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Live Free

Written by Karen Bergstralh

Tom Musgrove peered carefully around the door. This close to midnight few of the staff should be around. Down at the end of the hallway he could hear moaning. "That's the way, Stan, get the nurses' attention," Tom muttered under his breath before he remembered that Stan Zaleski had been dead a year or so. Whoever had Stan's old room was making enough of a fuss to bring the head nurse galloping by. Tom stood still, or as still as an eighty-three year old man with arthritis and pneumonia could. The nurse never noticed him at his door; she was gesturing to a pair of aides coming from the side hallway. When the trio disappeared into the far room Tom waited. He wanted their full attention on the patient in that room and not on him.

Cautiously Tom stuck first one cane out and then the other and dragging his reluctant legs after them. "Can't fall now. Got too far to go." He murmured curses at his creaky old joints. A cough bubbled up and he leaned against the wall until it was finished wringing him out. Damned pneumonia. The "old man's friend" it was called when he was a kid. Eased a man out of life when he was too old and too weak to do useful work. Then antibiotics and all the other medicines came along, letting a man outlive his usefulness without half trying. Well, the Ring of Fire had changed that. Pneumonia was back along with a bunch of other diseases from Musgrove's childhood.

Dying, he thought, as he made his way one shambling step after another, wasn't hard. He'd never wanted to lie on a bed with tubes sprouting like weeds from every part of his body, his mouth hanging open, and his eyes staring at the ceiling. His father had lain that way for six months until the doctors couldn't find a vein strong enough to run another IV and the old man was allowed to die. It had cost the old man his dignity, his savings, and his house. Tom's mother lasted another five years before it was her turn to go. She'd come back to Grantville where her doctor knew her well enough not to stick her full of tubes. She'd passed on in possession of her wits and with her grandkids around her.

Nope, dying wasn't the problem. It was what you had to go through to die that bothered him. At least back here in this Year of Our Lord 1635 the doctors had a harder time keeping you from checking out quickly. A man had a chance to die with his dignity still intact.

The door at the end of the hall was open and he could see through it to the front entrance. A single lamp dimly lit the area. To Tom's relief the little red light over the front door was out. He'd heard from one of the cleaning crew that the alarm system was broken. It was that tossed off comment that made him think that his plan might work. With the alarm system down no loud siren would go off when the front door was opened at night.

The sofa and overstuffed chairs beckoned him, seducing him with thoughts of easing his aching bones in the depths of their cushions. "Sit down now and I'm never getting up," he hissed, surprised by how attractive the idea of scrapping his plan in return for a comfortable chair was. Grimly he clomped, right cane, left cane, right foot, left foot, over to the front door. Bracing against the left cane he pushed the door open. No siren. No sound, just crisp fresh air.

The cold air brought another coughing spell, this one short but painful. Tom looked back along the hallway, afraid the cold air might alert some staff member. He wasn't worried about the coughing—half the patients in the nursing home coughed long and loud throughout the night. One more thing he hated about the nursing home. He hadn't had a good night's sleep since coming here.

He tottered through the open door, painfully turning to gently close it behind him. Free at last! Now, should he take the ramp or the steps? Better the ramp. He'd fallen on the steps at Christmas and his hip still ached. Now that he was outside he didn't have to worry so much about noise and the farther he got along the driveway the less chance there was of some busybody seeing him.

Turning, he eased on down the ramp, pausing at the bottom to catch his breath and to cough again. This time it was deep coughs, the kind that wracked his whole body. By clutching the handrail Tom kept standing. When the coughing ended he slowly and painfully finished inching off the ramp.

Finally his feet were on the blacktop of the drive. The only light came faintly up the street from a gas lamp at the corner. It was, he decided, a curse and a blessing. No one in the nursing home would be able to see him on the driveway but he wasn't able to see any stones or potholes in his path. Firmly on the plus side was that he was on the driveway and there was no sign of any pursuit.

Forty-five minutes and several coughing sessions later he stood on another blacktop driveway. This one was down the block and across the street from the nursing home. At one end was a garage that had been converted into a two-horse stable. Actually the old two-story garage had been converted back to a stable. It pre-dated cars and had still held horses and a buggy when he was a kid. Funny how things in town had gotten twisted and turned inside out by the Ring of Fire. Or, in the case of this garage, returned to their beginnings.

Inside the reconverted garage one of the horses snuffled and snorted softly at the scent of a stranger outside. Tom automatically made a soft shushing sound and the horse quieted down. Another problem he didn't need was having the horses' owners wake up. He eyed the big door and the smaller one to the side. The smaller one would have to do—he didn't think he could get the big one open.

Once inside the stable Tom leaned against a stack of hay bales. A couple of more coughs shook him and he was grateful for the solid support. Taking the chance that no one in the house was awake he felt along the wall for a light switch. He found it on the right side; two steps in from the door. Blinking in the brightness of a forty-watt bulb Tom looked around. Two equine heads looked back at him. To his left was a big bay with the small ears, wide brow, and small muzzle of a Quarterhorse giving him a quizzical look. On the right a little white mare nickered softly in recognition. Tom smiled, leaned his right cane on the hay and rubbed the mare's face.

"Hello, my little China Doll. I've been watching you for months—since they first brought you here. Old girl, I'm so glad you're still being well taken care of." The window of his room overlooked this barn and he'd been surprised to see this old friend grazing in the small pasture next to the barn. He'd watched in pride as she calmly carried a pair of children off to school. A jealous pang hit him when he saw the boy getting her to bow and shake hands. She had learned those tricks—and several more—from him years before.

Small, white, part Welsh pony, part who knows what, China Doll had been one of three ponies he'd purchased so the grandkids would have something to ride. Finding her smart and willing, Tom had taught her tricks and begun riding her to keep her in shape. He'd sold off the other two ponies when the kids had grown too big and found other things to do with their time, but he'd kept China Doll for himself. When the weather was good, the pair would ride up past the cemetery to the ridge above. If it was rainy or snowing, Tom spent time brushing China until her white hide gleamed.

Mary Jane had often teased him that he cared more for "that damned pony" than for her. Then the day had come when Mary Jane was diagnosed with cancer in her pancreas. Everything changed overnight.

"Old girl," Tom explained as he stroked the little mare. "I took Mary Jane up to the hospital in Pittsburgh. Didn't have time to think about anything or anyone else. We thought we'd be there for five or six months. That's how come Harry sold you off—he thought it would be too much trouble for me to keep you. Then Mary Jane was gone inside of three weeks." Tom shook his head. "At least death came fast for Mary Jane. When I brought her back you were gone. Harry told me he'd sold you to a kid in Fairmont."

The bay gelding, jealous of the attention to his stable mate, started kicking his stall door. Tom found grain in a metal trash can and scooped some out and into the bay's feedbox. A couple of flakes of hay followed. "That should keep you busy, fella," Tom grumbled affectionately. "Now, I've got to get on to business."

Two saddles rested on sawhorses and Tom smiled to see that one was his old saddle for China. "Well, girl, Lady Luck is running my way tonight." He slid the bolt back and tugged at the stall door. Whoever had rebuilt the stalls had done a good job. The big stall door glided easily along its tracks. China Doll stepped daintily out of the stall and stopped beside him, whiffling quietly, sniffing him, finally snorting at some smell clinging to his clothes.

Tom threw his arm across her back and cued her to walk forward. She hesitated for a moment and then moved slowly, a single carefully placed step at a time. He'd taught her this trick when the arthritis had gotten bad in his knees and ankles. Patiently she supported him and helped him shuffle to the saddles.

"Good girl, smart girl, wonderful girl. You haven't ...