Sowing on the Mountain

≈ 38 ≈

She must have fallen asleep. Gris nudged her and she opened her eyes to daylight, at first puzzled by the mess of her upper arm and bloody sleeve.

O Fuck! Now I have to pull them out, she thought.

That fucking hurt.

She poured rubbing alcohol on her arm, which hurt in a whole new and exciting way. I know it'll get infected. Shit! Gris sniffed the fumes and dove under the bed.

This is not a viable longterm solution, she thought. But what is? Maybe a head transplant. It's not like I brought this on myself. There's been way too much bad shit going down: bang, bang, bang. When you get hurt and you can't get back, you hurt yourself: real pain, not phantom, not guilt, not that lurking anguish under the surface of things.

I need to get my wash out of the machine at the condo. It's probably growing mushrooms by now. Take a shower and get some clean clothes on. Wonder if there are any antibiotics in the med cab? I can't go to the doc and say Hey Doc, I need something for when I stick pins in my arm. I guess I could disinfect the pins next time. Maybe I should get a tetanus shot.

She laughed, and Gris peeked out from under the bed.

C'mon, dear beast. Let's rejoin western civilization.

She lit a burner on the stove and set the camp toaster on it and rummaged a couple slices of whole wheat. Got out the peanut butter and a jar of strawberry jam. What else? Yogurt. Is there an orange left?

Goddam hungry. Starving, in fact.

After she'd put her wet clothes in the dryer and taken a long shower, she walked over to the snack shop at the Village and bought Doritos and hot bean dip and chili con queso dip and a six-pack of diet Coke and a can of Vienna sausages. She carried the swag back to the condo and wolfed out, feeding the sausages to Gris one at a time while watching The Road Warrior on Gin's enormous TV. She liked the Gyro Captain a lot, and the Warrior Woman, but identified more with the Feral Kid. She folded her clothes and packed them in a duffle. Then it was time to call Slim.

She didn't want to talk to him, yet. The good mood she was in was fragile. If he said the wrong thing, it could plunge her back into the depths. But if she didn't call, he'd come roaring out here all worried, and that would be worse. Having someone worry about you was a burden. How would it be getting married?

They talked for five minutes or so. She assured him that she was fine, just worn out and edgy, not good company. She'd been doing her wash and cleaning up the yurt. Probably hit the sack early. He'd been working on a couple things: credit card thieves who targeted handbags left on chairs in restaurants. They'd swiped quite a few cards and the pressure was on to catch them. He'd also worked on the poison thing some. Venice Harper, the USF&W agent, had rented a car and driven to Laramie to sniff around. She was convinced the major source was there. She'd gotten a tip that one of the ranchers suspected had a big place near Laramie and a drinking problem: spent a lot of time in the bars.

He didn't ask if he should come out, so she asked him. Did he want to come out tomorrow after work, watch that movie at Ginger's, and then go to the Mangy Moose for pizza? He said yes, then said he'd rather get take-out pizza and bring it to the condo, so they could eat while they watched the movie. Good idea, she said. It was all very low-key.

She found a medical dictionary in the condo and looked up tetanus:

C. tetani is a slender, gram-positive, anaerobic rod that may develop a terminal spore, giving it a drumstick appearance. The organism is sensitive to heat and cannot survive in the presence of oxygen. The spores, in contrast, are very resistant to heat and the usual antiseptics. They can survive autoclaving at 249.8°F (121°C) for 10–15 minutes. The spores are also relatively resistant to phenol and other chemical agents.

The spores are widely distributed in soil and in the intestines and feces of horses, sheep, cattle, dogs, cats, rats, guinea pigs, and chickens. Manure-treated soil may contain large numbers of spores. In agricultural areas, a significant number of human adults may harbor the organism. The spores can also be found on skin surfaces and in contaminated heroin.

The symptoms were pretty gruesome. A shot wasn't such a bad idea, she thought, as long as I get it in my right arm. She called the clinic at the Village, but the recording said they were open from November through April, the ski season. So she'd have to drive to town.

I need groceries, too. I'll make a run tomorrow morning.