As soon as they heard him on the upstairs landing, Jack spun on Lucy. “How many people did that little German tell?”
“Oh, Jack, don’t get so upset. Dr. Hopson came to help, not to gossip.”
“Hmmph.”
“Luce, Jack!” Hopson’s shout from upstairs interrupted. “Come up here, please.”
Lucy’s face went white, and she took Jack’s arm as they went quickly upstairs.
Hopson stood in Betsy’s open doorway, frowning. “How long has she been asleep?”
“Naddy brought her a cup of tea about an hour ago, then looked in on her right after dinner,” fretted Lucy. “Why? What’s wrong?”
“I can’t rouse her.”
“What’s wrong with her?” asked Jack, peering into the darkened room behind Hopson.
“It’s an unusually deep sleep,” he said, shaking his head and leading them into the room.
Betsy lay on the bed, the covers gathered beneath her chin. Her face was calm, and the only stirring was the slight rise and fall of the bedclothes in time with her slow breathing.
Lucy took her hand, rubbed it between her own. “She’s so cold,” she moaned, looking at Hopson.
“She must be kept warm. Have someone sit with her and keep the fire going.” He went to a small table beside the bed and opened his case. Rummaging through it, he produced a vial of clear liquid, which shimmered red in the low firelight. “Give her a mouthful of this in the morning and the evening, perhaps with some broth or tea. Be sure to have her sitting up so that she doesn’t choke.”
Hopson handed the vial to Lucy, snapped the bag shut.
“Is that all you can do?” Jack asked.
Hopson sighed heavily, turned to him. “Unfortunately, yes.”
“We wait all day for you. Then when you come, you can do nothing but give us a cordial for her to drink? I might have done better to call Saloma up here for an African cure!”
“You still may, if you’re so inclined. Call me tomorrow if nothing has changed, sooner if it does,” he said, tipping his hat to Lucy and leaving the room.
Jack spun, went to his daughter’s bed. Reaching out, he took her face in his hand and shook it. “Betsy! Wake up, girl! This isn’t funny no more!”
She did not stir, nor did her breathing change its slow, steady cadence.
“Jack!” Lucy slapped his hand away, flashed him a quick, angry look.
For a moment, he returned it. Then, he saw something in Lucy’s face, something unfamiliar and alien, angry and knowing. He turned away, staring at the floor.
“Go downstairs. I’ll tend to her. Send Harry for the fire,” Lucy said, her eyes focused narrowly on him. She shook her head as he departed, pulled the cap off the vial Hopson had given her, and poured a little between Betsy’s lips.
A drop spilled from between them, rolled down her chin and onto the pillow coverlet.
Lucy dabbed it with her finger. It was dark and viscous. It must be a trick of the light, she thought as she wiped it away.
SEVEN
“It’s a spirit, is what,” Saloma whispered to the other women hanging on her every word across the dinner table in the slave quarters later that evening. “A dark, dark spirit.”
“That’s enough of that, woman,” snapped Adam. “You wanna get us all in trouble? ‘Sides, it’s scaring the children. Just eat your dinner.”
Saloma scowled. She thrust her fingers at him in a strange, swiping arc, and moved away to squat in a dark corner of the room. She raised her head several times to look sharply at Adam.
During this exchange, the others in the slave quarters stopped talking to listen to the two bicker. Now, their silence was conspicuous.
“That goes for the rest of you, too. Y’all don’t want to be saying any of this around the Bells. It’s nonsense, pure and simple. Now, eat your dinner ‘fore it’s as cold as outside,” he said.
“You seen it, too, heard it,” whispered Sam, bending to the older man, his voice low.
Adam chewed thoughtfully before answering. “I seen somethin’, yes, sir. Heard it, too. What does that prove? I’m an old man.”
“I seen it, too, and I ain’t old,” Sam said, a little louder, prompting Adam to pat the air softly with his hand.
“Quiet, boy, quiet.”
“But what is it? Is it a spirit? John says it tweren’t nothing but pitch on the stones inside the chimney catching fire,” the younger man’s eyes were wide and eager.
