A Death-Struck Year (6 page)

“Age?”

“Seventeen.”

The nurse paused. “Seventeen?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Hmm.” She tapped her pencil against the tabletop.

I forced myself not to fidget. It was midmorning. The rain had finally stopped, though the clouds overhead were dark and gloomy.

I stood just outside the Public Auditorium on Third Street. Only a year old, it was the most important art venue in the city, used for operas and ballets, symphonies and musicals, comedy acts, exhibitions, and lectures. The building was constructed of pale concrete, with eleven marble terraces carved into the main façade. Shallow granite steps ran its length. It was here, at the foot of the stairs, that the nurse sat behind a skirted table. She was Lucy’s age, in her early thirties, with auburn hair, blue eyes, and a brisk, no-nonsense demeanor. Beside her was another nurse, at least twenty years older and stout. Both women were dressed in white, with red crosses stitched onto their sleeves and hats. Gauze face masks, also a pristine white, dangled from their necks.

The second nurse frowned. “She’s very young, Hannah.”

“Kate is seventeen,” Hannah answered, the faintest Irish lilt to her voice.

The second nurse
tsk
ed. “Katherine’s been helping her mother for years. She knows her way around the wards. This child . . .”

They spoke as if I were invisible, and I felt my good intentions seep out of my pores onto the sidewalk. I was dressed in a long navy skirt and matching coat with a round collar and slightly flared hem. I knew I looked to be exactly what I was. A foolish schoolgirl, out where she shouldn’t be.

The ladies standing in line behind me surely heard every word. My cheeks burned. I glanced back. There were eight of them. Eight. Was that all? They were dressed for the morning chill and were much older than I. Their expressions ranged from curious to disapproving. I turned around, listening to the nurses debate whether to keep me or send me packing.

My embarrassment faded, replaced by annoyance. I’d rushed down here as soon as the deliverymen had left the house. The iceman had arrived a full hour late, and I’d spent the entire time worrying that Miss Elliot would arrive on my doorstep breathing fire and waving expulsion papers. Reaching into my coat pocket, I felt the article I’d clipped rustle beneath my fingertips. The Red Cross had asked for drivers. They had sounded desperate. If there was an age requirement, they should have been more specific.

I lifted my chin. “The newspaper said you needed volunteers with automobiles,” I said. “To canvass the neighborhoods.”

Hannah straightened. “You have an automobile?”

“Yes.” I gestured toward the row of identical black cars parked across the street.

The plump nurse frowned even more. “But—”

Hannah interrupted. “I understand, Mrs. Howard. I do. But as you can see . . .” She tipped her head at the queue behind me, giving me a faintly apologetic look. “We do not have the luxury of turning down help when it’s offered.”

Mrs. Howard shook her head and turned away, beckoning the next person in line.

Hannah reached beneath the table and handed me a white cloth bag. I peeked in. It was filled to the brim with neatly bound pamphlets and masks.

“Some patients are ill for several days before being found in their homes,” she explained as I glanced at the pamphlet. Its cover read
INFLUENZA: HOW TO AVOID IT—HOW TO CARE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE IT.
“We need volunteers who will walk the neighborhoods. Knock on doors, find those who are sick, and call for help.”

I nodded. It sounded simple enough.

Hannah pointed at the bag. “Every person should receive a mask, and each household should get a copy of our influenza care guide. It’s not necessary for you to wear your own mask outdoors. Fresh air is best. But we ask that you please wear one when you enter a home. And always when you’re in the hospital wards.”

I tied the white fabric around my neck. “Where should I start?” I asked.

“There’ve been several reports of flu on Caruthers Street,” she said. “Just south of here. I’ll have you start there. The addresses are in your bag. You can just cross them off as you go and bring the list to me before you head home for the day. And remember, if there is family at home who can care for the ill, then by all means leave them to it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the Auditorium. “This hospital is mainly for those who have nowhere else to go. Otherwise, we’d be overrun. We might be overrun as it is.

“We don’t have extra uniforms, unfortunately. But, here, hold out your arm.” She stood and wrapped a white armband around my right coat sleeve. The brassard was about four inches wide, with a red cross emblazoned in the center. After a few adjustments, she secured the armband with two pins. “So people will know why you’re looking in their windows,” she explained. “It wouldn’t do to have you shot.”

