by Nat Burns
Today she noted the seven-year love was coming along, almost a foot high, just now showing the growth of the heavy head that would bob at her in the late summer weeks. There was five-finger grass, low and lush green, garderobe, filling the air with spice, and a huge bush of herba Louisa already scenting her hands with lemon oil. The elf leaf encircled the entire garden, truly the only formal touch, but Sophie never trimmed them into shrub shape, just letting the little purple flowers trail where they may. She liked it better that way, portraying nature more precisely.
Her eyes took in the enormous bayou on her left and the endless flow of the Root River on her right. Root River was known as Cofe Creek by most of the locals because her family had lived here on this water as long as anyone could remember. Mints, lady, brandy and catmint grew along the banks there, and several large, old willows, called trees of enchantment by Grandam, shaded it.
Sophie liked living here. She liked the call of the swamp and the slow pace of life, as slow as the Root River in deep summer. Some of the friends she’d gone to school with had talked about moving to Goshen or Mobile, some even as far north as New York. And they had. She still got the occasional postcard from Kinsey, who had moved to Atlanta. She said there were gay women everywhere there, and she was planning to have a commitment ceremony with her girlfriend, Gerri. In a church and everything. Sophie had to shake her head over that one. The idea wasn’t even thinkable here in Redstar. Lesbianism, gayness, was okay as long as you didn’t talk openly about it. Sophie knew a handful of gay couples in Redstar and they were well tolerated. If one of them acted differently, however, or tried to be acknowledged publicly as gay, Sophie knew that would change.
Being a lesbian in a small southern town wasn’t the best situation, Sophie realized, but leaving Redstar and Bayou Lisse never even entered into the equation. Everything that really meant anything to her was here—here in the three hundred square miles that was her life.
She walked toward the bayou, empty coffee mug trailing from one hand. A nettle stabbed at one foot, and she hopped, cursing, then limped onward. Sometimes she wondered why she stayed, really. She knew it was a sense of loyalty to Grandam and to her family. Sophie’s mother, Faye, had moved away to Port Saint Joe, Florida, when Sophie was young. She had left Sophie with Grandam when it became evident how strongly the girl felt about leaving the bayou.
“You two are of a kind,” Faye told them, her new man sitting outside in his shiny Chevrolet pickup truck. Her hug had been fierce and long, and Sophie would always remember the smell of her—White Shoulders perfume combined with Juicy Fruit gum.
There had been only five visits during Sophie’s trek toward womanhood, visits filled with presents and tales of life among Florida’s elite. Sophie had her mother’s wild, tawny hair, though, and her mother’s mother and that was just about enough. And the swamp. All gifts she was grateful for.
The water of the bayou was still this morning, lush with duckweed. A frog scurried at her approach and overhanging wild roses bobbed a slow good morning. The stillness was palpable, stealing across her and immersing her in another language. This was why she stayed. The bayou talked to her, made her one of its own.
The family told her she was a sensitive, that she had the gift of the wild. All the Cofe women had it, or so it was told. Grandam certainly did. Sophie knew Faye possessed the gift but hated it. Some did turn away; Sophie had always known she could if she wanted to. If she wanted to move off the water, move farther into Redstar, no one would hold her to task. Life would go on.
In her heart, though, Sophie knew that the gift was not to be ignored. There was a rightness to it. To turn away and not do what she was able to do was a sacrilege, a wrong turn in the universal order. Faye had gone against it and her life was fine. On the surface. Sophie knew, as did Grandam, that it could come back around, and they were prepared to be nearby if Faye needed them. The gift was a simple thing really. Sophie could heal. She could use the way of the wild to bring anything back to wholeness.
She looked off into the bayou, her blond eyelashes and brows glowing golden in the morning sunlight. The light was penetrating into the water as well, bringing a teeming life-force to the surface. Sophie watched the Lisse waken as she paced gently back and forth along the shoreline. She thought about her day, listing patients in her mind, planning the best routes to each house, chaining them together in the most efficient way.
