Page 74 of Homestead

It’s probably nerves. I’m almost immediately anxious about how Jimmy did during the night and how he’s feeling this morning. I was so tired I slept all the way through without waking up even once.

I’ve only managed to swing my legs over the side of the bed before realizing that Jimmy is slowly sitting up too.

“How is it today?” I ask, slightly breathless.

He waits until he’s sitting upright before he responds. “Better, I think.”

“Oh good.” The words blow out with a rush of relief. I scramble over to crouch beside him. “Do you need help getting up?”

“I think I can do it.”

He does, although it’s a painfully slow process. He’s obviously not his normal self, but he does manage to stand up and straighten his back without cringing or groaning, which is definite improvement.

“I just need to stretch out some,” he mutters as I flutter beside him, trying to decide how he needs me to help him.

“Okay. That’s good.”

While he does some stretching, I quickly complete my morning ablutions and pull on clean underwear, jeans, and a T-shirt.

I’m hopeful when I come back from the outhouse, and I’m almost to the bedroom when I hear a sharp, pained exclamation from Jimmy.

His back must have grabbed again as he was trying to pull on his jeans.

“Damn it!” He gasps out the word, dropping his jeans back on the floor. He stands motionless for several seconds, his skin and lips looking dead white.

Terrified he’s about to fall over, I guide him over to sit on the side of the bed.

He’s breathing raggedly and planting both hands on either side of his hips, as if he’s trying to keep some of his weight off his back.

“Damn it,” he mutters again. “I was gonna get back in the garden again today.”

“That’s not happening right now.” I speak in a matter-of-fact rather than bossy way since I don’t want to rile up his stubborn streak. “You can see how you feel later on.”

I don’t say it, but I can’t see any possible way he’s going to be working in the garden today at all. Or even tomorrow. He needs to give his back time to get better.

“Damn it all to hell.” The words are soft and pained—like they’ve been pushed out of him by force.

“I’m sorry. But I don’t know what else we can do.”

“Gotta get it done this week,” he mutters, shifting his weight restlessly between his legs and his butt.

He’s irrationally fixated on that garden. Leaving the last rows another week or so aren’t likely to do major damage to our harvest. Even if they’re not planted at all, it will mean nothing more than fewer greens later this summer.

Not the end of the world.

He’s not in any fit state for a rational discussion right now, however, so I don’t even try.

“Do you think you can make it to the outhouse?” I ask him quietly. “I can bring something in here for you to?—”

“No. I can do it.”

I don’t like the bite in his voice, but I make myself not react. Instead, I help him up, letting him lean on me a little as he limps out, goes to the bathroom, and then slowly comes back in.

I convince him to try out the bed, insisting it will be easier for him to get in and out of than the floor. Then I leave him stretched out on the sheet in a T-shirt and his boxers, panting and glaring up at the ceiling.

I go outside to feed and tend the animals first. Then fix a quick breakfast sandwich for Jimmy—something he can eat on the bed. I eat my toast as I clean up.

Today is Friday. Baking day. And I need to make four extra loaves since I promised Greta I’d bring her some when we go to dinner tomorrow.

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