“Polly,” she said, briskly. “Put on the kettle, won’t you, dear? I’ll make a tea to draw out the heat further. And then we’ll have some chamomile for compresses, with plenty of extra for your sachets, dear.”
Cornelius listened to Judy’s orders and Polly’s replies, to the sound of the water being poured, to Natty’s prattle and David’s gurgles, to Oliver’s footfalls on the uneven floor. He listened, waiting for Judy to speak his name.
When she gently laid the first cloth on his forehead, Cornelius released his breath and felt her startle. The next applications were more businesslike, with a quick pat, as though he were a dog.
“Cornelius,” she said, briskly. “Cornelius, you must sit up and drink the infusion while it is still hot enough to do you some good.”
He lifted his head to receive the scalding spoon. After a few mouthfuls, he felt the heat rise in him and kicked away the blanket.
“No,” she said, tucking it tightly around his legs. “You must sweat more, not less. The tea is doing its work. Lie still.”
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Polly watched the two of them closely, but they had settled into their roles as nurse and patient and she doubted there would be any more clues forthcoming. Finally Polly’s hunger for company overwhelmed her curiosity and she began a detailed comparison of the differences between Natty and David as babies, wondering why one boy was such a good sleeper and the other such an easy feeder, and how it was that Natty turned out to be blond but David’s hair was darker than Oliver’s.
Polly had a dozen questions for Judy, too. When should she approach Mrs. Stiles about sewing her second daughter’s trousseau, and had everyone had a time with their beans that summer or had she done something wrong? Finally she dropped her voice and asked, “Is it true that Mrs. Cook is at death’s door?”
“Heavens, no. She is sick, but Martha is not dying. Is that the gossip? How awful,” Judy said. “She suffers terribly from the calomel, and I worry that the cure may be the death of her. But she is still very much with us.
“As for the rest of your questions, I am out of the house so little, I have no news to report about Mrs. Stiles or anyone else.” Polly’s disappointment prompted Judy to recount the tale of the Cooks’ new young serving girl who was so inconsolable about being separated from her mother and sisters that she had run away twice. Judge Cook himself had gone to fetch her the second time.
Cornelius heard the bile in Judy’s mouth whenever she mentioned the Judge, and wondered what he’d done to earn her enmity. Behind closed eyes, he waited for her to speak to him again, to say “Cornelius” as she used to. But now he
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would answer her. He would say, “Yes, Judy.” He would do anything she wished.
He lay on his back, swaddled and sweating, and
imagined himself telling her all the stories he knew that she would have liked to hear from him. He remembered the way he’d said nothing when she told him about her mother-less childhood. He was still ashamed about that. He should have set aside his pride, or whatever it was that kept him from confidi
ng in her, and admitted that he was fortunate by comparison; after all, Cornelius did remember his mother’s love and care, and that was no small thing.
Their life had not been easy, but they had not lived so differently from their masters, with whom they had shared the same four rooms, eaten the same bland food at the same plank table, scratched at the same mosquitoes in the summer, and shivered in the same winter drafts.
Judy would have treated the stories about his mother like treasures. But Cornelius had not trusted Judy at first, and then he’d been afraid. Years of shame had followed, and now he was a poor, crippled, old black man. His boyhood stories would be burdens, not gifts.
Noticing his furrowed brow under the beading sweat, Judy applied one last compress.
“How fares the patient?” Oliver asked.
“I believe he will recover,” she said, gathering her things. “This is a passing fever. I doubt that it had anything to do with the knee. I’ve done as much as I can do for tonight.”
“Come back soon,” Polly whispered so as not to wake Natty, who was asleep on her lap.
“I promise.” Judy blew her a kiss.
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