Page 75 - Fever 1793

Plump-cheeked twins stormed Eliza as soon as she crossed the threshold. “These are the boys.” She hugged them tightly before disentangling herself from four arms. “We have company,” she said. “This is Mattie, my friend from the coffeehouse. And Mattie’s little friend, Nell. Mattie, this is Robert and this is William.”
The boys peered shyly at me, then hid their faces in Eliza’s skirts. Nell mimicked them, hiding her face in my neck. If I didn’t set her down soon, my arms were going to snap off at the shoulder.
“Is that you, Eliza?” A tiny woman leaning on a cane slowly made her way into the room. Snow- colored hair framed a deeply-lined face the color of aged mahogany. She looked to be the oldest person I had ever seen. The woman walked straight to me and poked my arm.
“Who’s this?” she demanded.
As Eliza explained, the old woman harrumphed and snorted.
“So you’ve got to feed them, too?” she asked.
“No, Ma’am. Eliza doesn’t have to feed me,” I protested, although that’s exactly what I was hoping
Eliza would do. “We came across each other in the course of our errands. I’ll need to go home soon. And Nell...” I wasn’t sure how to end that sentence.
The old woman shook her head. “You don’t leave until you’ve eaten. I’ve seen brooms with more meat on them. The stew is hot, Eliza, and you still have bread and turnips. I’ll come again in the morning.” She turned in the doorway and pointed a finger twisted with work and age at the boys.
“No trouble from you two. Let your papa sleep and mind Eliza, or I’ll send a ghost after you.” The boys stared with wide eyes and nodded. The old woman chuckled as she walked out, her cane heavy on the floor. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. We’ll see if the wagon from Lititz comes on time. Never thought the day would come when I wished I worked a farm again.”
Her voice faded as she made her way down to the street, one slow step at a time. The boys stared at the closed door.
“That was Mother Smith,” Eliza told me. “Don’t worry, children, she won’t send any ghosts. Who wants to help me with Papa’s supper?”
The stew in the kettle was made for four, not six. Eliza ladled out a full portion into my bowl, but I poured half of it back.
“I don’t need all of this, Eliza. The boys should eat so they don’t take sick.”
Eliza looked at me closely. “Hmmm,” she said. “Could be you’re right.”
She took a bowl of soup in to her brother Joseph and left me at the table with the children. Nell let me
unwind her from my neck when she realized a bowl of soup was for her. She sat on my lap and stared at Robert and William. They slurped up their soup and stared back. I thought they might be close to the same age. A plan began forming in my mind, but I quickly shushed the thought. I didn’t have time to dream or plan. I would deal with each hour as it came, one step at a time.
The bustle of the family’s evening—clearing away, washing up, getting the boys ready for bed— pushed away all thoughts of the fever for a few hours. Nell fell asleep in my lap shortly after dinner and didn’t wake when I laid her on a soft quilt that Eliza spread on the floor. When the boys were finally asleep and Joseph was resting comfortably, Eliza set two chairs by an open window, handed me a mug of lemonade, and motioned for me to sit down.
“Matilda Cook, it is time for the truth. You stay right there on that chair until you tell me what happened—everything.”
I never could keep anything from Eliza. The story slid out with all the details: being abandoned on the road, struggling to care for Grandfather, getting the fever. The garden. The intruders. Grandfather’s death. Talking about him brought back the tears.
“I did everything wrong, Eliza! I couldn’t make a decent meal for Grandfather. I knew he wasn’t well, his face was so red. I should have done something—chased the intruders out, or better yet, not been such