The Bernice L. McFadden Collection. Bernice L. McFadden

you know that soon after Cole and Melinda married, she miscarried the baby. Back then, she was strong and positive and thought for sure that the next one would stick—but it didn’t. And the same fate held true for the following three pregnancies.

      After the last miscarriage, Melinda developed a severe case of anemia, along with a host of ailments that flourish when you humans are sad or depressed.

      She’d been to see dozens of doctors who had prescribed her just as many medicines and tonics—but nothing seemed to help. Not a surprise, because even I know that you can’t cure unhappiness with a pill—even though your kind continues to try.

      Melinda gave Doll a pitiful look and sputtered, “I’ve gone and caught pneumonia.”

      Doll’s eyes bulged. “Pneumonia? Oh my sweet Jesus.”

      “I’m hot to the touch, but I feel like there’s ice running through my veins.”

      “How long have you had this fever, Miss Melinda?”

      “Two, maybe three days now.”

      Doll pressed her hands over her heart. “Well that ain’t good, not good at all.”

      Melinda started hacking and coughed up a glob of green phlegm, which she leaned over and spat into her chamber pot.

      “May I?” Doll asked.

      Melinda nodded, even though she had no idea what she was giving the woman permission to do.

      Doll rolled back the blankets exposing Melinda’s petite frame, which was so frail it didn’t even fill the thin nightgown she wore. When Doll reached for the hem of the gown, Melinda’s hands began to flail.

      “It’s okay, Miss Melinda,” Doll assured. She took hold of the hem and rolled the material up to Melinda’s belly button.

      Melinda’s thin, sun-deprived calves, thighs, and pink bloomers glared up accusingly at Doll.

      “What are you doing?” Melinda whispered.

      Doll gently pressed her hands against Melinda’s belly and closed her eyes.

      Melinda watched, and rationalized why she was letting the Negro woman touch her beneath her gown. She supposed desperation was a major factor because she was truly sick and tired of being sick and tired. If Doll had suggested that the sacrifice of a cow or fowl would rid her of her illnesses, and bring her husband back into their marriage bed, Melinda would have agreed— wholeheartedly.

      Hell, she had been poked, prodded, and prescribed medicine by some of the best doctors in Mississippi, and what good had it done her? So, really, what harm could the caring hands of a reverend’s wife present?

      Doll’s eyes fluttered open. “The fever is low in your belly, that’s a good thing. I know what to do.” Doll turned and rushed from the room.

      Melinda rolled her gown back down and pulled the covers over her body.

      When Doll returned, Caress was with her, holding a bowl. Melinda smelled the onions before she saw them.

      “Miss Melinda, where do you keep your nylons?”

      “Nylons?”

      “Yes, ma’am. Trust me.”

      Melinda coughed. “Caress, you know where they are.”

      Doll used her bare hands to shovel the sliced onions into the feet of the nylons and then slipped them onto Melinda’s feet.

      “Caress, hand me a towel so we don’t spoil these beautiful sheets,” Doll said.

      “And what will all this do?” Melinda asked.

      “It’s going to drag that nasty fever right out of you.”

      “It stinks.”

      “And it’s going to get worse. But you’re going to feel a whole lot better.”

      Doll went to the wicker basket filled with johnnycakes, plucked one from the dozen, and presented it to Melinda. “Try to eat little something.”

      Melinda shook her head. “I can’t keep nothing down.”

      “Well,” Doll sighed, as she dropped the cake back into the basket, “I’ll just leave them down in the kitchen and when you’re ready, they’ll be there.”

      Melinda rubbed her feet together and squirmed at the sensation. “Uh-God, Doll, I don’t know if I can take it.”

      “Yes, ma’am, you can and you will. I guarantee that the fever will be gone by the end of the day.”

      Doll’s gaze traveled across the room and to the window. Her hand floated to her neck.

      Melinda thought the woman had fallen into a trance. “Doll?”

      “Hmmm,” Doll sounded, turning her gaze back onto Melinda. “I’m sorry, I drift off sometimes.” Her hand fell back down to her side. “Miss Melinda, I’m gonna have to be going now. I got to deliver some johnnycakes to Ms. Fern and Mrs. Sawyer.”

      “Okay,” Melinda mumbled. “Caress, get my purse—”

      Doll shook her hand at Melinda. “Not a dime, Miss Melinda. Your recovery is all the payment I need.”

      “What about the johnnycakes?”

      “On me.”

      “Are you sure?”

      “Of course!” Doll beamed as she slipped the handle of the basket onto her wrist. “Now don’t forget, you leave them nylons on until nightfall, okay?”

      Melinda nodded in agreement.

      Doll swept out of the room like a gale.

      Sleep carried Melinda off to memories of easier times. When she awoke, the drapes were closed, night had fallen over the land, and the bedroom smelled god-awful. For a moment Melinda couldn’t determine where the stench was coming from, and then she remembered the onions.

      When she peeled the nylons off her feet, the onion slithers were black as tar. Disgusted, Melinda climbed out of the bed and tossed the foul-smelling nylons into the dying fire. At that moment she became keenly aware of three things as she stood watching them burn away to smoke: 1) the bedroom already reeked, so throwing the onions into the flames probably wasn’t the wisest thing to do; 2) she felt 50 percent better than she had before Doll’s remedy; and 3) the crimson vase was gone.

       Chapter Fourteen

      Cole Payne leaned forward and gazed at himself in the bathroom mirror. He ran his tongue over his teeth, skinned back his lips, and examined his mouth. He dipped his hand into the jar of pomade and smoothed the clump of greasy, waxy substance over his mane of dark hair. After that, he headed to the bedroom to check on Melinda, who had felt well enough to get out of bed and sit in a chair. When he entered the room she was reading.

      “How are you, darling?”

      Melinda smiled. “Good.” Her eyes lit on his hair and his crisp white shirt. She could smell cologne.

      “Are you going someplace?”

      Cole shook his head. “No, why?”

      “You look like—well, nothing. You look very handsome today.”

      Cole crossed the room and pecked her on the cheek. “I do it all for you, sweetheart.”

      That was a lie. The extra care he’d taken with himself on that day, and on all of the Tuesdays that would follow, was for Doll Hilson. You see, Tuesday was the day she delivered her basket of johnnycakes.

      Cole stationed himself on the veranda and watched the street for Doll. When he spotted her, he became as excited as a schoolboy on Christmas day.

      “Morning,