He had rarely been anywhere so hot and dry as Nuevo Paraiso since those half-remembered early years in the Armadillo area. He'd roamed damn near everywhere with his father, then several years in San Francisco alone, then after that, anywhere and everywhere again. They'd been in Utah back when it was a territory still and again once it was a state, and the still-wild territories of Arizona and New Mexico, but only for a little while. By and large, the Van Der Lindes preferred cooler climates, not the least because winter readily cooled off any pursuit. But he remembered Utah the first time when he was nineteen. His first big job with them, helping rob a heavily guarded Wells Fargo stagecoach. He'd been scared shitless holding someone at gunpoint, but tried so hard to not show it. Dutch had been boyishly giddy with glee that night after they pulled it off, laughing and handing him a whiskey bottle at the campfire, slinging an arm around his shoulders, saying proudly, There's my boy. I knew you was a special one when we found you. Knew you had it in you. Steady as a rock, Arthur, not a flicker. Hosea! Maybe it's time we maybe start thinking bigger a few years in the future. We've got us a good one here in young Arthur. Grinning at Dutch in the firelight, feeling the pleasure at the delight and pride obvious in his dark eyes, and drinking the whiskey in celebration of it. Arthur had been so relieved at that, knowing he'd done right, knowing they'd let him keep running with them, knowing they'd let him stay. That felt like the first really big test. Everything before that, all those years spent training and learning, had been given in hopes he would pan out, and he had. Savoring that whiskey, savoring their joy and knowing he'd helped it come to pass, he swore he'd never fail them.
Nineteen, still a boy if he'd been honest, but so desperate to be a man. He'd met Mary a couple of months later. At that point he was already at war with himself to do whatever it took to keep that proud place that he'd so recently assured with Dutch and Hosea, but also wanting this girl, this impossible lady, who could make him dream of other things. Mary, who made him feel like a man too but in such a different way, something that was all soft and bright and hopeful and shy.
Eliza had been nineteen when he'd ruined her life, and she'd died at twenty-four. Lenny had been nineteen too, and now he would never see twenty. Bright kids, both of them, good people gone far before their time. Yet somehow he remained, clinging to life stubbornly here in Mexico. The thought pressed down on him with all the weight of the world, and the catch in his breath suddenly wasn't due to the constant struggle of his raw and exhausted lungs registering their protest at the business of breathing. He grimly tried his best to shove those thoughts off, as he'd been shoving it all off for months, running and fighting and running and fighting, then this past week, exhausted and sleeping so much that his half-awake mind couldn't hold much in it, thoughts there and gone like water in a sieve. Now came the reckoning, he supposed. There would be time enough for sorrow and guilt later, but he couldn't let it in just now. Apparently he had a doctor to see, and from there, who knew what would come. Something that ended with him out into the desert for the vultures to pick, maybe. Though knowing Sadie, probably not. She'd insist on burying him.
Sadie walked in pace with him, and he knew what a slow shamble he managed as they headed through the streets of Chuparosa, Sadie pausing in the open air market to haltingly ask for directions to the doctor, which was apparently médico. Looked like his Spanish was expanding already.
Tuberculosis was the same word in Spanish, apparently, given the stocky young woman, a girl really, who'd paused her peddling fruit to answer Sadie's question took a look at him, knew it at a glance, and asked. No point denying it. He nodded, looked back at her, seeing a sort of gentle sympathy in her dark eyes. She reached into her wicker basket, picked up a couple of the strange looking pink and green fruits about the size of his fist, covered in tiny knobby protrusions, handing him one, Sadie the other. "Pitaya."
Awkwardly, he pointed at her. "So, uh, your name's Pitaya? Um--llama Pitaya?"
She sighed, though she was barely hiding a grin, teeth white against her bronze skin, so he must have really screwed up. The you ain't that bright, huh sound apparently translated just fine between languages too. "No. Me llamo Teodora. Teodora Mendoza." She pointedly emphatically at the fruit. "Es una fruta. Pitaya."
He raised the fruit up in a gesture of acknowledgment. "It's a pitaya, you're a Teodora Mendoza. Got it. Gracias." That one word he did know for certain.
Sadie had better sense than him, as usual, and filled in the gap. "Sadie." She waved a hand towards him. "Arthur."
Their apparent new friend Teodora Mendoza nodded at that. She pointed emphatically to a building a little ways down the street, helpfully with "Médico" daubed in bright red letters above the door. She said something else, but he didn't catch any of it, and when he glanced over at Sadie, she gave an awkward little dip and shrug of her shoulders to say it went beyond her too. Teodora gave a shrug herself and an apologetic smile, making her look very young, and turned back to her business.
"I get the feeling that's a thing she's gone and done before," Sadie said, as they headed off down the street.