Her mind settled and refreshed, Sophie walked up the slope toward the house, absently sidestepping the nettle. The air had heated while she’d been at the water, and the sun was now heavy on her face and shoulders as she moved toward the porch.
Humming from the kitchen alerted her to Clary’s presence. As did the harsh smell of grits.
“Hey, baby,” Clary called as the screen door slapped shut behind Sophie. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”
“Sure is,” admitted Sophie. She studied Clary, gauging her mood and found her to be particularly blissful. “So, Salty give you a little last night?”
Clary blushed and tucked her head. “Get on in that shower and leave me be, Sophia Cofe. What’s my business is my business.”
Sophie laughed and moved on toward Beulah’s room. “Hey, Grandam, get up. Clary got a little piece of that good thing last night.”
Beulah, curled on her side, laughed even before she was fully awake. “No kidding. Good for her.”
Sophie moved into the bathroom and switched on the shower. “I wonder who’s smiling the biggest, her or Salty,” she called loud enough for Clary to hear.
“Y’all just stop now,” Clary said, slamming the spoon against the edge of the pan to shake off the grits clinging to it. The sound reverberated through the house like a gunshot.
“Sheesh. I didn’t mean nothing,” Sophie muttered to herself as she stripped and slipped into the shower stall.
Grandam moved clumsily into the bathroom, her slippers shuffling against the tiles. “You got a lot of stops today?”
“Yeah, six. You gettin’ on okay?” She peeked around the curtain, watching as Grandam carefully lowered herself onto the toilet.
“Feeling strong,” she replied as she emptied her bladder.
Sophie decided against washing her hair because she was running late, so she stepped out almost as soon as Grandam hobbled from the bathroom.
“You need a shower, Grandam?”
“No, not yet. I’ll get Clary to help me later.”
Sophie turned off the water and dried off, imagining a lover’s hands moving across her flesh. She missed having a lover; the occurrences had been too few and too far apart. She sighed and brought her thoughts back to reality. She had work to do.
After dressing and sharing buttery garlic grits and more coffee with Grandam, Sophie traveled north on Route 46.
The Larsens, Samell and Pyree, lived on Root River in the shadow of a defunct fish factory. Their five kids were always getting into something and Pyree had called yesterday to say that her youngest had developed a rash on his bottom. It was probably poison ivy, but Pyree seemed to think it was something else. Pulling into the bare dirt parking area in front of the small clapboard house, Sophie laughed as two children and three dogs crowded around to greet her.
“You here to see Nab?” asked seven-year-old Ada, her braided hair poking out in all directions and framing two huge brown eyes in a tan face.
“Yes, and why aren’t you ready for school, young lady? It’s not summer yet,” Sophie said as she fetched her bag from the car.
“Going in late, all of us are,” she answered, running alongside Sophie as she walked to the porch. “Teachers day, or something like that. Bus is gonna be two hours late.”
“Well, that’s nice,” Sophie said. “I hope you’re using the time to help your mama with the babies.”
“We are,” said Mary, the quiet nine-year-old. “But Nab’s been crying all night. Says it itches him something fierce.”
Pyree looked as though she’d had little sleep. Puffy skin su
rrounded her large brown eyes and her smile was fragile. She still wore her faded nightgown. The baby, two-year-old Nab, was standing in the playpen, rubbing his own eyes. He wore nothing but a diaper.
“Hey, Pyree. Hear you had a rough night.”
“He’s been crying,” she explained. “I think it must hurt him.”
Sophie nodded and moved to lift the child. He clung to her neck and allowed Sophie to carry him to the kitchen table. “Any idea what he got into?”
“No, maybe something outside but nothing I saw.” She shrugged her shoulders and scratched at her mussed, home-straightened hair.
“You girls clean this off,” Sophie directed, indicating the table laden with breakfast dishes. Ada and Mary began clearing and Sophie, with her one free hand, rinsed a paper towel in hot water and wiped the surface clean. “Get me a clean towel, will you?” she asked Mary.
