God's Work

I

BILL’S voice was shrill and hoarse above the jingling of the mule’s harness. He was still shouting as he scrambled down from her back. ‘Say, mam, kin you say when Pop’ll git back?'

I said, ‘Why, late to-night — or maybe to-morrow morning. You know he went with Mr. Ripley to take home the baler. Don’t let go of that mule. She might start off.’

Bill grabbed at the hanging lines. ‘Oh, mam, I got to git holt of Pop some way! Hit’s the little feller!’ He put up his hand and dragged it viciously across his eyes. Where it passed it left a wet smear of grime. Suddenly he was no longer the field hand that did the ploughing, but a little dust-soaked boy with a mouth that was crumpled and working. ‘Petey’s purty nigh dead, I reckon.’

I forgot the mule that was property and stared at the boy who until that minute had been only day labor. ‘What’s wrong with the baby, Bill?’

‘I dunno, mam. He’s been this-away since soon this mornin’. He’ll twist hisself and then lay kinder still, like — and then he’ll sorter hump up his belly somethin’ awful.’ The boy’s eyes turned to me — hurt, puzzled eyes. He added quickly, ‘Mom’s been a-prayin’.’

‘Has the doctor seen him?’

Bill’s hands twisted in the mule’s roached mane. ‘No, mam. I jist now come up from the lower field to git Pop to go for him.’ Again that valiant gesture of a small boy’s hand across his eyes. ‘Tother end of the lower field I heared Mom a-prayin’, and,’ he gulped, ‘I heared Petey a-hollerin’ once. . . . Las’ night he was fine,’ he went on between choked gulps. ‘He et jist what we et — greens and fatback and ’taters — and this mornin’ he drunk his coffee hotter’n what I done. That’s the kind of young-un Petey is. Hit jist took him all of a heap, like. . . . Say, mam, you been schooled — ain’t they nothin’ you kin do for him?’

No telephone. We were eighteen miles in the country. I knew the local doctor our tenants patronized — part human, part horse doctor. Not much help except to usher a perfectly willing baby into the world or give castor oil for a stomach ache.

I said, ‘Tell your mother to get him ready. I’II drive her over to the county hospital.’

‘To the big hospital? Oh, mam, will you?’ Bill kicked the mule. ‘You bet I’ll go tell Mom.’

II

As I poured gasoline into the Ford I found I was trembling. It was close to sundown. The road was lonely, and none too good. I knew the Ford and I remembered the old worn tires.

The three were on the porch as I rattled to a stop before the tenant house. Bill was sitting despondently waving at flies with a piece of folded newspaper. The baby lay limp on what looked like a pile of old rags at the boy’s feet. His mother, slight and forlorn, knelt a little apart, her hands folded in prayer, her colorless lips moving soundlessly. There was about all of them the submissive apathy that one associates with a scene of death.

I hesitated on the step of the car. My lips felt dry. One does n’t interrupt a prayer with, ‘Why haven’t you got on your hat, Mrs. Craver?’

I tiptoed hurriedly over to the baby. Bill stood up and pointed down to his eyes. They had rolled back until only a rim of pale china blue showed above the whites. He looked dead already. I leaned down quickly to touch his hand. It was reassuringly hot.

I ran over to Mrs. Craver and caught hold of her shoulder. She gave a little jerk and turned her pale, plain face toward me.

‘Did n’t Bill tell you?’ I knew I was shouting, but I could n’t stop. ‘Come get in the car, and we’ll drive him over to the hospital.’

The meekness that I had come to associate with tenant farmers’ wives was in her voice. ‘Yes, mam, he told me,’ she said. ‘But Petey’s most gone, mam. Only the good Lord can save him now.’

I knew something of the dull obstinacy of these women when it came to their God. Isolated for generations on lonely farms where no human aid reached them, they must either cling to a miracle-working God or turn to meet the bitter inevitability of nature. If they were strong enough to face that, they would no longer be the wives of tenant farmers. I said, in a voice that I hoped was calm and very firm, ‘Dr. Ellis knows heaps about sick babies, Mrs. Craver. I do believe he can cure Petey.’

