Page 20 of Fragile Wicked Things

Ten

T wo weeks after the accident that left Auntie immobile, having suffered a spinal injury, she still hadn't spoken a word.

Her doctor could find no physical explanation for the muteness and mused it could be due to trauma, but that was beyond his level of expertise.

He sent for an expert from a nearby hospital, but an appointment had yet to be confirmed.

I spent two hours a day at Charity Hospital, sharing the responsibility of caring for Auntie with Thomas.

Away from Thornfield, society functioned in a conventional state, the hospital being no different with its segregated wards, separate food services, and often I received looks of disdain from one of the white nurses.

Thomas and I had to edit our friendship in public.

I was there on behalf of Rochester to care for a servant he considered family.

Rochester never went to the hospital all the days I went, and when I wondered about this out loud, Thomas explained Rochester took care of the hospital bill and brought experts from other cities to examine Auntie, so he knew Rochester cared about his grandmother.

It was clear to me then that Rochester remained desperate for a happy outcome and that, just as death followed me, it did him.

Could this be the hospital that Rochester's wife and child were brought to—after what exactly?

A car accident? If Rochester drove the car that night, did he relive the accident, choosing a different action for a different outcome?

It was mere speculation on my part, pushed to the compartment of my brain that gave too much consideration to Rochester.

It was natural to have my mind wander while my body went through the tedious task of feeding Auntie mushy peas, the kind a mother would give her baby and, just like a baby, Auntie spit it out.

Holding the spoon to her lips, I wiped away the excess, tapping it into the bowl and turned to Thomas, shoulders sunken, head to my side in a plea for help.

"Granny, it's dessert you want, ain't it?

Puree blueberry pie. Mmm mmm, I can just taste how good it is.

" Thomas brought a non-existent spoon to his mouth, took a bite of the imaginary blueberry pie, smiled and patted his stomach.

Auntie looked away and tears sprung to her eyes.

"Oh, come on, Granny. I know you're a stubborn, feisty old woman, but you have to eat to keep up your strength. "

"Maybe she has an upset stomach. She doesn't usually give us a hard time," I said.

"No, not like she does, Mr. Rochester."

"Mr. Rochester?" I asked.

Both Auntie's eyes and mine widened at the mere mention of Rochester's name—mine in surprise that Rochester had been there at all, but in hers, I saw terror. Her lips trembled and she opened her mouth, a dry mumble escaping in what had been her first attempt at speech.

"Keep trying, Granny."

Auntie's face contorted with exertion. Her lips and tongue pushed to get a word out, but nothing came, and she gave up.

"Let's keep talking, maybe that'll get her going.

Rochester comes every night and says she needs him because the skeletal staff can't do enough for her.

He tries feeding her, but she never takes it.

He reads to her but I don't think she likes what he's reading because she gets all agitated.

I think it's good, getting her worked up like that.

Maybe you'll get so angry at Mr. Rochester that you'll say something, huh, Granny? "

"I didn't realize he had been here," I said.

"He said he wants to take care of Auntie the way she took care of him. That Mr. Rochester, well, he's an honorable man, still paying me even though I spend most of my time here."

There were many contradictions to Rochester; a brute to me at times, yet warm when it pleased him, loving and compassionate to Auntie. Thomas mistook my look of sheer shock for uneasiness.

"I'm not taking advantage of Mr. Rochester," he said.

"I never thought that. It's just that...well, as you said, he's an honorable man."

My affection towards Thomas bewildered me as did my feelings towards Rochester.

One proved an impossibility. The other led to uncertainty.

Thomas was a good man, consistent in his treatment of me and others, while I never knew where I stood with Rochester.

Still, I remained drawn to him despite his darkness.

The wall clock ticked past dinnertime. It would be hours before Rochester would show and, without confessing the truth about my extended stay, I told Thomas I'd keep him company in the meantime.

Auntie drifted off to sleep, sometimes rousing fitfully from what must have been a nightmare.

I confided to Thomas about my childhood nightmares, hesitating before I told him about that night I saw the red-haired woman outside my window.

Then, I blurted out, “I could have sworn I felt her there the night Auntie was hurt, that it had been the same woman out in the barn and then by my side, trying to suffocate me.