He stuck the pitaya in his bag, thinking he'd save it for later. The thing looked like nothing he'd ever seen before, and who knew how it would taste? It was a kindness from her, and one that struck a soft spark of warmth within him. The world ain't all rotten, remember. There was still plenty that was terrible and cruel, but there was plenty that was good and gentle about it too. Little things, small kindnesses and generosities--a woman's amusement at an idiot American with no Spanish coming into her town, but seeing him for a man bewildered and suffering, giving him some food as a welcome, and carefully guiding him to the doctor. "Seemed like. Guess she's seen some of us dead folk walking around here before."
Hot and dry climate wasn't making much difference to his pissed off lungs yet, though he hadn't imagined it would be a matter of taking in a few breaths and being magically cured. But at the very least, the sun, which he hadn't seen much of for a while, and the heat felt good, soaking into him. How long had it been that he'd felt cold in a way that didn't let up, spending however much of his waning strength simply trying to keep himself warm? Probably since they'd left Guarma, and not being cold like he was soon after they left those tropical waters was about the only thing he could recommend about that whole damn disaster. In the cold and damp of Beaver Hollow he wondered sometimes if he might just shiver himself to death before the coughing could do him in.
It wasn't really that hot today in Chuparosa, given he wasn't breaking a sweat or anything like that. But the lack of the dampness in the air, that helped more than he could say. For about the first time since he got his old jacket back again in Lakay--aside from bathing or being in a pleasantly warm tent in Wapiti--he shrugged it off, slung it over his shoulder. Tipped his head back, face to the afternoon sun, eyes closed for a moment, enjoying the feeling of it. He'd accepted that he'd die lying there on that chilly, wet stone, watching one last beautiful sunrise color the sky, finding that contentment and peace inside of him at having done something fine and right to close out his life. He hadn't hoped or planned to see another morning, let alone one so fine, and in a strange new place like this. It spurred on a feeling he hadn't had in a while--that longing to see another sunrise beyond this one, and another, and another. Not for the sake of needing another day to turn towards some cause or task, but simply to be there and to see it with his own eyes. Hope, if he had to call it something, even as feeble as it seemed.
This would be better than the last time he'd walked through a doctor's door. He knew his enemy this time, even if not exactly how to fight it, and while he hurt like hell, at least he wasn't stumbling and gasping for breath in a red haze of half-consciousness. There was nothing here to fear anymore. The worst that could happen was he'd hear that the TB would kill him quickly enough, and he'd been living with that looming shadow for a while now and come to accept it. So he pushed the door open, and walked in, ready to face it. At least this time he wouldn't be alone, devastated and afraid. He still wasn't sure how he'd managed to compose himself that day in St. Denis for the short walk to Doyle's to meet Sadie there. He thought she hadn't known. She should have figured she was too smart to not notice something off, even if she hadn't prodded him on it.
In a matter of a minute or less, Sadie was left idling up front as the doctor took one good long look at Arthur, and briskly gestured him into the back room with a wave of his hand. "Shirt off," he directed, gesturing him to a chair, and after the sound of Spanish they'd been hearing all across Nuevo Paraiso since crossing the border, hearing English almost felt strange.
He obediently reached towards his shirt buttons, then paused. "Ain't telling a fella to get his clothes off without worrying about names first more usual in a different line of business?"
That broke the brisk facade, and the doctor grinned at him. Maybe thirty or thirty-five, and to judge from the weathered lines around his bright hazel eyes, he laughed well and often. "Oh, that's very good, sir. You've got kept a sense of humor." His voice carried a soft trace of the Mexican accent, reminding him of Javier. Actually, a lot of reminders there in the close-clipped mustache, the carelessly elegant way of dressing, the grace of movement. He offered his hand. "Felipe Garcia."
Reaching out, he accepted the handshake. A strong hand with some calluses, so this man clearly did some kind of labor. "Arthur Griffith." No reason to change to another false name just yet.
"I assume it's your wife who came here with you, Mr. Griffith? She doesn't look like your sister."
It came down to a choice. It was either continue that assumption, or things being as they were in a town, far different from the outlaw life, he'd have to do a hell of a lot of explaining about traveling with a woman who was neither wife nor relation close enough to have brought Arthur Griffith all the way to Mexico. Claiming she was a cousin probably wouldn't cut it. Easier to claim her as his wife, he decided. He'd answer for it to her later if she felt offended, but given she'd done it for the train tickets, he trusted she'd see the necessity. Sadie was a practical sort. So he answered nonchalantly while unbuttoning his shirt, slipping it from his shoulders, doing the same to the top half of his union suit. "Yeah. That's my wife, Sadie." Arthur and Sadie Griffith it would be. One of Hosea's first rules of a successful long con--keeping one's own actual first name, or something starting with the same letter at least. If he'd been running around claiming to be a Warren or Michael or whatever, too easy to forget himself when someone said the name and he didn't respond. Dutch was prone to flaunt that rule with something ridiculous--Hoagy Carmichael, really--but then, not many men by that first name. Though he'd always suspected "Dutch" wasn't his actual name, but never been brave enough to ask what it might really be. Even Hosea had admitted he didn't know, but told Arthur that he'd never cared enough to ask. Dutch is who he is now. That's what matters, ain't it? But really, a Dutchman named Dutch seemed a little too on the nose for parents to inflict that cruelty.
