Under the Sassafras

by Hattie Mae

  “MaeMae, I tell you there was nothing around him. No weapon or evidence of a fight. Not even the sign of a vehicle.”

  “No telling. And truth be told, we may never know. You know sometimes the swamp keeps it secrets.” MaeMae handed Joelette a bar of soap.

  Joelette took the jar of homemade cure-all salve and the white Lye soap and got to work.

  The water in the basin turned dark red as she rinsed the cloth in fresh water. His injury emerged as an ugly knot and abrasion. As she worked the shampoo mixed with soap through his hair, freeing it from the blood and grime, soft blond curls slid through her fingers.

  Once the injury was cleaned, Joelette removed his bloody, torn jacket. His shirt was also beyond repair. There was no telling what he’d gotten caught on in the swamp. Taut muscles and crisp blond hair covered his chest and stomach.

  She watched her hands rise and fall on his chest every time he took a breath. Her hands were tanned and weathered next to his pale skin. His heart pounded, a strong tempo, she hoped it was a steady reminder that meant he would survive his injuries.

  Joelette sat back on her feet, her hand still rested on his chest. This man was so very different than her late husband, their coloring, their size. Unlike this man with his chest covered in soft blond hair, Otis had only had a small trail of dark hair that traveled from his chest onto his stomach. How many times had he told her 'grass doesn't grow on a playground'?

  Was he ever right. His chest proved to be a playground for many playmates.

  “Joelette, you counting hairs?” MaeMae’s voice startled her. “This man will die of pneumonia if we don't hurry. His body is so chilled.”

  “Sorry.” No question this man made her uncomfortable. It was one thing for Ozamae to bring in an injured bird for MaeMae to care for. Or for Mr. Tompkins to buy some tea for his gout. But this man, his injuries could be serious and Joelette didn't want to feel responsible for him. She cleared her throat. “After we get him cleaned and changed into dry clothes, why don't I just take him to the hospital in Lafayette?”

  “Not yet, Cher. Can’t you see he's in shock? He might not make the trip.” MaeMae smiled sadly at Joelette. “Don't be afraid.” She clicked her tongue. “I can fix him, don’t you worry.”

  “I'm less worried about what you can't do, MaeMae, than I am about this man and what he might do to our family. We know nothing about this man, he’s a stranger we found stuck in the swamp. I don’t want to put any of us in danger.”

  “Joelette, Joelette.” MaeMae shook her head. “Look at him. What harm can that poor man do? Mais, if it makes you feel better we’ll lock his door at night, and keep the boys away. When the swelling goes down, he’ll awake, and we can take him to the doctor. Now let's finish his bath.” She stood. “I'll get him some of Otis's briefs. Remove his pants and I'll be right back.”

  Joelette jumped up. “I don't think I should be here alone removing his pants. What if he wakes up?”

  “If he wakes up, tell him your name.” MaeMae winked, then placed her hands on her hips. “Honestly, this is not the first time you've undressed a man.” MaeMae looked at her for several moments, then added, “Oh, all right. You go get the underclothes. I think I put them in a box under my bed. Honestly.”

  Joelette bolted out of the room. Her hands usually warm were chilled from the contact with the man’s skin. She needed to finish the job. He would be gone soon enough. And the man’s health was more important than her silly worries. She grabbed a pair of Otis’s homemade boxers along with an undershirts.

  Joelette stared in disbelief when she returned to the room. The man lying on the mattress dominated the room. He wore nothing but a poultice on his head. And she couldn’t pull her eyes away. This was the worst possible moment to decide to appreciate his physique, but it was hard not to admire. He was all long limbs and toned muscle.

  A quiet chuckle escaped MaeMae. “I’ll tell you I liked to have never have pulled his jeans off. His legs go on forever. I ended up cutting off his briefs.” She laughed again. “No way was I going to take that long trip down his legs again. As tall as he is he probably walked through the swamp and stepped over the quicksand.” MaeMae sat back on her feet and looked up at Joelette. “Now take your eyes and put them back in your head and finish dressing him. I'm pooped.”

