Walter Mosley: Cinnamon Kiss

“The prognosis is not good,” Dr. Beihn had said. “Make her comfortable and make sure she drinks lots of liquid...”

I would have drained Hoover Dam to save her life.

Bonnie had that strange look in her eye too. She was tall and dark skinned, Caribbean and lovely. She moved like the ocean, surging up out of that chair and into my arms. Her skin felt hot, as if somehow she was trying to draw the fever out of the girl and into her own body.

“I’ll go get the aspirin,” Bonnie whispered.

I released her and took her place in the folding chair next to my Feather’s pink bed. With my right hand I held the sponge against her forehead. She took my left hand in both of hers and squeezed my point finger and baby finger as hard as she could.

“Why am I so sick, Daddy?” she whined.

“It’s just a little infection, honey,” I said. “You got to wait until it works its way outta your system.”

“But it’s been so long.”

It had been twenty-three days since the diagnosis, a week longer than the doctor thought she’d survive.

“Did anybody come and visit you today?” I asked.

That got her to smile.

“Billy Chipkin did,” she said.

The flaxen-haired, bucktoothed white boy was the fifth and final child of a family that had migrated from Iowa after the war. Billy’s devotion to my foundling daughter sometimes made my heart swell to the point that it hurt. He was two inches shorter than Feather and came to sit at her side every day after school. He brought her homework and gossip from the playground.

Sometimes, when they thought that no one was looking, they’d hold hands while discussing some teacher’s unfair punishments of their unruly friends.

“What did Billy have to say?”

“He got long division homework and I showed him how to do it,” she said proudly. “He don’t know it too good, but if you show him he remembers until tomorrow.”

I touched Feather’s brow with the backs of three fingers. She seemed to be cool at that moment.

“Can I have some of Mama Jo’s black tar?” Feather asked.

Even the witch-woman, Mama Jo, had not been able to cure her. But Jo had given us a dozen black gummy balls, each wrapped up in its own eucalyptus leaf.

“If her fevah gets up past one-oh-three give her one’a these here to chew,” the tall black witch had said. “But nevah more than one in a day an’ aftah these twelve you cain’t give her no mo’.”

There were only three balls left.

“No, honey,” I said. “The fever’s down now.”

“What you do today, Daddy?” Feather asked.

“I saw Raymond.”

“Uncle Mouse?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do with him?”

“We just talked about old times.”

I told her about the time, twenty-seven years earlier, when Mouse and I had gone out looking for orange monarch butterflies that he intended to give his girlfriend instead of flowers. We’d gone to a marsh that was full of those regal bugs, but we didn’t have a proper net and Raymond brought along some moonshine that Mama Jo made. We got so drunk that both of us had fallen into the muddy water more than once. By the end of the day Mouse had caught only one butterfly. And that night when we got to Mabel’s house, all dirty from our antics, she took one look at the orange-and-black monarch in the glass jar and set him free.

“He just too beautiful to be kept locked up in this bottle,” she told us.

Mouse was so angry that he stormed out of Mabel’s house and didn’t talk to her again for a week.

Feather usually laughed at this story, but that afternoon she fell asleep before I got halfway through.

I hated it when she fell asleep because I didn’t know if she’d wake up again.

When i got back to the living room Jesus and Benita were at the door.

“Where you two goin’?” I asked.

“Uh,” Juice grunted, “to the store for dinner.”

“How you doin’, Benita?” I asked the young woman.

She looked at me as if she didn’t understand English or as if I’d asked some extremely personal question that no gentleman should ask a lady.

Benny was in her mid-twenties. She’d had an affair with Mouse which broke her heart and led to an attempted suicide. Bonnie and I took her in for a while but now she had her own apartment. She still came by to have a home-cooked meal now and then. Bonnie and she had become friends. And she loved the kids.

Lately it had been good to have Benny around because when Bonnie and I needed to be away she’d stay at Feather’s side.

Jesus would have done it if we asked him to, but he was eighteen and loved being out on his homemade sailboat, cruising up and down the Southern California coast. We hadn’t told him how sick his sister actually was. They were so close we didn’t want to worry him.

“Fine, Mr. Rawlins,” she said in a too-high voice. “I got a job in a clothes store on Slauson. Miss Hilda designs everything she sells. She said she was gonna teach me.”

“Okay,” I said, not really wanting to hear about the young woman’s hopeful life. I wanted Feather to be telling me about her adventures and dreams.

When Benny and Jesus were gone Bonnie came out of the kitchen with a bowl full of spicy beef soup.

“Eat this,” she said.

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask if you were hungry.”

Our living room was so small that we only had space for a love seat instead of a proper couch. I slumped down there and she sat on my lap shoving the first spoonful into my mouth.

It was good.

She fed me for a while, looking into my eyes. I could tell that she was thinking something very serious.

“What?” I asked at last.

“I spoke to the man in Switzerland today,” she said.

She waited for me to ask what he said but I didn’t. I couldn’t hear one more piece of bad news about Feather.

I turned away from her gaze. She touched my neck with four fingertips.

“He tested the blood sample that Vicki brought over,” she said. “He thinks that she’s a good candidate for the process.”

I heard the words but my mind refused to understand them. What if they meant that Feather was going to die? I couldn’t take the chance of knowing that.

“He thinks that he can cure her, baby,” Bonnie added, understanding the course of my grief. “He has agreed to let her apply to the Bonatelle Clinic.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

“In Montreux?”

“Yes.”

“But why would they take a little colored girl in there? Didn’t you say that the Rockefellers and Kennedys go there?”

“I already told you,” Bonnie explained. “I met the doctor on an eight-hour flight from Ghana. I talked to him the whole time about Feather. I guess he felt he had to say yes. I don’t know.”

“What do we have to do next?”

“It’s not free, honey,” she said, but I already knew that. The reason I’d met with Mouse was to raise the cash we might need if the doctors agreed to see my little girl.

“They’ll need thirty-five thousand dollars before the treatments can start and at least fifteen thousand just to be admitted. It’s a hundred and fifty dollars a day to keep her in the hospital, and then the medicines are all unique, made to order based upon her blood, sex, age, body type, and over fifteen other categories. There are five doctors and a nurse for each patient. And the process may take up to four months.”

We’d covered it all before but Bonnie found solace in details. She felt that if she dotted every i and crossed every t then everything would turn out fine.

“How do you know that you can trust them?” I asked. “This could just be some scam.”

“I’ve been there, Easy. I visited the hospital. I told you that, baby.”