Hedge of Thorns: First Aid
I part the leaves with more caution, and glimpse speckled fur. A sodden, annoyed bobcat kitten glares at me with arched spine. The effect of its threat is immediately destroyed by a kitten sneeze.
“It’s not my fault your mama didn’t come back for you, cat. You don’t look much more than two months old.”
“Mercy, where are you?”
“Abandoned cats, clumsy hikers, I can’t wait until things settle down and I can dr…” But I can’t, no thanks to Tumble. Snarling myself, I grab the bobcat by its scruff, trap its rear legs away from me with the other hand, and march to the gate.
“Out you go, stinky creature. My garden’s not your litter box.” I drop the animal over. “Find her yourself.”
“Mercy!”
My hands remember the softness of fur, and the power of the cat’s straining muscles. If only that translated into the ability to reproduce it with pencils. Jogging to the cabin, I call “I’m just putting the cat out,” and face my next tasks.
I backtrack long enough to tap the rain barrel for water to wash my hands and the dishes, then lug the buckets in, and slam the door as I go by.
“After my hands are scrubbed, I’ll bring you a plate. Try pushing the rocker back into the room it came from.”
“I sure could do with more of that willow bark tea.”
No one willingly says that. I hurry my preparations, adding to the tray with the salt bag and measuring cup, a plate with four biscuits, two stuffed with the remnant of the last elk roast I cooked, and two with haw jelly.
In Grandpa’s room, Tumble twists in the rocker to reach the tray I’ve balanced on the foot of the bed. This time, he fills the cup measure half-way before muttering his thanks and reaching for a biscuit.
“Mmm. Good stuff.”
Do all men compliment cooking the same way? Bobby never praised mine.
He breaks out in an explosive cough.
“I’m sure that jag hurt, but I need to know. Are you tasting blood?”
His head shake is slight reassurance. He’s pale.
“Somehow, your employer and your wife must get the message you’re injured. Stay put. I’ll be right back.” Returning with the thermometer from my first aid box in time to note his grimace, the urgency of the situation narrows my attention. “Do you have a fever?”
Tumble glares, but accepts the device. His willingness sends tension up my spine. Unless they were deathly ill, Dad, Grandpa, and Bobby avoided such goings-on like a bobcat meeting a wolverine.
“I shouldn’t have told you to wrap your knee.” Hunkering down beside the bench, I undo his work. “If you’ve got dirt or a splinter, causing an infection, it’s got to come out.” When I press the swollen joint, Tumble grunts and lets his head drop against the rocker back.
The thermometer protrudes from the corner of his mouth at a silly angle.
There’s some skin abrasion on his knee, though I don’t see debris in it. “Lift your heel off the bench for a moment.”
Hedge of Thorns: First Aid is a segment of a serialized short story that will post on Fridays.
Check the menu on this blog for other, previously posted serialized stories, here.
Krystine Kercher
Heidi Kortman
Ruth
Heidi Kortman