“A right old ‘weekday doctor, I’m not fine,’ but ‘weekend doctor, I’m well,’ ” I said jokingly as I spotted her on the porch.
She returned a stiff smile then requested by way of a shooing hand that I return to my duties. Silva had also spotted this bit of humor and gave a stern glance in my direction, saying, “Bernice, the eggs!” She then shook her head disapprovingly and trotted off. Still, she needed to say nothing more as I knew my work inside the stables begged my attention and chatting would not see it so, although a bit of laughter seemed exactly what the doctor ordered.
The coop was a mess if I’d ever seen one. Floyd had been off in town with Mr. Kern all afternoon tending to men’s business, his handprint surely missed on that coop where several chickens pecked their neighbors and rodents attacked the feed. I started with the nest box, removing the hens then applying a bit of white vinegar to the soiled area. Any noise caused me to sit up and take notice, as I strained to hear the sounds from the front porch. But surprisingly there were none. It seemed that even with the Missus’s usual fussiness she was at peace, sitting for several hours uninterrupted on that porch while Silva and I carried out our chores. When she finally grew bored of the sunshine, she returned to her dim quarters, where she spent the rest of the evening until dinnertime. Silva left the house reluctantly that night, aware that it was the first day of the Missus’s full recovery and afraid that I would somehow return the Missus to that wicked state. Silva couldn’t shake the pervading sense that something awful was on the horizon since I’d first arrived, bringing with me those cicadas that everyone knew was a surefire sign of impending bad luck. And sure enough, just when I’d thought I was in the clear and my mind at some semblance of peace, the Missus woke. Sick again.
“Silva!” Miss Lula shouted just when the house sat empty, Mr. Kern retired to his parlor room and Silva nearly halfway to her home by this point.
“She’s gone for the day,” I said patiently.
The Missus looked up to find only me there as a look of disappointment settled upon her.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
“I swear that girl leaves earlier and earlier every day,” Miss Lula protested. “I wonder why we even pay her.”
“I’d be happy to help,” I said. “She’s shown me most everything.”
“I don’t want any help!” she said.
“Should I get Mr. Kern?”
“No babysitter either,” she scoffed.
She looked around the room disgusted, her cheeks red with a desire that seemed more than mere fickleness, a translucence that shone in them as if her skin allowed what flesh and blood she had to shine directly through.
“Go on, excuse yourself,” she said exhaustively. “And don’t bring him, either. I’d rather be alone than take his pity.”
Her face was morbid, her lips a cold, barren blue—not like those corpses you’d see, all made up and ready for the grave, but rather like a skeleton, lifeless and bare. It was this expression that stayed with me more than any other, more than any whimpering she’d made throughout the night, as I closed the door and allowed her to rest, hearing her mumble a few additional words under her breath.
CHAPTER 3
I was affixed to the fields by day and the house at night. My quarters adjoined Floyd’s, in an area out back of the shed and coop’s wafted smells. Tall oaks made the small space bearable, as the main house relied on shaded windows for coolness while my room required I only raise the square pane for a pleasant breeze.
If the plantation was empty before, it was not now. Mr. Kern had hired some thirty cotton pickers for the harvest, and they worked each day from sunup to sundown with their canvas sacks trailing the mile-long rows, their arrival having been signaled by the hiss from that Flagstaff Motor Coach every day at dawn. The driver dropped them at the entrance to the gravel drive then returned each evening when the sun sat at its lowest, and Mr. Kern handed each man, woman, and child their day’s keep as they then boarded the bus and it grumbled away.