She looked at me. She nodded her head as one might nod to a good child. ‘Mam,’ she said, ‘I’ve done laid my burden in Jesus’ lap. Nobody kin do more’n that.’

I opened my mouth to speak, but her voice rose shrill and strained. ‘When you’ve asked the Lord to he’p you, you sho’ hev to put your trust in Him.’

She pointed her finger at me almost accusingly, as though she dared me to contradict her. ‘That’s right, ain’t it, mam? God will save us if we put our trust in Him.’

I am sure it was involuntarily, it was even half furtively, that she glanced down at the listless baby on the floor. But sudden panic stared from her face. Her voice wavered. ‘If He’s a mind to,’ she added under her breath. It was like knocking on wood.

‘Let’s try the doctor anyway,’ I said. ‘Go get your things.’ I leaned down to pick up the baby.

She grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t you lay a hand on him! You’ll be his death shore. I ’ve asked the Lord to save him. You leave Petey be.’

I might have stopped right there. When a mother feels God is with her, it takes a woman stronger than I to contest it. But, surprisingly, in that second of indecision Bill piped up.

His voice squeaked up and down the scale. He clutched at me. ‘Oh, mam, go on! Take him to the doctor! The Lord don’t care nothin’ for us, seems like.’

Mrs. Craver went white. Her hand smacked across his face. ‘You, Bill, don’t you say such a thing! God is a-listenin’ to you. Do you want Him to take your little brother away for a punishment for your wicked ways? On your knees and pray your lovin’ Father to forgive you, you wildtalkin’, wicked boy!’

Bill stood a little defiant, a little frightened. His hand began again to wave the newspaper over the baby. But he had given me courage.

‘Oh, please, Mrs. Craver,’ I said, ‘please be reasonable! Look at poor Petey! God helps those who help themselves.’

She stopped short. ‘Is that in the Bible?’

‘I don’t know. Yes, yes — I guess so.’

She was trembling, weeping, all of a sudden. ‘Well, I dunno.’ Though her hands did n’t move, I had the feeling that she wrung them. ‘Well — if you’re set on hit — take him, then! ’

‘Get your things, Mrs. Craver.’

She turned on Bill. ‘If the Lord feels you need the punishment for not trustin’ of Him, He’ll take him anyway. Oh, sinful, sinful child!’

She was moaning pitifully. ‘Bill don’t mean no harm, Lord. Forgive him and save Petey! I’ll stay hereon my knees a-prayin’ to you, our Heavenly Father. You promised, O God, to he’p them that turned to you.’

Bill silently held out a quilt. Together we wrapped up the little uncomplaining body. Bill lifted the baby in his arms.

It was not until I was in the car with my hands on the wheel that I gave much thought to the responsibility I was taking. ‘Won’t you change your mind and come with us, Mrs. Craver?’ I faltered.

The kneeling figure did n’t turn its head. ‘Oh, no, no! I’m a-goin’ to stay here and pray.’

III

The yellow haze. The white road reflected in our eyes. The old Ford rocked and rattled as I gave it the gas.

The baby stiffened against my arm and as suddenly relaxed. He moaned weakly and twitched his fingers.

I did n’t dare take my eyes off the road ahead, but in my mind I could still see Mrs. Craver praying. My lips twitched with a half-hysterical desire to laugh. I wished I had asked her to say a good word for the tires. Clearly I remembered the patch in the right front one, the shoe in the left rear.

‘They ain’t no young-un perter’n what Petey is when he’s feelin’ right,’ Bill said. ‘He kin sit up at night late as what I kin, and laughs all the time.’

What’s the use in trying to explain hygiene to a twelve-year-old farm boy? I might have made an attempt even so, but at that minute the front tire blew out.

There was still daylight.

