YELLOWJACK
By F.J. Wilson
New Orleans
1878
Annette
awakened in her own filth and tried to look around the room. Her mouth was dry and strands of hair
were stuck to the roof of her mouth with some glued to her forehead. Her damp nightgown was clinging to her frail
body, but the fever was gone and she could see bright light through the closed
shutters of her bedroom. She vaguely remembered
the men coming down the hall carrying the last member of her family on a stretcher. She would carry the image of her father’s once
strong arm swinging lose under the sheet as the tired men carried him out to
the wagon loaded with the bodies of friends and neighbors. She’d had funerals for her mama and the
twins, but by the time her Uncles died, she had to pay a man to leave their
bodies at the gates to the cemetery with a note to put them in the big family
crypt. Annette nursed her grandmother,
but then took sick. The last she
remembered of her sweet grandmother was her father’s begging the men with the
stretcher to be careful with his mother, as she was fragile. Annette must have outlived the yellow jack, but
was it a blessing or a curse? She
outlived it only to be left alone at sixteen in a house once full of joie de vivre, but now full of la mort
et la misere. She couldn’t think
about her losses right now, she needed to bathe. She hated being dirty and she smelled bad. If she didn’t get some life back into this
hot dank room, she would fade away and join her loved ones; she could hear
them, see them, smell them, living in the shadows of the once sunny room, but
she didn’t want to join them.
She got up and
stripped the bedclothes from the big bed and carried the heavy linens, almost
falling down the stairs into the back courtyard, and put them in the big tub
under the water pump. A storm was
coming; maybe it would relieve the heat and take away the stench of death and
sickness. She pumped water over the
dirty wet sheets and began to pour water from the big tin pitcher over herself
and her hair. She picked up the big bar
of bathing soap and soaped herself all over.
No reason why she couldn’t wash her nightgown while it was still on her;
people had surely done sillier things after such a plague. She peeked at the dirty
soapy water running out of her clean hair, escaping her body and her nice
cotton gown. She twisted her long hair
into a rope to get the excess water out and reached for the bathing towel
hanging stiffly from the last use a week ago.
She took off her nightgown and wrapped it in the big towel wrung out as
much water as she could and put it back on, clean, cool and damp on her
skin. Now, she could think. Picking up the big laundry paddle she pushed
the sheets down into the tub of soapy water and decided to leave them to
soak. The kitchen door was open and a
bird flew out when she approached, God
only knows what else has made a home in here, she thought and walked
in. It was strangely clean with a pot of
moldy soup on a back burner of the very cold stove. All the dairy products would be rancid and any
bread would be full of mold, but there were no dirty dishes in the big sink and
the table was clear, the big friendly kitchen just needed life; she jumped at
the sound of the front bell and could hear footsteps coming down the brick walk
and going up the old wooden staircase.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and grabbed a big apron left thrown
over a chair when Annie went home to nurse her own family, and walked out
across the courtyard. The men were
coming back down with their stretcher.
It’s a strange
feeling watching yourself in death, being carried with your dirty hair and nightdress
out into the street; how frail I look, how fragile, how peaceful.
“But wait,” she
called, “I’ve washed my gown and my hair.
Take this me, not that me.” But
no one noticed, no one heard and no one was left to care.
YELLOWJACK
New Orleans
1878
Annette
awakened in her own filth and tried to look around the room. Her mouth was dry and strands of her hair
were stuck to the roof of her mouth with some glued to her forehead. Her damp nightgown was clinging to her frail
body, but the fever was gone and she could see bright light through the closed
shutters of her bedroom. She vaguely remembered
the men coming down the hall carrying the last member of her family on a stretcher. She would carry the image of her father’s once
strong arm swinging lose under the sheet as the tired men carried him out to
the wagon loaded with the bodies of friends and neighbors. She’d had funerals for her mama and the
twins, but by the time her Uncles died, she had to pay a man to leave their
bodies at the gates to the cemetery with a note to put them in the big family
crypt. Annette nursed her grandmother,
but then took sick. The last she
remembered of her sweet grandmother was her father’s begging the men with the
stretcher to be careful with his mother, as she was fragile. Annette must have outlived the yellow jack, but
was it a blessing or a curse? She
outlived it only to be left alone at sixteen in a house once full of joie de vivre, but now full of la mort
et la misere. She couldn’t think
about her losses right now, she needed to bathe. She hated being dirty and she smelled bad. If she didn’t get some life back into this
hot dank room, she would fade away and join her loved ones; she could hear
them, see them, smell them, living in the shadows of the once sunny room, but
she didn’t want to join them.
She got up and
stripped the bedclothes from the big bed and carried the heavy linens, almost
falling down the stairs into the back courtyard, and put them in the big tub
under the water pump. A storm was
coming; maybe it would relieve the heat and take away the stench of death and
sickness. She pumped water over the
dirty wet sheets and began to pour water from the big tin pitcher over herself
and her hair. She picked up the big bar
of bathing soap and soaped herself all over.
No reason why she couldn’t wash her nightgown while it was still on her;
people had surely done sillier things after such a plague. She peeked at the dirty
soapy water running out of her clean hair, escaping her body and her nice
cotton gown. She twisted her long hair
into a rope to get the excess water out and reached for the bathing towel
hanging stiffly from the last use a week ago.
She took off her nightgown and wrapped it in the big towel wrung out as
much water as she could and put it back on, clean, cool and damp on her
skin. Now, she could think. Picking up the big laundry paddle she pushed
the sheets down into the tub of soapy water and decided to leave them to
soak. The kitchen door was open and a
bird flew out when she approached, God
only knows what else has made a home in here, she thought and walked
in. It was strangely clean with a pot of
moldy soup on a back burner of the very cold stove. All the dairy products would be rancid and any
bread would be full of mold, but there were no dirty dishes in the big sink and
the table was clear, the big friendly kitchen just needed life; she jumped at
the sound of the front bell and could hear footsteps coming down the brick walk
and going up the old wooden staircase.
She wiped her hands on a dish towel and grabbed a big apron left thrown
over a chair when Annie went home to nurse her own family, and walked out
across the courtyard. The men were
coming back down with their stretcher.
It’s a strange
feeling watching yourself in death, being carried with your dirty hair and nightdress
out into the street; how frail I look, how fragile, how peaceful.
“But wait,” she
called, “I’ve washed my gown and my hair.
Take this me, not that me.” But
no one noticed, no one heard and no one was left to care.
