Chaneysville Incident by David Bradley Page A

piss.”
    “You gotta eat,” I said. “That’s all you need. I’ll make some stew.”
    “That stew’ll probably kill me. You recall the time—” He coughed then, grabbing awkwardly for a stained rag beside him. I could see the blood. I held his shoulders to steady him while he coughed, then turned away quickly so he would not be embarrassed as he cleaned himself as best he could, and so he would not see my face.
    “All you need is a little hot food,” I said, “and if you say one more word about my cookin’ I’m gonna eat it all myself.” I gave him the toddy, waited until I was sure he could hold the cup. “We’re gonna have to do somethin’ about that cough,” I told him.
    “More whiskey,” he croaked.
    “You need a doctor.”
    “Like hell I do. I ain’t never needed no doctor. Last time I went to a doctor, I went on over to see Old Doc Martinson, an’ that old quack thumped me an’ pounded me an’ stuck his finger up ma butt, an’ then he charged me a dollar an’ sent me up to that bastard Hawkin’s drugstore with a perscription, an’ Hawkin charged me fifty cents for a little bottle ’bout the size of a bean pod, an’ when I ast him what was inside he told me a whole bunch a crap an’ then let out that it was twenty percent alcohol, an’ I says, damn, Hawkin, I can get twice this much ’shine for a quarter, an’ that’s gonna be a hunnert proof, an’ that was the last time I ever had no truck with doctors, an’ I’m too damn old to start now.”
    “You’re too damn sick not to,” I said.
    He grunted, and sipped at his toddy, pretending at being silent. But I could see what had happened; the weakness had come across him, and he was trying to finish the toddy while he could still hold the cup himself. I hesitated, then reached out and took the cup away. “Don’t drink that so fast,” I said.
    “I wasn’t finished,” he snapped. “Man gets a little under the weather, an’ first thing you know some damn Methodist is runnin’ to snatch his whiskey away.” He dropped his hands to the cot. I pretended I had not seen them tremble.
    “You drink this crap that fast, somebody’s like to snatch your butt off an’ you wouldn’t even notice.”
    “May be, but he ain’t like to live to tell the tale. Give me my whiskey back.” He reached out for it, and his hands were steady again.
    “All right,” I said, “but you take it easy.” I went back to the stove and mixed my own toddy, keeping my back to him. I heard him sigh once or twice, one soft click as the cup hit his teeth, but I did not help him.
    “You can mix me another in a minute,” he said finally.
    I turned around and set my own toddy down. He was holding his cup out to me, his face a mask of effort. I took it quickly and went and filled it with water. Then I made up a dose, two of every pill that might do him some good, and took it all back to him.
    “I don’t want no damn pills,” he said. But he took them almost eagerly, and swallowed all the water. I got him another cup, and he swallowed that too. Then I went and mixed him another toddy.
    I left him while he drank it, and took up my own, and settled down in the chair that was closest to the door. My chair. I pretended I was not watching him, that I did not see him resting his cup on his chest after each sip. We didn’t say anything; it took all his strength to drink, and I was lost in thought, thinking about that chair, how once when I had sat in it my legs would not reach the floor and I would sit there and swing them, extending my toes, trying to reach the ground, about the thrill I had known the first time I had managed to touch it, and had known that I was getting my growth, just as he had said I would. I closed my eyes and listened to the muted roar of the air in the flue, to the soft keening of the fire. I heard a slurp as he took the last sip, and I relaxed; even if he dropped the cup, or fell asleep, there was nothing to spill.
    Presently his