below, he flung himself outward in a graceful movement, and plunged to the turf. I was certain he must be hurt, but in another moment Justin had him on his feet, dazed but laughing and shaking his head. He was hoisted aloft and borne around the field, until Mr. Deming stepped up and ordered them all off. Glancing over at Kate to catch her reaction, I saw only the back of Sophie’s dress as she bent above a crumpled form on the steps. I started at a half- run, then stopped as the Widow Fortune seized my hand.
“No,” she said, pointing to the valise beside her chair. “The black bag-bring it!” She hurried toward the platform while, unnoticed by the others under the tree, I snatched up the black bag and dashed after her.
Kate lay collapsed against the steps, and when I arrived Sophie was cradling her in her arms while the Widow leaned over her, listening to her heart. Kate’s face had gone livid; the blue veins in her forehead bulged and throbbed. The eyes were wide and glassy in the way I had seen so many times that summer, and her skin was flooded with perspiration. Great gasping noises issued from her throat as she fought for air; her fingers clutched at her neck as though to tear away the invisible hands that were strangling her.
“A doctor-” I looked wildly around. The Widow shook her head, fumbled open the valise, located a bottle, and pulled the cork. Holding the glass neck to Kate’s mouth, she put several drops of liquid between the parted lips, then stroked the neck muscles until the drops had been swallowed. She repeated the operation, and in a moment the terrible gasping sounds subsided, to be replaced by a dry rattle. Then the chest became almost motionless, and Kate’s breathing slowed. I seized her wrist and tried to find her pulse; there was none.
As the crowd came toward the platform, the Widow motioned for me to carry Kate into a nearby tent, where I laid her on a table and again tried to find her pulse, cursing myself for having forgotten the Medihaler. I dropped her limp wrist, raced from the tent, and thrust my way through the figures thronging the platform where the elders were making a presentation to Justin’s winning team of horses. Catching sight of Beth, I shouted “Kate!” and jerked my head toward the tent, then pushed on through the crowd. I found the Medihaler in the car, and hurried back. Expecting the worst, I tore aside the tent flap to discover Beth, Sophie, and the Widow grouped around the table where I had left Kate in a paroxysm of agony. I stopped in my tracks at the sight that now greeted me. Kate was sitting up, her hands in her lap, listening as the Widow spoke to her. Beth gave me a wild look; we knew from experience that the attacks usually lasted from an hour to two or three days, but here was our daughter breathing easily if feebly.
I started forward, the Medihaler in my outstretched hand, Beth drew me beside her and I put an arm around her, holding her close, not daring to speak. The Widow stood behind Kate, leaning slightly forward, her head even with the girl’s, her lips close to her ear. The tips of the ancient fingers were working at the cords of Kate’s neck, then at her temples, and as she worked she spoke in low, soothing tones. I felt Beth’s hand fumbling for mine; I took it and held it hard, observing the old woman’s careful but firm ministrations, the movements of her large womanly hands, her intent, grave expression, and I was flooded by a sense of relief and release, relief for Kate’s recovery, release from my own guilt.
Sophie came over to us and, assuring us that all would be well, took us outside the tent. Maggie Dodd was there with Justin Hooke, and together we waited. Then, silent, stricken-looking, Worthy Pettinger joined us. From inside we heard the Widow’s gentle, yet insistent alto voice.
Justin’s head turned and our eyes met. Then he nodded, once, twice. He did not speak, but I could tell he meant us to know what Sophie had already voiced: all would be well.
Shortly we heard Kate’s husky laugh. “All right now?” the Widow asked; there was a sound of assent, and in a moment the flap was raised and Kate appeared, looking pale and shaken. Beth rushed to embrace her; then she and Sophie led her away. With another look, Justin followed with Worthy. The Widow, who had been watching, bit her lip in contemplation, clasping and unclasping her fingers across her apron front, then went back into the tent and reappeared with her black valise.
I remembered how Kate’s attacks would seemingly abate for a time, only to return with increased vigor, and I wondered if this was not merely one of those stages. The old woman seemed to read my mind, for she rested her hand on my arm and exerted a firm pressure, as though to buoy up my spirits.
