Page 20 of Jane Deyre
The little girl interrupts her. “Want to see what I found?”
Edwina smiles. “Yes, darling, please show us.”
My charge opens her tiny clenched hands.
Snails. One in each hand.
Ms. Fairfax makes a face of utter disgust. “How revolting! Put those horrible things down.”
Adele frowns. “No! I want to keep them!”
“Jane, do something!” barks Ms. Fairfax.
“NOOO!” The little girl begins to wail. She curls her fingers around the snails.
My mind races. What should I do? Pry the harmless little creatures out of the child’s hands?
For the first time, Mr. Rochester opens his mouth to speak.
“Jane, don’t do anything.”
I have my answer.
“If my daughter wants to keep the snails, so be it.”
I turn my head to look at him. From the corner of my eye, I see several potted leafy plants scattered on the veranda. An idea comes to me.
I push my chair away from the table and stand up.
“Adele, honey, I have an idea. Why don’t we put the snails in one of the potted plants while you have lunch? They’ll like it there, and because snails move so slowly, they won’t go far. I bet they’ll even take a nap.”
Her tears still streaming, her lips quivering, I gently usher her to one of the clay pots. She uncurls her fingers. Glued to her palms, the snails are hiding in their shells. Not moving. I pluck one from her and set it onto the dirt. She follows suit.
“Jane, are you sure they’re going to like it here?”
“Yes, look.” They’re already coming out of their shells. They poke their heads out and their tentacles pop up. Our eyes stay on them as they move a millimeter.
To my relief, Adele breaks into a smile. “They do! Can this be their new home?”
“Yes, now come join us for lunch.”
I lead her back to the table. She lets me hold her hand. I pull out the vacant chair next to mine and push her in after she sits down.
Ms. Fairfax balks. “There is no way I’m letting this insolent child sit at this table, covered with grime and her hands full of snail slime and God knows what else...Jane!!!
I reach for my backpack and open it. Inside, I fish for one of my antibacterial hand wipes. Something I always carry with me. I rip open the foil package and slide out the moist towelette.
“Honey, give me your hands,” I say to Adele. She obliges and I scrub them down while Alice looks on with disdain.
Depositing the used wipe on my chair cushion, I lift off the lid of the tureen and ladle some of the still steaming hot stew into the child’s bowl.
“Are you hungry, sweetie?”
She nods vigorously. She stares down at the bowl. “What is this?”
“Try some,” I urge. She takes one taste, makes a face, and spits it out.
“EWW!Poisson!I hate fish!”