Project Hannibal Kathryn Hoff (best free e book reader TXT) 📖

When Sera had recovered from her fainting spell, Estelle had sent her back to Annie’s to get some sleep. For Estelle, there had been two more hours of afterbirth, cord-cutting, seeing the newborn suckling properly, and getting the new family settled in a relative’s house before she could rest.

She let herself quietly into Annie’s sitting room.

A whispery voice came out of the dark. “The baby?”

Estelle nearly dropped her med bag. Jesus. She’d forgotten that Annie slept in her sitting room recliner.

“A fine boy. Seven pounds and healthy. Lonnie wants to name him for Rufus.”

“Oh, poor Rufus. He used to go hunting with my Jim. Just last week, he fixed my porch step for me. Oh, we’re going to miss him. You go get your sleep, now, dear. I won’t let anyone bother you.”

“Thank you, Annie. Good night.” Or morning, or whatever it was.

In Annie’s spare room, Sera was curled up with blankets on the floor, leaving Estelle to take the dead son’s narrow bed. Like Marie’s childhood bedroom, Annie had left her son’s room much the way it was when he’d left home for the last time: sports magazines on a bookshelf, pictures of football and ice hockey idols taped to the wall, a high school ribbon for excellence in some unnamed endeavor. A pelt of what Estelle thought must be a black bear cushioned the floor under Sera’s makeshift pallet.

When Estelle woke in midmorning, Sera’s pallet was neatly folded away, Estelle’s dirty clothes were gone, and her shoes had been cleaned.

Voices drifted in from the sitting room. “Let the doctor sleep,” Annie said. “She did enough last night.”

Estelle hurriedly dressed. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby?”

The young man—Annie’s husband’s sister’s son or something—looked flummoxed. “Oh, no, Doc Dupris. It’s poor Rufus. That is, we got him uncovered and we knew you’d want to see him. You know, better soon than late.”

“She hasn’t even eaten yet,” Annie objected.

“That’s all right.” Estelle pulled on her jacket. “Some things are better on an empty stomach.” Although she’d want some serious coffee soon.

The day had turned fair with clear blue skies and a brisk, dry breeze. The town was quieter than usual, even the dogs seemed subdued. Behind the houses, clotheslines were full of shirts and jeans, all the crusty mud washed away. Estelle recognized her own clothes hanging from Annie’s line—Sera must have been busy. Still trying to be the good girl, but Estelle had to admit that Sera’s obsessive helpfulness was coming in handy.

At the far end of town, the mountain of rubble had been scaled back to reveal the wreck of two houses. Where the street ended, a tarp-covered form lay on the ground, guarded by a half-dozen respectful villagers.

Estelle knelt and crossed herself. “Could you bring a bucket of water and a cloth, please?”

“He don’t look too bad, Doc. He was under the ceiling, not much dirt.”

She smiled. “I appreciate that. I may have to examine a few things for the certificate.”

She pulled down the tarp. Athabaskan male in his late sixties, unquestionably dead. She’d treated Rufus for ulcers and prostate: he’d dreaded growing older and losing his faculties the way his father had. At least he’d been spared that.

Depressed skull fracture, severe crush injuries. Pajama bottoms and a tee shirt over a torso now flattened by half. Fingernails clean, nose and mouth clear. No bruising around the wounds.

She replaced the tarp. “It looks like he died instantly”—or within a few breaths, anyway. “He wouldn’t have suffered. You all were heroes, risking yourselves to dig him out, but digging faster would have made no difference. He was gone as soon as the house came down.”

Shuffles and half smiles and sighs of relief. “Can we carry him to the church, then?” someone asked.

“Of course. I’ll make out the certificate today.”

In the house that had put up Lonnie and Joan, the sitting room and porch were filled with patients, family members, and people who just wanted to hear the gossip. Some blessed soul handed her a mug of coffee and a plate of bread and jam.

Lonnie’s lungs were clear, no sign of pneumonia. Baby Rufus was nursing well, resting on a pillow on Joan’s lap.

“You absolutely must take it easy,” Estelle said, making sure Lonnie and all the sisters and aunties heard her clearly. “Keep that arm in the sling. I don’t want you lifting anything with that hand, you hear? Not even the baby, not until that collarbone is healed.” Hard to tell a new mother not to lift her child, but there were plenty of helpful hands around to fetch and carry.

The clinic held a few more bumps and bruises to attend to, and the routine of seeing patients and filling out the reports she’d been too busy to complete the night before.

A birth certificate. A death certificate.

Sera showed up at the end of the day, mud-caked and moving gingerly.

“Are you all right, chérie?”

“I’m fine, except sore all over.” She put a hand on her back and arched like an arthritic old man. “Ahh. I’ve been helping with the cleanup. They’ve almost got the road clear now. I guess they’re expecting a lot of people for the funeral.”

“Funerals are a big deal here. People come from miles around to support the community—they’re all related in some degree, whether by blood or marriage. It’s a chance for people to get together, just like at home.”

“Everyone seems more excited about the funeral than sad about Rufus. It feels . . . wrong. Not to be more torn up about the poor man.”

Estelle put an arm around her. “Every death is a tragedy, chérie, but our minds and our hearts can only hold so much sorrow. There will be plenty of grief in the next few days, but we cope by balancing