After spreading the towel, she carefully placed Nab on the table and looked into his eyes. “You got a boo-boo, honey? Show Sophie where it hurts.”
Nab looked doubtfully at his mother, and Sophie thought for a moment that he would cry. With Pyree’s encouragement, however, he moved one plump thigh toward Sophie. She spoke soothing words as she examined the patch of skin where his buttocks met his leg. The skin there was inflamed, but not cracked like a fungal infection. She sweet-talked Nab into laying on his stomach using an orange lollipop as incentive and, peering closely, saw that the inflammation had been made worse by repeated scratching with dirty fingernails. Stretching the dark skin, she noted that the pale risings had substance and her diagnosis was confirmed.
“He’s got a patch of chiggers,” she said. “You need to keep the kids away from wherever he was playing yesterday or the day before.”
“Chiggers?”
“They’re little bugs. Your mama must have told you about them. Hell, you’ve probably had them a time or two yourself.”
“Yeah, I think so. But they never looked like that,” she protested, pointing to Nab’s skin.
“Well, he’s two. They ganged up on him. You got a cucumber?”
Pyree looked puzzled. “A cuke?”
“Yeah, I need one, best fresh out of the garden.”
“But it’s early in the season. They’re not ripe yet.”
“Where they growin’?” She handed Nab back to his mother.
“Out back. Mary, show Miss Sophie the garden.”
Mary looked up from the library book she was reading. “Yes, ma’am.”
She led Sophie around the front of the house to a long strip of cultivated land between the river and the back of the house. There were eight cucumber hills. Sophie chose the nearest one and knelt down. She found a baby cucumber, barely free from its blossom and covered in bristles. She picked it, careful not to disturb any of the sister cucumbers on the vine and, after brushing it off, popped it into her mouth. She chewed it thoroughly, not swallowing, allowing saliva and cucumber juice to mingle in her mouth. She spit it into her palm and led the way back into the house.
“What’s that for, Miss Sophie,” Mary asked, her voice a serious whisper.
“Nab,” Sophie whispered back just as seriously.
“I mean, what does it do?”
Sophie laughed. “I’m just picking on you. It’ll help his sore place feel better. We’ll put that on for a while, then we’ll put another medicine on to smother out those old chiggers.”
“Will it work?” Mary asked.
“It better. It has before.”
Inside, Nab was riding his mother’s hip as she packed lunches for the other children. Fifteen-year-old Kylie had come out of the bedroom and was helping. Ada and her brother Tim, twelve, were finally dressed and filling their bookbags beside the front door.
“Mary, get yourself ready now. The bus’ll be here in just a little bit.”
“I’m ready. I just gotta get my bag.”
“I’ll take him,” Sophie said, shifting Nab from Pyree’s hip to her own. She stood him on the table and pulled apart his diaper. She checked him for other chigger signs, awkwardly holding him with one hand. She would have asked for help with the wiggling, fretful child but knew Pyree was plenty busy getting the older kids off to school. Sophie would manage Nab.
There were no other chigger sites, and Sophie smoothed the cucumber paste across the four-inch by four-inch patch on his upper thigh. Reaching into her bag, she pulled out a large gauze patch and surgical tape.
“Can you stand real still?” she asked Nab as she found his gaze with hers. “I want to put a picture on you.”
He watched her warily, so she tore open the gauze and showed him the white square. “You know what this picture is?”
He sniffled, unwilling to be pulled in completely, but she could tell he was curious. “Let me put it on and I’ll tell you.”
She quickly pressed the patch on his skin and showed him the tape. “Now I’ve gotta put the frame around it. It may tickle, but don’t you laugh, okay?”
A smile touched the corner of his plump lips, and his dark eyes twinkled.
“This here is a picture of a white rabbit in a cotton field. See how white it is?” She taped the gauze on with a loose taping, then refastened his diaper. “Later on, we’ll see if we can find his eyes.”
She stood him on the floor and he ran to Pyree, grabbing hold of her leg and babbling about rabbits.
