by Hattie Mae
CHAPTER FOUR
“Ozamae, get away from that door. Come eat your breakfast. That man will be out soon. T-Boy, hurry you’ll miss the bus.”
“I'm not going to school this morning, Mama.” T-Boy crossed his arms over his chest. “You need me to ride with you to take him to the doctor.”
Joelette looked over at her oldest. “Oh no you’re not. You've missed enough school this year.”
He sat taller on the bench, his little lip held tight to keep it from shaking, fighting hard to hold back tears.
“T-Boy, thank you for wanting to help, I will take care of this. What I need is for you to go to school. Remember how important school is? Now eat your breakfast before the bus driver blows that horn and wakes all the birds.”
The door to the kitchen opened and the man walked stiffly in. “The smell of coffee called me. Do you mind if I have a cup?”
“You look like you feel better. Sit and I'll get you coffee. Breakfast is on the table,” Joelette said. He did look good, color had returned to his face, and he’d shaved. “I see you found the shaving kit I left out for you.”
The man stopped beside Ozamae and held out his hand to shake. “Good morning son, you told me your name yesterday, but I was a little foggy then.”
“He's not your son, and neither am I. You are not our daddy, and we don't want you here,” T-Boy said. He stood up so fast he upset a glass of milk.
“T-Boy, what's gotten into you?” Joelette said as she wiped up the spilled milk. “He just used the word son. People sometimes use that word to refer to a boy, that's all. Now apologize.” When T-Boy said nothing, she urged, “What do you say?”
Glaring at the stranger, T-Boy spat. “I apologize.” Joelette heard him mutter under his breath, “but I'm not sorry.”
“Get your lunch, I'll walk you to the bus.”
With his lunch bag fisted in his hand, he stormed out of the room knocking over his chair as he fled out the front door.
“Please, excuse my son.” She said as she righted the chair. “He really is a very polite boy.” Joelette walked out the door calling T-Boy's name, he was near the end of the road where the bus waited. Would she ever be able to find the once easy-going little boy inside him again? No matter how hard she tried she couldn’t reach him. Otis had seen to that. Now it seemed this stranger was making things worse.
Joelette heard Ozamae’s voice as she stepped back into the house. “You can call me son if you want, but not in front of T-Boy. He gets real mad.”
“Ozamae, honey, why don't you see if MaeMae needs your help feeding all those animals you've brought her. You know One Eye Blanc only eats for you.” She wrapped her arms around her little boy. “I am going to take Mister...” She looked at the man at her table. “I'm sorry, may I call you Mister?”
“Mister is fine for now.”
Turning her attention back to Ozamae, she said, “I'm taking Mister to the doctor today. So say your goodbye now, and when I return, we'll go fishing. Okay?”
“Why can't I go? I'll be good, I promise.”
“Not this time, you promised MaeMae you would help her today.” She gathered her son into another hug. “We keep our promises, remember?”
Ozamae walked to the other side of the table and extended his small hand. “Goodbye Mister, man, sir. I wish you could stay. I know mom would teach you your name.”
Shaking the small hand, the man smiled. “You know you make me forget my troubles?”
Ozamae gave him a big grin.
“Thank you, Ozamae, for finding me and letting me stay in your house. You know what? I like what you just called me, Mansir. That's a strong name. May I use it until I remember my old name?”
“Sure, you can.” Humming, Ozamae skipped out of the house.
Mansir turned his attention to Joelette. “Mrs. Benoit?”
She turned around to avoid his gaze. “I don’t answer to that name, Joelette will do. Your shoes are in the closet with the socks on top.” She shot him a timid smile. “So if you are through with breakfast, we need to go. It's a long drive to the doctor, not in miles, but in my old truck and across the long bridge it takes awhile.” Joelette picked up the dirty dishes with shaking hands and put them in the sink.
“Wait, Mrs. Benoit. I need to apologize for my behavior.”