  Joelette took a deep breath. She could do this. He was just a man and he was hurt and alone. She dried his feet and legs and the little spirals of hair tickled her hands as she moved. Her eyes traveled up to his...oh dear, it had been a while since she’d seen a man’s--.

  Blood rushed up her neck and into her face, and she drew in a deep breath. Get a hold of yourself. She was merely acting a caretaker, she could do this.

  Once she had him bathed and dressed, Joelette stood aside and allowed MaeMae to put the salve on all of his insect bites. Then they rolled him to one side then the other working the plastic sheet out, and finally covered him with a clean white sheet.

  “I think we should leave him to rest now. I will take the first watch, but right now I need a cup of coffee,” MaeMae said.

  Joelette watched her beloved mother-in-law stomp out of the room. It was the only way the woman walked anywhere.

  MaeMae stood five feet in her bare feet and weighed about one hundred pounds soaking wet. She walked with her back straight and wore a long silver braid twisted into a crown on top of her head. She was a kidder by nature, a loving mother figure and a devoted grandmother.

  MaeMae sat beside Joelette on the sofa and patted her hand. The smell of rich dark roast coffee filled the air she lifted the cup to her lips. “You worry too much, Cher. We are in no danger from this man.”

  ###

  After the boys were in bed and MaeMae had checked on her patient, Joelette retired to her room. She folded clothes, and things appeared normal, but she knew that tonight was very different. T-Boy would need new jeans soon, he hadn’t grown much but the wear and tear of a nine-year-old boy was enough.

  She reached into the basket and pulled out the stranger's jeans. The fabric was soft and a comfortable color of blue unlike the stiff fabric the men she knew preferred. Most Cajun men liked them starched and ironed with a crease down the front of each leg. These jeans held no starch yet held their shape and felt expensive. He could wear his own jeans and she would let him have a couple of pairs of Otis's boxers, even though they had fit a little short in the stride. They would work just fine for a while.

  Since his shirt could not be salvaged, something would have to be done. Joelette retrieved two of Otis's denim shirts from the back of her closet. They still had a lot of wear to them. To be on the safe side, she reached in and took one more off a hanger. She ripped apart the three shirts and soon her sewing machine hummed along.

  Minutes ticked away the hours and once again Joelette's sewing took her away from her everyday problems. Three hours later she hand sewed the last button in place. She stood back and admired her job. Two shirts, one long sleeve and one sleeveless hung on hangers.

  The shirts would work nicely.

  Now she could send this man on his way with a clear conscience.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Music.

  A slow and beautiful, yet haunting waltz, drifted in and out of his mind. Willing his eyes to open, he tried to focus, but pain seared through his head forcing him to close them again. He felt himself drifting, floating. Maybe he was dead. Surely there was no pain after death.

  A soft breeze touched his cheek, carrying a sweet, floral scent. Where was he? He forced his eyes to open, shards of white lights shot through his eyes into his head. He wanted to close them again, but the desire to see his location was greater than the pain, so he took a deep breath and tried to focus.

  He found that the pain eased if he held his head still. Moving only his eyes, he surveyed his surroundings. The cobwebs in his mind cleared a little.

  He lay on a firm mattress on the floor covered with a soft sheet. Enduring the pain, he turned his head and looking b
etween his feet he saw a picture of an angel guiding two young children across a bridge hanging on the wall across from him. Blinds on the windows were drawn to conceal the light peeking through the cracks around them. Shadows moved across the tall ceilings lit by a soft glow coming from around and under a closed door. The music, still haunting, played in his head. If this wasn't heaven, it was so peaceful it had to be close. He tried to clear his throat, a raspy cough emerged.

  The music stopped. Footsteps sounded and the door opened. In the doorway stood a beautiful vision. She stood tall and straight with long dark curls that framed her face and shoulders. An angel? Maybe he was dead. The light from the outside showed through her dress revealing a body all women should have. In one hand, she held a fiddle hanging by her side and in the other, a bow.

  “Hello,” the honey smooth voice said. The greeting washed over him with the warmth of sunlight. “How are you feeling?” She walked into the room and laid her instrument on the dresser. Bending down she put her cool slender fingers on his head.