“What do you think?” Adam said, starting to eat again when he noticed the others beginning to show interest in their discussion.
“I don’t know,” Sam said around a mouthful of food.
“Did you see any pitch on the stones?”
Sam’s fork slowed on its path to his mouth as he considered this. “Not a one.”
Adam smiled. “But, that…”
“Those stones was as clean as the Lamb on Judgment Day. They certainly weren’t on the inside of no fireplace, that’s for sure.”
“What’re you saying?”
“I don’t want to know. Now, hush up and eat.” As if sensing another question, Adam quickly cleaned his plate and rose from the table.
Sam figured the old man knew more than he was saying, and he wanted to know what that was. He had seen the look in Adam’s eyes when he overheard Saloma telling the other women a bakas was with them, causing mischief. And, she had assured them, it would cause much more before it left.
Adam had been angry, and that was a rare enough occurrence to make everyone sit up and take notice.
Sam had pinned himself to Adam over the last year or so, since his own father died. And he was beginning to see things in the old man that no one else saw.
When Saloma mentioned the bakas, Sam flicked his attention to Adam.
And he saw fear.
* * *
Later that same evening, as the lights dimmed one by one in the main house, Sam opened his eyes. The loft he shared with Anky looked down onto the main floor. From there, he saw the children’s bed near the fire, five or six small forms snuggled together amidst the multi-colored quilts and blankets cast-off from the Bells.
He nuzzled against Anky’s warm body, hay poking through the heavy cotton batting beneath him, started to close his eyes. He saw movement, a glowing ember floating in the darkness near the window.
Quietly, Sam pushed the covers back and threw his legs off the lip of the rude bed.
The cold assaulted him immediately, as if it had been waiting for the opportunity all night. The wooden ladder creaked as he descended, and he knew Adam was alert to his presence. He caught a pause between puffs, a slight inclination of the older man’s head.
Adam turned, his face lit by the glowing pulse of the pipe. He was clad in tattered long underwear with a heavy wool blanket wrapped around his skinny shoulders. “Too cold to be called from a warm bed with a warm woman. Dinner not sitting well in your gut, boy?”
“No, sir. Still curious is all. Thought we might talk a little.”
Adam laughed. “You’re starting to sound mighty old for someone just 18-odd years.”
“I’m 19 if I’m a day… at least I think. My daddy told me my birthday once,” Sam said, drawing his shoulders up.
Adam looked him over.
“You have grown some, haven’t you? Grown straight and tall. Your daddy’d be proud,” Adam said, holding the pipe in one hand and clasping the younger man’s shoulder with the other. “I also ‘spect I know what you’re all riled up about, too. But, I’ll let you go ahead and ask.”
Sam watched the pipe as Adam placed it back into his wrinkled mouth. “I want to know what’s going on. And I think you know.”
Adam smiled, turned toward Sam. For the first time, Sam saw that Adam held a small, heavy crystal glass. It was filled halfway with an amber liquid.
The old man motioned to a similar glass sitting on the sideboard near the window. Sam went to it, took it, held it to him. From somewhere in the darkness, Adam produced a b
rown jug, tightly corked. He worked the cork out, poured a healthy portion into Sam’s glass.
“Here,” he said, replacing the jug in its secret spot. “This’ll warm you, make you think straight. Always does me.”
He tapped his glass to Sam’s, took a swallow.
Sam brought the glass to his lips, caught the strong, familiar whiff of alcohol. Whatever was in the glass was not like the homebrew they made. This was smooth and refined and mellow in its assertiveness, igniting in his mouth, pulsing warmly as it slid down his throat.
“Good stuff. From the old man himself, Mr. Bell’s father. Gave me the jug and the glasses. It was him told me that it would clear my mind when it needed clearing. And him a God fearin’ Baptist and all. A little here and there ain’t gonna hurt you none, I s’pose. ‘Sides, I need my mind clear now more than ever,” and he took another drink. “Go ahead, boy, you’ll need what you’ve got cleared, too.”
Licking his lips, Sam took another, bigger drink, and he began to feel the room expand, warm up around him.