Dr. Garcia quickly ran Arthur through his paces. He followed the directions obediently enough as Garcia pressed the cold metal of a stethoscope all over his chest and back. Breathe in, breathe out, cough shallowly, cough deeply if he could--he could cough deeply all right, though it ended up producing a fit of coughing, and Dr. Garcia got to confirm that yes, his newest TB patient was indeed hacking up greenish crap streaked with blood.
Handing Arthur a clean handkerchief and a glass of water to wash the taste from his mouth, Garcia sat back in his chair, eyeing Arthur intently like he was a particularly puzzling problem to figure out. "Do you know anything about how you contracted TB?"
"I'm guessing I got it in June. The only person with TB I been around was this one man. We...there was a fight between us." Not that Downes had given him much of a fight, between his condition and his peaceful disposition. "He coughed up, got some on my face. That probably's what done it." He'd never know if that had been an accident, or maybe a singular act of defiance.
"I imagined more being around a relative. You caught the disease off a single exposure from a stranger? That's some bad luck. It's not usual that it happens that way."
"Well, my luck went rotten this year in a lot of ways, so that fits."
"All right, so you likely caught the disease five months ago. But that doesn't mean you've showed symptoms all that time. What was that progression like? How have you felt, and for how long?"
"First started noticing things in late August? Maybe early September? I was tired, had a fever that came and went. Coughing a bit. But nothing unusual. It was a rough summer. Figured it was just me running too hard, sleeping outdoors too much." That and spending so much time in the swamp, but he wasn't about to volunteer too much information about the particulars of the previous six months to this man.
"Yes, you seem to have had a rough time of it, given that scar's also pretty recent. Shotgun slug?" He nodded towards the still-purple starburst on Arthur's left shoulder, courtesy of Colm O'Driscoll's men. "Took a bit of hard surgery too, by the look of it. It's crude, so I'd guess you didn't get that treated by an actual doctor."
"I dug it out myself. Heated up a file to dig the bullet out, used some gunpowder to cauterize it." He gave a slight half-shrug. "It was that or let it rot worse than it already had. It had already been in there a few days and given the boys who were holding me at the time, wasn't gonna be anything nice." When will you learn to shut your damn mouth? Talking to a stranger like this.
"Madre de Dios," Garcia muttered, shaking his head. "So--sleeping outdoors, and getting shot, held captive. Lawman? Bounty hunter?"
He noted with some amusement that outlaw didn't come up as a possibility. Bless the man for assuming righteousness as a given. "Bit of both, in my day, though mostly the second of late." He had worn that star for a little while in Rhodes, anyway, so he could claim that status in his past, so long as the man didn't want details. "And yeah, they shot me in August. I started feeling lousy not too long after, when I was on my feet again."
"Kept you in bed for a while, did it?"
"For most of a few weeks. Wound went septic and that nearly killed me."
"You started feeling the first TB symptoms soon after? The fatigue, the fever?"
He nodded in reply. "Thought it was just the last bits of that working itself out."
"It took a lot of your body's strength in fighting the infection and healing the wound, so the TB finally had the chance to get at you and take hold. But resting that much, and lying down especially, probably kept it from going rampant a bit longer. TB bacteria like the upper parts of the lungs. Lots of oxygen there, which they love." Garcia traced the area on his own chest, seeing Arthur's eyes follow it. "When you're lying down, you're breathing differently. It stresses the upper lobes of the lung less. When did the symptoms get really bad? After you'd been back on your feet for a while, going hard at things again?"
Somehow it felt comforting that the man could guess so easily and so accurately. It meant he'd seen enough of this to track his quarry with sharp eyes, much like Charles had taught him to track those deer. "About six weeks ago."
"Anything set the symptoms off at that point?"
A shipwreck and running around a tropical hellhole run by some crackpot dictator with a god complex? "I ended up chasing a bounty for weeks all the way into the south of Florida. Got into one hell of a fight with him down there. Another doctor confirmed it was TB just over a month ago."
"Must have been one hell of a bounty. But the strain of it, the swamps, humid air--might have finally done it. By the look of you, you clearly didn't step back at all since the diagnosis."
