“Gave him a fresh one. This one’s soaked clear through.”
“Papa,” I whispered. I drew near and touched his arm. His lips fluttered together like they were making words, but nothing was coming out.
The dew I’d seen before now had swelled into a stream. Dorinda set a bowl of water down on the bedside cabinet, wet a cloth, and swabbed Papa’s brow.
“He can’t hear you right now. Best you sit over there.” She indicated the window seat across from his bed. “You can stay hid if Madame comes.”
I scrambled onto the seat and carefully arranged the curtain so I could see Papa without being seen. That was where I stayed.
Not long after the clock on Papa’s dresser chimed two o’clock, Madame Bébinn entered without knocking, followed by Robie and Dorinda. She held a handkerchief over her nose and mouth and spoke to Papa loudly, like he’d gone deaf in his sickness.
“Jean! Jean!”
Papa stirred and nodded slightly.
“Jean, I’ve called for Dr. Clarke. I don’t understand why you have to be sick now! And harvest time already on us. Good Lord!”
Papa’s eyelids slowly opened, and his eyes rolled about in a strange way. All the while Madame fussed at him. I wanted to jump on the witch and make her leave him alone.
“Wh—wh—” was all Papa could manage. It sounded like he wanted to say where, but then his eyes fell on me, sitting still as I could in that window seat. I put my fingers to my lips and held them up to him—a kiss. Papa coughed and seemed to gather himself, determined to speak.
“Where is Robie?” He spoke slowly, each word a struggle, and his voice sounded thick and wet like the swamp. He coughed again, and Robie brought him a tin dish to spit in.
“Tell Mr. Cleaton to come here,” he told Robie. “I will direct him about the work.”
“Stop foolin’， Jean! Nothing will be right about Catalpa Valley until you’re out of that bed.”
“Rest assured, Madame, one way or another I will be leaving this bed.”
She stifled a noise underneath her handkerchief.
“Now if you’ll leave me, I’ll work out which way that might be.”
Madame made another noise of disgust, and I heard the rustle of her skirt as she hurried out of the room.
Papa spoke again. “Dorinda. Water.”
She moved swiftly to hold a porcelain teacup to Papa’s parched and swollen lips.
“Jeannette.”
I pushed the curtain aside, but only a little.
“Come, child.”
I climbed onto the bed and embraced him where he lay.
“Are you scared?”
I nodded and whispered, “A little.”
He kissed me on the top of my head. “Ha! Yes, just a little. Only a little because you are Bébinn. Too strong to be scared a lot!”
“I will stay with you, Papa.”
“Ah! I would like that. We will fight together.”
“Yes, Papa.”
He slept again, and we stayed that way, my arms around him, until Dorinda returned to warn me of Dr. Clarke’s arrival.
Dr. Clarke brought medicines for Papa and advised Dorinda to keep putting the cool cloths on his forehead. He suggested bleeding, too, but Papa roused himself enough to refuse.
“If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to keep my bodily humors intact.”
I thought Papa said this to spare me the sight of his blood, but he coughed, and I heard him utter “Barbaric” under his breath.
Papa stayed in his bed for ten days.
I sat by his bed and chanted the litany.
Belle Neuve
Baton Bleu
Siana Grove
Chance Voir
Belle Verde
Mont Devreau
Petite Bébinn
The sound of Papa’s breath moved through the room. As long as I could hear it, I felt safe. From my perch I’d open the windows a crack so Papa could take in the fresh air, the air of the land that had always sustained him. It made no sense to me how Madame wanted the room shut up. What made Papa sick wasn’t out there. If it were, we’d all be in our beds suffering. Papa burned from the inside out. I didn’t know if the air could heal him, but it helped him feel a little better. I hoped it did.
Papa’s bedroom faced the front of the house and had large windows overlooking the front grounds. The sill was long enough, wide enough, for me to sit there. The drape, thick and scratchy brocade, with a bronze-and-yellow pattern, hid me from Dr. Clarke and Madame. Only Dorinda knew I was there. She brought me warm milk and bread with pieces of roast pork wrapped in paper so I’d have something to eat if she couldn’t get to me for too long.
The first day I felt certain Papa would get well. The second day the fever worsened. By the end of the week a yellow pallor bled over his skin, and my insides began to feel cold.
At night when the house slept, I left my seat and crawled under the covers of Papa’s sickbed. I wasn’t afraid. I’d known Papa’s warmth longer than I’d known the heat of the sun. But I could feel it draining away, and hard as I tried, I couldn’t replace it with my own. I didn’t waste time being afraid. If Papa was going to leave me, I figured there’d be plenty of time for fear when it happened. And I didn’t want Papa feeling any fear from me. I was Jean Bébinn’s daughter. Still.
Papa woke from a nightmare.
“Chérie, I’ve been wrong.”
“Wrong about what, Papa?”
“All of my plans for you . . . Petite Bébinn.” He struggled for another breath.
“Please, Papa. Rest.”
“I thought I would be here.” He coughed. “I thought I would be here to give you the land. That you would be grown and could have it.”
“I am still your daughter, Papa.”
“But I can’t look after you anymore. There’s no one to take care of you.” A tear ran down his cheek.
“I will take care of myself.”
“The world is set against you, Jeannette.”
“I don’t need the world. I will have my own corner of it. I will have the land—if not Petite Bébinn, then somewhere else. I will find it, Papa. I will.”
“If you are to do that, you must be white. When you are old enough, go away from here. Go far, where no one knows about your mama. You are light. Your features are mine.”
I grasped the bronze locket I wore around my neck.
“And you must never wear that, when you are grown. Even now, perhaps. Keep it hidden.”
“Papa, I can’t.”
“You must, Jeannette. The law won’t let you own land.”
I wiped his tears with my pocket kerchief. “I will be all right, Papa. Please rest now.”
He nodded, smiled, and put his arms around me. His breathing quieted, and in the calm we both fell asleep.
Madame’s wail woke me.
The sound collapsed on us like a shattering glass. But Papa didn’t move.
His arm lay heavy over me, and I felt a chill from his body like he’d been encased in a cloud. My papa was dead.
Her cries offended me. I couldn’t believe she would shed one honest tear for my papa. There was something shameful about her behavior, and though I felt Papa’s loss growing like a sad black fog inside me, I wouldn’t show myself breaking into little pieces of pity like she was doing. I slipped out of Papa’s embrace, stood on the bed, and pushed my hands against my ears. I shouted at her.