Free Odditorium: A Novel by Hob Broun Page B

grass at the side of her father’s house, she could smell him through an open window; the stale fumes of his sickness at first, like mist hovering over a poisoned well, and then underneath, his own animal scent as she’d always known it, a sharp blend of vinegar and charred metal. This was the home place, just exactly as she’d left it all those years ago.
    Except for the stooped little woman in black tennis shoes standing at the kitchen stove and stirring something in a pot. Her iron gray hair was in a single braid that reached all the way to the base of her spine.
    “Don’t you be alarmed, honey. Joby Daigle, I’m the one wrote you them letters. Sit yourself down, I’m jes makin’ Lucy his breakfast.”
    “How is he?”
    “We takin’ it a day at a time. So you’re Clothilde, the daughter. I could see it right when you come in that door. You got Lucy’s eyes.”
    Tildy stood awkwardly beside the wicker rocking chair, as unprepared for it all as she’d figured all along. “Thank you for the letters. And thank you for taking care of Papa this way. There’s really no way for me to tell you how much I appreciate it.”
    “Don’t you try, honey. I ain’t due no thanks. Cared for Mr. Daigle three years before he passed, a good sweet man and partial raised right here in Evangeline Parish. Now I’m carin’ for Lucy and seems like that’s somethin’ I was intentioned for. I take my share of pleasure in it, so I ain’t due no thanks.”
    “Well, thank you just the same,” Tildy said. “You’re what’s keeping him alive.”
    Mrs. Daigle turned off the stove, emptied gruel into a bowl and swirled in a few tablespoons of molasses. “Lucy’s got a terrible sweet tooth. You go on in and see him now, take him his farina. Jes don’t be too surprised if he don’t know you right off. Lucien, he ain’t home no more in here.” She pointed to her forehead.
    To see if she still knew the house in darkness, Tildy went down the hall with eyes shut, took a sharp left at the stairs, then stood against the doorframe of what had once been her bedroom. She opened her eyes.
    Lucien was on his back, the outline of his body, under a tattered wool coverlet, no wider than a light pole. His flickering eyes sat deep in their sockets and all around his hairline and under his jaw the skin was flaky and white. On newspapers carpeting the floor were globs of his viscid black sputum.
    Cupped in Tildy’s palm, the bowl was hot. She nudged the big spoon slowly around the rim. Now or never if she was going in there.
    “Papa. It’s me, Papa. Your daughter’s come to see you.”
    Lucien said nothing. He gave no reaction as she knelt, smoothed the covers, kissed his dry, stubbled cheek.
    “ As-tu faim , Papa ? C’est Clothilde ici. … I can come back later if you want to sleep.”
    He rotated his head toward her and his eyes snapped open wide. “You have been where?”
    “On the road mostly. I’ve wanted to come and see you.”
    “I know, yes. Thems doctors out there no let you in. Devils they are, in that disguise of white.”
    “No, no. C’est un rêve . You’re home now, Papa. They can’t bother you here.”
    “They know me, yes.” Granular mucus clattered in his throat. He braced his elbows against the mattress, legs twitching, as a series of coughs ripped through him. “They come in the night with metal pipes to drain my body…. I am so weak from this, me.”
    “Why don’t you eat something, okay?”
    “Clothilde, you say? Ma fille ? ” He touched her face.
    “Come on, I’ll feed you.”
    “Clothilde?” He eyed her suspiciously. “What is this food?”
    There was a face towel draped over the end of the bed which Tildy spread across his chest, resting the bowl on top. She held the spoon against his lips, tilting it slightly onto his lapping tongue, scraping dribbles from his chin.
    “Thatta boy,” she cooed. “It’ll warm you up inside.”
    Lucien grunted and pinched his lips together, suddenly mulish.