I blinked, waiting for her to laugh at her joke. When she did not, I responded with a cautious, “Oh.”

Hannah sat. “I have to warn you, telephone service is becoming more and more unreliable. And many families don’t even own a telephone.
And
there’s only one ambulance service in town. Sometimes they don’t show up right away.”

I stared at her. “Then . . . what would you have me do?”

“Do what we all do in times like these,” she said. “Hazard a guess. I’m Hannah Flynn. Good luck to you, Cleo Berry.” Leaning slightly to one side, she looked around me.

“Next, please.”

I stopped the car, waiting as the elderly man shuffled across the street. He was dressed in a black suit and hat, and had a wiry beard that tumbled to his chest. On the sidewalk, a group of similarly attired gentlemen gathered outside a synagogue. The old man raised one papery hand in greeting as he headed in their direction.

South Portland was home to thousands of Jewish and Italian families. Around me, family-run businesses lined both sides of Second Street. Merchants had flung open their doors, hoping to entice customers with corned beef and pastrami, bagels and challah, cheeses and salami and green olives soaked in brine. A small tailoring shop stood dark and shuttered, but beside it a kosher butcher did a brisk business. Men and women went about their day. It would have looked like a normal morning, had it not been for the masks.

An impatient horn blasted, startling me, and I saw that the old man had made it safely across. I was blocking the street. Chagrined, I stepped on the gasoline pedal. The car lurched forward.

Several blocks later, I turned onto Caruthers Street. Old homes and modest apartment buildings came into view. Squinting up at the addresses, I stopped at the end of the street. Then I reached for my bag, jumped out, and hoped for the best.

The house was several stories high—narrow, with a weed-filled yard and sagging porch. Brown paint had flecked off the sides in such quantities that the house had taken on the appearance of a speckled egg. I climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A child’s squeal rang out, followed by shushing noises. The door opened a sliver, just enough for me to glimpse a woman with a thin, suspicious face. I smiled.

“Yes?”

“Good morning.” I held up a pamphlet. “I’m with the Red Cross. My name is Cleo Berry. We’re in your neighborhood today distributing information on the Spanish influenza and handing out face masks for your household.”

“How much does it cost?” the woman asked, still frowning.

“Why, nothing. It’s free.”

“Oh.” The door opened further. The woman wore a threadbare yellow housedress, printed with tiny red flowers. A toddler, dressed only in a diaper, clutched the woman’s dress in two little fists. I could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl.

“Hello,” I said to the baby, who ducked shyly between dress folds. I looked back at the woman. “How many masks would you like?” I asked.

“Well, there’s just my husband and me. And Bertie here.” She gave the child a doubtful look. “We don’t need one for him, I guess. He’d never keep it on. So two.”

I handed the woman two masks and a pamphlet. “This will tell you how to care for your family if they get sick. And where to find help if you need it.”

The woman flipped through the brochure. A mottled flush crept up her neck. “Can you tell me what it says?” she asked, then hastily added, “Just the important bits, is all. I . . . I’m not too good at reading.”

I hoped my surprise didn’t show. The woman looked embarrassed enough. “I can, certainly. Here.” I reached for the pamphlet and read:

INFLUENZA: HOW TO AVOID IT—HOW TO CARE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE IT
. T
HE USUAL SYMPTOMS ARE INFLAMED AND WATERY EYES, BACKACHE, HEADACHE, MUSCULAR PAIN, NOSEBLEEDS, AND FEVER
. P
ROTECT OTHERS BY SNEEZING OR COUGHING INTO HANDKERCHIEFS OR CLOTHS, WHICH SHOULD BE BOILED OR BURNED
. K
EEP AWAY FROM CROWDED PLACES
. I
NSIST THAT WHOEVER GIVES YOU FOOD OR WATER OR ENTERS THE SICKROOM FOR ANY OTHER PURPOSE SHALL WEAR A GAUZE MASK
. M
AKE FULL USE OF ALL AVAILABLE SUNSHINE; WALK IN THE FRESH AIR DAILY
. I
SOLATE YOUR PATIENTS
. S
LEEP WITH YOUR WINDOWS OPEN
. O
BTAIN AT LEAST SEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP EVERY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS
. E
AT PLENTY OF GOOD, CLEAN FOOD
. S
MALL CHILDREN ARE PARTICULARLY VULNERABLE
. S
EE TO IT THAT YOUR CHILDREN ARE KEPT WARM AND DRY, BOTH NIGHT AND DAY
.

