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Chapter Twenty-one
Mad Dog stood in the bedrooms open doorway. The room was bathed in light—Mariah had ripped down every curtain and lit every lamp. But the golden glow couldnt chase away the chill of death or warm the cold, sunken cheeks of the man who lay still and silent in the huge, four-postered bed.
Sadness crept through Mad Dogs chest, tightening it until every breath hurt. Tears burned his eyes, turned the sunlit room into a golden blur. He blinked, unashamed of his grief. Gradually the chamber came back into focus. And what he saw—and heard—broke his heart all over again.
Mariah sat beside the bed, the settee scooted close. She leaned slightly forward, one slim hand curled around her fathers blue-veined, big-knuckled one, the other holding a book of poetry. The halting, quiet strains of her voice filtered across the room.
"All my past life is mine no more; the flying hours are gone like transitory dreams given oer, whose images are kept in store by memory alone. . . . "
She set the book down and bowed her head.
The sight of her, so sad-looking and defeated, twisted something old and forgotten in Mad Dogs heart. He was seeing a rare moment of weakness, he knew. Hed watched her often in the past two days, stood here in the doorway in silence, wishing—Christ, wishing—he could do something for her.
But she wouldnt let him help. She just sat there by the bed, holding her fathers hand and reading poetry. Sometimes—not often—she stopped reading and simply talked to him. Not about anything important, not about her fear or loneliness or despair, but about the weather, the farm, or the coming of winter.
It was a rare moment when she put down her book; rarer still when she allowed herself to bend as she was doing now.
For the past few days, she hadnt left his side. She didnt eat, hardly slept, never moved. Her sorrow was like a heavy gray shroud over her shoulders, weighing her down, pulling the color from her cheeks and the spirit from her soul.
And never once had Mad Dog heard her pray.
Now, looking at her, he could see the effects of her vigil. She was wan and strained-looking. Her skin had lost its creamy sheen; the healthy glow had given way to a lackluster ashen hue. Her eyes, once so sparkling with life, were dull and vacant.
Her sadness touched him more than he would have thought possible. It was crazy; but he hurt because she hurt. He wanted suddenly to go to her, to put his arms around her and hold her close.
But she wouldnt let him comfort her. He let out his breath in a frustrated sigh and knocked on the wall. , Ive brought you something to eat. "
She didnt look up. "Im not hungry. " Her voice was as flat and lifeless as the hair that hung in a snarled mass down her back.
"You have to eat something," he said tiredly, knowing it was a battle hed lose.
She placed her book, facedown, on the settees cushion and reached for the washbasin beside her. Plunging her hands into the lukewarm water, she pulled out the rag and twisted it hard. Water streamed down from her fists. Then, carefully, she dabbed her fathers slack mouth with the damp cloth. Mad Dog had been dismissed.
Frustrated, he studied her downcast face. She was trying pathetically hard to remain in control, to appear invincible. But she couldnt quite manage it. He saw the quiver in her lower lip when she looked at her father, the trembling in her hands when she gently washed his face:
Her pitiful attempt at strength tore at his heart. He knew how she felt, knew how hard it was to appear strong when your spirit was gone. Hed sat in that same chair, helpless and alone, watching his mother wither and die.
He wanted to tell Mariah he understood, that shel wasnt alone. But she wouldnt listen to him, wouldnt even look at him.
He knew why; knew and understood. When the pair was that sharp and the defenses so weak, a kindness—^ any kindness-—was almost unbearable. She was terrified to let anyone be kind to her right now, afraid that if she gave in—even for a second—shed fall into a pit of grief from which shed never emerge.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose. There had to be something he could do to help.
Something—
"Oh, my God. "
He opened his eyes. "What is it?" v "He moved. "
Mad Dog lurched into the room and came up beside her.
She squeezed her fathers hand with both of hers. "Rass? Rass?"
Rass groaned. It was a quiet, rustling sound. His eyelids fluttered.
"Im right here, Rass. Its Mariah and Mad Dog. Were right here. "
He groaned again, ran his tongue across his teeth. Slowly, incredibly, his eyes began to open. "Mariah?" His voice was a scratchy shadow of itself.