Bill carefully handed the baby to me. ‘I kin change tires,’ he said simply.

I did n’t dare lay the child on the seat alone. I held him gingerly, hot and quiet, in my arms. The gray road stretched empty in the low sun. I could hear Bill hammering and tugging. I could hear his grunts, his labored breathing when the spare stuck and refused for a long time to come off. The time seemed endless.

When it was finished he climbed in. ‘How many more miles, mam?’ he asked as he took the baby from me.

‘Eight, I think.’

‘Gee! . . . But that ain’t so fur. Maybe the night air’ll cool Petey off some.’

‘Better pull up the quilt, Bill.’

‘I reckon you’re right, mam.’

Neither of us spoke of the fear that was uppermost in our minds.

Bill began to sing: —

‘I can’t sing reel tunes what you’d say real good, mam, but when Petey’s feelin’pert he likes mightily to hear me.’

Petey was n’t hearing anything now. He lay limp and quiet. Will she blame me if he does die? Can the night air hurt him?

A jerk. Clump, clump, clump. . . . ‘Oh, Bill, it’s a tire again.'

‘Stop, mam. I’ll git out and see.’

Clump, clump.

‘Ain’t you a-goin’ to stop, mam?’

‘No . . . we know what it is. I have n’t another spare.’

But I changed my mind. ‘Well, yes. Take off the tire. We’ll try to save it, and run in on the rim.’

As he handed the baby to me I could feel its body grow stiff for a second in my arms.

‘Never mind the tire, Bill,’ I said quickly. ‘We’ll just drive on in as it is.’

‘Oh, mam, you’ll ruin your tire.’

‘I guess not.’

The road was straight and empty. Clump, clump, clump, at ten miles an hour. A strangled moan from Petey. I drew a quick breath.

Bill caught hold of my arm. The pressure of his fingers startled me. The car jerked forward.

‘Is hit dead?’

I peered down for an instant. ‘I don’t know. I — yes, I’m afraid so, Bill — but maybe not.’

I could hear Bill’s carefully stifled sobs for a long time.

It was black dark when we reached the hospital.

The little nurse with the bright red hair took the limp form from Bill’s arms.

‘Why, yes — yes indeed,’ she said in a queer, surprised voice. ‘Certainly he’s alive.’

‘Oh, mam! Oh, mam!’ Bill was frankly weeping.

For four hours Bill and I sat in the waiting room. Dr. Ellis was using the Murphy Drip, whatever that was. The red-headed nurse had whispered to me, ‘There’s still a chance of saving the little fellow.’

Bill asked, ‘Was she whisperin’ to you ’bout payin’ the doc? Pop and me’ll work hit out this summer if you’ll give hit to him now, mam. Doc Jones gits two dollars a time, but if this doc’ll cure Petey, tell him we’ll give him ten. Tell him so, mam. Tell him to work hard.’

‘Sh-sh, Bill. That’s all right.’

After a while he fell asleep on the bench. The nurse motioned to me. ‘There’s a vacant room in there. Why don’t you try to sleep?’

IV

It was broad morning.

Dr. Ellis looked haggard. There was a thick stubble on his chin. But he spoke heartily. ‘Well, we pulled the little chap through, after all.’

‘You’re pretty good, aren’t you, Doctor?’

‘Not so bad, I think, this time.’ His eyes were bright with weariness. ‘I’ve given that mother a good talking-to on feeding, too.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘If you could only pound a little sense into some of these women’s heads.’

‘Does his brother know yet? How did Mrs. Craver get here?’

‘Your husband brought her. She and the boy have just gone into the room. You can go in. It won’t wake the poor kid; he’s passed out for the time being.’

I opened the door. Bill was standing by his mother, his hand clinging to her skirt.

Mrs. Craver was staring down into the white hospital crib, a look of rapture on her plain face. Her fingers poised above the child as though she longed and yet did not dare to touch anything so miraculous.

‘God’s work,’ she murmured.