Читать книгу The Bernice L. McFadden Collection - Bernice L. McFadden - Страница 22
ОглавлениеThe Paynes’ housekeeper was a dark, robust, mute woman named Caress. She clapped her hands with joy when she saw Doll’s face on the opposite side of the glass window and quickly flung open the door.
Doll said, “Hello, how you today?”
Caress bobbed her head and grinned. She grabbed Doll by the wrist and dragged her over to the stove and pointed frantically at the shiny silver soup pot. Doll raised the lid and sniffed.
“Oh, that smells real good, Caress, real good.” Doll rubbed her belly for emphasis.
Caress’s grin stretched. She cast a quick look over her shoulder and then pressed her index finger against her black lips.
Doll nodded and winked.
Caress picked up a spoon, dipped it into the pot, and scooped up a luscious peach wedge, turned bronze by the mixture of sugar, cinnamon, and orange juice.
Doll pursed her lips, blew cool air over the cooked fruit, and then flicked her tongue against the sweet flesh. “Mmmmm,” she sounded before closing her entire mouth over the spoon. “Is this for preserves?”
Caress nodded.
“That’s real good, Caress, best I’ve ever tasted.”
Caress dropped the spoon into the sink, grabbed Doll’s hand, and pumped it until Doll thought her arm would fall from its socket.
“Okay now, okay,” Doll laughed. “Is Miss Melinda in the drawing room?”
Caress shook her head no, made a sad face, and then pointed to the ceiling.
“She in the bed?”
Caress nodded yes, and swept her hand upward.
“She want me to come up?”
Caress nodded again.
Doll walked into the dining room, through the parlor, down a long hall, and up the broad and winding staircase. On the top floor she made her way down a carpeted corridor, at the end of which was the Paynes’ bedroom. She knocked on the closed door.
A thin voice replied, “Come in.”
Doll had been to that room twice before, but the size of it and the lovely furniture always took her breath away. The bedroom was decidedly female. Cole had moved out a year earlier and taken up residence down the hall in the spare bedroom. “I just think you’d be more comfortable,” he’d said as Caress carted clothing from the main bedroom into the spare.
The drapes were open and the sun spilled in, in great waves of yellow light. Doll took a moment to survey the space. With each visit, Doll had made it her business to commit every detail of the room to memory, and so it was very easy for her to spot any new additions. On that day, Doll’s eyes fell on a small crimson vase adorned with white egrets.
“That vase is new,” Doll said as she floated into the room.
“Well hello to you too,” Melinda scoffed weakly.
“Oh, hello, Miss Melinda. I hear you’re ailing.”
Doll waltzed over to the nightstand and set the basket of johnnycakes down, alongside the vase. The day was warm, but the fireplace was lit and Melinda was wrapped in a pewter-colored goose-down comforter.
“Miss Melinda, you’re shaking like a leaf.” Doll retrieved the woolen throw from the foot of the bed and spread it gently over Melinda’s already heavily covered body. “Is that better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I need to interrupt here for a minute and let you know that soon after Cole and Melinda married, she miscarried the baby. Back then, she was strong and positive and thought for sure that the next one would stick—but it didn’t. And the same fate held true for the following three pregnancies.
After the last miscarriage, Melinda developed a severe case of anemia, along with a host of ailments that flourish when you humans are sad or depressed.
She’d been to see dozens of doctors who had prescribed her just as many medicines and tonics—but nothing seemed to help. Not a surprise, because even I know that you can’t cure unhappiness with a pill—even though your kind continues to try.
Melinda gave Doll a pitiful look and sputtered, “I’ve gone and caught pneumonia.”
Doll’s eyes bulged. “Pneumonia? Oh my sweet Jesus.”
“I’m hot to the touch, but I feel like there’s ice running through my veins.”
“How long have you had this fever, Miss Melinda?”
“Two, maybe three days now.”
Doll pressed her hands over her heart. “Well that ain’t good, not good at all.”
Melinda started hacking and coughed up a glob of green phlegm, which she leaned over and spat into her chamber pot.
