Marshlands by Matthew Olshan Read Free Book Online Page B

canned, but all of it indigenous to the marshes.
    He loaded his plate, cleaned it, and went back for an even larger helping. It was more than he could eat. This was the second instance of waste—the first being the profligate use of water in the restroom—and the day was less than an hour old. It was amazing what was coming back to him, now that he was fed and rested.
    Presently the marshman asked if he was ready to start seeing patients. Just as they were about to enter one of the examining rooms, a boy with tiny gray teeth ran up and announced that there was an urgent case with a baby.
    â€œGo on,” the marshman said. “I’ll join you when I can.”
    At that, the youngster darted off, shouting for everyone to make way. Perhaps he’d been born in the capital, but his joyful warning was reminiscent of the naked boys who careened through villages announcing strangers. They were obnoxious, those boys, but one forgave them. By sounding the alarm, they were proving their usefulness, and were thus harbingers not just of visitors, but also of their own manhood.
    He knocked before entering the room. The mother was sprawled on the examining table, resting her head on an outstretched arm, while the baby soughed quietly in a reed basket on the floor. Her face was uncovered. Her long black hair was pinned up, revealing a graceful neck stippled with goose bumps. Aside from a bruised eye, she was a picture of marsh womanhood. The careless way she flaunted her beauty reminded him of his prettiest tent girl, the one who called herself Betty.
    She looked him slowly up and down. She seemed surprised by the color of his skin, but not terribly surprised. She sat up, nodding in the way of someone who knows a thing or two about the world. A new man had come onto the scene, supplanting the old one. She shifted the basket with her foot, drawing it nearer to signal that whatever else might be negotiable, the child was not.
    He slung a stethoscope around his neck and picked up a clipboard, hoping that the medical props would bolster his nerves. Then he asked if she was well.
    Well enough , she said.
    May I examine you?
    Her answer was to lean back against the wall and start to lift her dress.
    He gently intercepted her wrist to take her pulse.
    She shrugged, sat up, and started rocking the basket with the side of her foot.
    Her vitals were fine. She didn’t want to talk about the bruised eye. She said she was there for her son, who was refusing food, which worried her because he’d always been a regular trencherman.
    He made a show of warming the metal part of the stethoscope and testing it on his own forearm, the way he’d seen mothers testing the temperature of baby bottles. The business with the stethoscope relaxed her a bit. Then he asked if he could have a look at the little fellow.
    The child was small for his age and very thin. The heart and lungs were healthy, but palpating the swollen belly made him wail.
    She said the boy had been breast-fed, but in the last few weeks she’d been weaning him. She mentioned a particular solid food she’d been trying.
    When he said he hadn’t heard of it, she repeated the name slowly, pantomiming the opening of a small jar. He recognized the characteristic consonant changes that occurred when a marshman was trying to pronounce a difficult word in the language of the homeland. He guessed it was a brand of baby food.
    When he asked if it came from a store, she shook her head and said she got it from a cousin who sold jars the stores didn’t want anymore. She said that breast-feeding was what people did in the marshes. They were in the capital now, where babies ate proper food.
    He played with the boy’s index finger, which was papery and limp. Sister , he said, do you want your son to be healthy?
    She nodded.
    Then listen to him. He’s telling you what he thinks of store-bought food.
    She nodded again, slower.
    Then, in a confidential aside, he