“Yes,” I said, and then, for some ridiculous reason, began to sing the song I’d heard the Americans sing as they marched, all the way back in Germany.
“Over hill, over dale,
We have hit the dusty trail
As those caissons go rolling along.”
Joe joined in now. How could he sing with the blood pouring from him? Because he was Joe, that was how. Because his strength was endless.
“‘Counter march! Right about!’
Hear those wagon soldiers shout
As those caissons go rolling along.”
Both of us together now, Joe breathing the words and me singing with all my might.
“Then it’s hi! hi! Hee!
In the field artillery
Count out your numbers loud and strong—two! three!
And where’er we go
You will always know
That those caissons go rolling along—keep’em rolling?—
That those caissons go rolling along.”
I sang it after he quieted. I sang it all the way. And when we stopped outside Fred and Susie’s door, I was singing it still.
For months afterward, I would see the scenes before my eyes every time I closed them. The cat on top of Joe. My screams. The march down the hill. And the drive to the hospital, with Fred taking the curves too fast and Susie and me holding tea towels hard against Joe’s head in an attempt to stop the endless flow of blood. The rasp of his breathing, and the icy determination warring with the fear in my body. The doors of the hospital, and Fred and me half-carrying Joe inside. The two nurses in their white uniforms, caps, and shoes, running toward us. Joe didn’t feel taller than me, or bigger than me, not now. I could have supported him forever.
Then they took him away, and I sank into a chair and shook while Susie held me. My face, my arms, my hands sticky and stained red. Blood in my hair. Blood on my clothes. Covered in blood.
Ihad the bleeding disorder. It wasn’t supposed to be Joe bleeding! Not again. I’dsavedhim. I’d saved him! He wasn’t supposed to bleed anymore!
Covered with blood, and back to praying.
Please, God.
Please.
Please.
38
SURPRISES
My face and arms were clean when Joe’s parents arrived, though the rest of me was still covered in blood.
“Marguerite,” Mrs. Stark said with horror. “Whathappened?”
“It was a …” I tried to say, clutching my paper cup of coffee. “It was?—”
“It was a mountain lion,” Fred said, taking charge. I was grateful; I could hardly hold myself up now. In fact, Susie was beside me, her arm around my shoulders. She’d insisted that the medical staff check me over, but other than some bruising and soreness in my hands and arms from wielding the log, I was unharmed.
