One muggy Wednesday, wash day, Suzette and Philomene were alone at the bend of the creek that twisted behind the farmhouse.

"What's wrong now, Maman? Maman?" Philomene asked, worry flooding her smooth b.u.t.termilk-colored face. She had the washboard pressed firmly between her knees, scrubbing at a dark jam stain on the tiny beige dress that belonged to Oreline's daughter.

How could Suzette tell Philomene that as a grown woman of twenty-eight, what unsettled her most about the shape her life had taken was the absence of the everyday scent of her own mother, the easy knowledge that her family was within her reach? Sometimes, when she was preparing dinner for everyone on the farm, she half expected to look up and see Elisabeth wrist deep in flour, giving form to a pie crust.

"I miss my family around me" was all Suzette could manage.

"I'm right here, and so is Aunt Palmire. Gerant isn't so far away with Papa and Madame Doralise."

Suzette winced, the word like a blow. When the girl first started calling Eugene Daurat "Papa," Suzette had made her go out and pick a peach tree switch from outside the cookhouse on Rosedew. She'd whipped Philomene until her legs bled, but no matter how many times she had tried to teach her, it had no lasting effect.

"What have I told you about that word?" Suzette snapped.

"There's n.o.body here but us, Maman, Maman," Philomene said defiantly.

"You go looking for trouble in the wrong place with that talk and they'll give it to you."

"I am am Philomene Daurat, and he Philomene Daurat, and he is is Papa." Papa."

"Hush. I do not have the patience."

Suzette began to hum. When the longing came down on her, like today, she would make up melancholy tunes. The off-pitch notes helped her to stay connected, at least for a while. It was almost like being able to talk to Elisabeth, reaching back along the chain, touching her mother's spirit and the spirits of those she didn't know who had come before.

"We see Memere Memere Elisabeth on Sunday," Philomene offered, as if sensing her thoughts. "And Gerant. That will make you feel better." Elisabeth on Sunday," Philomene offered, as if sensing her thoughts. "And Gerant. That will make you feel better."

"Family is everything, Philomene. Do not ever forget that. A tree without roots cannot survive."

"Can I carry the pa.s.s Sunday?"

"Just do your work," Suzette instructed, but the girl wasn't silent for long.

"What is it like in the field?"

"I pray you never know."

"It looks harder than housework."

"That's trying to measure standing against stooping. Both aim to grind you down," Suzette said tiredly.

Suzette had spent her life on Rosedew standing, indoors and outdoors, standing in the presence of white folks, waiting for them to decide what she needed to do for them next. The only time she was permitted off her feet was when she was down on her hands and knees scrubbing or on her back in secret. She was on call to any number of mistresses or masters, s.n.a.t.c.hing a bite to eat whenever she could, waiting for the whim of the next white person of any age who crossed her path.

"See this burn?" Suzette stepped back from the clothes soaking in the tub and thrust out her left hand. "From pressing damp clothes with the hot irons." She pulled up her sleeve. "This one here? From putting out the grease fire before it could spread. Your memere memere Elisabeth has a quarter moon burned into her arm from a kitchen scald, just like she had been branded. Sometimes I can barely catch my breath at night after standing over the smoky stove all day. My bad shoulder was sprung from carrying firewood, or toting water, or lugging clothes back to the house. Who knows which? Now each harvest my fingers split from picking, and nothing can take away the headaches and back pains from stooping in the cotton field all day with no shade." Elisabeth has a quarter moon burned into her arm from a kitchen scald, just like she had been branded. Sometimes I can barely catch my breath at night after standing over the smoky stove all day. My bad shoulder was sprung from carrying firewood, or toting water, or lugging clothes back to the house. Who knows which? Now each harvest my fingers split from picking, and nothing can take away the headaches and back pains from stooping in the cotton field all day with no shade."

"Clement goes to field and doesn't get a headache," Philomene said.

"Clement again," Suzette said. "How would you know about Clement's head?"

"Madame Doralise. We tell her our messages, and she pa.s.ses them back and forth between us."

"You need to put that boy out of your mind," Suzette warned.

"When we get older, I'm going to marry Clement," Philomene declared.

"Hush that talk, there is no future there. You're too young, and the brown-skinned boy is all the way over to M'sieu Tessier's plantation."