She would have succeeded had Rochester's horse…

" Here I stopped, realizing that although the horse saved me from that mysterious creature, it was responsible for his grandmother's injury.

"I'm sorry. I wasn't thinking," I said.

We sat in silence.

"You ever been to Chicago?" he said.

I shook my head from side to side.

Chicago was far bigger than New Orleans, Thomas went on to tell me.

Blacks migrated from the south, and others came from the rest of the world, settling in New York City and then traveling there.

He spoke about the commuter rail lines, The Black Belt, and the development of high rises that housed working-class families and the poor.

He spoke of Richard Wright, jazz music, and the bakery on State Street with the best sticky buns.

He knew so much about his home. Sometimes, I felt like a visitor or a foreigner wherever I went.

Thomas regaled me with the accounts of his life growing up in Chicago, how he used to skip school with his high school running buddy and hang out in a pool hall until his mother went out looking for him, and she'd "whoop" his behind.

He made me laugh with his imitation of his mother, and then I caught myself and quieted down, not wishing to wake Auntie.

Then, I noticed Rochester standing by the door.

He looked first at me, then Thomas, and his body went rigid.

"Jane, I wasn't expecting to find you here. Catherine is alone. You should go."

"Yes, Mr. Rochester," I said.

"I didn't mean for you to go, Jane. Thomas, you need a break from the hospital. Have yourself a proper meal at Thornfield and a change of clothes."

It was not right to send Thomas away and let me stay, but it would also have been wrong to mistake it for a suggestion.

Thomas looked down at his feet, nodded his head and finally stood. "I suppose a break is welcomed. I'll see you later, Jane."

Rochester sat in Thomas’s chair the moment he left. "You two were laughing earlier. What was amusing?" Rochester said.

"Thomas was telling me about his youth."

"His youth? He's in his early twenties. He's still in his youth. "

"He told me you're caring for Auntie, ensuring she sees the best doctors."

"I'm caring for her the way she always did me."

"That's rather kind, Edward."

"I'm working on new talents—compassion, patience and selflessness. I understand these to be great qualities you admire. I'm afraid I've made you blush."

I turned away; concealing smiles from him had become a habit of late and regarded it as nothing more than a schoolgirl crush.

Not sure what to do next, I busied myself with the unnecessary task of placing a blanket over Auntie, which I'm sure looked absurd as she already had a heavy blanket over her.

"Jane, I implore you to tell me what you're thinking."

I shook my head. "Nothing."

"I doubt a moment goes by that you're not thinking of something. You may be quiet, but thoughts race in your mind."

"I'd be too embarrassed to tell you."

"Is it about me, then? I could tell by your smile that I was correct. Shall I share my thoughts? I must tell you how grateful I am that you came to Thornfield, that despite my being a brute at times, I've come to understand Catherine was right to bring you here."

A hand grabbed me, but when I realized it wasn't Rochester's, I looked down in surprise to find Auntie holding my wrist. Auntie's body shuddered, her face marked by an expression of horror and determination, her lips contorted, trying to release something. The sounds she sputtered were incoherent.

Then she uttered, "Devil." Her pupils rolled back, her mouth fell open, and her breathing stopped.

"Auntie! Auntie!" I shook her.

"Quick, get a doctor," Rochester said.

I ran down the hall, turned a corner, and, finding no doctor, pleaded for a nurse.

Moments later, I returned with her. Rochester stood over Auntie, and a memory from my childhood flashed—the image of the creature hovering over Helen shook me.

The nurse brushed past me, and when Rochester lowered Auntie’s eyelids, I knew she was gone.

He turned to me. There was a darkness in him.

* * *

Auntie was buried at Saint Louis cemetery among the Catholics and voodoo worshippers, the former slaves and politicians, the wealthy pioneers and voodoo priestesses.

Many were entombed in vaults, known as City of the Dead, owing to the density of the tombs that looked like a sprawling, urban city.

The funeral procession traveled along the disjointed alleys and passed several tombs ranging from white to tan, yellow to terracotta and rich grays.

Scores were in a ruinous state. Bricks crumbled, weathered and aged. Death surrounded me.