Borderline

The rattling cough set her upright, as it had for the past few days. Her eyes flung themselves open, darting. Shane. Her mind recognized. Quickly, she ran to the clothes press, withdrawing an evening rail that seemed impractical. Hurriedly, she ran to the connecting room, pulling the door closed behind her. She quickly lit a lamp, pouring water from the china night service into a nearby dish, and dunking strips of Linen into it.
Shane's eyelids seemed paper-thin as she mopped his feverish brow. He had been stricken with a fever just before setting out to another day of classes, and it rose to frightening heights now. She knew that living far in the wilds of Pennsylvania helped with their purpose, but it might now mean the difference between his life and his death.
"Shane." She said firmly. He said nothing. Desperate, she shook him slightly. His blond hair was matted with perspiration. For the past three days, he had refused to allow her leave to send John-Eric for the doctor. She had kept the sixteen-year old on watch constantly, and she called his name with a fervent urgency.
The young African boy's head peeped into the doorway, "Misses?" He asked her with a single word, though she all but was his adopted mother.
"The doctor, John-E." she said. Her voice held a rising note of hysteria that gave John-E fleet footing as he ran down the back stairs.
As soon as she heard his progress down the stairs, Shane's hand grasped her wrist in a weak grip. "No...Doctors." Shane rasped
She felt an instant of relief, marred by his fevered eyes.
"Shane Martin," She said softly, "You frightened me to death."
"Funny..." He managed, "I'm already there."
"There...." Her eyes became wet with the knowledge of his words, "Oh, Shane, no."
"Dearest..." He said gruffly, "...I can feel myself going...Don't make it harder than it is."
She swallowed, without any words that seemed to express her howling sorrow. "Shane." She said.
"The children..." He coughed again, gaspingly, deeply, and the corners of his lips turned blue. She wanted to scream for someone, for her mother, her God, but somehow held herself within. His voice was a faint whisper, "The titles are in the safe below. See that they're cared for."
"They are like my own kin. I would never turn them out." She said.
"The farm...I put it in your name solely. Between your father's lands and the income that we make, you will surpass wealthy."
She shook her head furiously. "I will not. You shall improve."
He laughed weakly, but even this rose a coughing fit within him. "The school will come to you, of course, though you have made it yours." He closed his eyes heavily, and for a moment, she feared he had died and let out a soft sob. Suddenly, he opened them again, and studied her with scrutiny.
"My Sweet," he said, "The great belle of Philadelphia."
She laughed softly; though tears bubbled in her throat precariously, "Over three year ago." She noted.
"It matters not a bit." He kissed the back of her hand, "I'm so sorry to leave you and the children. Our Lord pulls me. Do you understand."
"Yes." She said, though her heart screamed NO.
He smiled weakly. "My finest companion." He said. And then his eyes fell closed. "Pray with me." He added. She found her rosary and began to say the Our Father.
She sat by him for the rest of the night. When the pale dawn fell in pink patterns on the bed, she did not stir; only when the doctor came and Nance, her eldest student, urged her to dress and meet the doctor; stochastically, she moved and followed the girl's words, still saying the rosary.
By the time she had freshened herself and dressed, she noticed that the other girls were huddled together. Eve, Jane, Rose, and Sylvia seemed a shapeless form of poplar as they clung, weeping. She knew then that he was dead, but still she shouted "Shane!" beyond her will.
"Mother!" Cried Nance, catching her as she tumbled into merciful unconsciousness.

She had spent the ensuing hour speaking to the county doctor, whom John E. had roused from a sound sleep. A brain fever...nothing she could have done....Burial arrangements. She put on a cordial, sweet face for him; when he left at last, she curled up in bed next to Shane's body. She washed and dressed him in his best suit, which he had nearly outgrown in it's two-year dormancy.

The boys had to pry her from him at the last; at the funeral, she stood firmly without support. The children flanked her; dressed in their finest, solemn and huge-eyed, ranging from the oldest at 16 to the youngest at five. She and Shane had no children of their own; she seemed infertile, something that haunted her as she poured dirt on his casket.
Only his parents attended the funeral. They shared her grief, if nothing else; his brother, fortunately, enough, a priest, said the words.
Mick Foley, a neighboring gentleman, had come to assist. He smiled kindly at her, his two missing teeth glinting obviously. Yet she felt only a small twinge of gaiety.

As she walked to the house, she remained fully aware that she now had six children, hers only semi-legally, to raise. Alone. A proud tilt of her chin confirmed her abstinence.

The widow Francine Fournier Martin was a survivor.


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