Pamela Morsi (18 page)

Aida, of course, had been unable to locate
her work gloves that morning. Felicite had allowed her to borrow a
worn pair of Jean Baptiste's. The extra padding kept her hands
safe, but made her clumsier than usual in working with the cotton.
She worked half as fast as any woman present and she was more than
mildly embarrassed by the fact.

"And so I simply told him," Madame Doucet
related to the group in general and Felicite specifically, "a
healthy girl and a pair of sons, twins no less, that should be
enough for any man." Madame Doucet's florid face was stern in
expression. "I said, you, monsieur, just take yourself up into the
garconniere for nightly rest. And don't you come back down to my
bed until I'm past my prime."

Yvonne Hebert, Laron's sister, leaned close
to Aida and whispered into her ear. "He must be back down by now,
don't you think?"

Aida disguised her giggle with a cough and
covered her smile with her heavily gloved hand.

She had felt a little uncomfortable when
Yvonne sat down next to her. Although she had yet to make her
decision, as each day passed she became more and more certain that
Laron Boudreau would never be her husband.

"Father Denis says that a woman should bear
every child she is able," Madame Benoit said.

There was a murmur of concern among the
women.

Orva Landry snorted. "What does a fat man
with no family understand about feeding a houseful of empty bellies
every winter?"

The women of Prairie l'Acadie were devoted to
Church and faith, but they also were pragmatic. The lines between
the secular and the spiritual were not always clearly defined, but
the practical solutions to problems inevitably won out in their
lives.

"Are there not herbs or charms that ward off
pregnancy?" young Madame Pujol asked.

"There is pennyroyal," Orva answered. "Though
it's not a thing I would recommend. It will kill you just as
likely. The only certain way is to keep to yourself."

The older women nodded in agreement.

"Well there must certainly be something,"
Estelle LeBlanc suggested. "Something perhaps the Germans know.
The veuve allemande has borne no children since her husband
left."

Beside her Aida heard Madame Hebert gasp.
With great care she put an expression of studied curiosity upon her
face. She glanced around and, as she expected, every eye was
looking her way. Aida smiled at them. Being known as slightly
scatterbrained and forever flighty did have its advantages.

"I hope you are not asking me!" she said with
a little giggle. "It is true that I do grow a few herbs and
flavorings, but I don't even try to keep in my head what they are
or what they are for."

There was no audible sigh of relief, but Aida
could feel the tension within the room ease. Of course they would
believe that she was too dumb to know. Too silly to realize what
every person on the river knew; that her fiancé was involved with
another woman.

She glanced across at Ruby, who was gazing at
her with a puzzled expression. Fortunately she had the good sense
not to speak what was on her mind. Of course it was certain that
these women would think Ruby even more stupid than Aida
herself.

"Yes Aida, I heard you sent catmint for
Madame Sonnier," Orva said with a gesture toward Felicite.

Aida was partially grateful for the change of
subject, but shriveled slightly under the scrutiny of Madame
Landry. The older woman, who routinely spoke with the voices and
could probably see right into a person's mind, was giving her a
serious, lengthy perusal.

"Monsieur Sonnier told me of her troubles. I
thought it might help the swelling," she said gently. She clasped
her hands together in the heavy men's gloves to keep them from
shaking. "And I sent arrowroot to build up her strength. I ... I
thought that would be what you would do."

"Indeed it is," Orva answered. "I arrived
here this very morning with a parcel of catmint, some arrowroot, a
dripping of holy water and birthing sachet." The old woman leaned
forward a bit more, continuing to gaze at Aida. "It was good to
know that dear Felicite had already begun her treatment."

"Poor Jean Baptiste," Felicite said, shaking
her head. "I have been so uncomfortable and disagreeable with this
one." She rubbed her heavily rounded belly lovingly. "You would
think I would be used to it by now. The fourth one should be as
easy as snapping beans. But I have been so cross and grumbling. I
declare that my husband has been nearly a saint to put up with
me."