"I couldn't do that. There was things I had to handle. People who needed me to look after them." He'd done his best. All he could do was hope it had made some difference to those left alive. Hoped like hell John, Abigail, Jack, and Tilly were safe.
Garcia sighed and shook his head. "If I've heard that once, I've heard it a hundred times. Plus from how those bruises are fading, it looks like you took one hell of a beating about a week ago. That bounty got the better of you?" Now it unnerved him a bit to be so easily read, so much written on his body that this man could effortlessly follow. How close to the truth might he get?
"Yeah." He couldn't resist a wry smile. "Though I gave a decent account, I think. Got my share of punches in too."
"You're lucky he didn't shoot you."
"I know that." Though knowing Micah, it was a mark of contempt, not mercy. He's sick. He's dying. Cold, dismissive words to Dutch, but Arthur had heard them all the same. "It's...a personal matter between that fella and me. Reckon he thought I wasn't worth the bullet at that point, with me on the ground gasping like a landed fish."
"Well, it's not going to be a personal matter between you two right now, because if you go after him anytime soon, I guarantee it will kill you. So after that you went home, and your wife learned about the TB, put her foot down, insisted you rest?"
"Just about." True, that wasn't the whole story by half, but it hit the important points well enough. And Garcia hit the mark fairly in saying he'd kept the worst from Sadie where he could, and it had been her who'd insisted he stay in bed in Wapiti. "Then she dragged me here after she found out about you. Wouldn't take no argument on it."
"Quite a woman, then." Garcia gave him a cheerful smile at that.
"You don't know the half, mister. I'm a lucky man that she puts up with me and all my nonsense." Without her, he would have died that night, no question. He still wasn't sure why she'd put in all the effort, but she had.
"Have you passed out since Florida from the coughing, from being unable to get enough air?"
He tried to count the times in his mind, gave it up quickly. Everything blurred into one big haze of pain and fatigue and suffering after a while, plus he'd had other things to worry about, rather than focusing on his particular symptoms. "A few times that I can remember. A few other times, things got--dizzy, fading out some."
"But you kept going despite a still-healing gunshot wound and worsening tuberculosis, so you're obviously built tough. And at least you could travel here. Walked in here on your own two feet without staggering too much, after what I assume was a long journey. So you're not the worst case I've seen, by far."
"Oh? I ain't winning this contest? What's the worst one, then?"
"An unconscious woman carried in by her husband. Barely breathing. She died only about two hours after she got here. They'd traveled all the way from Oaxaca. Close to a thousand miles, that. Walking, hitching rides. Carrying her most of the way. It took them weeks. Apparently they heard about me from Tomas Diaz, who lived in their town. He was a patient of mine a couple of years back." He rubbed his eyes wearily. "With TB that far advanced? I couldn't have done anything for her even when she started the journey, let alone by the time she got here. About all I could do was pay for the train fare so they could go home and bury her."
From the flash of pain in Garcia's expression, the sudden tightness around his mouth, it was a memory that haunted him. Arthur suddenly regretted opening his own mouth about it. Me and my need to ask. "Poor woman."
Garcia hesitated, then nodded at that in agreement. He gestured to Arthur's shirt, folded neatly beside him. "You might as well get dressed again. I'll go get your wife. We'll all talk about my observations, and what's in store." He pushed through the door, leaving Arthur to struggle back into the sleeves of his union suit and pull it back up, giving no sign of what he thought about the whole business. The fact he'd gone to get Sadie didn't seem that promising, though.
After doing up the buttons of his shirt, tucking it into his pants, shrugging on the suspenders again, he reached for his belt. Hesitated for a moment, touching the talisman there with respect. A lot of those other little good-luck charms and tokens had been in his satchel, so John had them now, and hopefully they did him some good. But this one had hung on his belt, a thing of carved bones and owl feathers with a sooty barred black-and-grey pattern. So it stuck with him all the way up the mountain and beyond. He wondered if Rains Fall saw he still wore it when they talked in Wapiti, that of all things he'd been able to hand over when facing his death, this had stayed with him. Sacred to his people, the man had called it, even as he called it not much, and after he'd also said even sacred things are only things. He'd said that it was people who mattered, which was a truth Arthur hadn't fully understood until recently, twisted up into knots by the worship of loyalty rather than simply doing right by people.
But it wasn't the sacred power the Wapiti might have thought that talisman had that made him keep it close and wear it so visibly. It was people who mattered, all right. It was what Rains Fall said by that gift, giving something meaningful to Arthur, giving him the understanding that this man, wise and sensible and kind, thought Arthur Morgan was worthy of that kind of trust and esteem. So he'd worn it openly, cherishing that feeling of honor and respect. It seemed maybe that little thing of bone and feathers had some kind of luck to it in the end, because here it was with him still, and he wasn't dead yet. He'd kept this, when he gave away even the hat he'd carried for twenty-five years, ever since his father handed it to him through the bars of his jail cell, and said nonchalantly, Well, boy, seems you're to be on your own now.
