Bayou Fever

by Kathleen Y'Barbo

  “Thank the Lord you’re here, Jefferson. My Amalie, she’s sick, and my Mathilde, she’s not looking so well either, no.”

  Jefferson grabbed his medical bag and climbed out of the motorcar. Angeline tried several times to open the door but failed. Thankfully, Jefferson noticed her troubles and circled around to help her out.

  “Thank you,” she said softly as she climbed out on shaking legs. The trip might have been faster than a pirogue ride, but it certainly wasn’t the way she intended to go again.

  “Where are they?” he asked.

  “Follow me, Bebe. I put them both in the back bedroom away from the rest of the babies.”

  “That’s a good idea,” Jefferson said. “Keep them separated from everyone else. I don’t want to think this could be contagious, but there’s no need in subjecting the children to harm.”

  “Yes, that’s what I thought too. I don’t want to take no chances. I made plans to send the children, all but the littlest one, to Tante Flo’s for today. Flo, she don’t got no little ones over there, and they always like to spend the night.”

  “That’s good,” Jefferson said. “It sounds like they will be well taken care of. Depending on what my diagnosis is, they may have to stay a few days. Will that be a problem?”

  Worry creased Mama’s brow, but she put on a smile. “No, of course not. Flo, she would keep them forever and a day if I let her.”

  “Well, I don’t think it will take that long for the girls to recover. Now, why don’t you show me where they are so I can take a look and see what we’re dealing with?”

  “Of course, Jefferson. Follow me, eh?”

  He stepped through the front door and followed Mama through the main room of the house and into the little bedroom at the back. Through the door, she could see Mathilde sleeping soundly on one big bed, while Amalie lay wide-eyed and propped up on a mountain of pillows on the other.

  Before entering the room, Jefferson put down his medical bag and held up his hand to stop Mama. “I can’t let you go in there, Mrs. Breaux.” His gaze rested on the bulge at her waist. “In your delicate condition, it wouldn’t be safe, at least not if it’s what I fear it might be.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.” Mama rested a hand on her stomach and turned to Angeline. “You go help Jefferson, you hear? I’ll wait right here outside the door, but you call me if you need something, eh?”

  “We will, Mama.” Angeline stood at the side of the bed and watched Jefferson bend down to sit next to Amalie. “What do you want me to do, Jefferson?”

  “Hand me my bag, please.” When Angeline complied, Jefferson reached for it, then turned his attention to Amalie. “Your sister says you’re not feeling well. Is that the truth or did she just come all the way to Latanier to get me so we could have some more of that good gumbo she makes?”

  “I like her gumbo too,” Amalie said with a weak smile, “but today my tummy’s not feeling good.”

  Jefferson cast a quick glance over his shoulder at Angeline and grinned. “It’s not? Well, let’s see if I can fix that. Is there anything else I need to examine while I’m looking at your tummy? Maybe you need your chin hairs checked.”

  Amalie’s smile brightened, and her fingers reached from beneath the blanket to cradle her chin. “I don’t got no chin hairs. See?”

  “You don’t?” Jefferson reached inside his medical bag and pulled out a small instrument. “Well, let me make sure they’re not growing on the inside.” He placed his hand over hers and gently opened her mouth to peer inside. “You’re right. There’s none in here.”

  “I told you so.” She pulled the covers up to her nose and looked up at Angeline. “He’s a funny man. Are you sure he’s a doctor?”

  Angeline nodded. “Yes, I’m sure. Now behave and let him work.”

  Jefferson slipped the instrument back in the bag. “Now let’s see. What else do I have in here?”

  He made a big show of fishing around in the bag while Amalie slowly let go of the covers. When the little girl leaned over the side of the bed to peer into the bag, Jefferson pulled out a stethoscope and said, “Aha! Look what I’ve found.”

  Amalie’s squeal of glee awoke Mathilde. “What is he doing here?” she whispered.

  Angeline sat on the edge of Mathilde’s bed and placed her palm on her sister’s damp brow. It felt warm but not exceptionally so. “Hush, Matty. Jefferson’s here to doctor the both of you. He’s looking at Amalie first, then he’ll look at you.”

