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It was well past eleven o’clock that sultry Louisiana night when Mr. McPherson finally returned from Klein’s hotel, his face aglow with the warmth of good company and fine spirits. As he burst into the bedroom, his wife, Mrs. McPherson, stirred from her slumber, her eyes fluttering open like delicate magnolia petals. He was in high spirits, regaling her with tales of his day, sharing anecdotes and gossip gathered from the gentlemen at the hotel. His words spilled forth like a rich Creole gumbo, flavorful and enticing.
As he undressed, he emptied his pockets onto the bureau, a jumble of crumpled bank notes, silver coins, keys, knife, and handkerchief. Mrs. McPherson, still heavy with sleep, responded with soft, murmured assents, her voice a gentle breeze on a summer’s day. Mr. McPherson, however, felt discouraged by her lack of enthusiasm, her apparent disinterest in the events that had transpired during his day. He had, after all, shared his every waking moment with her, and her indifference stung like a mosquito’s bite.
In his forgetfulness, he had neglected to bring the bonbons and peanuts for the boys, a fact that weighed heavily on his conscience. He slipped into the adjoining room, where his sons, Raoul and Léonce, slumbered peacefully. As he gazed upon their innocent faces, he felt an overwhelming sense of love and responsibility. But, upon closer inspection, he became convinced that Raoul was afflicted with a high fever, his small body restless and hot to the touch.
Mr. McPherson hastened back to his wife, his voice laced with concern, warning her of Raoul’s condition. Mrs. McPherson, however, was skeptical, insisting that the child had been in perfect health all day. Mr. McPherson countered, his voice rising in protest, that he was well-versed in the symptoms of fever and would not be mistaken. The air was thick with tension as the couple debated, their words hanging like Spanish moss from the ancient oak trees.
As the argument subsided, Mr. McPherson lit a cigar and settled into a chair near the open door, the sweet, pungent smoke wafting out into the night air. Mrs. McPherson, still unconvinced, rose from bed and padded softly into the next room, her bare feet making barely a sound on the wooden floor. She returned moments later, her face a mask of determination, and sat on the edge of the bed, her head bent in thought.
The silence between them was oppressive, heavy with unspoken words. Mr. McPherson’s monotonous, insistent tone had given way to a sullen silence, his cigar smoke curling upward like a challenge. Finally, he extinguished the cigar and retired to bed, his sleep swift and deep.
Mrs. McPherson, however, was wide awake, her mind racing with thoughts and emotions. She wept softly, her tears falling like summer rain onto the pillow. Blowing out the candle, she slipped her feet into a pair of satin mules and stepped out onto the porch, the creaking of the wicker chair beneath her the only sound in the stillness of the night.
The cottages surrounding them were dark and silent, their occupants lost in slumber. A single, faint light flickered in the hallway of their own home, casting an eerie glow over the scene. The only sounds were the mournful hooting of an old owl in the top of a water-oak tree and the eternal, soothing voice of the sea, a lullaby that seemed to rock the very foundations of the night. As Mrs. McPherson sat there, gently swaying to and fro, the darkness seemed to envelop her, a comforting shroud that wrapped around her like a warm, summer breeze.
As the sultry Louisiana night air clung to her like a damp shroud, Mrs. McPherson’s tears flowed with reckless abandon, her peignoir sleeve no longer sufficient to stem the tide of her emotions. She grasped the back of her chair with one hand, her loose sleeve slipping down her uplifted arm like a surrendered flag. Turning, she buried her face in the crook of her arm, the steamy warmth of her skin mingling with the salty tears that streamed down her cheeks. She wept without restraint, uncaring of the mess she made, her eyes, her arms, her very soul awash in a torrent of sorrow.
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Such tempests were not uncommon in her married life, but this particular storm seemed to have originated from some uncharted region of her consciousness, filling her entire being with a vague, unsettling anguish. It was as if a shadow had crept across the sun-kissed landscape of her soul, casting a dark, foreboding silhouette. She did not sit there, inwardly berating her husband or lamenting the twists of fate that had led her down this path. No, she was simply surrendering to the primal urge to cry, to release the pent-up emotions that had been simmering beneath the surface.
The mosquitoes, those pesky, buzzing imps, took advantage of her distraction, feasting on her firm, round arms and nipping at her bare insteps. Their stinging bites eventually succeeded in dispelling the melancholy that had threatened to consume her, and she slowly emerged from the darkness, her tears spent, her soul exhausted.
The following morning, Mr. McPherson rose with the sun, his composure restored, his spirits buoyed by the prospect of a lively week in Carondelet Street. As he prepared to depart for the city, he handed his wife half of the money he had brought back from Klein’s hotel the previous evening. She accepted it with a mixture of gratitude and satisfaction, her eyes lighting up at the prospect of purchasing a handsome wedding gift for her sister, Janet.
“Oh! We’ll treat Sister Janet better than that, my dear,” he chuckled, his eyes twinkling with amusement as he prepared to bid her farewell.
Mrs. McPherson’s face, still puffy from her nocturnal tears, broke into a faint, wistful smile as she smoothed out the bills, counting them one by one. The sound of the rockaway’s wheels crunching on the gravel driveway signaled her husband’s soon departure, her heart heavy with a mix of emotions, her soul still shrouded in the mystery of her midnight tears.
The boys were in a frenzy, clinging to their father’s legs, their bright eyes shining with excitement as they begged him to bring back a multitude of treasures from his trip to the city. Mr. McPherson, the beloved patriarch, was surrounded by a chorus of well-wishers, from the elegant ladies to the rugged men, and even the devoted nurses, all gathered to bid him farewell. His wife, resplendent in her morning finery, stood beaming with pride, her gloved hand waving goodbye as the old rockaway, its wooden wheels creaking, disappeared down the sandy road, leaving a trail of dust and nostalgia in its wake.
Days passed, and the anticipation was palpable, until finally, a sturdy box arrived at the McPherson doorstep, adorned with the elegant script of the New Orleans postmark. Mrs. McPherson’s eyes sparkled as she lifted the lid, revealing a treasure trove of delights, carefully curated by her thoughtful husband. The box was a veritable cornucopia of friandises, overflowing with luscious and toothsome morsels: the finest fruits, patés of unparalleled richness, rare bottles of wine, and an assortment of syrups and bonbons that would tempt even the most discerning palate.
As was her custom, Mrs. McPherson was generous to a fault, sharing the bounty with her friends and family. The patés and fruit were arranged with flair on the dining-room table, while the bonbons were passed around with abandon, their colorful wrappers and enticing aromas tantalizing the senses. The ladies, their dainty fingers selecting with precision and a hint of greed, couldn’t help but declare that Mr. McPherson was the most exemplary of husbands. Mrs. McPherson, her face aglow with pleasure, was forced to concur, acknowledging that she knew of none better. As the afternoon wore on, the warm laughter and lively chatter filled the air, a testament to the joy and gratitude that Mr. McPherson’s thoughtful gift had brought to their little community.