I read the pamphlet front to back. When I looked up, the woman had paled. She stared down at her child in his diaper, and at the goose bumps pimpling his skin. She grabbed him up in her arms before snatching the pamphlet from my hand.

“Thank you,” she said, and closed the door in my face.

I trudged up the pathway toward the next house. Unlike most of the homes on the street, someone had taken good care of the simple one-story clapboard. Fresh white paint brightened the exterior, and, beneath my feet, the porch gleamed glossy and black. I knocked, then took a step back and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. Feeling self-conscious, I peered through the only available window, set to the right of the door.

A flowered settee stood against the opposite wall, a white crocheted throw spread over one arm. Two chairs, heavy and dark, crowded around an ancient piano, its top littered with framed photographs and tiny animal figurines. An unlit fireplace stood in the corner. The parlor looked charming and cozy and cluttered, but there was no sign anyone was home.

I stood there dithering and wondered what to do next. Hannah’s advice to
hazard a guess
was not the least bit helpful. The family could be at work, or at the grocer’s, or out of town for all I knew. Or they could be lying just out of sight, unable to summon help. Apprehensive, I thought of the gun Jack kept in his study. A gun he wouldn’t think twice about firing should a stranger stroll, uninvited, into his home. But I knew I wouldn’t rest easy until I had assured myself that the house was empty.

I gave the door one last rap, calling, “Hello? Is anyone home?” When my third attempt was met with silence, I threw a furtive look over my shoulder. The street was quiet. Not a single automobile or truck occupied the road. I reached down and tried the doorknob. Locked.

I retraced my steps and skirted the house. Other than a rag rug hanging from a clothesline, the small enclosed yard was empty. I dropped my bag beside an old rocking chair on the back porch. Cupping my hands to each side of my face, I peered through a window.

My eyes adjusted to the dim interior. It was a kitchen. In the center of the room stood a breakfast table and three chairs. A fourth chair was pushed up against the countertop. White cupboards hung open, exposing the pantry’s assortment of plates, saucers, and bowls. A cereal box lay on its side on the countertop, toasted oats spilled all over the linoleum floor.

I looked at the chair, at the cereal, and felt the rapid beating of my heart. Only a child would use a chair to reach the cupboards. Why would he need to? Where were his parents? For that matter, where was the child?

I pounded on the back door with my fist. I rattled the knob. To my astonishment, it turned in my hand. I pushed the door open and raced down a short hall. There were two rooms, both with doors firmly shut. I stopped in front of the first one. Lifted my hand. Dropped it. The temptation to run away was fierce. An odor, faint but ominous, enveloped me, causing the skin on my face to tighten. The only sound came from my own shallow breathing. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside.

The smell of vomit and dirty diapers filled the air. My hand flew to my mouth.

It was a bedroom, dim and silent. Two bodies lay on the bed. A woman in a white nightgown was twisted in the sheets, her long dark hair matted with sweat. Dried blood crusted her nose and lips. Her face was the color of chalk. A little boy, no more than three, curled into her side. He had thrown up all over his blue pajamas.

A whimper emerged from my throat. Trying not to panic, I approached the bed. I felt the woman’s cheek with the back of my hand. She was on fire, her breath so shallow I had to concentrate just to see the rise and fall of her chest. The child didn’t feel nearly as hot, and he breathed easier than his mother. I sent up a tiny prayer of thanks. They needed help, and quickly, but for now at least they were alive.

I ran to the kitchen. A telephone sat on a small table near the door. I snatched up the receiver and waited, only to be met with silence.

“Damn, damn, damn!” Dropping the phone, I raced back into the bedroom, stopping dead in my tracks when I realized there was a third person in the room. How could I have failed to see?

A wooden cradle lay on the floor, on the far side of the bed. Kneeling, I placed my hand against the infant’s splotchy cheek. Alive. I started to pick the baby up. As I did, a soiled diaper slid down dimpled legs and dropped into the cradle with a resounding
plop.

Frantic, I glanced into the hall, willing someone to appear and take charge. A police officer, a neighbor, my brother. Anyone. I wanted nothing more than to crouch in a corner and wail. But no one was coming. I was entirely on my own. Me, and three unattended cases.