tried hoisting him up, but we were too slippery. “Stay, Hobo, stay. I’ll be back.”
I ran inside to get the quilt I’d left warming at the stove. I grabbed the oiled tablecloth, too. Outside again, I struggled against the wind-driven downpour. Blinded by pounding gusts, I threw the quilt over him, then jerked the coat out from under it. I felt my way around him. Tucking the quilt under, I worked quickly down from his head to his feet. Then I spread the oilcloth over him. I shoved my arms into the coat and pressed the hat down onto my head.
Wrestling his bundled weight up into my arms, I managed to stand. Inside the quilt, he moved in small, spasmodic jerks, like someone doped or on the edge of sleep. Wind gusted at my back. Staggering, I once went down on my knees with him. His weight and size were at the edge of my strength. Hobo nudged me, whimpering inquisitively.
“It’ll be all right. You’ll be all right. I can get you there. It’s warm inside. You’ll be warm and dry soon,” I shouted. Easing him on the porch floor, I wrapped the quilt and tablecloth tighter around him, keeping him completely covered, and half-carried, half-dragged him across the porch into the kitchen. I shoved the chairs aside and pulled him up close to the warm stove.
The relative warmth and quiet of the house stunned me. My arms ached from carrying him. I peeled the oilcloth away. Mud streaked the sides of the wet quilt beneath, but it was surprisingly warm from his body heat. “Are you warm enough? Are you okay?” I asked softly near his covered head. He didn’t respond. I went for more quilts. I debated unwrapping him completely. But I was reluctant to expose him, even for a few seconds, to the cold bare floor. Instead, I left the wet quilt on him and pressed another quilt around him firmly for a moment to wick some moisture away, set it aside, and then swaddled him in a couple more dry quilts, head to toe like a mummy. He didn’t move as I tucked the quilts around him.
I knelt beside him, my hair and clothes dripping. In the dim kitchen light, I could barely discern the subtle rise and fall of his breathing. My teeth chattered. But I continued staring at the wad of blankets not knowing what to do next when I felt that sensation again. A strange, uncoiling calm hummed through me. This time I was sure I heard something below the drumming of the rain, a chime, sweet and soft, then it vanished. I wiped my chest, smearing more dirt on myself. I was freezing, suddenly aware of my heavy, drenched clothes.
“I’ll be back,” I said and grabbed the fresh clothes I’d left warming by the stove.
In the bedroom, I stripped and changed as quickly as my shaking hands would allow.
He lay still and bundled on the floor when I returned with the rest of the blankets and quilts. I took two warming bricks from the stove and folded them in flannel. After I eased a pillow under his head, I lined the bricks up at his feet, then wrapped myself in a blanket, lay down behind him, and pulled the remaining quilts over both of us. I had no idea how long he had been out in that cold storm; I needed to keep him warm. I shivered and pressed up close.
Who was this strange man? How had he come to be buried on the edge of my field? What was wrong with him? With his face? I decided I should give him a few more minutes, to make sure he was warm. I should be as warm as possible, too, before starting down the hill to Mildred’s to call Momma and Daddy. They would know what to do. I’d have to go soon. The steady applause of rain continued on the metal roof. The expansion of his ribs as he breathed reminded me of sleeping with my sisters. I felt that odd hum in my chest again and, despite my plans to go for help, I fell asleep.
I woke suddenly. We were still spooned up tight, my arm around him. We hadn’t slept very long. The stove still radiated heat. Early evening light shone through the windows. Rain pounded hard on the roof and windowpane, drowning the sound of the strange man’s breath, but I felt his chest rise under my arm.
Curious,