  Coughing he cleared his throat. “I'm fine except for---” He coughed again, wincing against the pain. “My head,” he whispered. “Who are you? Where am I?”

  “Joelette Benoit. And you are in the Basin. Your head hurts because you have a nasty knot on your head.”

  He coughed again, his throat parched. “Water?”

  “Of course. I'll be right back.”

  He watched as she gracefully left the room. “Joelette,” he mouthed. A beautiful name; it fit her perfectly.

  Returning with the water, she bent over him and offered him some out of a spoon. Flashes of blue lights shot into his eyes increasing the pain as he tried to sit. The room began to spin.

  “Don't move too fast,” she said.

  The cool water slid down his parched throat. He looked in eyes the color of dark chocolate, framed by long lashes a deep black color like her hair.

  “Thank you, Joelette.”

  “Now you know my name, why don't you tell me yours? And how you happened to be half dead in my swamp.”

  “My name is...” He cleared his throat to try again. “I’m...” Still no name came to mind. He knew his name. Every sane person knew their name, his chest tightened. The pain in his head returned as blood pulsed in his temples. He felt the painful knot. “I don't--”

  “Shh,” she whispered. “Lie still and I'll get MaeMae.”

  He stared at the ceiling. Focus. Lying very still, he tried desperately to recall his name, his family, his anything. “What the hell is my name?” he whispered. Even his voice sounded foreign to him.

  “Hello, man, sir. You awake?” A small boy, all arms and legs, wearing cut off jeans and a soiled T-shirt entered his sanctuary.

  “Yeah, I'm awake.”

  The small boy's eyes were wide with anticipation, his lips curled in a big grin.

  “Do you live here too, little boy?”

  The boy came to the side of the mattress. “Yes sir. I've lived here forever. Where do you live?” he asked as he knelt down beside the bed.

  “I can't remember.” Putting pressure to his head with his hands, he continued. “I don't know my name.”

  “That's okay. Maybe it's a long name with lots of letters. My name's short. I can member it, cuz my mom taught me how to member it. 'O z a m a e,'“ he sang. “Maybe she can teach you.”

  “Ozamae, what are you doing?” Joelette asked. She walked closer to him. “You were told not to come in here without permission. And look at your shirt. How did you get so dirty?” She gave him a quick hug. “Go play outside. MaeMae is coming in to look him over.”

  “But he can't member his name. Can you, man, sir? I think he needs your help. You can't member, can you?”

  “No son, but I'm working on it.”

  Ozamae eyes widened. “Mom, he called me son.”

  “Go, Ozamae, please don't make me tell you again.” Bending down, Joelette kissed her son’s head. “Go find T-Boy. I'll talk to you in a minute, and you can ask all questions.” Joelette stepped aside for another woman to enter the room.

  A tiny silver-haired elf of a woman bent over him. “We're all very happy to see you awake. I'm going to check you out and see how things are coming. How's that lump on your head?” She peeked under the bandage and clicked her tongue. “Aw, vos tete blesse, yes?”

  She spoke with a thick accent more pronounced than Joelette's or her son's, and a language that he didn’t know. A faint odor of tobacco hung on her clothing mixed with onion.

  “Who are you people? What is this place?” Panic built in his chest and he tried to swallow it. “For God's sake, why am I lying on a mattress on the floor?”

  “Now don't get yourself all excited. My name's Alma Mae Benoit, but everyone around here calls me MaeMae. My daughter-in-law, Joelette, and my two grandsons found you unconscious at the edge of the swamp. You were brought here to our home so I could care for you, until you are strong enough to travel. You’re too big to lift onto the bed so we moved the mattress to the floor.” She popped her hands on her hips and smiled. “The rest I will tell you later, but let's see about getting you up for awhile. Joelette, help me sit him up.”

  He held his hand up. With all his strength he pushed to a sitting position and held on to the side of the mattress while the room spun. He closed his eyes and took deep breaths. Slowly the world steadied and he opened his eyes.

  “Please, you've done enough.” He forced out though quick gulps of breath. He pushed back the sheet and realized he was clad only in boxer shorts that hung loose on his waist and were too short in the stride. The two ladies hovered over him.

