Amara opened the door with a shushing finger to her lips. “Come in, Honey, and get warm. You can hang your coat on the rack,” she whispered. I stepped over the threshold, slipped off my damp coat and hat, and hung them on a hall tree beside her door. I stared down at my gloved hands and peeled them off.
A cot sat over by a window to the far edge of the room with someone small bundled underneath the covers.
“Have a seat, Honey, and I’ll serve us coffee.”
Worried, I sat down at her table, sneaking peeks over to the makeshift bed.
In a few minutes, Amara sat down beside me with our full cups. “I’m sorry, but I have a patient. The boy, Johnnie Gillis, is doing better since I’ve gave him a shot of penicillin last night for his bout of pneumonia.”
“Johnnie,” I whispered, suddenly feeling ill.
“He’ll be fine, but none of the other nurses are available to sit, so I won’t be able to leave today.”
I was crushed. “I hope the boy will heal quick,” I said, meaning it, though the news almost doubled me over from the ache of not being able to visit my folk. I had to see them and tell them about Retta and Byrne and let them know I was without a guardian.
She sipped her coffee quietly for a few minutes as I fretted it all. When I couldn’t swallow any more, I pushed the cup aside.
“Thank you. I best go,” I said, thinking of my folk, the sadness smothering in the cramped, sterile room reeking of rot, bandaged sickness, and strange antiseptics.
Amara reached across the table, patted my hand. “I know it’s a long trip down here, but if you’ll call again next Saturday, maybe—”
A sudden banging startled us, and I jumped up.
Amara opened the door, a draft of woodsmoke and pine skittering into the home just as Mr. Gillis stepped inside with Guyla Belle following. “How’s Johnnie this morn—” Mr. Gillis stopped in midsentence. Catching a glimpse of me, he stretched out an arm. “You! What are you doing here with my son? Didn’t I tell you not to bring them books around us again?”
I stepped back.
“Mr. Gillis!” Amara whispered harshly, glaring at him. “Miss Lovett is a guest in my home, and if you don’t lower your voice, I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
Over on the cot, Johnnie stirred and sat up. Rubbing his sickly eyes, he looked at his mama and then saw me. He pointed my way. Just when I thought he’d start screaming, burst out crying, he piped, “Buk uman well, tank ya,” and repeated it again, this time grinning big, wanting to mimic his mama’s earlier instructions, hoping to please her.
Mr. Gillis followed his hand.
Guyla Belle’s dull eyes filled with tears.
“What’s that, Son?” Mr. Gillis asked softly, looking back and forth between me and his son. “I–I fall’d down well, Dad-dee. Well hurt Johnnie bad,” the little boy said in a pout.
“Guyla, is the boy saying what I think he’s saying? Guyla!” he shouted, and took off his Texaco ball cap and swatted her face with it. “Did you let my son fall down that well?”
“Ma-ma-maa!” Johnnie began sobbing, pulling the bedsheet up into his mouth and sucking on its corner.
“Our boy done got the pneumonia from falling down that cold well full of winter rains, Guyla?” His wife trembled and tucked her head. Mr. Gillis shot out an arm and backhanded her hard across the mouth, splitting her lips. “He could’ve drown, woman!”
Guyla Belle staggered backward and fell into a heap on the floor, knocking her head on the brick skirt of the fireplace.
I choked out a scream. Outside, Junia bawled maddening hee-haws, kicking at the porch.