Annie Oakley's Arc

Chapter 18 of 25

Annie and Temperance came back from the woodpile with an armload of kindling each. The calf was awake in his pen, ears twitching at every sound. Annie meant to say something about Jesus. She had practiced the words on the walk. Now, standing by the rails, she couldn't find a soft way to start. Temperance was tired. Booth was inside with the twins. The calf might not live the night. Preaching now would land like a rock in a bowl of soup. Annie set the kindling down. Pain shot through her stomach, sharp and low. It wrapped around her back. Her ears rang. The pen rails blurred. "Oh," Annie said. She pressed both hands to her belly. Her knees went soft. Temperance dropped her kindling and caught Annie under the arm. "Sit," Temperance said. She lowered Annie onto the porch step. She pressed the back of her hand to Annie's forehead, then her cheek. "Do you feel like you're going to faint?" Annie nodded. Tears came before she could stop them. She thought of the calf's mother stiff in the leaves. She thought of her own mama coughing into a rag back home, the winter she left. The two pictures ran together and she couldn't pull them apart. Temperance sat on the step beside her. She didn't ask what was wrong. She put one arm around Annie's shoulders and kept the other hand flat between Annie's shoulder blades. "Head down," Temperance said. "On your knees. Breathe out longer than in." Annie folded forward. She breathed the way Temperance said. The ringing eased. The pain stayed but dulled. "He might die," Annie whispered into her lap. "He might." "My mama was sick when I left." "I know." Annie hadn't told her that. But Temperance didn't take it back. She just kept her hand where it was. Annie sat up slow. Her face was wet. She looked at Temperance and the practiced words were gone. What came out instead was small and true. "When I'm scared like this, I say His name. Jesus. That's all. It's the only thing that holds." Temperance didn't answer for a moment. She watched the calf shift his weight off the bad leg. "Say it now, then," Temperance said. "Out loud. I'll listen." Annie said it. Once, then again. Her breath slowed. Temperance kept her hand on Annie's back until the shaking stopped. "You'll eat before you ride home," Temperance said. "Bread and butter. Not later. Now." "Yes, ma'am." Temperance stood and went inside for the bread. She left the door open behind her. Annie stayed on the step. She hadn't preached. She had cracked open in front of a tired woman and spoken one name, and the woman had asked to hear it again. That was the kindness she'd come to leave. She wiped her face and waited for the bread.