“May I?” Doll asked.
Melinda nodded, even though she had no idea what she was giving the woman permission to do.
Doll rolled back the blankets exposing Melinda’s petite frame, which was so frail it didn’t even fill the thin nightgown she wore. When Doll reached for the hem of the gown, Melinda’s hands began to flail.
“It’s okay, Miss Melinda,” Doll assured. She took hold of the hem and rolled the material up to Melinda’s belly button.
Melinda’s thin, sun-deprived calves, thighs, and pink bloomers glared up accusingly at Doll.
“What are you doing?” Melinda whispered.
Doll gently pressed her hands against Melinda’s belly and closed her eyes.
Melinda watched, and rationalized why she was letting the Negro woman touch her beneath her gown. She supposed desperation was a major factor because she was truly sick and tired of being sick and tired. If Doll had suggested that the sacrifice of a cow or fowl would rid her of her illnesses, and bring her husband back into their marriage bed, Melinda would have agreed— wholeheartedly.
Hell, she had been poked, prodded, and prescribed medicine by some of the best doctors in Mississippi, and what good had it done her? So, really, what harm could the caring hands of a reverend’s wife present?
Doll’s eyes fluttered open. “The fever is low in your belly, that’s a good thing. I know what to do.” Doll turned and rushed from the room.
Melinda rolled her gown back down and pulled the covers over her body.
When Doll returned, Caress was with her, holding a bowl. Melinda smelled the onions before she saw them.
“Miss Melinda, where do you keep your nylons?”
“Nylons?”
“Yes, ma’am. Trust me.”
Melinda coughed. “Caress, you know where they are.”
Doll used her bare hands to shovel the sliced onions into the feet of the nylons and then slipped them onto Melinda’s feet.
“Caress, hand me a towel so we don’t spoil these beautiful sheets,” Doll said.
“And what will all this do?” Melinda asked.
“It’s going to drag that nasty fever right out of you.”
“It stinks.”
“And it’s going to get worse. But you’re going to feel a whole lot better.”
Doll went to the wicker basket filled with johnnycakes, plucked one from the dozen, and presented it to Melinda. “Try to eat little something.”
Melinda shook her head. “I can’t keep nothing down.”
“Well,” Doll sighed, as she dropped the cake back into the basket, “I’ll just leave them down in the kitchen and when you’re ready, they’ll be there.”
Melinda rubbed her feet together and squirmed at the sensation. “Uh-God, Doll, I don’t know if I can take it.”
“Yes, ma’am, you can and you will. I guarantee that the fever will be gone by the end of the day.”
Doll’s gaze traveled across the room and to the window. Her hand floated to her neck.
Melinda thought the woman had fallen into a trance. “Doll?”
“Hmmm,” Doll sounded, turning her gaze back onto Melinda. “I’m sorry, I drift off sometimes.” Her hand fell back down to her side. “Miss Melinda, I’m gonna have to be going now. I got to deliver some johnnycakes to Ms. Fern and Mrs. Sawyer.”
“Okay,” Melinda mumbled. “Caress, get my purse—”
Doll shook her hand at Melinda. “Not a dime, Miss Melinda. Your recovery is all the payment I need.”
“What about the johnnycakes?”
“On me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course!” Doll beamed as she slipped the handle of the basket onto her wrist. “Now don’t forget, you leave them nylons on until nightfall, okay?”
Melinda nodded in agreement.
Doll swept out of the room like a gale.
Sleep carried Melinda off to memories of easier times. When she awoke, the drapes were closed, night had fallen over the land, and the bedroom smelled god-awful. For a moment Melinda couldn’t determine where the stench was coming from, and then she remembered the onions.
When she peeled the nylons off her feet, the onion slithers were black as tar. Disgusted, Melinda climbed out of the bed and tossed the foul-smelling nylons into the dying fire. At that moment she became keenly aware of three things as she stood watching them burn away to smoke: 1) the bedroom already reeked, so throwing the onions into the flames probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do; 2) she felt 50 percent better than she had before Doll’s remedy; and 3) the crimson vase was gone.
