Night Shift - Stephen King [149]
Back and forth. Hay down my shirt. Back and forth. The haystick was high as my chin now, but the haymow we had been diving into was twenty-five feet deep. I thought that if she only broke her legs it would be getting off cheap. And I knew if she missed the hay altogether, she would be killed. Back and forth.
'Larry! The rung! It's letting go!
I could hear the steady, rasping cry of the rung pulling free under here weight. Her legs began to kick again in panic, but if she was thrashing like that, she would surely miss the hay.
'No!' I yelled. 'No! Stop that! Just let go! Let go, Kitty!' Because it was too late for me to get any more hay. Too late for anything except blind hope.
She let go and dropped the second I told her to. She came straight down like a knife. It seemed to me that she dropped forever, her gold pigtails standing straight up from her head, her eyes shut, her face as pale as china. She didn't scream. Her hands were locked in front of her lips, as if she was praying.
And she struck the hay right in the centre. She went down out of sight in it - hay flew up all around as if a shell had struck - and I heard the thump of her body hitting the boards. The sound, a loud thud, sent a deadly chill into me. It had been too loud, much too loud. But I had to see.
Starting to cry, I pounced on the haystack and pulled it apart, flinging the straw behind me in great handfuls. A blue-jeaned leg came to light, then a plaid shirt and then Kitty's face. It was deadly pale and her eyes were shut. She was dead, I knew it as I looked at her. The world went grey for me, November grey. The only things in it with any colour were her pigtails, bright gold.
And then the deep blue of her irises as she opened her eyes.
'Kitty?' My voice was hoarse, husky, unbelieving. My throat was coated with haychaff. 'Kitty?'
'Larry?' she asked, bewildered. 'Am I alive?'
I picked her out of the hay and hugged her and she put her arms around my neck and hugged me back.
'You're alive,' I said. 'You're alive, you're alive.'
She had broken her left ankle and that was all. When Dr Pederson, the GP from Columbia City, came out to the barn with my father and me, looked up into the shadows for a long time. The last rung on the ladder still hung there, aslant, from one nail.
He looked, as I said, for a long time. 'A miracle,' he said to my father, and then kicked disdainfully at the hay I'd put down. He went out to his dusty DeSoto and drove away.
My father's hand came down on my shoulder. 'We're going to the woodshed, Larry,' he said in avery calm voice. 'I believe you know what's going to happen there.'
'Yes, sir,' I whispered.
'Every time I whack you, Larry, I want you to thank God your sister is still alive.'
'Yes, sir.'
Then we went. He whacked me plenty of times, so many times I ate standing up for a week and with a cushion on my chair for two weeks after that. And every time he whacked me with his big red calloused hand, I thanked God.
In a loud, loud voice. By the last two or three whacks, I was pretty sure He was hearing me.
They let me in to see her just before bedtime. There was a catbird outside her window, I remember that. Her foot, all wrapped up, was propped on a board.
She looked at me so long and so lovingly that I was uncomfortable. Then she said, 'Hay. You put down hay.'
'Course I did,' I blurted. 'What else would I do? Once the ladder broke there was no way to get up there.'
'I didn't know what you were doing,' she said.
'You must have! I was right under you, for cripe's sake!'
'I didn't dare look down,' she said. 'I was too scared. I had my eyes shut the whole time.'
I stared at her, thunderstruck.
'You didn't know? Didn't know what I was doing?' She shook her head.
'And when I told you to let go you you just did it?'
She nodded.
'Kitty, how could you do that?'
She looked at me with those deep blue eyes. 'I knew you must have been doing something to fix it,' she said. 'You're my big brother. I knew you'd take care of me.'
'Oh, Kitty, you don't know how close it was.'
I had put my hands over my face.