Carefully smoothing down the feathers of the talisman, he fastened the belt as he heard Sadie and Garcia coming back down the hallway. He could do with some luck in days to come, and the memory of Rains Fall's caring and his wish that Arthur go live a good life. If nothing else, he knew after that night on the ridge that he could die peacefully enough.
~~~~~~~~~~
Following Dr. Garcia back into his treatment room, Sadie tried to read anything from him. But there was nothing in his expression, the way he carried himself, or the like. Bland as milk, all of it. The man would have made a solid night of it at a gambling table given that kind of poker face. But maybe doctors had to be like that, keeping control of their faces and emotions when around patients. Couldn't be easy, telling plenty of people they had no hope because of whatever disease or injury they had, and trying to stay calm so as to not make it all worse.
Garcia pushed the door open, gesturing her in with a polite wave of a hand. "Mrs. Griffith. Take yourself a seat, please." So Arthur had kept up their fiction of them being a married pair. It meant nothing much. She saw no reason to not do so, given it cost too much explanation otherwise. Arthur sat there in what she presumed was the examination chair, and there were a couple of woven wicker chairs with comfortably padded seats. This must be how Garcia did things. He saw the patient, then brought their people back to discuss the news with all of them. It seemed a finer way of doing things than urging the patient out the door to be the one to tell their family or friends, and it said something good about the man.
Settling on one of the chairs, crossing her legs, she looked over at Arthur. A complete poker face there too. The only thing he gave her was the usual undeniable strain and exhaustion etched into his too-thin features. She couldn't help it, feeling the need to reach out and take his hand in hers. If nothing else, no matter how bad the news might be, he wouldn't have to face it so alone this time. She could give him this simple comfort. Perhaps she needed it herself too, afraid of what Garcia might say. If she'd kept Arthur alive, and got him here, only to have no hope? She wasn't sure she could withstand it. Arthur gave her a split second of hesitation again, and then she felt the pressure of his callused and work-roughened fingers against hers, holding on tightly to her. That more than anything told her what his face didn't, and she was glad she'd done it.
Arthur finally broke the silence, as Garcia took a seat himself in another chair. "So what's the bad news?"
"You've already heard the worst news before," Garcia replied dryly. "That makes my job easier." He glanced back and forth between her and Arthur, seeming to judge they wouldn't erupt in hysterics, and would prefer plain talk. "You very definitely have TB in your upper left lung, possibly to a lesser degree in your right. If I had the most modern equipment like a Roentgen apparatus here in Chuparosa I could say that for sure, but unfortunately, I don't. It's a moderately advanced case for such a short duration, but it sounds like the life you've been leading explains that. It's not to the end stage yet. If it were, you wouldn't have walked in here. But if you don't change some things, it's going to get there in a big hurry."
Neither of them spoke. That wasn't all bad news, to Sadie's mind, but it certainly wasn't good. Garcia obviously noticed the lack of protest and continued, "There's no actual cure for tuberculosis, Mr. Griffith. The best any doctor can do is try to let you recover from what damage is done already, and give your body a chance to fight back enough to contain the disease. Send it into a sort of hibernation. But it can always come back, especially if you let yourself get this badly run down again. And with luck, the lesions in your lungs would heal, but they'll still be scar tissue. If it's cold, if you're working hard, if you're coughing, you'll probably never breathe quite as easy as you did before."
She didn't say anything yet, couldn't really. It felt like it would be barging in, when this was Arthur's life. She watched Arthur glancing at the doctor, meeting his eyes directly. "So how long are you thinking I got?"
"It could kill you in six months, ten years, or never. Some of that's luck, but a lot of that depends on you. I'd say you're willful, which is good, but you're not used to taking it easy. So my question to you is this: how willing you are to do what it takes to get better?"
"He'll be willing," she answered Garcia, shooting Arthur a sharp glance. So she'd already broken her intention to not speak up, but she couldn't help it. "What's that gonna be like?"
"You'd have to give up smoking for the rest of your life, for one, because the smoke is an irritant to your lungs." He eyed Sadie, raising his dark eyebrows. "If you smoke cigarettes yourself, señora, I'd suggest you do it away from him." Probably assuming from her wearing pants that she would do other unladylike things like smoke cigarettes.
Thinking of her sharp flare of guilt at Arthur's awkward joke back in Blackwater about how he'd love a cigarette but his lungs wouldn't, and realizing the plume of smoke between them that could set him off coughing, she shrugged. "Fine. Consider it done. Guess I ain't smoking either." It seemed a small enough sacrifice. There were much bigger sins on her hands now than enjoying a good smoke. It struck her then that she'd already instinctively cast her fate with his by a gesture like that, but what else was there for her? Dumping him on this doctor and then vanishing, telling him coldly he was on his own, and what would she do with herself? No, her place was here for now.