Philomene tipped the dirty suds water out of the tub and began to refill it with river water from the wooden bucket. She changed the subject. "When I carry water out to M'sieu Ferrier and Palmire, they go down the rows, one after the other, Palmire plowing and M'sieu Ferrier dropping the seed."

"M'sieu Ferrier never owned house or field before," Suzette sniffed. "Owner of a farm not even big enough to have a name of its own."

"Is Madame Oreline still quality?"

"She has come down since Rosedew, for a fact, but she is still a Derbanne. At least M'sieu knows better than to let her do her own laundry. And he stays up to the farmhouse at night and leaves us alone. Could be worse."

"Maman?"

Suzette looked up, alert. Philomene had slipped into the coldness of her glimpsing voice. "I'm here," Suzette said carefully.

"It will be all right, Maman. Maman. One day we will all be together again, I see it," Philomene said, her voice flat. One day we will all be together again, I see it," Philomene said, her voice flat.

From anyone else, the rea.s.suring words could be dismissed as an idle comment, a hope, or a comforting daydream. Philomene did not deal in any of those realms. Sometimes the girl knew things, with certainty. She had seen the fox get into the henhouse two nights before they lost two of their best pullets. She had pinpointed the exact location where the mudslide would bury an oxcart six months before it happened. Those hard, dry eyes darkened, her mouth would tighten starting at the jaw, and she would announce something whose time was not yet here.

"What do you mean? Who will be together?" Suzette asked softly.

Philomene straightened up from over the washtub as she wiped her hands on her ap.r.o.n, eyes barely closed, concentration etched in her face.

"I can see us inside a house, in a room filled with people," she said. "Like a dining room. Not here. Not Rosedew. Someplace I have never seen before. You are sitting down at the head of a long table, and there are bowls and platters piled high with food. You look old, Maman, Maman, and your hair is mostly gray. You seem different, happy." and your hair is mostly gray. You seem different, happy."

"Who else is there?" Suzette was careful not to disturb the stream of her daughter's glimpsing.

"Every chair around the table is taken, with a smaller table off to the side. A children's table. I see you, Gerant, and me. Memere Memere Elisabeth is at the big table, sitting at the other end. Madame Doralise is there, too, talking to a light-colored man with big teeth and a wide smile. And some other people I do not know. It is mixed up. You and Elisabeth is at the big table, sitting at the other end. Madame Doralise is there, too, talking to a light-colored man with big teeth and a wide smile. And some other people I do not know. It is mixed up. You and Memere Memere are sitting down, but there is a white man sitting, too, friendly, holding a baby. Gerant is standing, laughing. He is much taller than now. And another baby. No, at least two more babies." are sitting down, but there is a white man sitting, too, friendly, holding a baby. Gerant is standing, laughing. He is much taller than now. And another baby. No, at least two more babies."

"Is Palmire there?"

"No, Maman. Maman. I don't see Palmire or I don't see Palmire or Grandpere Grandpere Gerasime anywhere in the room." Gerasime anywhere in the room."

Narcisse Fredieu and his delicate young wife, Tranquillin, came to the farm that evening, as they did one or two times each week, to share supper and evening entertainment with Oreline and Joseph Ferrier. came to the farm that evening, as they did one or two times each week, to share supper and evening entertainment with Oreline and Joseph Ferrier.

Suzette cooked a turtle stew, and Philomene helped serve. Clearing away the dishes between the entree and the dessert, Suzette noticed how prosperous Narcisse looked alongside Ferrier, how smooth and free of calluses his hands were. Narcisse dominated the supper table with his big laugh and self-a.s.sured voice.

After supper the two couples retired to the front room, along with the children. Ferrier brought out the tiles, and he and Narcisse began to play maroc maroc while Oreline and Tranquillin embroidered by the fireplace, trading Cane River gossip. Tranquillin was a Creole woman of the backcountry with gold-flecked hair and a heart-shaped mouth, good-naturedly quiet. She came from a reasonably good family and was younger than Narcisse by at least ten years. while Oreline and Tranquillin embroidered by the fireplace, trading Cane River gossip. Tranquillin was a Creole woman of the backcountry with gold-flecked hair and a heart-shaped mouth, good-naturedly quiet. She came from a reasonably good family and was younger than Narcisse by at least ten years.

Suzette put the dishes in to soak and sent Philomene to serve the coffee. No sooner had the girl left the kitchen than she noticed that Philomene had forgotten to put the liqueur on the tray. Suzette grabbed the bottle by its thin neck and hurriedly followed close on the heels of her daughter.

