CHAPTER 10 GERMS?
It was a very long two weeks, but finally Mom was content that we had followed all the instructions for nuclear attack. We left the mine and made our trip back to the cabin like returning refugees, each carrying some food and bedding. Paul was proud of our new cabin-house, and fit right in with the work and schooling.
Scopi had lots of sore throats, cheerfully going ahead with the work, but one night I heard him there beside me muffling sobs with his blanket. He was trying not to wake up anybody, but I told on him just as soon as Mom stirred.
"Honey," she whispered to him, "please tell me what hurts, or is it something else? Do you have another sore throat? Is it really bad?"
"Mom, my throat hurts a little, as usual, but it's my ankle. I don‘t know what I’ve done to it. It's throbbing, and I can‘t find any comfortable way to put it down so that I can sleep."
"Oh," moaned Mom, "I’m sure that we are out of aspirin. I’ll see if I can find something else for you when we get a little more daylight. Would a hot cloth help, or a cold one?"
Scopi dried his tears from the comfort of human sympathy and Mom took her pillow and put it under the swollen ankle, giving some relief.
Soon everyone was up. Dad carried Scopi out into the yard so that he could make a thorough evaluation. It scared me. I had never heard a complaining word or cry out of Scopi before. He was always recognized as the brave one of us boys.
Dad laid him on a quilt in the yard and compared the two legs. He checked them for bruises and lumps, felt his forehead and glands, watched his breathing, and checked his pulse.
"Son, have you fallen off a rock, or jumped from a height?" he asked.
Scopi couldn‘t remember any sort of injury, but he told Dad that he had been having pains in other joints, only not as bad.
Mom stood there with her hand over her mouth, watching with anguish.
"Are you thinking something that I need to hear, Honey?" Dad asked.
"Rheumatic fever," was all that she said.
I had never heard of it. Was it fatal?
"You just lie here today and supervise the others," said Dad tactfully, helping Scopi to get his mind off his pain. "See if you can invent something fun to do while you are lying down. JG, could you spare a few pieces of your paper and a pencil for today? Mom, could you bring a cold wet towel?"
Sure enough, all those strep throats had finally done their worst. There wasn't any way to get him to a doctor without doing more harm. Dad monitored the bed rest, carrying Scopi into the cabin at night and on rainy days, hoping that total inactivity would do the healing.
Mom just grieved silently, but she said she had found a Bible verse that would carry her through. She's funny like that. To her, the Bible is more real than real life.
I could have predicted it; with those sheets of paper Scopi made the world's smallest Monopoly set. We all had to take turns playing with him. He and Dad had memorized all the prices and rents, so we got a lot of practice in real estate. It was hard on Dad to finally get beat by one of his own children.
When JohnB and Scopi were alone, they prayed together in those funny languages and raised their arms with their faces lit up. Once, I thought Scopi would jump up and start running around the yard, but JohnB held him down.
Sometimes I wished that I had gone with them that night to see the girls. I wanted to be in their club. Scopi kept saying that Jesus was going to heal him, in His time.
He was patient, listening to the radio even though he noticed that all the stations had the same news. He told us about hysterical things in the Middle East. It sounded as if Iraq and all its allies had attacked Israel, but God Himself had intervened. How else could their victory be explained, we wondered.
One day he called us to come and listen, for the newsmen were speechless. An important man was making suggestions for ending all wars. Everyone was talking about him, hoping he would become World President. Dad and Mom traded grim looks, nodding their heads in solemn agreement.
The hardest thing about the germs was that Mom was sick too. She couldn't figure it out, she was so tired. She got a blanket and lay down near Scopi, falling asleep in minutes. She stayed nauseated and bloated day after day.
Although everything she ate came up, she looked bigger. Dad called it "edema," the medical word for "swelling.”
"Now, honey," he stated, wanting to put his foot down, "I can't feel right about your being sick like this. I think that I must get you to a doctor. Surely there is something that would help you."