"Got to be more to it than that," Arthur said, shaking his head.
"Oh, there's a lot more. I wanted to see if you kicked up a fuss at a small thing like that." Garcia pushed his chair a bit closer, folding his hands. "There's the idea out there of bringing tuberculosis patients together in one place. For safe isolation to halt the disease being spread, yes, but also for people to get proper care. Because it's so much for any family to handle alone. There are some formal sanatoriums, but only a handful. Not nearly enough, and nowhere near here. Plus they tend to be available only to those who can pay for that luxury. What we have here is...something like that, but it's different too. I work with the nuns at the Las Hermanas convent right here in Perdido. They help care for TB patients there as part of their charity work. For those who arrive with family, like you, Mrs. Griffith, you're welcome to stay there also, rather than being separated like you would in a sanatorium. So long as you're willing to help them with some of the work of running the place, given there's plenty of it. The patients who are off bed rest also help out on what jobs they can as part of their recovery. It's a system that's worked wonderfully these past eight years, and it gives patients the structure and time they need to recover. It gives them a community to belong to, which they need, given they've been taken from the one they had."
"So there's somewhere to go." That was a relief, answering one big question she'd had. They wouldn't have to figure that out for themselves, strangers in a strange land.
"Yes. It's admirable that you've come all this way with him, but running a household by yourself, and taking on the care for your husband? It would be too much. The TB ward at Las Hermanas developed in part as a response to that. We aim to give a good standard of care to ordinary people."
Arthur held up his free hand to break into the conversation. "You're talking 'structure' and whatever. What's the actual plan?" His jaw twitched a little, as if he clenched it, then she watched as he forced himself to relax. Of course Arthur felt that need to push relentlessly for pure facts. Too much of Dutch's promising dreams and not talking any of the details, she expected. "Honestly, what's the bad news? The worst of it? Ain't like I can't take it."
"Remember I told you the TB bacterium has a harder fight when you're at rest? Aside from toilet needs and half an hour to an hour a day to take care of any other business, you'll start with two months of strict bed rest to see how you improve. And I mean full rest, lying down."
That sounded extreme and surprised the hell out of her, so Arthur's exclamation felt justified. "Two months? Jesus, I got shot and it weren't but two weeks before I was out of bed at least half the day!"
"And you probably should have rested a lot more to avoid being where you are now," Garcia shot back at him crisply. "You're welcome to ignore me, and when I see you back here in two months and you're that much worse, then it'll be six months of bed rest, more damage to your lungs, and much worse odds that you'll be alive in five years. Your choice, señor."
"How much you dealt with TB anyway?" she asked. "No offense meant. There's a hell of a lot of quacks out there promising all sorts of nonsense to desperate folk. I seen some of them as a kid. So I just need to ask."
"Yes, plenty of people head this way for the climate. Every few weeks, seems like there's another one at Chuparosa train station hoping for a miracle. So it's a disease you tend to learn a lot about because of it. I've spent a lot of the last dozen years working with TB. I get better at it every year, because I learn something new. Why, do you doubt a Mexican knows enough to matter?" There was a politely controlled skepticism in his tone that told Sadie he'd run into that before.
"Ain't that," Arthur told him, reaching up to rub his eyes tiredly. "We had a falling out of late, sad to say, but one of my best friends was from down this way. I don't much care if you're a Mexican or Chinese or whatever, just that you know your stuff."
"I try to stay up with what new developments there are in the field. I was at the American Medical Association conference in Denver last year. Lots of TB talk there, especially given the location. There was a presentation from a Doctor Murphy from Chicago. I've been implementing the latest technique based on his talk with some real success, namely, artificial pneumothorax."
"Look, my English ain't that good, let alone high-flown medical talk, so you're gonna have to break that down for me." Glancing at Sadie, he amended, "For both of us."
Garcia let out a quick laugh at that. "Of course. It's been noticed for a while that when it comes to TB, sometimes in the struggle to breathe, eventually a lung collapses in on itself. Murphy's come up with a way to actually control that process. I introduce a needle into the chest wall, and I assure you it's done with great care," indicating the spot on himself, "and then pump nitrogen in until the pressure collapses part of the lung. It's like pushing on an air-filled bag to crumple it."
The words all made sense as words and sentences, but what he said sure as hell made no sense as a concept. "His lungs are struggling enough, and you want to collapse one of them?" She felt a surge of irritated anger at herself for dragging Arthur all the way here, and giving him hope, for hoping herself. All for something this stupid from an apparent quack. "Arthur, c'mon. Sounds like a bunch of crap."
