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with whatever story he could devise to account for the length of his absence.

F AREWELL
    7

    T HERE WAS NO MISTAKING THAT MASTER WINEGAARD  was growing perturbed by Jake’s delay. But before a tongue-lashing could erupt, Jake ran up saying his mother had had a bad fall, had hit her head, and that he had helped see her to bed and had sat with her for a while. The obvious panic on Jake’s face confirmed that he was not making the story up.
    Winegaard nodded with concern and asked if she was being looked after. Jake said Mammy Jenks was with her. Had the accident happened before or after he had seen Tavish? Jake answered that he had delivered the satchel and then helped his mother to her bed.
    The vague reply did not seem to bother the master. He took in the information, then returned to his own affairs while Jake rejoined the rest of the slaves in the field.
    When Tavish did not return to the big house for supper that evening, Winegaard sent one of his men after him. They returned saying they could find no trace of him. The only evidence he had been there at all was a hammer, a whiskey bottle, and the satchel of staples on the ground that Jake had delivered. When Tavish still made no appearance the following day, Winegaard chalked it up to drink, theirresponsibility of a slacker, or the itchy feet of a drifter. He said to himself that he had received the best of the bargain anyway, since he had not yet paid anything for the halfweek’s work.
    The missing man was not quite so easily dismissed from Jake’s mind.
    He hardly slept for a week, haunted by nightmares of what he had done and what might be the consequences. More than once, dozing in the quiet, lonely hours of blackness, he awoke suddenly in a cold sweat, fingers clutching at the imaginary rope he had felt tightening about his neck.
    But there was no escape for him. His mother needed him. Still she lay, day after day and night after night, coming in and out of consciousness. She took water occasionally but ate nothing. By appearances she was getting no better. All Mammy Jenks could do was shake her head and mumble unintelligibly. Her countenance did not look hopeful. Everyone knew Mammy Jenks possessed a sixth sense about these things.
    After several days, Master Winegaard sent for the white doctor in town. By now the swelling of the face, as well as the bruises and welts around both eyes, was well pronounced. The doctor questioned everyone as to their cause. No one knew a thing. Jake professed truthfully that he had not seen the accident but had found his mother lying on the ground moaning in pain and complaining about her head. His story, short on detail as it might be, was the only account to be had; there was nothing to conclude but that the injuries to Jake’s mother involved mysteries they might never get to the bottom of.
    Then came a day when she became still more feverish. Mammy Jenks appealed to Master Winegaard. Again he sent for the doctor. He said there was nothing to do but keep the fever under control with cold compresses. He added that she had probably suffered a concussion and that eventually thefever would pass if they could keep her cool.
    Mammy Jenks watched him go, shaking her head. “What dat fool white man knows ’bout doctorin’,” she mumbled under her breath, “is jes’ ’bout what ah knows ’bout dat ol’ Greek language dey say da Good Book come from.”
    When Jake returned from the fields that evening, Mammy Jenks gave him instructions about keeping his mama’s skin moist and cool. She showed him the soup she had made for his supper, and told him to spoon some of it into his mother’s mouth if he could. Then she returned to her shack to see to her own people.
    Jake spent the night at his mama’s bedside. He tried to be stoic, for he was poised at that moment between childhood and manhood, where he thought that to show his emotions indicated weakness. He had seen on Mammy