"Cafe?" Philomene said as she entered the front room, hands full. Suzette turned the hallway corner just in time to see Narcisse give Philomene a distinct look of possessiveness. Suzette began silently to count off her blessings. Philomene is with me. Palmire is near. Gerant is not in the field. Mere Mere Elisabeth is healthy. She repeated them over and over in her head to keep the threatening black fog at a distance. But as she helped Philomene serve, she couldn't rid herself of the lingering sour taste that lodged itself at the back of her mouth. Elisabeth is healthy. She repeated them over and over in her head to keep the threatening black fog at a distance. But as she helped Philomene serve, she couldn't rid herself of the lingering sour taste that lodged itself at the back of her mouth.

On Sunday Suzette, Philomene, and Palmire took the shortcut through the woods instead of the road to Narcisse Fredieu's farm. They could make good time, less than an hour, if they walked briskly. The permission pa.s.s for the three of them was well worn, pressed against the flesh under Suzette's blouse.

"Will Papa come with Madame Doralise, Maman? Maman?" Philomene asked, holding fast to Palmire, swinging their linked hands between them.

"You ask me-you, who looks to the future? All I know is that she said she will bring Gerant." Suzette smiled in antic.i.p.ation. "Today would be even better if Pere Pere Gerasime could come. But we'll see him next month when they bring him to play for the soiree of M'sieu Narcisse." Gerasime could come. But we'll see him next month when they bring him to play for the soiree of M'sieu Narcisse."

Gerasime was four hours north toward Cloutierville by foot. They walked to see him when they could, which wasn't often. The distance was great, and his hip was too damaged for him to walk to them. He had been sold to Hypolite Hertzog, the brother of the man who had bought Rosedew.

"Maman, will you tell one of your stories?" Philomene asked. will you tell one of your stories?" Philomene asked.

Suzette hesitated, but only for a moment. Whichever direction they took on their travel Sundays, whether to the Fredieu farm or walking to the Hertzog plantation to visit Gerasime, Suzette could bring herself alive again.

"Did I ever tell you about the Christmas party on Rosedew?" she began.

Philomene dropped Palmire's hand and ran far enough ahead to face the two sisters. Reverse walking, and deftly dodging pine trees at her back, she pantomimed Gerasime playing the fiddle, then became Elisabeth picking up her skirts to dance, and back to Gerasime throwing a broad wink.

Palmire smiled and nodded, and Philomene laughed. It seemed the only time either of them was playful was with each other.

"Tell it again, Maman Maman. Don't leave anything out," Philomene pleaded, taking up Palmire's hand again.

When they reached Narcisse Fredieu's farm, they turned south at the clearing around the farmhouse and headed out back. Narcisse owned only six slaves. There were only two cabins, hardly a quarter at all, both rough-and-tumble one-room houses. Elisabeth came out on the stoop of one of them to greet the visitors. Wisps of coa.r.s.e white hair peeked out from under her tignon. tignon.

"Rest yourselves on the porch," she said. "I already put some fresh greens from the patch on, and fatback."

Elisabeth looked appraisingly at Philomene. "Go on and get the comb. Let me fix that pretty hair," she said, and Philomene disappeared inside the cabin. Elisabeth sat on the porch chair, and when Philomene came out to sit at her feet, her back to Elisabeth's knees, Elisabeth clamped her thighs on either side of the girl's shoulders. She unbraided Philomene's two plaits, ran the comb through her long chestnut hair from scalp to tip, and began to rebraid, and they all talked of small things.

Midmorning, in a cloud of dust, Doralise and Gerant arrived in Doralise's buggy. Gerant dropped the reins, helped Doralise down, and waited by the buggy until she adjusted her skirts and angled her open umbrella against the sun. They all stood, and it took all of Suzette's willpower not to run to her son and fling her arms around him. Instead she memorized each change since she had last seen him. Gerant had grown almost a foot taller, both his body and face had filled out, and he had the beginnings of a thin mustache. He looked healthy and well fed, a striking, honey brown boy, quiet, with trouble-avoiding eyes.

Elisabeth offered Doralise the porch chair.

"I brought Gerant to visit," Doralise said, once more arranging her skirts as she sat. "His pa.s.s is to stay the night, but he needs to be back before dark tomorrow."