Garcia held up a hand to halt them. "It sounds crazy, but it has worked. TB bacteria are like the people they infect. They need oxygen. If you collapse the part of the lung they're in and are destroying, the rest of that lung, and the other, healthier lung can make up for it, especially if you're on bed rest or limited activity. And without that oxygen supply, the bacteria in that area will suffocate and die. It's actually faster than pure bed rest would be, if you've got someone who can do the procedure with care."
Arthur gave off a slow, humorless laugh unlike any she'd heard from him, something dark and cynical that sent a shiver down her spine. "Treat them bacteria like coal miners, huh? Collapse the whole business down around them, they're buried alive, and they suffocate." What had he seen up in Annesburg to make him have such bleak humor about it? He smiled, in a tight-lipped and humorless way. "Ruthless little bastards been trying their best to choke me. I got to say I don't mind the notion of them getting a taste of it themselves."
"The procedure isn't without some pain. Plus the lung will slowly reinflate, so I'll have to repeat it every few weeks until the lesions in your lungs fully heal."
"Pain and I ain't unfamiliar, Doc. Not of late, for sure. Not before that neither."
"I don't doubt it."
"Like Sadie said, you find a lot of quacks out there. Few months back, I ran a snake oil salesman in for the bounty myself when he poisoned good folk with his shit."
"If I was a fraud, I'd be one hell of a con man to have fooled an entire group of nuns into following along with my craziness."
Arthur grinned at that, more a wolfish baring of teeth than any kind of actual humor. "Mister, I've known some damn persuasive con men. Fellas who could talk any number of people into all sorts of nonsense and make it sound not only possible, but just about reasonable. No offense meant, but me, I've gone a bit skeptical these days on folk promising miracles."
"No miracles to be had here. I can't promise results. I can promise it'll be long months of recovery. It'll be pain, and boredom, and frustration. You're clearly used to being a very healthy, very active man, and this is going to be hard for you. What I have is the support of the system at Las Hermanas, a solid plan that's worked for others, and my skills and knowledge." He spread his hands, shrugging. "That's all I can give you. A chance."
At least he was honest. That felt encouraging. She had to agree with Arthur about now having a healthy suspicion of anyone ranting about easy dreams. "Two months of bed rest, you said." She'd damn well make sure Arthur listened, much as she suspected he'd complain. "This whole new-mow thing you learned in Denver. What else?"
"Getting as much fresh air and sunlight as possible. Eating well, to gain weight again. Keeping your mind busy will be equally important--you don't speak Spanish, do you?"
"No." Garcia looked next at Sadie.
She shook her head. "Un poquito. I grew up in New Austin, but my Spanish ain't much."
"You'll have incentive to learn it quickly, I imagine, and lots of time. There's plenty to be done once you do, even for a man still only doing limited physical exertion. TB isn't the only good work the convent deals with, after all. There's a need for teaching Spanish speakers English. Writing letters for people. Teaching people to read and write."
Arthur murmured something to himself that she didn't quite catch, but there was a low chuckle to accompany it. "All right. So--two months in bed, learning Spanish, and you jabbing me with a needle every couple weeks. What else?"
"I'm in favor of minimizing using laudanum for pain, because of the risk of dependency. Call it another peculiarity of mine. I know it's in so many medicines, but I've seen too many dope fiends in my life. Have you been using it heavily?"
"Not using it at all."
"You're one hard bastard, huh?"
"I ain't that tough. Been using something that an Indian chief taught me, after he said it would help me. Yarrow, ginseng, and either English mace or milkweed."
Garcia leaned in, expression lighting up with interest, eyes wide. "Does that work?"
"It tastes like chewing on the south end of a northbound donkey, but it kept me going, just about. The pain got better."
"I'll have to note it down, get some supplies in for Las Hermanas. I favor anything to cut down opium use but not leave patients suffering, and I like to rotate what I use. Equal parts of each?" Arthur nodded at that. "Thank you."
"Bit surprised you'd be interested in herb lore," Arthur said. "Being as you're all with the modern techniques and whatnot."
"Wisdom in many places, Mr. Griffith," Garcia answered him with a grin. "I use local remedies too. I like to rotate them. Seems to help keep them effective."
"Got another one for you, then," Sadie told him. "Yarrow, sage, and Indian tobacco. It makes a good cough syrup."
"That Hosea's remedy?" Arthur asked, voice suddenly gone soft and low. "I remember him teaching me that one a few years back, when his cough started. Too impatient to really appreciate it then. Did me a world of good this year, though."
She nodded, remembering sitting with the man at the scout fire as he patiently taught her how to make the syrup. Swapping recipes with each other, hearing about his childhood in the Catskills, wishing she'd known someone like him before she and Jake got in over their heads in some ways. He'd been taking time to check on her, to spend time with her, make her know she was one of them now in that understated and caring way that he had that she'd noticed extended to everyone in camp. Dutch was all lightning and thunder, dramatic and sudden, that made everyone sit up and take notice, take action. Hosea was the quieter freshwater spring that kept things alive.
