Don't Ever Fake a Sick on Wednesday

Dear Boo and Bubble,

In 1955, my family moved from 29 University Ridge Apartments to 3 Lakecrest Drive in Stone Lake Heights off of Chick Springs Road in Greenville, SC.  Your great grandparents built the house and it brought significant changes for us.  Great uncle Bryant and I no longer had to share a room.  Baby brother Gene had his own nursery - up until then, his bassinette sat beside mother and dad’s bed in the apartment.  We had a big yard in which to play and fireplaces in both the living room and kitchen. 

And…..we gained a maid. Nancy Holloway came to the house every Wednesday because that was the only day your great grandmother had access to our one car, a concept that I’m sure you can’t quite imagine.

A pencil-thin black woman who wore a crisp blue shirtwaist uniform, oversized circular glasses, and a waxed pageboy hairdo, Nancy presented quite a force in our household.  Incongruously, she didn’t clean the house or cook meals or wash clothes.  She had two notorious proficiencies – ironing…and talking. 

Every Wednesday morning after breakfast, mom would leave Bryant and me to look after Gene while she took dad to work and went to pick up Nancy.  We had about 20 minutes to get ready to go to school.  There was no doubt when mom returned.  You could hear Nancy the moment the car door slammed.  As she came up the back steps, her constant prattle sounded very much like the rat-tat-tat of a verbal machine gun without so much as a perceptible breath taken.  When she opened the back door, we hastily exited, glad to be going to school.  We wouldn’t be caught dead having to stay home with Nancy.

A couple of years later when I was in Mrs. McCraw’s third grade class at Summit Drive School, there was an outbreak of bronchitis which Bryant and I both caught.  We spent a lot of time coughing our heads off until the antibiotic that Dr. DeLoache, our pediatrician, prescribed finally kicked in and we began to mend.  As I recall, we missed a week of school. 

Over the course of that week, though, I had become pretty adept at the deep croak that the illness produced with its corresponding flurry of concern and attention generated by each hack. Sometime later, certainly long enough for me to have fully recovered but still within the realm of memory on how sick I had been, I decided that I really didn’t want to go to school for a couple of days.  No particular reason, just didn’t want to go.  So, on an afternoon, I began to cough and continued pretty steadily until early evening and at supper time.  My ruse elicited the desired response. 

“Schaefer, do you think she’s getting bronchitis again?” 

“I don’t know, Mary, it sure sounds like it.” 

“Well, maybe we should keep her home from school tomorrow, just as a precaution.” 

“I think that’s a good idea.  If it persists, then we’ll call Dr. DeLoache.”

It was all music to my ears.  I didn’t even have to ask if I could stay home from school.  THEY were the ones suggesting it! 

They put me to bed and, as long as I could keep myself awake, I periodically coughed – with such dramatic emphasis, I almost fooled myself.  Finally, I wore myself out with my theatrics and my eyelids shut. 

The next morning, mother came into my room to check on me.  “How are you feeling, Beth?”

Hack, hack.  “I still feel pretty bad,” I lied.  Hack, hack.

“Well, you need to just stay in bed and we’ll see how the day goes.”

“Okay.”  Hack, hack.

“I’m going to take Bryant with me and drop him off at school after I take your dad to work and pick up Nancy.”

Nancy!….Nancy!…I thought to myself.  Holy Moley…the day was Wednesday!  I had totally forgotten.  If I could have rewound my plot, I would have, but I was too deeply into it to undue the mess.

“No, thanks.”  Hack, hack. I knew for sure that Bryant suspected I was faking things, but he didn’t say a word.

They left and for the next thirty minutes, I took the opportunity to rest my throat and steel myself for Nancy’s arrival.

As soon as I heard the car pulling into the driveway, I restarted my charade.  Hack, hack.

Nancy’s chatter resonated through the walls of the house even before she opened the door. 

“Yas’m, Miss Mary, I’s takes care o’ her.  Don’t you be wurryin’ ‘bout dat, now.”

I heard Nancy’s feet padding down the hall to my room.  Hack, hack.

“So, young lady, whut’s you coughin’ so fur?”  She stuck her head through my door.

“I think I have bronchitis again.”  I tried to look as pitiful as possible.

“Well, we be seein’ ‘bout dat this morning’.  Reckon I bettah git you some water.”

She walked back to the kitchen to retrieve me a glass of water.  Hack, hack.

All morning, I lay in bed reading my Katy Keene and Archie comic books, hacking away as frequently as I thought I should to sound legitimate.  I could hear Nancy in the kitchen where she busied herself with the ironing.  She hummed some unrecognizable tune as she pressed a shirt and I was very grateful that she wasn’t talking to me.  A feeling of confidence grew inside – maybe my thespian interpretation of bronchitis was after all honest and believable.

Hack, hack.  Hack, hack.  Hack, hack.

Next thing I knew, Nancy stood in my doorway, arms akimbo, staring at me and sort of grinding her teeth in a contemplative way.  I upped the ante adding a little melodrama to my cough.

“I kin see rite now, we gon have ta do somefin’ ‘bout dis here cough,” she said.  “You jes stay where you is.  I be back.”

Uh-oh! My blood froze.  I sensed that the entire scene, not to mention my life, was getting set to unravel.

In a few minutes, Nancy returned.  She balanced a tablespoon delicately in her right hand.  It had something in it, but I couldn’t see what.

“Okay, Miss lady.  You ope’ yo mouth wide here and swalluh dis here spoonful.  Dis here’s either gon’ cure you or kill you.”

She put her left hand on my forehead and pushed my head back making my jaw jut forward to give her a better angle for the spoon.  I shut my eyes and opened wide.  Into my mouth went salt, pepper and sugar mixed together - dry - no water, nothing to wash it down.  My mouth reacted incredulously by shutting off the saliva.  Somehow, I didn’t gag and finally, with a lot of effort, pushed the mass down my throat.

Nancy stood there, patting her foot, waiting.  She stared at me intently.  Because I could see her and was still breathing that must mean I wasn’t dead which left the other of the two alternatives for this medicine - I must be cured.  It was a downright miracle.  My cough was gone!

I don’t recall having another cough over the next fifty-four years.  Some primordial fear, I guess.  But, I certainly did learn a lesson that day – if you’re going to be sick, real or otherwise, better not make it on a Wednesday.