Silva’s boys, Jesse and Fletcher, had joined the crew that year. Floyd took it upon himself to ensure the boys stayed in line and kept good numbers like the rest, reporting to Silva each day of the boys’ progress and impressing upon them that same Christian work ethic he’d been taught as a boy. Jesse was eighteen and had a spirit of defiance about him that gleamed through the slight flicker in his eyes that made him appear somehow wiser than most boys his age. There was a handsomeness in his face that extended to his broad shoulders and chiseled frame. He was stout and stood proud, nothing like those scrawny youngsters you’d see around the market as bag boys and clerks. Fletcher, on the other hand, was created in their likeness. At sixteen, he had not the muscles nor boldness that his brother possessed, although he was just as handsome and quite possibly prettier, people often commented, noting right away the boy’s thin nose and lighter skin, his large eyes that sat beneath those dashing eyebrows that occurred naturally with him. He was special and was, as such, treated that way, his slight stutter a perceived innocence that led many to coddle him and his brother to, at all costs, follow his mother’s insistence that he take care of his younger brother.
Both boys adored Floyd, I quickly noticed, never poking fun at him, which could be an easy task, given Floyd’s fussy nature and rambles that often ended right where they began. No, the boys were instead like his own children, each of them following his orders without ever questioning and never giving backtalk no matter how stern the lecture was. When I found them on this day, Floyd was deep in one of his sermons as the boys took their lunches under the shade of the magnolia trees, the two of them stretched like fat cats on the grass to relieve the crooks that formed from having bent for hours. The countryside looked the same all around as I approached—the pushing up and down of white heads from the wind’s fuss, that cotton a sea of foam witnessed only at the water’s edge that pooled and lapped in constant thrusts.
“Now, King David was small, too,” Floyd began, taking in their eyes as he spoke. “An’ look at what he done. An’, Jesse, what ya don’t know is that ya were named for his father who was also Jesse. Now, outta all the sons, Jesse never figured David would be the one that’d be king. But he was. An’ he defeated a giant an’ had the Lord’s favor. So I don’t wanna hear ya poke tease at ya younga brotha. Ya both got power. It’s from the Lord.”
This sermon was in no way an atypical lesson for Floyd to give, his knowledge of the bible as well versed as his knowledge of those fields, as keen as my own training for housework when I was younger—when I was blessed to read books by Dostoevsky, Woolf, and Chopin during my free time. Each of these distinct skills was reared in us since we were little and never went away, like the mastery of learning to ride a bicycle. The boys seemed partially entertained by this story, Jesse taking it upon himself once the story had ended to show his complete lack of understanding as he shoved Fletcher’s arm and sent the boy falling into the dirt. Fletcher brushed off his sleeves then took chase after Jesse who, although bigger, was not necessarily faster. The two ran wildly amongst the blooms and around the piled sacks near the middle of the field, the dust leaving a trail behind them that eventually curved in our direction and caught Floyd’s nose just as he reached me.
“Boys!” Floyd shouted then sneezed loudly. “Don’t let me tell ya agin.”
The boys slowed their pace along the outer edges. Floyd turned to me with his handkerchief in hand as he used it to wipe his nose and eyes.
“Damn sun’s gonna get ’em faster than the fields,” Floyd said, still sniffing as he dabbed once more.
“They just boys,” I acknowledged.
“But this here ain’t no playground,” he said. “An’ this ain’t their home, either. Ain’t time for that. Now, ya come out here for what, ya say?”
“Silva needs Jesse at the main house,” I said.
“Ya can’t take one uh my workers away,” he ar
gued. “What’s he gonna do there?”
“We need him to help with moving the Missus’s wardrobe,” I said. “Should only take a few minutes. Miss Lula won’t have it there another second. You know how she gets.”
“Since when ya get so weak, Bernie?” he said teasingly, now turning to the boys who walked inside the shaded area. “Jesse, ya go wit’ Bernie, but come right back, ya hear.”
Jesse rushed over, bringing with him that towering presence.
“Come on,” I said. “Your mother’s got a task for you at the house.”
Jesse smiled, relieved to be out of the sun and perhaps even happier to try his hand at something new. Honestly, who knew, but his smile cast as something permanent even if it was just housework.