“Now, while you nurse that teat, we’ll talk,” Adam smiled, relighting his pipe and looking back out the window.
“Women done a good job here. Glass is nice and snug,” he paused, turned back to the young man. “Yeah, you’re growing up fine, all right, and fast. Maybe thinking too much. And that’ll get you in trouble a lot faster’n anything else I know.”
“How?”
“White folks don’t like to think that we can think, makes ‘em uncomfortable thinkin’ we’s anything but poor and dumb and like animals. Makes ‘em realize what they’re doing ain’t right, and they don’t want to be reminded of that.”
Another puff and a drink disappeared into Adam’s dark mouth. Sam, too, took another drink, drained his portion. He set the empty glass onto the sideboard.
“That’s my first piece of advice this evening. And unasked-for advice is the best kind you can get. You understand that, boy?”
Sam shook his head solemnly.
“Now, here’s my next,” he said, and he drew in a deep breath, let out a rattling sigh. “Something is going on over there. Something bad. I can feel it, right here,” and he tapped the center of his bony chest. “Like when I know a cow’s calf is dead in the womb or the chicken’s eggs are off. I can just feel it. Follow me?”
Sam nodded.
“But, it ain’t coming for us. It’s coming for them,” he said, tapping the new windowpane with the mouthpiece of his pipe. “And ain’t nothing they can do to stop it. So, it’s best we just go about our business and stay out of the way. You understand that?”
Sam shivered, though the liquor had now reached warmly down to his bare feet. “Is it what Saloma says, a bakas?”
“That woman’s just a crazy old bokor, don’t pay her no mind. Whatever this is, it’s comin’ from a long ways away. It ain’t right, it ain’t good, and it ain’t from the Lord above. I am not a bit ashamed to admit that I’m powerful afraid of it.”
Adam took another drink, drained the glass.
“Now, we have to keep our eyes open, boy, you and me. But we talk about this only between ourselves, you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” he answered as the chill night air descended back upon him.
“That’s enough jawing for one night, then. Get to bed with your woman, we’ve got an early morning.”
Sam shook his head, made his way back to the ladder. A step or two up its rungs, he turned to watch Adam climb into his own bed, disappear beneath a mountain of covers.
At the top of the ladder, he crept back to his own pallet, fell quickly into it, burrowed deep to let his body warm the now cold blankets. Beside him, Anky shifted, threw an arm over him, drew him near.
Adam’s words bounced in his skull, kept him awake.
Sam knew one thing.
He was scared by anything that could scare Adam.
EIGHT
The week went by with no change in Betsy. She lay still as a statue, still as death beneath her covers. Naddy changed the sheets every day, with help from Lucy. Harry kept the fire steady, as Dr. Hopson advised.
Each night, Lucy sat in Betsy’s room, maintaining her vigil.
Each night, Jack looked in silently, watched the fire play on the two faces; one turned to the other, one turned to heaven.
And each night, he retired to bed alone.
Even with little sleep, Lucy kept up with the work in the house, cooking and cleaning with Naddy and Saloma, tending to the laundry and the children. She was wearing thin, though. By Friday, there was not even a hint of recovery, and Lucy noticed a disturbing change. Family members and Betsy’s friends, getting the same answer day after day, had stopped asking about Betsy; for the most part, they stopped visiting.
It made her sad and a little angry to watch this happening.
Lucy Williams Bell was 47 years old––old in a life that aged one quickly. She had always been able to keep the charms, the step and the smile of youth, the vigor in her blood.
The past week aged her more than 10 years ever could, layered the charm with tenacity, the smile with rue, the vigor with grim determination.
Lucy Bell had stepped through Betsy’s bedroom door, just as two others before her had.
And like them, she would never be the same.
* * *
Friday morning, Dr. Hopson paid a quick visit. He touched Betsy’s cheeks, her forehead, and moved her arms and legs. “Have you been giving her the medicine I left?” he asked Lucy, pulling the covers back over Betsy.
“Yes, but I think it’s gone off,” she said, fishing the vial from a pocket in her apron and handing it to him.