“Please don't call me Mrs. Benoit. Joelette is my name.” She tilted her head and looked him over. “I know you were confused and hurting.”
“I would like to thank you and MaeMae for taking care of me. She's a good nurse and seems to know healing. Whatever she put on these bites stopped the itching.”
“MaeMae considers healing her calling. She has the gift of a traiteur. She would tell you she does this as an honor.”
“So she's a witch doctor?”
Joelette saw a smile spread across his face and a glint of a sparkle in his eyes. Such remarkable blue eyes. Eyes that you could see deep down but never see the bottom. Smiling eyes. She’d always had a weakness for smiling eyes. She looked away from him then, turned her attention back to the dishes. “No, just a wonderful woman that loves to help others.”
He started to his room. “I'll get my shoes.” He stopped mid-stride. “Do I have anything else?”
“We didn't find anything else around you, I went back the next day but saw nothing, it was as if you fell from the sky.”
“I would like to stop by there, where you found me, if you don’t mind. Maybe it will jar my memory.”
Joelette walked outside on the porch and waited until he joined her. “Why don't you sit on the porch swing while I get the truck from out back.”
Mansir surveyed his surroundings. This place was both eerie and peaceful. The covered porch ran the length of the house and was furnished with assorted chairs, tables and an old wooden porch swing on which he sat. He spotted a pipe and ashtray on a table next to a broken rocker with blue checked cushions. Where were the men? He sat back and made the most of the comfort of the porch. It made no sense he would receive comfort from a swing, but nothing made sense now.
A path snaked from the porch to a small river or some sort of body of dark water. Gigantic trees shaded the yard. Moss hung from the trees like graceful gray dancers, bowing and swaying as they skimmed the ground. A wooden plank deck jutted out into the water with a rowboat tied to one of its rails. The boat bobbed when a fish jumped in the water. Birds called sounding like a fine-tuned orchestra preparing for a performance.
His eyes darted back and forth, trying to take in all the sights at one time. It was beautiful, he could recognize that, but it wasn’t familiar. A breeze drifted by cooling the heat of the morning and with it came a sweet scent. The same smell he remembered the first time he opened his eyes.
The rumbling of an old vehicle shattered his thoughts. Joelette drove up in a very old pick up. Rust and dents held the truck together, accompanied with a few pieces of rags stuffed here and there in rusted out holes, and wires carefully tied the pieces together.
“Ready?” she called as she opened the passenger door that creaked and moaned, begging for oil.
“Yes. How far did you say we had to go?” he asked.
“About thirty miles. It won't take long, if Old Girl cooperates.” Joelette laughed. “Don’t worry, most of the time, I make the trip just fine.”
She moved several sacks of strange-smelling crushed plants so he could unfold his legs. Small clear bags, tied off with a ribbon and a small card held the plants. He picked one up and read, MaeJo's Herbal Teas. The card included the type of tea, a recipe, and whatever ailments the tea cured.
“Do you make and sell much of this tea?”
“Quite a bit,” Joelette turned her attention to the driveway and they were on their way. “Our Mamou Tea has become our best seller, but it's getting harder and harder to find the Mamou Bean. But I'm working on an idea.”
“What is Mamou Tea?”
Joelette shifted the gears on the truck. “Only the best cure you can find for a cold o
r the flu. You crush the bean and boil the powder in water mixed with lemon, sugar and for adults a little whiskey. Drink a couple of cups a day and your cold is gone.”
“Is this what you do for a living?”
“This and sewing. I make a decent income from designing and making original dresses for Mrs. Broussard.” She pushed back her hair, “Mrs. Broussard says nobody can fit her as well as I can. In fact I made that shirt you're wearing. How does it fit?”
Surprised, he touched the soft shirt. “Like a glove. You made this?”
“Well don't act so surprised. I'm good at many things.”
“I bet you are, Joelette.”
Joelette shifted her weight in the truck and squirmed a little in her seat.