“She’ll be all right now. Don’t worry yourself, and tell your wife not to worry. And whatever you do, don’t fuss the child. Act as though nothing happened.” Brushing aside my expressions of thanks, she employed the shears hanging at her waist to snip an errant thread from the cuff of her sleeve; then, beaming behind her spectacles, she patted my cheek. When she had accepted Maggie’s arm and permitted herself to be led away, I remained staring at the useless Medihaler in my hand, then absently slipped it into my pocket and followed after the others, wondering how the old woman had effected a cure at once so swift and so miraculous. And though I did not realize it then, it was not the last time the Widow Fortune was to rescue Kate, to rescue Beth, and to alter all our lives.
8
An hour later, it was as if nothing untoward had occurred. Kate went off with Worthy again, while Beth, calm now, talked with the Dodds. The Widow had removed her chair to its former spot under the other tree, and I could see by her impatient gestures how she dismissed among the circle of ladies grouped around her all talk of the earlier incident. With the heat, the women had drawn well into the shade of the overhead branches, digesting their lunch, as well as such tidbits of gossip as still remained unconsumed from the morning’s repast.
Though I could not explain it, I felt that a great weight had been lifted from me, and that the threatening fact of Kate’s illness had suddenly dissolved; the occasional looks the Widow Fortune directed to me as she conversed only served to substantiate this feeling.
Leaving Maggie and Robert engaged with Beth, and taking my sketchbook, I made myself inconspicuous while I ambled closer to the Widow’s group, where I uncapped my pen and began to sketch the group of ladies putting their heads together and talking. The Widow took out her glasses and inspected the lenses for lint, then put them on. “Mrs. Zee, I believe we might bring out our quilts now.” She smoothed down her apron while the other ladies drew their chairs closer and took quilts from their baskets. The complacent bleat of a sheep rose in the torpid air as it stood patiently in a wooden tub while some men washed it. Overhead, the sun nickered through the green canopy of leaves, glinting on the rims of the Widow’s spectacles, the thimble on her finger, and her shears as she scissored out a piece of bright cloth and pinned it to her quilt.
“Wa’n’t Justin the marvel today?” Mrs. Brucie said. Mrs. Zalmon put her hand to her breast. “I’ve never seen such a handsome Harvest Lord.”
“Worthy Pettinger’d be obliged if he didn’t try to make such mischief,” Mrs. Green said.
“Such jackanapes tricks,” Mrs. Zalmon said.
“Don’t it put you in mind of somethin’?” Mrs. Brucie said.
“It surely does!” Irene Tatum pulled up a chair and flopped. She had a piece of newspaper, which she pleated, and began fanning herself. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say Worthy’s gone off his rocker just like the bad one.” A chain of looks went around the circle like small, silent explosions.
“Hush, now,” the Widow Fortune ventured gently.
“I’ve said it before so I’ll say it again; she was a bad one.” Irene Tatum’s tongue was sharp, as if she kept it whetted on a stone, ready to carve on all occasions.
“A bad apple spoils the barrel,” said Mrs. Green.
“Went bad long before Agnes Fair,” said Mrs. Brucie.
“We gave her honors and she flaunted them in our faces,” said Irene Tatum.
“Hush, now, Irene.” The Widow’s needle flashed. “‘The evil men do lives after them, the good is oft interred…’ Some things are best not spoken of. Leave her in peace.”
“Never find no peace, Grace Everdeen,” declared Irene hotly.
“Goodnight nurse!” the Widow exclaimed, then deftly changed the subject. “I never saw such a leap as Worthy made. A daredevil is what he is.”
Mrs. Brucie shook her head. “Devil, yes. The boy holds contrary notions. Let one get ideas, and they’ll all get them, and then where are you? On the verge, on the pure and simple verge. Widow, oughtn’t you to talk to the boy?”
“Worthy?” The Widow looked surprised. “Why, Worthy’s nice as pie. And a good boy, I’ll be bound.” She drew out a length of cotton and rethreaded her needle.