“Off?” He took the vial and held it to the window. The liquid was a thin, weak yellow, and it left a cloudy rheum on the inside of the vial when he shook it. “This isn’t what I left you.”
He uncorked it, sniffed.
“Where did you get this?” he asked, replacing the cork and dashing the vial into the fireplace. It shattered in a hiss of hot, foul steam that rolled up the chimney.
“It’s the same glass you gave us,” Lucy answered, alarmed
Jack, who had remained quiet at Lucy’s side, stepped forward. “It was one of the god-damned niggers giving her some nigger cure! Naddy!” he yelled.
“Jack, I don’t think Naddy would…,” pleaded Lucy, but Jack ignored her.
Naddy walked in with a fearful look on her face, afraid to hear the news that Betsy was dead. Jack took her dread as a sign of duplicity. “Yes, sir. Is Miss Betsy all…?”
Jack slapped her, a stinging, resounding blow.
Naddy gave a startled shriek, fell to the floor.
“Jack!” screamed Lucy.
“What have you been giving her?”
“Mr. Bell, sir, I only gave her the medicine Dr. Hopson left. That and a little tea and soup, but Mrs. Bell said that was all right. I didn’t mean no harm of it.”
“You know what I mean! You were giving her something Saloma cooked up, weren’t you? Don’t look to Mrs. Bell to help you, answer me, dammit!” he yelled, reaching down to shake her limp body, breaking her pleading eye contact with Lucy.
“I swear! It was from the doctor. Nothing else but that. I swear. I would never hurt poor Miss Betsy.” She broke into tears, slumped back to the floor.
“Jack!” Lucy snapped again, pushing him aside and kneeling by Naddy, who sobbed almost without breathing. Lucy helped her to her feet, took her to the chair, and examined the pale handprint that marked her face. “Have you taken leave?” she spat at her husband. “She didn’t do anything. She loves Betsy like her own, she’d never hurt her.”
“Well, the stuff came from somewhere,” growled Jack.
“Don’t hit her again.”
Jack looked at Lucy strangely.
Hopson, who had watched the exchange in uncomfortable silence, produced another vial from his bag. “Perhaps as a safeguard only you or Jack should administer the medicine from now on.”
He bent
to Betsy, pressed the open vial to her lips and decanted a small quantity into her mouth. He stroked her neck to induce swallowing. When he was sure she had taken enough, he handed the new vial to Jack, who examined it closely.
“I can do nothing more. Keep her on the medicine, step up her intake of liquids—tea, coffee, broth—and monitor her passing of water. I’ll stop by to see her again on Monday.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hopson,” said Lucy as she led Naddy out of the room behind Hopson.
Naddy, still hitching in sobs and rubbing her cheek, winced as she passed Jack, eyed him warily.
* * *
After Lucy saw Hopson off, she walked Naddy to the slave quarters, apologizing for Jack’s behavior. She had another girl fetch a cold, wet cloth, which Lucy pressed to Naddy’s burning cheek. Once Naddy was settled, Lucy went across to the kitchen to pour herself a cup of coffee.
Saloma was busy preparing the evening meal, and the two women exchanged short nods to one another as Lucy sat at the table with her cup. She had not taken but two sips when the door burst open and Jack stepped in, his face crimson.
Both women looked up, surprised at his entrance, and the blood drained from Saloma’s face. She had seen that look before on Mr. Bell, and it never meant anyone any good.
Jack, however, didn’t notice her.
“What’s going on?” he demanded, striding heavily to Lucy and standing beside the chair with his hands on his hips.
Lucy, too, knew that look, and had felt the hand that so often followed it. “I’m having a cup of coffee,” she responded evenly, continuing to sip at her cup.
“You’ve never spoken to me like that in front of a guest, in front of the help. What’s gotten into you, woman?”
“You didn’t need to hit Naddy.”
She saw a flash out of the corner of her eye, and the cup was torn from her hands in a spray of hot coffee, shattering against one of the fireplace’s stone uprights.
“Damn it, woman!” he yelled, raising his hand again.
The Bell Witch Page 3