  Mathilde nodded and closed her eyes. “All right,” she said with what sounded like the last of her breath.

  Jefferson listened to Amalie’s chest, looked into her ears, and completed his examination by taking her pulse. All the while, the little girl’s brown eyes watched him intently. When he’d tucked her back under the covers, he pulled out a small notebook and began to scribble.

  From the door, Mama called to Jefferson. “What you find wrong with my Amalie?”

  “Mama, you’re not supposed to be in here,” Angeline said.

  She feigned innocence. “I’m not in there. I’m out here.”

  “Mama!”

  Jefferson looked up sharply. “Please, Mrs. Breaux. You cannot allow yourself to get sick, not with other children to tend and a baby on the way.”

  Mama’s expression turned grave. “So you think it might be. . .”

  Influenza. Angeline knew Mama couldn’t say the word.

  “I’d rather we spoke privately after I examine Mathilde.”

  Angeline knew for sure that her sister was sick when she allowed the doctor to complete his exam without so much as batting an eye. For Mathilde Breaux to miss a chance at flirting, she had to be ill.

  Once more, Jefferson wrote in his notebook, then folded it into his medical bag along with his supplies.

  “Why don’t we let these ladies get some rest?”

  “Angie, will you come back and tell me a story?” Amalie asked with a yawn.

  “Of course, Sweetheart.” Angeline straightened the little girl’s covers and pushed an errant curl off her forehead. “You just close your eyes and start thinking about which one you want to hear. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

  Amalie nodded, snuggling deeper into the mound of pillows. Odds were, by the time Angeline returned, her sister would be sound asleep. A quick check of Mathilde told her she would also sleep soundly.

  Angeline and Mama followed Jefferson back outside onto the front porch. Mama sank onto the bench by the door and rested her hands on her knees.

  “So what is it, Jefferson? What’s wrong with my girls, eh?”

  Jefferson’s gaze went from Angeline to Mama and back to Angeline. “I’m encouraged that neither girl is exhibiting all the symptoms of influenza, but I’m troubled that they do have the fever and aches. Have you noticed any coughing?”

  Mama shook her head and looked to Angeline. “No,” Angeline said, “I don’t think so. Mathilde’s fainted a few times, and Amalie does nothing but sleep.”

  He looked relieved. “Good. That just might mean these two will get well on their own.”

  “Back in 1918 when the influenza hit us so hard here, we used to give the sick ones a drink of sugar water with kerosene. It seemed to help.” Mama looked up at Jefferson. “What do you think, eh?”

  “I think that probably isn’t necessary, Mrs. Breaux. At this point bed rest is what’s going to make them better.” He focused his attention on Angeline. “I’ll need you to monitor the girls for signs of complications and see to their needs. Your mother or any of your siblings are not to go near them, do you understand?”

  Angeline nodded.

  “Mrs. Breaux, I cannot overstate the importance of isolating Mathilde and Amalie until their symptoms subside. If this is influenza—and we pray it isn’t—they will pass it on to anyone else in close contact within a matter of days.”

  “Oh, I don’t want that.”

  “No,” he said, “you don’t.” Again, he addressed Angeline. “They will
need a typical invalid diet—broth, liquids, and the like. Can you handle that?”

  “Of course.”

  “And if either of them develops a cough, a headache, or any other symptom that worries you, fetch me immediately.” His mouth quirked into a smile. “And promise me you won’t come by pirogue unless you remember to put on some gloves.”

  Angeline looked down at her bandaged palms and matched his smile. “I promise.”

  “Fine then.” He reached to take Mama’s hand and shake it. “I want you to concern yourself with seeing to the needs of your healthy children and let Angeline tend to the sick ones. Will you promise me that?”

  Mama seemed to contemplate the question a moment, and Angeline wondered if she might not agree. After all, Mama generally took charge of everything and everyone in the Breaux household. Delegating anything of importance didn’t come easily to her.

