Then I saw my father’s large, square hand go up in the air, saw it come down hard against the side of my mother’s face, heard the sound of her weeping, as I tried to step into Drew’s line of vision and hold her and her cat against my body, hold the three of us tightly together outside the unrelieved sound of my mother’s weeping.
&
nbsp; Three hours later, her car went through the railing on the bridge over the Atchafalaya River. I dreamed that night that an enormous brown bubble rose from the submerged wreck, and when it burst on the surface, her drowned breath stuck against my face as wet and rank as gas released from a grave.
That fall I began to feel sick all the time, as though a gray cloud of mosquitoes were feeding at my heart. During recess at school I didn’t play with the other children and instead hung about on the edges of the dusty playground or, when Brother Daniel wasn’t looking, slipped around the side of the old redbrick cathedral and sat by myself on a stone bench in a bamboo-enclosed, oak-shaded garden where a statue of Mary rested in a grotto and camellia petals floated in a big goldfish pond. Sometimes Sister Roberta was there saying her rosary.
She was built like a fire hydrant. Were it not for the additional size that the swirl of her black habit and the wings of her veil gave her, she would not have been much larger than the students in her fifth-grade class. She didn’t yell at us or hit our knuckles with rulers like the other nuns did, and in fact she always called us “little people” rather than children. But sometimes her round face would flare with anger below her white, starched wimple at issues which to us, in our small parochial world, seemed of little importance. She told our class once that criminals and corrupt local politicians were responsible for the slot and racehorse machines that were in every drugstore, bar, and hotel lobby in New Iberia, and another time she flung an apple core at a carload of teenagers who were baiting the Negro janitor out by the school incinerator.
She heard my feet on the dead oak leaves when I walked through the opening in the bamboo into the garden. She was seated on the stone bench, her back absolutely erect, the scarlet beads of her rosary stretched across the back of her pale hand like drops of blood. She stopped her prayer and turned her head toward me. Fine white hair grew on her upper lip.
“Do you feel sick again, Billy Bob?” she asked.
“Yes, Sister.”
“Come here.”
“What?”
“I said come here.” Her hand reached out and held my forehead. Then she wiped the moisture off her palm with her fingers. “Have you been playing or running?”
“No, Sister.”
“Has your father taken you to a doctor?”
I didn’t answer.
“Look at me and answer my question,” she said.
“He don’t—he doesn’t have money right now. He says it’s because I had the flu. He boiled some honey and onions for me to eat. It made me feel better. It’s true, Sister.”
“I need to talk to your father.”
She saw me swallow.
“Would he mind my calling him?” she asked.
“He’s not home now. He works all the time.”
“Will he be home tonight?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Who takes care of you at night when he’s not home?”
“A lady, a friend of his.”
“I see. Come back to the classroom with me. It’s too windy out here for you,” she said.
“Sister, you don’t need to call, do you? I feel okay now. My father’s got a lot on his mind now. He works real hard.”
“What’s wrong in your house, Billy Bob?”
“Nothing. I promise, Sister.” I tried to smile. I could taste bile in my throat.
“Don’t lie.”
“I’m not. I promise I’m not.”