although I wouldn’t advise touchin’ anything there. It’s been proven that a hospital is a very germy place. I might be able to tell if it’s broken— your ankle—and I really need to look at it, because I can’t just leave you here. You see, I’m a nurse, which means I am duty-bound to help hurt people. If word got out that I just left you—a patient in need—and didn’t try to do what I could, well, they just might take away my license. And then what would I do? I have bills to pay. Besides, if we don’t get this boot off your foot real quick, your foot or ankle might swell and the boot would have to be cut off, and you don’t want to ruin a good pair of boots. Well, these are pretty old, but they just get good then, don’t they? Nothin’ better than boots at least ten years old, I always say. It takes that long to get them to fit a body’s feet like a glove.”
The whole time she was talking, Ruby Dee was removing his boot. The old man gave a little “Oh!” and the boot was in her hand. He wasn’t wearing any socks. Quickly Ruby Dee felt for damage. His foot was puffy and warm, but she had expected that, what with his diabetes, and no socks, besides.
Almost spitting bullets, the old man jerked his foot away. “I ain’t a-goin’ to the hospital. You boys get me in the house.”
He reached for his boot, but Ruby Dee snatched it right out from under his grasp and straightened, saying, “You might as well just go on in and wait it out. Either it’ll get better, or you’ll be cryin’ for somebody to take you to the hospital, probably in the middle of the night.” She looked at Will Starr. “Y’all go on inside. I’ll get my things and be there directly.”
Will Starr looked like she had slapped him upside the head, but she paid him no attention. Pivoting, and carrying the old man’s boot with her, she strode away toward her trailer.
Will stared after her. She strode firmly, her lean legs outlined by her dress, the hem fluttering with each step. He wondered if she was really that callous, or if she simply knew that the old man’s condition wasn’t serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. And he wondered, too, at her gall in directing him.
The old man said, “She took my durn boot,” and that brought Will back to the situation.
“Let’s get you inside, Dad. Lonnie, take his other side.”
“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to the hospital,” the old man said, as if unaware no one was arguing with him. “You boys get me in the house. Ouch! Dang it, Lonnie, you ain’t haulin’ a sack of feed grain. There’s nerves in that arm. I could’a managed to walk some, if I had my boot. You make sure you get my boot back, Will. That dadburn woman’s a thief.”
What Will would have said in that minute, had anyone asked, was that only one of Hardy Starr had ever been made. Here the old man had come close to cracking open the head of his own firstborn son and to crippling himself even more than he already was, and to a possible second stroke or a heart attack, but what concerned him most was the loss of a boot that looked as if it had been dragged behind a horse for a hundred miles. The old man always had stood guard over his possessions and been tighter than a pig’s ass when it came to spending money.
By the time Will and Lonnie got the old man into his room and set down on his bed, he was breathing hard and not saying a word, never a good sign with him. He looked wrung out.
“You okay, Dad?” Will asked, feeling concerned.
“No, I ain’t okay, but I don’t see that talkin’ about it does any good. Now, hush up and get my other boot off. Lonnie, fix them pillows so I can lean back. And get me somethin’ to prop this dang foot on.”
Will figured the old man wasn’t going to keel over dead any minute—his meanness wouldn’t allow him to. He’d just die straight up.
They got him settled back against pillows, with his injured ankle resting on a rolled-up cotton blanket.
The whole time she was talking, Ruby Dee was removing his boot. The old man gave a little “Oh!” and the boot was in her hand. He wasn’t wearing any socks. Quickly Ruby Dee felt for damage. His foot was puffy and warm, but she had expected that, what with his diabetes, and no socks, besides.
Almost spitting bullets, the old man jerked his foot away. “I ain’t a-goin’ to the hospital. You boys get me in the house.”
He reached for his boot, but Ruby Dee snatched it right out from under his grasp and straightened, saying, “You might as well just go on in and wait it out. Either it’ll get better, or you’ll be cryin’ for somebody to take you to the hospital, probably in the middle of the night.” She looked at Will Starr. “Y’all go on inside. I’ll get my things and be there directly.”
Will Starr looked like she had slapped him upside the head, but she paid him no attention. Pivoting, and carrying the old man’s boot with her, she strode away toward her trailer.
Will stared after her. She strode firmly, her lean legs outlined by her dress, the hem fluttering with each step. He wondered if she was really that callous, or if she simply knew that the old man’s condition wasn’t serious enough to warrant a trip to the hospital. And he wondered, too, at her gall in directing him.
The old man said, “She took my durn boot,” and that brought Will back to the situation.
“Let’s get you inside, Dad. Lonnie, take his other side.”
“Well, I ain’t a-goin’ to the hospital,” the old man said, as if unaware no one was arguing with him. “You boys get me in the house. Ouch! Dang it, Lonnie, you ain’t haulin’ a sack of feed grain. There’s nerves in that arm. I could’a managed to walk some, if I had my boot. You make sure you get my boot back, Will. That dadburn woman’s a thief.”
What Will would have said in that minute, had anyone asked, was that only one of Hardy Starr had ever been made. Here the old man had come close to cracking open the head of his own firstborn son and to crippling himself even more than he already was, and to a possible second stroke or a heart attack, but what concerned him most was the loss of a boot that looked as if it had been dragged behind a horse for a hundred miles. The old man always had stood guard over his possessions and been tighter than a pig’s ass when it came to spending money.
By the time Will and Lonnie got the old man into his room and set down on his bed, he was breathing hard and not saying a word, never a good sign with him. He looked wrung out.
“You okay, Dad?” Will asked, feeling concerned.
“No, I ain’t okay, but I don’t see that talkin’ about it does any good. Now, hush up and get my other boot off. Lonnie, fix them pillows so I can lean back. And get me somethin’ to prop this dang foot on.”
Will figured the old man wasn’t going to keel over dead any minute—his meanness wouldn’t allow him to. He’d just die straight up.
They got him settled back against pillows, with his injured ankle resting on a rolled-up cotton blanket.
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