She noticed Garcia jotting down the notes. "What else you got?" she asked, wanting to get her mind off Hosea, sensing how much it still hurt Arthur to think of a man who'd been probably something like a father to him for years. Hell, she grieved Hosea herself, because it seemed like the best of the gang died the day Lenny and Hosea did, even if she'd known them both only a matter of months.
"Wearing a mask whenever you're not in your room. Outside, you'll want it to help keep from inhaling any dust in the wind. Generally, you'll wear it to help keep from spreading the TB. No need to do so around Mrs. Griffith, though. Do you have any children? Back home, perhaps?"
"No. No kids." She tried to not feel the pang at realizing all over again that she never would have children now. It wasn't as though she had had much to offer a child at this point, given who she'd turned into in the end. It was for the best. But she grieved it all the same. "We...we was putting that off for a while until things were more certain in our lives." She wasn't sure why she felt compelled to explain how it had been with Jake, and pretend that was how it was with Arthur. Nothing except that it sounded better than offering no explanation, and risking Garcia maybe wanting to poke into the matter to offer some medical help in that department.
She thought she saw Arthur flinch himself at that, but subtly. Then he nodded towards Sadie. "You ain't worried about her? Why?" They both knew that he'd been so careful to not cough on her, and that hadn't mattered?
Garcia answered coolly. "She's been around you for months. Kissing you. Sharing the same bed, even, and you can't really control coughing in your sleep. But she's still healthy as a horse."
Arthur snatched back his hand from hers like he'd been scalded, eyes going wide in horror, staring at her with an expression of panicked misery. "Sadie--ah, shit, I'm sorry."
She couldn't help the flicker of fear. She'd seen how bad it had been for him, and the thought of going through it herself couldn't help but terrify her a bit. She couldn't say anything at that moment, only look back at him. "Not your fault," she managed finally. Besides, they hadn't been kissing or sharing a bed or any of that, so maybe it wasn't as bad as all that. If it was, well, it was. She'd see Jake soon enough in that case.
Garcia must have noticed it, because his voice went low, calm, soothing. "There's no need to worry. TB is so prevalent that most people probably have some of it in their body. You may well have had it in your lungs long before that man you fought, Mr. Griffith. She probably had some in hers even before you got sick. But for most people, it never turns into anything, because they're healthy enough to keep the bacteria at bay. I wouldn't suggest he cough on you directly, but there's no need to isolate him from you."
"All right," she replied, feeling her heart start to slow from its furious pace, breathing a bit easier. "It'll be good we don't need to be apart, I expect."
"Granted, you'll have separate beds in your room. Safer, though I admit it's mostly because a convent isn't exactly built around the notion of folks who would be sharing a bed." Garcia's eyes took on an impish twinkle. "By the way, one more restriction we hadn't discussed. No marital relations until Mr. Griffith is cleared as strong enough for you two to leave the convent. The sisters have their sense of decorum, and I prefer to be a good guest. Plus the strain's bad for his health."
She somehow managed to not burst out laughing at that, looking over to see Arthur blushing like an embarrassed schoolboy and avoiding her eyes, and that did it, the laugh came out anyway, first as a giggle, then as rolling peals of laughter. They'd gotten in too deep before they realized it, and now here they were. Suddenly they were committed to this whole business of pretending to be married, but able to sleep apart and not worry about people wondering about the absence of certain sounds from their room, all while being a pair of ex-outlaws hiding out among a bunch of nuns. The whole thing sounded like a damn comedy fit for the stage. But then behind the initial farcical humor, it also stung her. This fib of them being husband and wife caught them in its web neatly, but she couldn't back down now. Besides, it sounded like there would be a place for her at this Las Hermanas as his supposed wife, and otherwise, they'd likely shut the door in her face. She wasn't going to abandon him like that to the care of strangers, in a strange land where he didn't even speak the language. What would she do with herself, anyway? They were going to stick together and that was that. If they had to sell a story, she could do that. Obvious that nobody would expect them to be the affectionate married folks, or her turning up pregnant, or anything like that. She'd let him keep borrowing her name until he had some choice in his road before him, and they could see then what happened. It would be all right. She could withstand that, in the interest of getting them what they needed right now: care for his TB, and a safe place for them both to stay. Jake would know the truth of this, and so would she and Arthur, and that was what mattered.
She finally heard Arthur joining in with that soft and husky laugh he had now, and couldn't help but smile at him with mingled amusement and ruefulness. Looks like we got ourselves into another one, huh?
His slight answering smile said it all. Yeah, we sure did.