Orva spoke evenly. "Each birthing is
different. Nothing from the last can prepare you for the next. From
each child we are taught different lessons. Some things can never
be taken for granted."

"Yes, of course you are right," Felicite
agreed easily. "I will just be grateful when it is over.
Undoubtedly Jean Baptiste will be, too. I'm so puffed up, I wonder
that he can recognize me!"

Orva patted Felicite's hand. "His eyes may
not, but his heart always will," she said.

Then, surprisingly, she turned the attention
toward Aida once more.

"I am pleased that you have an interest in
herbs, young woman," the old treater said. "Why am I just now to
know of it?"

"I never thought it worth mentioning," Aida
said.

Orva huffed with disdain, then added with wry
humor, "Must I wait for the voices to tell me everything?"

The other women stared askance, none daring
to find amusement in anything about the voices.

Aida flushed with embarrassment. "There is
nothing to tell, Madame Landry," she said. "Herbs are merely a
pass-a-time for me."

"Merely a pass-a-time?"

"Yes, Madame."

Nervously Aida tried to occupy her hands with
the cotton but continued to fumble. One boll shot out of her hand
as she tried to crack it and hit Madame LeBlanc squarely upon her
ample bosom.

"Oh I do beg your pardon” Aida apologized,
horrified.

Orva gazed at her intently. "Do you know how
old I am?" she asked.

Aida was startled.

"Why no," she answered, wondering if she
should hazard a guess. "No, Madame, I do not."

"And I am not about to tell you," Orva
replied tartly. "It's almost a sin against God to be able to count
that high."

There was a titter of laugher around the
circle.

"I am old enough, young lady, that it would
not be an unholy expectation to anticipate seeing me laid out in a
shroud."

Aida swallowed nervously. Surely she was not
supposed to respond to that.

"And when I am cleaned and wrapped and put to
ground," she continued, "who among these women will treat the
ills?"

The room was suddenly very quiet. To Aida's
dismay, every eye now looked upon her with both skepticism and
hope.

"Not me, Madame," Aida assured her
hastily.

"I have been waiting forty years for a woman
to take an interest in the herbs," Orva said. "I admit that I would
never have thought that woman to be you." Madame Landry shook her
head in wonder. "But the ways of grace are mysterious."

"Aida Gaudet as a treater?" Madame Doucet
whispered the words in shocked disbelief.

The rustle of murmurs went through the group
as the women sought to accustom themselves to the idea. Orva
Landry's gaze on Aida never wavered.

"I ... I could not do it, Madame Landry," she
said.

"And why not?"

"It is a calling, not a pursuit," she
said.

Orva waved that away. " 'Many are called but
few are chosen,'" she quoted.

"The ... the voices have never spoken to me."
Aida hesitated to even mention them aloud.

"And why should they with me still living?"
she asked.

Aida felt her anxiety and embarrassment
growing.

"I am not smart," she admitted, lowering her
eyes. "It shames me to say it, but you all know the truth. I could
never be trusted with such a responsible task."

Orva hooted with laughter. The sound brought
Aida's head up sharply. She was not alone. Every occupant in the
room was staring startled at the old woman.

"Heaven does have a sense of humor," Madame
Landry said, still chuckling. She directed her comments to those
around her. "Here sits the most beautiful female this old woman has
ever beheld. And what does she feel?" Orva continued to chuckle.
"She is distraught because she is not much for wit. Around her the
rest of us, all prideful in what we perceive, would trade, each and
every one of us, for a fraction of this young woman's beauty."

There was a sputtering of high-minded
dissension among the group. But not one woman contradicted Madame
Landry's words.

"Heaven has disguised you from me," Orva
said. "I am not the only one who has need of a lesson in
humility."

No one knew to whom she referred, but there
was no ignoring the inference of her words. Aida continued to
shake her head in disagreement.

"I could never do it," she insisted with
certainty.

"You have done it," Orva said. "You have done
it for Madame Sonnier and I will teach you to do it for
others."