"Can we offer you cool water?" Elisabeth asked.

"Merci," Doralise replied. "Let me just find a bit of shade before I am on my way."

Gerant stood by the buggy while Philomene fetched a gourd full of water and brought it back to the porch. Doralise whispered to Philomene, Philomene whispered back, and Suzette saw a small article exchange hands and disappear into Philomene's ap.r.o.n pocket.

Doralise drained the water and stood. "I will be going now," she said.

"Madame, I want to thank you for bringing Gerant," Suzette told her, hurrying to her side.

"He misses all of you."

"Madame, can I ask what pa.s.sed between you and Philomene?"

"Just a little rock Clement found and thought she might like."

"He's only a field hand, Madame."

"They seem devoted, Suzette," Doralise replied firmly. "After all this time."

Suzette shrugged.

"I will continue to look after Gerant," Doralise said to Suzette, and Gerant helped her back up into the buggy.

After Doralise had clicked the horse on its way, Gerant joined them on the porch. It took a while before they could stop touching and hugging him.

One raw gray morning in the fall of her third year on Ferrier's farm, Suzette heard her name called from Palmire's cabin. She had spent the night on a chair in the children's room, nursing Oreline's son, waiting for his fever to break.

Ferrier's shout was insistent.

"Suzette!"

Suzette dropped the firewood she was carrying into the kitchen and rushed outside. When she got to the door of the cabin, breathless, Ferrier was pulling on Palmire's arm, trying to get her up from her pallet. His face was knotted with frustration. It was harvest, and he had been coiled tight all week, pushing hard at Suzette and Palmire as well as himself to get the crop in. Palmire was still on her pallet, looking unsteady and dazed, but when she saw Suzette behind Ferrier, she motioned for her to come close. A rank smell overpowered Suzette as she approached her sister.

Palmire brought both of her hands up to her temples and squeezed at her head, twisting her face in pain, and then she put both hands on her stomach as if to vomit again. She reached out to Suzette, her hand so contracted that it looked like a bird's claw, and drew one of Suzette's hands to her chest, guiding it in fast pats. Her eyes were deep in their sockets, and she looked panicky. It was as if the very flesh on her face had shrunk overnight.

Suzette turned to Ferrier, keeping hold of her sister's dry hand.

"I have to take care of her, M'sieu Ferrier. She is sick. Palmire never gets sick," Suzette said, rising.

"I cannot spare anyone today. We have to get the crop in," Ferrier said without hesitation. "Call Madame Oreline."

"Please, M'sieu, no one is like I am with Palmire. Let me stay."

"Go get Madame Oreline," Ferrier repeated.

Suzette let go of Palmire's hand and ran to the house. "Madame, come quick," she called. "Palmire is in a desperate way."

Oreline threw on her wrap over her nightgown without doing her morning toilet and followed Suzette to the cabin. Palmire had already pa.s.sed into a fitful sleep.

"She is sick right enough," Ferrier said to his wife as she came into the cabin. "You have to spare Philomene from the house today. She comes to the field with us. Can you look after Palmire?"

"Of course," said Oreline, and to Suzette, "I will do what I can for her. Go on now."

In the field, Suzette worried all day. Philomene, unaccustomed to crop labor, stumbled often in the fierce heat between the rows of cotton, and Suzette couldn't erase the image of Palmire's terrified face when she had reached out her hand to her that morning. When at last the sun began to lower in the sky, Ferrier let them come in, hot and sweaty. Suzette rushed to the cabin, and as her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she saw first Oreline in a chair beside the bed and then the unnatural color of Palmire's face and body. Her sister had turned a leaden blue, dark and mottled. Palmire's skin was wrinkled and folded, as if she were an ancient woman, and her breathing was ragged and uncertain. Palmire turned her head slightly and vomited, but there was no longer any food in her to bring up. What came up was like rice water.

"She just gets worse," Oreline said, looking to Suzette.

Suzette came closer and took a rag to wipe her sister's mouth. When Suzette touched her jaw, Palmire's mouth flew open. Her tongue looked like a dead fish.

Suzette turned to Philomene. "There's ta.s.so ta.s.so you can heat up for supper," she instructed, "and make some biscuits with cane syrup. Go." you can heat up for supper," she instructed, "and make some biscuits with cane syrup. Go."

Philomene ran toward the farmhouse.