Although he sailed leaps and bounds above me, he still appeared juvenile, that energy he had unable to be contained like most boys his age. He kicked at rocks and picked up sticks wherever he saw them, leading me to constantly direct him to “put that down” or “don’t do that” or “don’t get so dirty.”
He sighed a huge relief once we’d entered the house, that coolness always welcoming when coming from outdoors. He looked around him curiously, walking loudly as he clumsily bumped into this or that, unaware of the silence that home demanded. Silva turned the corner and shushed him immediately, her pointed finger raised to her lips as she blew.
“Be mindful, Jesse,” she said. “You ain’t at home.”
“Yes, ma’am,” the tall boy replied.
The three of us tiptoed into the bedroom where the wardrobe and dresser were located. Miss Lula rested in the adjacent room where the items were to be placed, not necessarily her usual quarters but an equally dim space where she often sat, dependent upon her mood—usually a foul one, as it was on this day. Jesse bent down and lifted the heavy dresser by his own strength, his arms wide enough to secure both sides without any help from Silva or myself. Silva guided him as he carried it from the room into the hallway while I remained behind to remove the remaining clothes from the wardrobe so it might be just as easy to carry.
With my arms loaded, I turned to see their swift return.
“Damn thing can stay right where it is for all I care,” Silva muttered. “Ain’t worth a dime anyway.”
There was time enough to retrieve one final blouse and slip from its sliding door before the two stopped my efforts completely. Silva pushed Jesse in front of the wardrobe, where his frustration instantly met similar chides from next door, as I could indeed hear the Missus fussing from within her room.
“What’s going on?” I said.
“Ain’t nothing,” Silva swore. “Jesse, just get that thing and be done.”
Jesse did as she said and lifted the wardrobe, Silva leading him once more into the hallway while I followed with the remaining clothes to be placed inside.
As we entered, Miss Lula sat rigidly in her chair. I followed her eyes, expecting them to sicken at the sight of our dirty shoes on her pristine floor, or for her to insist Jesse place the wardrobe near the window instead of the bed, or near the mirror where she could reach it more easily, or just over by the cabinet as that location made the most sense to anyone with half a brain. Yet she displayed no annoyance at all and made no sound of disappointment. It was completely silent as both Jesse and Silva inspected the wardrobe and dresser for any nicks or handprints the Missus might discover in her persistence. I made myself busy arranging the clothes. This went on for several minutes when I suddenly turned to the Missus out of fear of that continued calm.
“Silva,” I called with my sights set on the Missus. “Look.”
Silva turned. The Missus remained stock-still with her eyes placed in a vacant stare, her body stuck like some wood carving lettered and trimmed by a fishtail spade.
“It’s okay, Miss,” Silva said.
Silva soothed the Missus, stroking her gently.
“She’s goin’ to be alright,” Silva added to us, speaking with a softness that brought life once more to Jesse’s face. “She’s just having a seizure. She’s goin’ to be just fine.”
As if given permission to finally let go, Miss Lula began to convulse and shake with the protection of Silva’s guiding arms around her.
“Bernice,” Silva commanded in full control, “you get that side. Just make sure she don’t hit nothing.”
Beside the flailing child I stooped with my arms out, not necessarily sure of what I was guarding against. It was long, this one, longer than any other fit I’d seen the Missus have, which made that day appear all the more cumbersome in comparison to other days in the fields, where not much happened besides the cotton and the heat as we picked and chopped and sang and grunted the repetition all day long. What seemed an eternity was no more than a minute, although the Missus’s body remained a trembling wreck that still hinted of the fit she’d endured. Over the chaos of her involuntary spasms and kicks and screams, which still emerged every so often, came the sight of Jesse’s face tucked far in the distance, his warm eyes awash at sea and panicked, a timidity in him I had never seen before, although I knew it to always be present in children.