Aida's heart was pounding with wild anxiety.
"As long as you are here for me to ask," Aida agreed. "Then I could
follow your orders. But after you are gone? Oh, Madame, how could I
remember? I cannot remember where I left my gloves or which day is
Wednesday or even to cook supper each night for my poppa!"

The truth of that statement stopped the
discussion. Aida was flighty and featherheaded. Everybody knew
that. She couldn't remember where to find the beans, much less when
to put them on the fire. She would never be able to keep in her
silly brain all the cures and charms necessary for the welfare of
the people in the parish.

"Armand could write them down."

The surprise statement came from
Felicite.

"What?" Orva's interest was piqued.

"While you apprentice Aida as treater," she
said. "You must keep Armand with you. He can write down in words
all the mixes and spells."

"But a man can't be a treater," Madame
Marchand pointed out.

"And he won't be," Felicite said. "Aida will
be treater and when she can't remember what to do, Armand can read
it to her."

"All the cures written down in words?" Madame
Doucet wasn't certain.

"After you are gone," Felicite said,
indicating Madame Landry. "After Aida is gone, even after Armand
is gone, the words would still be there. My Gaston is learning to
read the words," she admitted proudly. "Other boys will learn, too.
They can read them for the next treater and the next and next."

"The men write down laws and contracts,"
Madame Hebert piped in. "Why should not the women have those things
important to us kept in ink and paper?"

Orva was nodding thoughtfully. "Writing it
down. Having Armand write it all down. Yes, that would work," she
said. "That would work very well indeed."

Outside of the hulling bee, standing along
the riverbank in a dripping rain, the menfolk cast their fishing
lines. It was a women's occasion. And it was not so much that the
men felt unwelcome as they just felt unnecessary. They were
expected to load, unload, transport, and carry. But when females
got an opportunity to sit together, the farmers were supposed to
make themselves scarce. A small fire pit blazed under the
protecting limbs of a lilas parasol. A pot of strong black coffee
was the only comfort being afforded.

Armand watched the end of his cane pole with
a substantive concentration that could have snapped it in two. He'd
already caught a stringer's length of fish that morning, but he had
no heart for the sport this day. All around him he heard
light-hearted conversations in which he did not participate. His
mind was troubled.

Laron continued to be reluctant to go ahead
with his wedding plans. He still insisted that he would have Helga
or no one. Armand wanted to support his decision, but he could not.
Not with his brother's happiness in jeopardy. Not with Jean
Baptiste still sleeping in the garconniere.

Aida Gaudet was much too dangerous for that.
He'd nearly gotten into an argument with his brother the day they
had caught her doing laundry. Armand remembered well his own
reaction. He'd gotten hard as a stone just looking at her that day.
And when he had waded in to stand beside her, it had been all he
could do to keep himself from reaching out to touch the white skin
on her arm, the loose lock of hair on her cheek. She was beautiful,
desirable, and almost available. For any man that was a temptation.
For one suffering a weakness in his marriage, it could be a damning
combination.

Jean Baptiste continued to sing her praises
while sighing with disappointment about Felicite.

"What is wrong with her face?" Jean Baptiste
had asked Armand just this morning.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Felicite's face," his brother continued.
"Her cheeks and neck are so fat, she looks as if she's gotten
bee-stung."

She did look bad, Armand couldn't deny that.
But pregnancy and vanity were not a good mix. Jean Baptiste should
be looking at her through a haze of love.

But any haze cleared when the lovely Aida was
helped out of her pirogue, showing an unmannerly amount of bare
leg, Armand thought. And giggling about forgetting her gloves. What
kind of woman went to a hulling bee with no gloves? The answer was
simple, a woman who was more interested in being seen than in doing
any work.

Aida Gaudet was silly, superficial, and
useless compared to Felicite. And Jean Baptiste couldn't keep his
eyes off her. It was frightening. Terrifying. If only Armand could
speak up to him directly, man to man, and say, "Don't do this to
your wife!" But he was afraid. Look at the mess careless words had
already gotten him into. If he pointed things out to him, the
situation might even get worse.