Bartle Clunes - Chapter 16
El Dorado County 1949 - A winter catastrophe
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It was December 28. The sky was already turning dark at four o'clock as father and daughter sat in the studio. They had spent the afternoon working together. The snow had been falling off and on for an hour or so, covering the road with slush. The north wind was shouting across the low hills, giving the house a good shake every once in a while, making the two painters look up from their work. Out the window they could see the massive branches of the oaks silhouetted against the cold gray backdrop of the hill.
“We had better be heading back, Ayla,” said Bartle, beginning to clean up. “That rain is turning into frogwash. Looks like it’s coming up a storm tonight.”
“Okay, Daddy, I’ll go take care of the fire and straighten up the kitchen.”
“Oh, just leave the kitchen be, sweetheart. We can get to it next time,” he said.
Ayla put her work in order and went to clean her brushes and damp down the fire in the hearth. Bartle pulled the plug of the old electric heater, put his work away and turned off the light. There was a howling around the doors and windows as the wind rose and pushed through the cracks. The digger pines at the top of the draw shuddered in the force of the wind.
Heading down the drive, the truck jerked from side to side in the erratic gusts of air. Bartle leaned closer to the windshield to see the icy road more clearly. Ayla pulled her coat around her, buttoned it up, and wound her scarf twice around her neck against the cold.
They had been on the road for about three miles, the headlights pointing out a narrow path in the darkness on either side. They had come slowly up over a rise and were heading down a long, slow grade when the back tires began to slip sideways.
“No.... oh no!” said Bartle. He took his foot off of the accelerator and corrected, but it wasn’t enough. They slid toward the ditch. He hit the brakes hard, knowing as he did, it was the wrong thing to do. Ayla squealed and grabbed the door handle as the truck glided in slow motion off the slippery road, fell crosswise into the ditch, and slammed head first into the bank.
Bartle was thrown against the steering column with such force, all the wind was knocked out of him. Ayla's head hit the windshield hard and she was thrown to the floor under the dashboard. The engine died, and for a few seconds, all was silent except for a whimper from Ayla. Bartle tried to lift her back onto the seat, but couldn’t reach her. “Ayla! Are you okay? Dear God! Here, let me help you.”
“Owww,” she cried. “My arm... I think my arm ... my... arm ... hurts,” and then she was quiet. Slushy snow-topped dirt was piled against Bartle's door, but he worked it back and forth repeatedly and managed to open it enough to get out. He climbed up and out of the truck and limped round to the other side, doubled over, finding it painful to breathe. He dug into the wet mud with his hands and got Ayla's door open. When he tried to lift her from the floorboard, she mumbled something to him that he did not understand, reaching out to him. He rallied enough strength to get her back onto the seat and upright, ignoring his own pain. He slipped in beside her and put his arms around her.
“Are you hurt, Ayla?” he asked. “Tell me where you are hurt!” She shook her head slowly and did not answer. Bartle was having difficulty taking in air.
A few minutes passed as they huddled together in the truck. It had stopped snowing, but the wind was relentless. Bartle tried to clear his head enough to assess their situation. This road is so rarely traveled ... no one will drive by and help us … I can’t get the truck out of the ditch … We are less than two miles from home, but Ayla’s not walking it … I can’t leave her here and go for help … there is nothing to do but … but wait ... and pray.
They waited and prayed. One hour, two hours passed, as Bartle tried to keep them warm, and tried to keep Ayla awake. Then around 6:30, he thought he heard a faint whine in the distance. Looking up, he saw a quick flash of light, a single tiny pinpoint of light through the trees far ahead. He stared at it for a few seconds, not blinking. Then it disappeared. Bartle held his breath.
Suddenly it was back again and seemed to be growing larger, coming toward them. He got out of the truck and waved, watching as a large vehicle with only one working headlight slowly approached. He heard a dog barking wildly. It was Maggie.
Louvina was worried about them being out in the storm. She’d expected them home before dark, and resolved to go and make sure they were all right. And here she found them, off the road in the windy blackness, not two miles from home. Maggie leapt out of the truck barking and whining.
“Louvina! Oh, you beautiful woman, you dear angel,” Bartle said, hugging her to him. “You’re here! We needed you so badly and here you are.” He explained quickly what had happened. “We have to get this girl to a doctor. I think her arm may be broken, and she has a few cuts that need tending to. She really banged her head hard.” He winced as he spoke.
“Bartle, you’re hurt, too. Where are you hurt?” she asked.
“It is nothing. I am fine, but, Ayla – she needs help right away. They managed to half-carry Ayla to Louvina's truck and tucked her in between them. They headed directly off to Dr. Mackenzie’s home about twenty minutes away.
Ayla lay frowning under her quilt, half asleep. For two days Bartle and Louvina had taken turns sitting with her, reading to her. Maggie tip-toed in and out, in and out and gave out odd cat-like whimpers. Dr. Mac came by the house both mornings to see how she was faring. “Stop your worrying,” he assured them. “It was a hard knock, but she’ll be fine in a few days.”
Ayla had a cast on her arm and a painful lump on her head. Her father brought in the little radio, and plugged it in next to the bed, turning it on softly to block out the ringing in her ears. “How are you feeling today, sweetheart?”
“Daddy, I got to get out of this bed! I don’t like being waited on and tended to ... it’s so embarrassing.”
“I know, I know. Don’t you worry, my girl. We are both happy to help. Don’t think another thing of it. You are still unsteady, but you’ll right yourself in a couple of days. Stop fussing, now, and rest.”
Bartle, himself, hadn't left the house since the accident. He had three cracked ribs. “I feel like I’ve been chewed up and spit out,” he said. The doctor had bound his body tightly to brace the ribs and help with the pain, but predicted it might take a month or more to heal.
“We’ll mend, Ayla,” he said, holding her hand. “It will take a little while yet. We have to be patient. We need rest and time and that's all. I am so sorry for it all. But you stay in bed. Louvina and I are right here. Maggie, too.” The dog had crept in again, and rested his chin near Ayla's pillow, looking up at her. She rubbed his knobby head and fell back to sleep.
Hey, no spoilers!
Could have been a lot worse.