Crab Orchard Review Vol. 12, No. 2, our

Heather E. Goodman
and in between rounds, I sink to my knees. Will is rubbing my back
slowly, and this motion makes me retch again so quickly I can’t tell
him to stop. I shrug him off, and when finally I’m spent, I spit a few
times, wipe my mouth with my shirt, and turn to see him sitting on
his knees, looking lost.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“It’s okay.” I drop my head.
“I’ll get you water.”
I nod and move to the other side of the tree and put my back
against the smooth bark of the beech. I close my eyes and open them
again when the screen door scrapes. Will brings a tall water and a
clean shirt for me. He helps me out of my dirty shirt, and I catch him
peeping at my belly. He looks to me and sees I’ve seen him.
“Sorry.”
I take the water from him, wanting it to be a calm pool I can lie
down in. The glass is heavy.
“I really am sorry, Lou.”
“Okay.”
“Okay?” His voice is tight.
I don’t have the energy for this. “Yes, okay.”
“Can I help you inside?”
“I’m staying to help.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Louise. You just puked your guts out. You
need to rest.”
“I don’t need to rest. There’s no one else to help.”
Will starts to say something, stops. “I know, but it’s okay to let me
do this. It’s the one thing I can do.”
I know he’s right. I know this would make him feel better, which
is why I won’t let him do it. I stand up, feel my head spin, and walk
back to the plywood table, where pieces of turtle are strewn about. I
bite the side of my cheeks and yank globs of fat from the carcass and
toss them into the gut bucket. The globs make a sick sliding noise as
they thud against the plastic; they cover the turtle’s head.
“Lou.” Will, across the crude table, puts his hands on mine. “Please
let me do this.”
“You’ve done quite enough already.” I pull my hands away, gesture
at my belly, and tear at turtle entrails and organs. I can feel him staring
at me. I look up.
“I thought we decided together.”
“No, Will, you decided.”
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