September Song Read Free Page A

mother just three years earlier, Beth marveled at anyone’s courage and resourcefulness in bringing himself up without one. No breast to nurse at, none to cry upon! Their day’s work done, father and daughter drove every evening to the hospital, their patient’s only visitors.
    The broken leg—broken in three places—remained in splints and a cast; it would forevermore be shorter than its mate. But the bandages had been removed from his head, and his hair, shorn for surgery, was an inch long, his beard twice that length, when the doctor said, “He could go home now, if he had a home to go to. He can’t look after himself, but he doesn’t have to stay here. And his workman’s compensation is soon coming to an end.” Cliff Etheridge had no need to confer with his daughter. “He’s got a home with us,” said Cliff.
    The discharged patient was taken by ambulance to the farm, there carried inside on a stretcher. The Etheridges led the way in the pickup, bringing with them a wheelchair and crutches lent by the hospital. A bouquet awaited their guest and the television set had been moved into his room. Such kindness—not just from strangers, for everybody was a stranger to Jeff Duncan—left him tongue-tied. He was like a stray cat, grateful but mistrustful on being taken in, housed and petted.
    The door to his room was left open for Beth to hear his call. At first, still on painkillers, he slept much of the day. She went about her housework noiselessly, peeking in on her patient from time to time, never without a pang of pity, sometimes a tear, for his injuries and for his lifelong loneliness, and a feeling of gratitude for being able to nurse him. Her father’s unhesitating hospitality, though it was just what was to be expected of him, also produced an occasional tear, as did his certainty that she would concur. Later, when her patient was more alert, she felt called upon to sit with him, though she worried over what she might say that would interest a person so serious-minded and so well educated. Daytime television did not.
    She was his only company, for at this season her father was in the fields from dawn to dusk. She wanted her patient to feel at home, welcome, not beholden. She wanted to make up for all the neglect he had endured. She looked in on him every few minutes, for he was so undemanding she had to thrust her attentions upon him. She had all but to woo him. Having been made to sit up and beg for every scrap of kindness, he did not bite the hand that fed him, but neither did he lick it.
    â€œYou’ve been to college,” she said admiringly.
    â€œYou have to in order to get into law school,” he said.
    â€œI’ve never known anybody who’s been to college,” she said.
    â€œYou have if you’ve ever gone to a doctor or a lawyer,” he said.
    â€œWe had the doctors with my poor mother,” she said sadly. “But—knock wood—we’ve never had to have a lawyer, thank goodness. Oh! I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” And she blushed.
    â€œI hope you never have need of one. But if you ever do, call on me. Just manage to keep out of trouble for another few years. Then I’ll get you out of any scrape.”
    â€œI suppose you speak French,” she said.
    â€œI studied it in school,” he said somewhat warily. “Why?”
    â€œTo me being able to speak another language is like being given an extra life. I’ve heard it said that every educated person speaks French.”
    â€œI have never had much use for mine. But then, I never expected to.” It was an admission that caused him some embarrassment.
    â€œOh,” she said impatiently, “does everything have to be useful? Can’t some things just be beautiful? I was planning to take it in my junior year but when Mom died I had to drop out of school to look after Dad. I wouldn’t have had anybody to speak it