The convulsions lasted for several more seconds before they finally ceased for good, and the Missus fell limp to any cause. Silva then eased the Missus back in her chair, Miss Lula’s arms falling over its supports as her head reared back like that of a drunk. When the Missus did finally open her eyes for the first time by her own cognizance, she looked about the room wildly.
“It’s okay,” Silva insisted, holding the Missus’s shoulders and soothing her gently.
“Silva,” the poor woman called out wretchedly. You couldn’t help but feel sorry for her.
“Yes, Miss,” Silva said.
Silva turned to Jesse and whispered sternly, “Jesse, you gets back to your duties.”
And like that, just as Jesse turned to leave, I saw it, that momentary fix they had on one another, which Silva did not see, that chance meeting of their eyes as Jesse and Miss Lula encountered each other for the first time in years, separated by only a decade or two, excited like passing puppies on the street. Jesse noticed my attention on him and left the room quietly without another peek, his feet much softer than they had been when he’d first entered the house.
Silva later described to me the regularity of those attacks as we sat alone inside the kitchen. She told me they were brought on by stress and that the Missus often skipped her pills, which increased their frequency. There was no need to inform Mr. Kern, Silva insisted, adding that he would only blame the staff for his wife’s misdealing. That these attacks happened every now and then but were nothing to go panicking over. That we could pretend it never happened, and so we did. Then, possibly to ensure my silence, Silva spoke freely about the Missus in a manner that she had never spoken in before, gossiping to me, and I did not turn her away.
“She tolds me about the attacks,” Silva said in a whisper. “Said she ain’t never felt something so strange before in her life, but that it’s always been there since she was little. Said it’s a feeling like she’s far away and she can’t get to herself. Said it’s like death, she could only imagine. She swears that when she comes to, she’s more relieved than she’s ever been to just be back in the land of the living and see and taste and hear things again. She thinks every time it happens, she’s finally gonna die. Said nothing like it in the world.”
Silva nodded her head with these last words as I nodded back my reassurance that she could indeed trust me. Neither Silva nor I mentioned the attack to Mr. Kern and neither did the Missus, who would surely be chastised by the old man for having forgotten to take her medicine.
Only Floyd mentioned the mishap when he complained about Jesse’s absence in the fields just before Silva and the boys left for home.
“He’s all yours tomorrow,” Silva assured him, waving Floyd off, as was her way, I soon discovered—that hand a welcoming or di
smissing entity, to say the least.
CHAPTER 4
The next day was just as busy as the day before, and it would be that way for several weeks to come. The cotton sat high on the horizon, yet so did the dried bristles from the pickers’ work as that once-colorful spectrum shrank to mere quadrants of the fields. The heat that had worsened over the summer did not fade as everyone hoped and instead lingered in the plastered walls of the kitchen following breakfast and the baking of biscuits. It sat stout in certain hallways that allowed in such boisterousness from the sun with their uncurtained windows, and it particularly bothered the Mister’s parlor, which seemed to be hotter than the actual outdoors.
The Missus was smart and avoided these areas, whereas Mr. Kern foolishly walked directly into them, his temper roused and heavy with curses that fell from his lips like the running of bathwater when that tub would at first be too hot to sit comfortably, but later the water would mellow if just left alone.
Silva and I located outside tasks to complete during his riots, finding joy in the trimming of hedges that seemed to grow each second of that summer or the milking of cows, even if they protested our frequency. There seemed to always exist this trade-off between the Mister and Missus that when she was content he was angry, and with his joy came her sorrow. Nonetheless, these weeks saw her in considerably higher spirits as she took her needlework to the porch for days at a time, which allowed a slight color to return to her face and natural highlights to dance upon her golden locks. From her position, she could see the workers in the fields, although she rarely looked up for more than a fleeting glance in their direction. She’d often smile when Silva brought glasses of lemonade or other delicacies, which the young woman accepted then continued without a fret in the world. Her beauty during those days was how I imagined her to be when Mr. Kern first married her, her cheeks of a certain color and her face animated to a smile by more than chance alone.
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