Under the quivering fog, Angeline labored in her garden, hilling a row of potatoes, a melody whisking from her lips, the May air tossing her loose hair. Beyond, gusts of spring winds brushed tips of a mustard patch and the waist-high stickweed beyond. Near the porch, a sagging clothesline hung limp between a tall post and a thick tree. Another breeze skittered past the dingy soaked sheets and raggedy clothing, dipping low and sweeping the laundry across the raw earth.
She stood and wiped stained hands on her skirts when she heard Junia’s greeting.
“Bluet!” Angeline ran to us, nearly tripping over her long, muddied skirts, splashing barefoot through puddles and kicking up muck. “Junia,” she cried and planted a kiss on the mule’s velvet muzzle, pulled a small carrot from her pocket, and gave it to her.
I dropped to the ground and handed the straps to Angeline. She tethered Junia to the post.
“Is the doc comin’? We’s been looking for him every day.” Angeline asked with a rise in her voice on the coming, slipping her hand into her pockets and plucking out a homemade doll. “Look what I’ve made for baby Honey.”
It was a tiny, faceless doll made from corn husks, its dress a scrap of orchid fabric Angeline had torn from her own skirts.
“It’s mighty pretty.” I pulled out her seeds I’d wrapped in cheesecloth. “Doc’s really busy, Angeline. I’m sorry.”
She took them and stared at the package for the longest time, a fright piling onto her pale sweaty face. “But Willie’s got the bad fever now,” she barely whispered, stuffing Honey’s new doll back into her own pocket, her eyes shimmering. “I hain’t been able to cool it none.”
I fetched her The Tale of Mrs. Tittlemouse and the health pamphlet. “Angeline, I’ve got something else—”
“A bad fever,” she said and walked away, shaking her head. At the bottom of the rickety porch, she dropped the seeds in the mud and disappeared inside the cabin.
“Angeline,” I called after her, fishing inside my bags for the medicines. I hurried up the wobbly stones and high-stepped over the tall, scratchy weeds poking through the rotted planks. Pushing open the door, I peeked inside and softly said her name. Steam rose from a pot atop the stove. Scents of simmering wild grasses hung thick in the shanty.
Angeline knelt on the floor next to the bed, face buried in the covers atop Mr. Moffit, sobbing quietly, her tiny shoulders racked with grief and heartbreak. At the head of the bed, a homemade calendar that Angeline had fashioned from a worm-eaten board dangled against the bedpost. She’d carved out HONEY at the top. A scratch of berry-inked X’s marked down the days until her baby’s arrival.
“Angeline,” I called quietly again, going over to her side. “Don’t worry none. I brought medicine. Look.”
Mr. Moffit groaned in his sleep, and the bedcovers slipped from his leg, showing his wound. The foot was angry red, pocked with yellowish-green pus, a festering sore that seemed to swallow most of his foot. The stink of infection wafted up, watering my eyes, roiling sickly in my belly.
Angeline stood and swept a hard hand across her damp cheekbones.
“I have willow bark for his fever”—I showed her—“and we can clean his foot with this alcohol wash.” I pushed the bottles into her hand. “Then you can dress it twice a day with a layer of honey and bandage it with this roll. Here’s some laudanum for his rest.”
Angeline laid them gently at the foot of the bed, studying the treasures, gliding her dirty fingers over the bottles, while tears streamed from her eyes. She took a shaky breath, suddenly gasped, and clutched my hand to her belly.
“Oh, oh. Feel that? Honey’s happy she’ll have herself a pa,” she exclaimed, her bright eyes widening.
I felt the baby’s strong rolling kick and then released Angeline’s hold. “Let’s get that busted foot fixed,” I said. Together we went to work, Angeline happily chattering about the baby, the future, and the town’s Fourth of July picnic Mr. Moffit promised to take her to.
I boiled the willow and made a tea, then took a pan of water with a rag over to the bed to begin cleaning the wound. But when I lifted Mr. Moffit’s leg, he roused awake and cursed me.
“Dammit, don’t touch me,” he bit, raising his head before collapsing back onto the bed.
“Willie, shush,” Angeline said. “Bluet is going to make you better.”
“No, no.” He coughed. “Ain’t having a colored touch me an’ bring more infection.”
“Willie!” Angeline said sharply. “Don’t be ornery!”
I backed away and shifted my eyes to the floor.
“Bluet,” Angeline said, “he don’t mean it none. It’s the fever—”
“Ain’t having it.” Mr. Moffit barked me back farther, and I stumbled over a boot.
I glanced at him and saw the fear on his face. His fear looked a lot like hatred, or something ugly that had rooted in him and his kin long before me. I turned my head. “Be well, Mr. Moffit.”
“Oh, Bluet, he hain’t hisself—” Angeline cried out with an outstretched hand.
“Don’t forget to clean it with the alcohol before you put on the dressing,” I whispered and quickly took my leave.