Salvage the Bones by Jesmyn Ward Read Free Book Online

him when he is standing or sitting or walking, afraid to crush things, is gone.
    â€œSir, the ambulance is on the way.” Big Henry grabs the man by the elbow with the fingers of one hand. “Come with me.”
    The man rubs his head, smears blood across it like a bandana. His eyes twitch from side to side like he’s reading a book we can’t see.
    â€œSir.”
    â€œHe don’t deserve it,” Skeetah grunts, and slouches further down. “China’s waiting on me.”
    The man walks leaning forward, his head swinging from left to right. He peers from the road to the woods, tangled with switchgrass and swamp myrtle. He doesn’t swing his hands when he walks. He stops near the woman and stands, but he won’t look at her. Instead, he pulls out his phone, dials, and talks. Big Henry stands on the other side of the woman. He waits. When the ambulance arrives twenty minutes later, the man is still talking. The woman is still sleeping. Skeetah’s eyes are closed; every few minutes, his nostrils flare.
    Skeetah tosses the bag of dog food over his shoulder like Randall tosses Junior and trots to the shed before Big Henry puts the car in park. Big Henry rolls his shoulders, puts his arm on the back of the seat Skeetah has run from.
    â€œThank you for the ride,” I say.
    Big Henry turns, bends his arm, looks at me when he says it. I almost can’t hear it over China’s excited barking coming from the shed. She throws them like knives. Rip, rip, rip, rip.
    â€œYou welcome.”
    My mouth jumps, and I know it’s not a smile, but I slide out of the car and away from Big Henry anyway. He’s still looking. I got my hands in the pockets of my shorts, and I pinch the test so it won’t slide out when I walk.
    â€œYou should wash your hands!” I yell over my shoulder on the way to the house. He could have blood on them, that man’s blood, breeding things on his hands. The inside of the man’s body come out to make Big Henry sick. When I push the door, Big Henry’s already at the outside spigot, scrubbing like he wants to peel his skin off.
    In the bathroom, the old pink tile that Mama helped Daddy lay feels wet, but I can’t see any water on it. The tub is dry. I pull out the test, run the water while I tear the plastic. I’ve seen movies, know you pee on the stick, which I do. I lay it on the edge of the bathtub, and I climb in, careful not to kick it over on the floor. The tub is some kind of metal, and it is warm. The plastic mat on the bottom of the tub is soft. I watch the stick like Big Henry watched the man. My feet are black against the white, and they leave dirty streaks when I rub them against the tub; it’s like I’m rubbing the color off. I sit on my hands; I avoid looking at my stomach, flat in the tub, the way the man refused to look at the woman lying at his feet, sleeping in the long grass.
    Color washes across the stick like a curtain of rain. Seconds later, there are two lines, one in each box. They are skinny twins. I look at the stick, remember what it said on the packaging in the store. Two lines means that you are pregnant . You are pregnant. I am pregnant. I sit up and curl over my knees, rub my eyes against my kneecaps. The terrible truth of what I am flares like a dry fall fire in my stomach, eating all the fallen pine needles. There is something there.

The Third Day: Sickness in the Dirt
    Last night, I dozed and woke every few minutes to wish that I could sleep, could close my eyes and fall into the nothing dark of slumber. Every time I dozed, the truth that I was pregnant was there like a bully to kick me awake. I woke at seven with my throat burning, my face wet.
    This is what it means to be pregnant so far: throwing up. Sick from the moment I open my eyes, look up at the puckered plaster ceiling, remember who I am, where I am, what I am. I turn the water on so no one can hear me vomit. I turn it off and lock the