  “Please give me back my clothes, and point me toward the bathroom.” Through clenched teeth he said. “I need to shower and remove this smelly thing off my head. And I need privacy.”

  Joelette reached into the dresser and pulled out his jeans and the denim shirt she’d made all folded together with another set of clean underwear, then dropped them on the mattress. “Here you go, mister. I'm glad we've been of service to you. Come on MaeMae, didn’t you hear him, he can take care of himself.”

  Watching the vision storm out of the room he’d felt the cut of her sharp tongue. So she wasn’t an angel after all.

  “Joelette's a little head strong. Cajun woman, you know. She doesn't realize it's your fear and pain talking. Get dressed, take it slow and when you feel like eating, come through that door to the kitchen. I’ll have something hot for you to eat,” MaeMae, said. “The bathroom is behind that door.”

  He pulled himself to a kneeling then standing position. The room started to tilt and he sat down hard in the chair by the bed. Did he live or work around here? Did these people know him? Was he related to them? He grabbed the clothes off the bed, he looked in the waistband of the jeans, 29-34’. That only confirmed he was tall. No other information. The shirt had no labels at all. The denim material appeared worn and faded in spots. What had he been expecting? To have his name written in the labels like a child’s?

  Once in the bathroom, he removed the smelly thing attached to his head and dropped it in the trashcan. The room was small, held a bathtub/shower combo, a sink and a toilet. It was clean, but seemed old. He turned on the water and stepped inside. Leaning against the shower wall, he let the cool water wash over his battered body. If only the water would wash away the confusion in his mind. Maybe he would remember why he was here. Remember his damn name.

  He felt stronger once he was clean and dressed. He left the bathroom and wandered out into the house. A cool breeze pulled him to the screened back door and he stepped out into a back yard with cages filled with small animals and birds. A long legged white crane wondered around the tree-studded yard. A homey place, but strange. Surely he didn’t live here, nothing looked familiar. He swatted a mosquito that bit him on his neck.

  The smell of food called to him and his stomach grumbled in response. He followed the scent and found the kitchen. A long table dominated the center of the room, two benches
flanking either side. The room filled with light streaming in six-foot windows strung across the front of the house.

  MaeMae turned from the stove and rushed to his side.

  “Sit before you fall down. You're pale as a ghost. Of course you have pale skin color anyway but more so now,” she said with a wink. “A bowl of good gumbo can cure just about anything.”

  She set a bowl of dark steaming liquid with little green objects and pieces of meat floating in the bowl. A mound of rice sat in the middle of the liquid resembling a snow-covered mountain. The dish of food smelled great and his stomach rumbled. “Thank you,” he said. He took a spoonful. Warm, earthy flavors mixed with the rice and then the spiciness hit. His lips burned. “This is good. I don't think I've ever eaten this before. It's hot, really hot.”

  “Oh Cher, I'm sorry. I should have warned you, I cook with a lot of cayenne.” She tilted her head. “Do you want me to cook something else?”

  “No, but I could use a glass of water. I like spicy food. Asian I think.” He stared into space. A small piece of a memory, maybe his mind was starting to clear. “Thank you again.”

  He ate in silence while MaeMae stood at the sink and washed dishes. When he was finished he placed the spoon beside his near empty dish and looked at the small kindly women. “Spicy food, not much of a memory but a beginning.”

  MaeMae sat across the table and poured him more water. “Don't worry so much, you'll remember. You had a blow to the head. Tomorrow Joelette will drive you to the doctor. Then you’ll know what's going on in your head.” Concern came over the woman’s face. “I've treated you all I can, Cher. The rest is up to you.”

  When he returned to his room, the mattress lay on the bed and the sheets looked clean and crisp. The blinds were pulled and the windows opened. The curtains swayed in the gentle breeze. The sweet smell from outside drifted through the room like a soothing incense.

  He wanted to ask more questions, but even after the nourishment of the gumbo he felt weak. He removed his clothes and crawled between the cool sheets. How could this be happening? He had so many unanswered questions for his mind to grab a hold of. His insides told him to run and keep on running until he reached his past and this nightmare would end.