The bus pulled up outside, brakes squeaking. The annoying tick of its safety lights sounded loud inside the kitchen. Moments later there was only Pyree, Nab and Sophie in the house.
“You done already?” Pyree used a paper towel to swab at her perspiring face.
“For now. I’ve got to hang around for twenty minutes or so.”
Pyree smiled for the first time that morning. “Good. Let’s have something cold.”
Chiding Nab, who’d become fretful again, Pyree poured two glasses of sweet iced tea from a cracked ceramic pitcher and handed one to Sophie. With a sigh, Sophie settled herself at the table and took a long pull off the tea. “Ahh, that’s good.”
“I like it strong,” Pyree said as she sat and pulled Nab onto her lap. “So tell me how Miss Beulah is feelin’ these days.”
“Vinegary as ever. You know nothing will keep her down for long. The stroke weakened her some, but she can get around on her own.”
“Good to know, that is. You tell her Pyree said hello.”
“Has he eaten?” Sophie watched the boy as he pressed and studied what he could see of the bandage. She knew she’d have to tape the next one on better if it was going to last any time.
“Yeah. He had breakfast early. Had to do something to quiet him down.”
They talked about mundane things for a while—new babies that Sophie had delivered, the death of the Witter baby, problems with Pyree’s oldest girl who had recently become sexual with her young boyfriend. They also talked about Pyree’s birth control shots, delivered at the health department in Redstar every six months. She was happy to report no side effects other than feeling sick to her stomach some mornings.
“And that’s a small price to pay. This one is more than enough to keep me busy for a while,” Pyree said as she tickled Nab until he squealed. His flailing loosened the bandage, and Sophie moved to get more gauze and tape from her bag. She also brought over a tube of zinc oxide.
“Okay, Nab. Time to put on a new rabbit picture. You ready?”
Nab hid his head in his mother’s chest, but Sophie, with Pyree’s help, soon had the chigger inflammation smeared with zinc and tightly rebandaged. The cucumber paste had eased the irritation somewhat and the zinc further soothed the area. He was a much happier baby.
“Leave this on all day,” Sophie directed as she washed her hands at the sink. “We want to keep that white stuff on to smother any larvae and the bandage on to keep it all clean. He could get a nasty infection if we’re not careful, okay?”
Pyree nodded. “I can’t thank you enough, Miss Sophie. He’s acting better already.”
“Good.” Sophie smiled at Nab and rubbed his rough, tightly curled hair. “I’ll leave the rest of this tube with you. You’ll need to put some more on tomorrow evening after you give him a bath. He can just stay dirty till then. He’ll probably get the bandage dirty when he messes and wets his diapers. Just clean it off the best you can. I’ll be by tomorrow to check on it.”
She tidied the kitchen area where she had worked and gathered her supplies, preparing to leave. Pyree let Nab slide to the floor, and she walked to the refrigerator. “Listen, I have some good leaf lettuce Samell picked yesterday evening. It’s still sweet as sugar, though it’s getting late for lettuce. I’m gonna give you a good mess of that and a bottle of my icebox pickle.”
“Why, thank you kindly, Pyree. Are you sure y’all can spare it? You got a good group to feed here.”
“Naw, Samell’s good in the garden, always has been. There’s plenty to spare.”
Sophie looked around at the small frame house, built years ago by Habitat for Humanity. It was clean, well-maintained and cluttered, of course, with the debris of five active children. The Larsens were doing okay. They had a good supply of groceries scattered around the kitchen. Sometimes Sophie felt as though she took the last bite of food from some tables, and she often refused offerings if she felt accepting them would cause hardship on a family. Today she accepted the full grocery bag graciously.
“Well, you’ve made Grandam’s day. There’s nothing she likes better than fresh leaf lettuce,” Sophie said as she approached the kitchen door. “I’ll be on then. You tell Mary I said to draw some rabbit eyes on that bandage. Nab will be expecting it.”
She walked out into the brilliant day, already planning her next visit.
