Chinaberry by James Still Page A

Bent Y Ranch came about. Presently I would get sleepy. Anson would lift me into his lap and drawLurie closer. Once he ascertained I was asleep, he would place me in Lurie's lap, and depending on how her hair was groomed for the day, unloose the plait or withdraw the hairpins and combs, put them in his shirt or pajama pockets, or hang them on the loops of the porch-swing chains. I had not always succumbed to slumber when this last happened.
    For those hot nights, we slept on fresh sheets and pillowcases, our heads on pillows sweetened by the sun. The nightshirts first made for me had been replaced by pajamas modeled on Anson's. Not long after, they noticed that for several nights I had waked dripping with perspiration, pajamas sweated through. Despite her training as a nurse, it did not occur to Lurie to check my temperature. Then she remembered that my regular naps were lasting the afternoon through. I lay abed in the morning even after my face and hands had been washed. So something was wrong with me.
    Lurie finally put a thermometer in my mouth on a Saturday morning. It read 102 degrees. After cooling the instrument and trying again, she got the same reading. The thermometer was then inserted anally. I was 102 at both ends. Anson was alarmed.
    The grippe was unlikely in hot weather, but there were typhoid and dengue fever to consider, not to mention Rocky Mountain spotted fever. During all their searches, they'd never discovered a tick on me. Dengue was common in low-lying East Texas, in swampy areas of the coast, and had occurred when visitors brought it with them from Mississippi and Louisiana. There hadn't been a typhoid case in Inman or Robertson counties for five years. Who could say what I might have picked up sleeping on lumber piles, in churchyards, and on damp ground while crossing from Alabama? Or brought with me from home?
    Everything went by the boards. Anson called the doctor's office in Bluewater to be certain he was in and to announce we were on our way. He called the Towerhouse and ordered that Ernest be found wherever he might be and sent to meet us at the office. If it was not known where Ernest was at the moment, all available hands were to search for him. Lurie undressed me and placed me in the tub for a quick bath. Hurriedly clothed, Anson grabbed me up, without socks or shoes, and fairly ran to the Overland car. My feet would not touch the ground that whole day. I was placed in Lurie's lap, and the car sprang out of the yard. Before we reached the mailbox, Lurie realized that Anson was in no condition to drive. She had him pull off, and they exchanged places. Anson buried his face against my neck and kept murmuring, “You'll be all right. You'll be all right.”
    They had not far to seek Ernest. He had been in the horse barn grooming a mare. He, Anson's mother, and Bronson were sitting in the waiting room when we arrived. For Ernest to witness my being carried was embarrassment enough, and when the doctor summoned Anson into his office for prior consultation, he plunked me into Ernest's lap. I would have been willing to die on the spot rather than this.
    â€œFeeling bad, Skybo?” Ernest asked, feigning not to be worried. I shut my eyes, trying to imagine myself elsewhere. I could not. How Cadillac and Rance would laugh at this scene. As if he read my mind, Ernest said, “We won't let the Knuckleheads in on this, will we?”
    I nodded with gratitude.
    The doctor would see me alone. Anson left the examining room with protests, but he left.
    The doctor knew of me already. Anything that happened at Chinaberry, or to do with the Winters family, became common knowledge. My temperature had retreated to 100 degrees.
    â€œSore here?” he asked, pressing my stomach.
    No.
    My knee jerk was normal.
    â€œDo you want to go home?” he asked.
    I didn't reply. Instead, tears flooded my eyes. The doctor handed me a paper handkerchief to dry them before he opened the door to admit Anson. I