  Even as she spoke, she looked undecided. “I will do that, Jefferson, but only because I know you’re a smart man, and you know what’s best for the bebes.”

  He shouldered his bag. “I appreciate that, Mrs. Breaux. Knowing I will only have two Breaux girls to doctor eases my mind greatly.”

  Jefferson reached for Angeline’s hand. “Walk with me to the car, would you?”

  Their gazes collided. Somehow Angeline managed to nod and follow him down the porch steps.

  “So you’ll be taking care of my girls yourself, then?” Mama called.

  When Jefferson smiled, Angeline’s heart melted. “Yes, Ma’am, I will.”

  Angeline chose her words carefully. “But I thought you were leaving on Wednesday.”

  His smile chased away all her worries. “So did I. I guess God had other plans,” he said as he gave her a quick kiss on the cheek and made his exit.

  As she watched the motorcar disappear around the bend in the road, Angeline’s heart soared, then sank. Jefferson was staying. This had been her dream once, to have Jefferson Villare back in the bayou country and back in her life. Now that God had brought it within her grasp, it seemed He—or at least Papa—might be taking it away.

  “Who was that who done drove off from here?”

  Angeline whirled around. “Papa! I thought you and Ernest were gone for the whole day.”

  “Well, I’m not. I sent your brother off to finish checking the trot lines while I came home to see about my girls.”

  “They’re sleeping. Amalie seems a bit better this afternoon, but all Mathilde wants to do is sleep.” She shrugged. “It sure makes for a quiet house when those two aren’t up and causing excitement.”

  Papa nodded. “I can just imagine. Now who was that in the motorcar?”

  Leave it to Papa not to let loose of a question once he’d asked it. If she didn’t tell him, Mama would. Better she do it.

  Debating the amount of information she gave Papa didn’t take long. There was no use aggravating him more than necessary.

  “The doctor. He came to examine the girls.”

  There, the truth had been told. If Papa asked, she would tell him the rest. Jefferson Villare was a doctor, after all.

  Her father gave her a sideways glance, then linked arms with her. “And what did he say? How’s my Amalie and Mathilde?”

  “The girls are resting,” she said. “The doctor says that’s best.”

  Papa’s face turned grave. “Does he think it might be the influenza?”

  “He’s not sure,” she replied. “We’re to keep them away from the others and especially away from Mama.”

  He chuckled and turned her toward the house. Angeline fell in step alongside him.

  “Now that’s going to be a trick in itself. My Clothilde, she don’t like to be told not to mess with her babies, especially when they’re sick.” He nudged her shoulder with his. “And my Angie, she’s the same way as her mama, eh?”

  “About some things, I suppose,” she admitted with a grin.

  “Some things like doing the right thing when her papa and mama tell her to?”

  Angeline stopped in her tracks. “What are you talking about, Papa? When haven’t I done the right thing?”

  “Theophile Breaux, what are you doing home in the middle of the afternoon, eh?”

  “You sound just like your daughter, Cleo.” He turned his attention to Angeline. “I’ve got some good news for you, Angie, and I can’t wait to tell you and your mama both.”

  She tried not to cringe. Papa’s good news might be just that—good news—or it might be something else entirely.

  “This would happen to be about Nicolas Arceneaux, would it?”

  Papa smiled and patted her head. “Now don’t you worry your pretty self about Monsieur Arceneaux just yet. I got it all worked out, and you’re gonna be so happy.”

  “Happy?” Her feelings went toward the opposite emotion.

  “Yes, Girlie, now let’s go where your mama can hear.” He led her toward the porch steps. “No sense in me telling this story twice.”

  “Papa, please tell me you didn’t go and make any promises to Nicolas. I never did answer him when he proposed, you know.”

  Dread turned to something worse when she saw her papa’s smile fade. “It don’t make no never mind whether you said yes yet. Nicolas and me, we know you’re gonna be happy with him, and that’s what counts, isn’t it?”

  “What counts is what God wants, Papa.”

  “I know that,” Papa said as he looked past her rather than at her. A sadness washed over his tanned features. “And God, He don’t break up families, no. He keeps us together for always.”

