minute. Clara stopped at the door of her bedroom and listened before going in.

“Every time I come I expect he’ll have stopped breathing,” she said. “I always stop and listen.” The man was breathing, though. July lifted him and Clara removed the sheets.

“Dern it, I forgot the water,” she said, going to the door. “Sally, bring up the bucket,” she yelled, and in a little while the girl appeared with it.

“Betsey’s going to let the baby fall of the bed,” she said. “She don’t know how to hold it.” “Well, she better learn,” Clara said. “You girls quit fighting over that baby.” July felt embarrassed, holding the sick, naked man while his wife sponged him with warm water. It seemed very improper to him. Clara seemed to understand how he felt and made the bed quickly.“It’s just nurse work, Mister Johnson,” she said. “I tried keeping clothes on him, but it’s no good. The poor man can’t control himself.” She stopped and looked at him. “I forgot I was supposed to call you July,” she said.

July felt that his head would burst. He didn’t care what she called him. It hurt so that he could hardly walk straight on the stairs. He bumped into the door at the foot of the stairs. Above them, the baby was squalling.

Clara was about to go and see to the baby, but when she saw July stumble into the door she changed her mind. He went back out on the porch and sank on the steps, as if at the end of his strength. Clara reached down and put her palm against his forehead, which caused him to jump as if he had been struck.

“My goodness, you’re shy as a colt,” she said. “I thought you might be feverish, but you ain’t.” “It’s just my head,” he said.

“You need a cool rag, then,” she said.

She went back into the house and got a rag and a little water. She made him let her bathe his forehead and temples. He had to admit the cool water felt good.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Oh, you don’t have to thank me for a washrag,” Clara said. “I’m not much of a nurse. It’s one of my failings. I’m too impatient. I’ll give a person a week or two, and then if they don’t improve I’d just about as soon they’d die.

“Not children,” she added, a little later. “I ain’t that harsh with children. I’d rather have them sick five years than to lose one. It’s just my observation that nursing don’t do that much good. People get well if they’re able, or else they die.” They were silent for several minutes.

“Did you find your wife?” Clara asked. “It ain’t my business, I know, but I’ll ask you anyway.” “Yes,” July said. “She was at the doctor’s.” “She must not have been very glad to see you,” Clara said.

July wished she would leave him alone. She had taken him in and fed him, saved his wife and cared for his child, and yet he did wish she would just leave him alone. He felt so weak himself that if he hadn’t been braced against the porch railing he might have rolled off the steps. He had nothing to say and nothing to offer. And yet there was something tireless in Clara that never seemed to stop. His head hurt so he felt like shooting himself, the baby was squalling overhead, and yet she would ask questions.

“I guess she’s still sick,” he said. “She didn’t say much.” “Did she want the baby?” “She didn’t say,” July said.

“Did she ask any questions about it at all?” “No,” July admitted. “She never said a word.” The baby had stopped crying. They heard a horse splash out of the river—Cholo was coming in late. Even with no moon they could see his white hair as he trotted to the corrals.