“I couldn't let you leave without a shirt, so I took three of Otis’s shirts and made you two. This one and a sleeveless one I packed in that box along with a couple of changes of his underclothes and his socks. Your shirt was ruined and MaeMae had to cut your underclothes off.”
“You undressed me?” he asked.
“Of course, you were out. Cold. Someone had to get you out of those wet, muddy things. So we did.”
“Thank you, I guess. Where is your husband? I’d like to thank him for the use of his clothes.”
“Dead. I don't want to talk about him.” Joelette said. She blew the horn to a man waving both arms above his head from the deck of a houseboat.
“Friend of yours?”
“That's Possum. Our closest neighbor, he’s an old friend.”
“Possum? Does anyone around here have a regular name like Tom, Mary or Bob? Take your son T-Boy’s name. Where on earth did that come from?”
“I wouldn't talk if I were you, Mansir.” A brilliant smile lit her face. He'd witnessed it a couple of times.
“As far as T-Boy's name. It's just a mixture of Cajun language and English. The “T” means small, little, and in fact, it’s a shortened version of petite. MaeMae started calling him that the day he was born and it stuck. His given name is Silas. I doubt he will use it very much. In Louisiana, maybe all over the South, a nickname becomes the person.”
They left the road that ran along the bayou and turned onto a small dirt road that they bounced along for a while stopping at the edge of the swamp.
“See that old tree lying near the water, that’s where the boys found you. If you want to walk out there you will probably get your shoes muddy. Mansir got out of the truck and stared at the spot she’d pointed out, but he made no move to walk toward it. He looked very much like the lost man he was.
He got back in the truck and cleared his throat. “Thank you Joelette, I’d like to come back wearing boots.”
Joelette started the truck they drove in silence, he’d need time to let it all sink in. She turned onto the main highway.
“How in the world do you think I got there? he asked.
“I don’t know, Mansir. You are a very lucky man, you could have died with the number of gators in that swamp.”
“I hadn’t even considered that.” He fell quiet again for a few moments. “You’ve done so much for me. I don’t know how I’ll ever be able to thank you. For the shirts, and I guess my life. I'll pay you back as soon as I can.”
Shifting the gears on the truck she tucked a small smile away under a bowed head. “No thanks needed. You owe us nothing. We're supposed to help one another. Oui?”
“Maybe. I'll pay you somehow.” He said.
He continued to look out his window, again falling quiet. The drive down the highway proved to be hot and rough.
She glanced at the scenery off the low bridge, trying to imagine what it must look like to this stranger. The trees stood out in the swamp like majestic giants as if they’d been jammed in the water. Water lilies and other water flowers spread out in such an array of colors, it would make a painter's palette pale in comparison. Fishermen in small boats cast their lines into the water with such artful flicks of their wrists, it looked as graceful as a ballet. Large white cranes, like the one left to roam in her yard, graced the waters edge.
The truck tires bumped over a small rise in the payment and they drove onto a bridge that went on for miles.
“That's Whisky Bay. It leads into the Atchafalaya River, then the Mississippi down to the Gulf of Mexico.”
“You love this place, don't you?” Mansir asked.
“Yes, I do. From the moment Otis brought me here, I was in awe of the silent beauty. The land is so ready to give. Of course, like everywhere, people are greedy. Too many man-made canals were dug so the large companies could access the oil. The Basin is losing land each year.” She moved forward in the seat and pointed low in the sky. “Look, there, an eagle. They nest all along the Basin.”
Mansir twisted his neck and leaned over—almost touching her head—to view the eagle. “Wow,” he said in a whisper. “How do you know so much about this place if you were not raised here?”
“When I moved here from north Louisiana and saw the surroundings and met the people, I had to know all about my new home. So I checked out books from the library.”
“How do people make a living here? It looks so desolate.”
“We don't need much. We live a simple life with modest means. The swamps give us plenty of seafood and fowl, and the land's rich and fertile for growing just about anything.” Everyone helps each other, like people did in the beginning.” Joelette shook her head and muttered, “Sometimes it’s like time has stood still here in Bon Amie.”