  “But, Papa, are you sure God wants me married off to Nicolas Arceneaux?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she added, “Or is that just what you want so I can be assured of not leaving the bayou?”

  Papa’s startled look gave her reason to hope he might actually be considering her question. She said a little prayer that the Lord would soften his heart and make him see what was so obvious to her. Nicolas Arceneaux was not the husband for her.

  “What’re you talking about, eh?” Mama called. “I see you two are conspiring.”

  “Well, now, I’m glad you asked, Clothilde.” He crossed the porch to greet Mama with a kiss. “I was just telling Angie that I had good news for the whole family. Now let me go see to my two sick ones, then I’ll tell you all about it.”

  “But, Theo, Ernest isn’t here,” Mama said. “If it’s that important, shouldn’t we wait on him?”

  Papa waved off Mama’s question with a shake of his head and disappeared into the house. “He’ll be here soon enough,” came the answer through the open door.

  Angeline settled next to Mama on the bench. “What do you think Papa’s up to this time, Mama?”

  Her mother shook her head. “I don’t know, Bebe, but I think it might have something to do with that man there.”

  Mama pointed toward the west, where Ernest was walking toward them across the lawn. At his side were Nicolas Arceneaux and a gray-haired man in a dark suit.

  As they neared the house, she realized the identity of the elderly man. It was the local preacher, Reverend Dautrive.

  Thirteen

  Jefferson lay atop the sheets and stared at the ceiling in his childhood room. A painting of the constellations fanned out from the four corners of the light fixture, a fanciful feature courtesy of his mother.

  She’d been the artist in the family, a woman with a creative flair and a bent for the whimsical. Losing her had meant losing nearly everything.

  Everything except Pop and his best friend, Angeline.

  Now Pop was gone to spend eternity with Mom. That left only Angeline.

  He rolled to his side and stared at the train ticket on the nightstand. Torn in half, part of it lay atop a stack of his favorite books, while the rest sat teetering on the edge. Blowing a hard breath sent the ticket flying, and he watched it sail across the beams of light filtering through the shutters on the western-facing side of the house. It landed at the feet of his old rocking horse, a
relic of a childhood he barely remembered.

  “Tomorrow I’ll have to let the landlady know I won’t be arriving as planned,” he said to the old horse. “Wonder what she’ll make of that.”

  He shifted back into his original position, cradling his hands behind his head. “I wonder what I should make of that, Lord.”

  Why do you have to make anything of it? Stop trying to figure everything out and rest in Me.

  “Rest?” Jeff let out a strained chuckle. “Who could ever get any rest here?”

  You could, if you would stop trying so hard.

  Outside, the strains of the evening were coming alive, a familiar combination of crickets, night birds, and the occasional barking dog. Soon the sun would set, and the night would settle around the old house.

  Mrs. Mike had left enough food for four grown men wrapped up in the kitchen, and he’d promised her he would try and eat something before bed. In a few minutes, after a bit more rest, he would get up, go downstairs, and make an attempt.

  But for now, moving seemed out of the question. His old bed, with the feather mattress that seemed to mold to his form, refused to let him go.

  He gave in to its embrace and thought once more of how it felt to spend time with Angeline Breaux. Yes, those moments were every bit as comfortable as this feather bed, this familiar room, this old house. Perhaps that’s why he’d chosen to delay his departure.

  Jeff allowed himself to believe that, all the time knowing if he dared, he would realize a deeper, more permanent reason for spending time with Angeline. Unfortunately, the Lord hadn’t yet told him how he could have the one he’d always loved and the career he was called to. Until He did, Jeff was stuck waiting.

  “Excuse me,” he said to the ceiling. “I’m not waiting, I’m resting.”

  No, you’re not, but you could be. Stop trying to control things and turn it over to Me. You can have all that you want and more, but you’ve got to stop trying to make things happen by planning your whole life at once.

  “But, Lord, You say in Your Word that we fail for lack of planning. What about that?”

  I also say that a man plans his steps, but the Lord knows the direction he will go.