Read Online Orchard by Larry Watson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Larry Watson
Tags: Fiction
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back of his throat that made it seem as though he were drowning, drowning in the dust between the house and the barn.
His spasms stopped abruptly, and Sonja was about to pick him up, but John’s arms were thrust out from his body with a rigidity that seemed to warn away her touch.
She put her hands on his cheeks, and that was when she noticed the bits of chaff in his hair, mingled so well with the reddish-blond strands it looked as if straw were taking root in his scalp. When she brushed these out, John’s eyes blinked open and he spoke his last words, or at least Sonja believed the sounds were shaped into words, but his voice was so faint she couldn’t be sure. She thought he said, “It’s far.”
Sonja House never shared with anyone what John said, nor did she confess that in her son’s last living moment she had been afraid to lift him in her arms, thereby depriving him of what all human beings must wish for: to die in their mother’s embrace.
Although John had
a large bump on the back of his head, Dr. Van Voort would not—could not—say with absolute certainty that this injury was responsible for the boy’s death. He had a hematoma, that was sure, and yes, a bump or blow could cause have caused the brain to bleed and swell, but perhaps John House simply had a weak blood vessel that would have burst that day no matter what the circumstances.
The doctor would go no further in his explanation to the boy’s parents. His voice trailed off into silence, and he put up his hands. He did not wish to seem unfeeling, but he had been practicing medicine for many years—during Henry House’s childhood Dr. Van Voort had been the only year-round physician in the county north of Sturgeon Bay, and he had practically lived with the Houses when young Henry fell ill with pneumonia—and in his view it was best for parents to accept as quickly as possible the finality of their child’s demise. If Henry and Sonja believed that they could have done something to prevent their son’s death, they would flagellate themselves and each other until they were stripped down to nothing but bone, guilt, and grief. And what could they have done? Well, of course there were any number of things. They could have put the horse out in the pasture when the children were around. They might have kept the boy out of the barn. They could have sold the horse once they decided to have a family. The doctor didn’t know exactly what caused the boy’s death—only an autopsy could settle the matter, and he sure as hell wouldn’t put the parents through that—but he was fairly certain the horse was involved. Dr. Van Voort hadn’t found any mark on the child that a shod hoof might have made, but even a glancing kick or bump from a thousand-pound creature could be fatal to a four-year-old boy. But what would be gained by assigning blame to that gentle beast? The child might have teased him, startled him, come up on the wrong side of him. Why not let the horse be as guiltless as the parents? Dr. Van Voort couldn’t say to Henry and Sonja that their boy’s brain was destined to rupture on June 29, 1953, no matter what the circumstances, but that could have been the truth. And finally the doctor wished that that was the conclusion on which they would settle. They might go on then to believe that it was a cruel, godless world in which a child’s death was inevitable, but in the long run there would be less torment in that faith. Losing a child was pain enough to undo any parent; adding guilt and recrimination frequently doomed the marriage as well.
Sonja knew the
form in the doorway was Henry’s, but since she saw him only in silhouette, she could not figure out how he was posed. Where were his arms? Had he bundled himself in a blanket, the chill of grief finally overcoming the season’s heat? Was he embracing himself? Were his hands clasped behind his back, so he might approach as a supplicant?
She turned her head away, though less to avoid her
His spasms stopped abruptly, and Sonja was about to pick him up, but John’s arms were thrust out from his body with a rigidity that seemed to warn away her touch.
She put her hands on his cheeks, and that was when she noticed the bits of chaff in his hair, mingled so well with the reddish-blond strands it looked as if straw were taking root in his scalp. When she brushed these out, John’s eyes blinked open and he spoke his last words, or at least Sonja believed the sounds were shaped into words, but his voice was so faint she couldn’t be sure. She thought he said, “It’s far.”
Sonja House never shared with anyone what John said, nor did she confess that in her son’s last living moment she had been afraid to lift him in her arms, thereby depriving him of what all human beings must wish for: to die in their mother’s embrace.
Although John had
a large bump on the back of his head, Dr. Van Voort would not—could not—say with absolute certainty that this injury was responsible for the boy’s death. He had a hematoma, that was sure, and yes, a bump or blow could cause have caused the brain to bleed and swell, but perhaps John House simply had a weak blood vessel that would have burst that day no matter what the circumstances.
The doctor would go no further in his explanation to the boy’s parents. His voice trailed off into silence, and he put up his hands. He did not wish to seem unfeeling, but he had been practicing medicine for many years—during Henry House’s childhood Dr. Van Voort had been the only year-round physician in the county north of Sturgeon Bay, and he had practically lived with the Houses when young Henry fell ill with pneumonia—and in his view it was best for parents to accept as quickly as possible the finality of their child’s demise. If Henry and Sonja believed that they could have done something to prevent their son’s death, they would flagellate themselves and each other until they were stripped down to nothing but bone, guilt, and grief. And what could they have done? Well, of course there were any number of things. They could have put the horse out in the pasture when the children were around. They might have kept the boy out of the barn. They could have sold the horse once they decided to have a family. The doctor didn’t know exactly what caused the boy’s death—only an autopsy could settle the matter, and he sure as hell wouldn’t put the parents through that—but he was fairly certain the horse was involved. Dr. Van Voort hadn’t found any mark on the child that a shod hoof might have made, but even a glancing kick or bump from a thousand-pound creature could be fatal to a four-year-old boy. But what would be gained by assigning blame to that gentle beast? The child might have teased him, startled him, come up on the wrong side of him. Why not let the horse be as guiltless as the parents? Dr. Van Voort couldn’t say to Henry and Sonja that their boy’s brain was destined to rupture on June 29, 1953, no matter what the circumstances, but that could have been the truth. And finally the doctor wished that that was the conclusion on which they would settle. They might go on then to believe that it was a cruel, godless world in which a child’s death was inevitable, but in the long run there would be less torment in that faith. Losing a child was pain enough to undo any parent; adding guilt and recrimination frequently doomed the marriage as well.
Sonja knew the
form in the doorway was Henry’s, but since she saw him only in silhouette, she could not figure out how he was posed. Where were his arms? Had he bundled himself in a blanket, the chill of grief finally overcoming the season’s heat? Was he embracing himself? Were his hands clasped behind his back, so he might approach as a supplicant?
She turned her head away, though less to avoid her
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