She turned off the main road and the truck backfired with a puff of black smoke. They drove onto the downtown street. Joelette pointed to the storefronts. “Anything look familiar?”
“The town seems like any small town I’ve been in, but nothing stands out to me,” he said.
Joelette slowed the truck down to twenty-five as she turned onto the main street. There was Potters, the clothing store, which butted up to the discount dollar store, which butted up to an office building. Both sides of the street were filled with Mom and Pop stores, and a sprinkle of chain stores. She parked in front of an old stately Victorian house with a sign that read ‘Dr. Adams,’ Joelette turned off the truck.
“Here we are,” she announced. “Old Dr. Adams has been MaeMae's family doctor for years. He delivered T-Boy.” She stepped out of the car. “Things went too fast for Ozamae. MaeMae delivered him. Ready?” Lord have mercy, but she rambled sometimes.
CHAPTER FIVE
Mansir's heart beat faster and his hands shook as he grabbed the door handle. It was cold to the touch, much as the ice water running through his veins. “The sooner I know what's going on, the sooner I can fix the problem.” His legs trembled as he walked into the doctor’s office.
Dr. Adams sported a short rotund body with a tuft of white hair on either side of his head. His eyes filled with concern and humor. He appeared to be in his sixties. He extended his hand to Mansir for a shake, his grip strong. “Have a seat, young man. Boy, they grow them tall where you come from.” He didn't wait for an answer; instead he turned his attention to Joelette. “My, my, you sure get prettier every day.”
Joelette related the story of finding Mansir to the doctor who listened, never taking his eyes off of Mansir.
When she was finished, Dr. Adams took Joelette's hand. “I think this young man and I have a few things to discuss. This exam will take a little while. Don't you have something to do in town?”
“Yes I do,” she said, her face flush with relief. She headed for the door. “I'll be back after I make a delivery to the health food store.” Her speech quickened as she turned the knob.
A slow spreading cold sweat seeped through Mansir. Alone. He realized her familiar face calmed him.
“Okay son, let's see what is going on in your head.” Dr. Adams smiled reassuringly.
The doctor checked his vitals, then the discolored lump on his forehead. “Looks like MaeMae used one of her poultices on you.” He nodded. “That helped. You have virtually no swelling.”
> He ran several tests and a couple of x-rays, and then asked what seemed like a million questions. Finally he was led to the doctor's office.
Mansir inhaled, the smell of medication and lemon oil mixed together.
“You’re in good physical health, but there is a problem we need to discuss.” Dr. Adams excused himself to retrieve something from the other room. Mansir waited for the bad news.
“The nurse said Doc wants to talk to both of us,” Joelette said as she walked into the office and slid into the chair beside Mansir.
Dr. Adams came in and shut the door behind him and leaned on his old wooden desk cluttered with papers. He removed his small half glasses, and cleaned them with a tissue. He perched his glasses on the end of his nose and searched Mansir's face. The doctor seemed to be weighing his words.
“There is no way to sugar coat this, and I suspect you’d not want it any way but straight. You have a form of amnesia called retrograde.”
The doctor picked up a small paperweight and turned it over and over in his hand. “Your amnesia was more than likely caused by that blow to your head and perhaps some emotional trauma. In most cases, amnesia is temporary, but in a few cases it can be permanent. There's no way to know which way your case will go. You could wake up tomorrow and remember everything or you could start to remember bits and pieces of your life.”
Mansir tried to process what the doctor told him and the things that were happening. His rigid back pressed against the straight back chair as he listened to the doctor.
Dr. Adams took a deep breath. “Or the worst case, you might never remember any of your past,” he said slowly, as if selecting his words carefully.
Dr. Adams' voice continued as if in a vacuum. The words ran into each other, merging into a slow slur. Mansir tried to take a deep breath but it was as if someone had knocked all the air out of his lungs.
