for pouring. I lost the one we had. I'm sorry. I'm always careful.”
“Joby, I'm not sure what you mean. You mean a pitcher? Like you pour water from?”
He looked confused.
“Like a jug?”
“Well, no—” Joby's eyes wandered as he struggled for the elusive word. There was nothing about Joby that really made him look different. He had a hesitation in his speech, and a way of gazing off when he talked, but unless you talked to him awhile, you might not even notice. Physically, there was nothing in particular that one could pick out as wrong, but the way he moved seemed awkward and out of place, like a jackrabbit on ice, always scratching for balance. He was neither handsome nor homely, the sort of man a girl might not pick first at a dance, Maddy thought, but wouldn't be too sad about sitting next to either; the sort of man that if he weresweet and kind would get better-looking after time. He was squarely built, with broad, strong hands. He had brown eyes and brown hair that was already getting thin on top, though he probably wasn't more than twenty-two or -three.
“It's like a teacup,” he went on. “But with holes in both ends.” He cupped his hands together again. “To go from big to small.”
“Oh, do you mean a funnel?” Maddy laughed, then caught herself, not wanting him to think she was making fun of him, but Joby seemed only relieved.
“That. Yes. Do you have one?”
“I doubt it. I think I've seen most everything the Reverend and Mrs. True are carrying in the way of kitchen gear. Which wasn't ever much useful.” She waved a hand at the pathetic assortment of dented plates and blackened pots.
“Can you pour good, then?” he pressed, looking around nervously. Maddy realized he was trying to whisper, but his voice was loud as ever. She dropped her own voice so maybe he would hear the difference.
“Tell me what you need to do, Joby,” she said, trying to make it simple.
“I have to get water from the pail into the poison jug. But my hand shakes too much to pour from the dipper. I need the—the—” Again he gestured.
“The funnel,” Maddy reminded him.
“Yes!”
“I can pour from a dipper, Joby. That's no problem. But what are you doing with a jug of poison?”
“Doc Carlos takes it. Every morning I need to put water into the jug. And then he fills up his little bottle out of it.”
Maddy remembered seeing Dr. Carlos drinking from a small brown medicine bottle.
“Joby, why does Dr. Carlos drink poison?”
“He got poisoned in the war.”
“So shouldn't he take something to cure it? Like medicine?”
“Yes! That's what it is. It's medicine.”
“But you said it was poison.”
“I don't know, Miss Maddy.” Joby shook his hands with frustration. “Sometimes he gives it for medicine. But for his own self, calls it poison. I don't want him mad that I ain't done my job.” He began to scratch the back of his head and shift nervously from side to side.
“Yes, Joby, of course.”
Joby took her hand and almost dragged her to the doctor's cart, then handed her the dipper. There was a great puddle of water around the jug from where he had been trying to fill it himself. Maddy moved some cloth bundles out of the damp.
“The doctor's gone—to his morning duty,” Joby whispered, blushing and nodding toward the latrines. “He'll be back soon.”
“Does he hit you, Joby?” Maddy frowned.
“Doc Carlos?”
“If you don't get something right? Does he hit you?” She remembered seeing Carlos kicking the Thompsons’ dog.
“Oh no. Doc is my best friend, and I don't want to let him down, is all. He fixed my head. And got us food in the prison. So hurry, please.”
“It won't take long,” Maddy reassured him. She scoopedup some water from the pail and poured it easily into the jug. By the sound of it, only a pint or so would be needed to fill it. Joby sighed with relief.
“I drive,” he declared proudly. “Oxen, mules or horses, don't matter.” He held up his
“Joby, I'm not sure what you mean. You mean a pitcher? Like you pour water from?”
He looked confused.
“Like a jug?”
“Well, no—” Joby's eyes wandered as he struggled for the elusive word. There was nothing about Joby that really made him look different. He had a hesitation in his speech, and a way of gazing off when he talked, but unless you talked to him awhile, you might not even notice. Physically, there was nothing in particular that one could pick out as wrong, but the way he moved seemed awkward and out of place, like a jackrabbit on ice, always scratching for balance. He was neither handsome nor homely, the sort of man a girl might not pick first at a dance, Maddy thought, but wouldn't be too sad about sitting next to either; the sort of man that if he weresweet and kind would get better-looking after time. He was squarely built, with broad, strong hands. He had brown eyes and brown hair that was already getting thin on top, though he probably wasn't more than twenty-two or -three.
“It's like a teacup,” he went on. “But with holes in both ends.” He cupped his hands together again. “To go from big to small.”
“Oh, do you mean a funnel?” Maddy laughed, then caught herself, not wanting him to think she was making fun of him, but Joby seemed only relieved.
“That. Yes. Do you have one?”
“I doubt it. I think I've seen most everything the Reverend and Mrs. True are carrying in the way of kitchen gear. Which wasn't ever much useful.” She waved a hand at the pathetic assortment of dented plates and blackened pots.
“Can you pour good, then?” he pressed, looking around nervously. Maddy realized he was trying to whisper, but his voice was loud as ever. She dropped her own voice so maybe he would hear the difference.
“Tell me what you need to do, Joby,” she said, trying to make it simple.
“I have to get water from the pail into the poison jug. But my hand shakes too much to pour from the dipper. I need the—the—” Again he gestured.
“The funnel,” Maddy reminded him.
“Yes!”
“I can pour from a dipper, Joby. That's no problem. But what are you doing with a jug of poison?”
“Doc Carlos takes it. Every morning I need to put water into the jug. And then he fills up his little bottle out of it.”
Maddy remembered seeing Dr. Carlos drinking from a small brown medicine bottle.
“Joby, why does Dr. Carlos drink poison?”
“He got poisoned in the war.”
“So shouldn't he take something to cure it? Like medicine?”
“Yes! That's what it is. It's medicine.”
“But you said it was poison.”
“I don't know, Miss Maddy.” Joby shook his hands with frustration. “Sometimes he gives it for medicine. But for his own self, calls it poison. I don't want him mad that I ain't done my job.” He began to scratch the back of his head and shift nervously from side to side.
“Yes, Joby, of course.”
Joby took her hand and almost dragged her to the doctor's cart, then handed her the dipper. There was a great puddle of water around the jug from where he had been trying to fill it himself. Maddy moved some cloth bundles out of the damp.
“The doctor's gone—to his morning duty,” Joby whispered, blushing and nodding toward the latrines. “He'll be back soon.”
“Does he hit you, Joby?” Maddy frowned.
“Doc Carlos?”
“If you don't get something right? Does he hit you?” She remembered seeing Carlos kicking the Thompsons’ dog.
“Oh no. Doc is my best friend, and I don't want to let him down, is all. He fixed my head. And got us food in the prison. So hurry, please.”
“It won't take long,” Maddy reassured him. She scoopedup some water from the pail and poured it easily into the jug. By the sound of it, only a pint or so would be needed to fill it. Joby sighed with relief.
“I drive,” he declared proudly. “Oxen, mules or horses, don't matter.” He held up his
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