"But those government doctors don‘t really do much," Mom stalled. "I don‘t have any confidence in them."
We began to have prayers for her healing, too, just as we did for Scopi.
It was hard for us to keep up a cheerful front and fix meals while she turned green and looked the other way. Was it an ulcer? How did people feel when they got cancer?
"But we did everything that the book said," she told Dad. "I don‘t see how I could be the only one to get radiation sickness and the rest of you not have any symptoms. What did I do wrong?"
"Honey," I overheard him say gently, "you know that the explosion might not have been nuclear. Caspian did all the wrong things, but he isn't sick. We all did the right things, just as you told us. Maybe our water is polluted and you've got parasites; that could make your stomach swell."
"But when the boys bring water, I always put the sixteen drops of bleach in every gallon, in sterilized bottles. I’ve been very, very careful," she objected,
"But, Honey, down at the mine -- maybe you got some bugs from that creek water those last few days. I’ll wait a little longer, and, if you are not better, we'll get you to a lab and have you checked out."
I’m going to stop here and explain about Scopi. When he nicknamed himself for pi r square, it fit. He had to go to high school when he was twelve because he was so far ahead. He needed thick glasses like Dad. His front tooth got broken and the dentist capped it with silver, not worrying about a young boy‘s looks. When he wore his black winter jacket it reflected his black mood. He was always looking for something, trying to find satisfaction in food, for computer games, or books. Sometimes he acted up and pretended to jump off the bridge on our way home from the school bus. We didn't tell.
He searched for so long; but has recently become a different person. Was it such a relief for him that we got away from school? Or was it something that happened deep inside?
The next day, we were startled to hear Mom calling from inside the cabin, laughing and crying. "Honey, oh, honey, where are you? Come here a minute!"
There was more laughing. I stuck my head in the door, but she wanted Dad.
"I’ll go find him for you," I said, happy to escape from the weirdness of the scene. My mom just didn't usually roll around on the bed, gasping with laughter.
"Dad, run quick and see what's the matter with Mom. She's calling for you, but she sounds happy." I thought I’d better add that part.
He disappeared into the cabin, and we thought our best bet was to stay out of the way. In a minute or two we heard them both laughing. What was the joke? Was it on us?
Dad came out with his cheeks flushed and a shy look. "Fellows, Mother has found out what has caused her sickness. It turns out that she is not sick at all. We both thought that she might have a tumor, but she has discovered that it kicks!"
"What kicks?" asked Rooster, always interested in sports.
"It. The It that is inside of her, a kicker that is growing inside her and getting her digestion all mixed up," smiled Dad.
"An It?" Rooster asked again.
"You know, Rooster . . . a baby," Sol explained soberly. We all went inside to stare at Mom.
"But we can't have a baby. We don't have any baby stuff," argued Rooster.
Mom smiled, "You'll see."
We bolted outside and did a wild Indian war dance around the yard.
"What a cure! What a wonderful cure!" we all shouted.
"Now, I know that I can't go to a doctor,
" murmured Mom.
We stopped our shouting, stunned by the new world rule; only two children for each couple.
"See?" said JohnB. "I knew it was best for us to live up here. Only God can tell a man and his wife how many children to have."
I look out at an ocean of fog,
Settled in between us and North Mountain.
Its wetness leaves beads of moisture
Tacked along the strands of the garden fence.
Noises hurry through this sea to my ears
The hastening of a car out there in the valley,
The clear song of a sparrow. And if I listen closely,
The papery rattle of a few leaves left on a branch.
A blue jay steers through that sea,
Head casting right and left, wings stroking.
His tail is a rudder and feathers bend
As he paddles almost overhead.
But he remains quiet, for I am unseen.
What lies across this vaporous bay?
Not silvery sands or starched palms.
Just solid, dependable old North Mountain,
Waiting to reaffirm itself when the sun bums the sea dry.
Outhouse meditation by Dad