A quick tally of the houses—twenty-four in all, plus the half dozen cabins of Cottage Grove—and Mirielle realized she’d never make the rounds quickly enough alone. She fingered the outline of Irene’s ring through the smooth fabric of her purse. With her take-no-guff attitude, Irene would be just the ticket in a spot like this.
Mirielle shook her head and forced back her sorrow. Who else could help? Madge was far too brusque. The rest of her housemates too flighty. Mr. Li, too soft-spoken. She hesitated at a juncture in the walkway, her eyes sweeping past the houses and trees to the far lawn. There was one person everyone in the colony respected. Now was no time to second-guess her feelings and avoid him.
She knocked three times on Frank’s door before he finally answered. His wavy hair stuck out at all angles from his head, and one cheek bore the reddened imprint of his pillow. He’d donned a pair of wrinkled trousers but nothing else.
“What time is it?” he asked, squinting in the dawn light.
“Listen, I—”
“Something happen to Jean?”
“She’s the same. It’s too soon to know”—her voice faltered—“how things will turn out.”
“Then if ya don’t mind, I’d just as soon hit the hay again.”
“I need your help.”
He patted down his wild hair, his blue eyes looking past her. “I’m done helping ya, Polly.” He started to close the door, but she wedged herself into the jamb.
“Wait, it’s the river.”
He let her in and set a pot of coffee to boil, throwing on a shirt and shoes as he listened to the news about Dr. Ross’s bulletin. Between gulps of too-hot coffee, they divided up the houses, then set out to spread the word. Mirielle stopped by her own house first to drop off her purse and change her bedraggled clothes. The building seemed as one-dimensional as a movie set without Jean running down the hall or Irene crooning along with her phonograph in the living room.
Musty smell aside, Mirielle’s room was just as she’d left it. Her empty nightstand caught her eye, and she thought of the picture she’d left behind at the train station, her last real tether to her life before. Tears sprung to her eyes, but she blinked them back. There’d be time to nurse her pain later. If they survived the flood.
She resisted the call of a hot shower and her pancake-thin mattress, staying just long enough to change into clean clothes and notify her housemates about the bulletin.
One of the women broke into tears when Mirielle delivered the news. Another scampered to the attic to fetch her suitcases, even as Mirielle reiterated that they’d only be allowed to bring along a pillow, blanket, and change of clothes.
The next house took the news little better. Clouds rolled in, and it began to rain before she reached the third house on her list. The droplets fell lightly and far apart. But the faint plink . . . plink . . . plink against the windows and atop the roof drowned out her assurances that the levee had not yet broken, and Sister Verena only meant for them to be prepared.
“Where will we go?” one of the residents said.
“There are two barges ready to take us aboard.”
“How will we all fit?” another asked.
“I’m sure they’ve made the appropriate calculations.”
“You know who’ll be left behind if it’s a choice between the staff and us lepers,” the first woman muttered.
“No one’s leaving anyone behind. There’s plenty of room for all of us,” Mirielle said, raising her voice above the murmurs, though she didn’t actually know anything about the barges and how many people they would hold.
It took all morning to notify the rest of the houses. “Remember, the walkways will be crowded,” she heard herself say over and over again. “Don’t push or shove. Make way for those carrying stretchers and pushing wheelchairs.”
When she’d finished her rounds, Mirielle returned to her room and flopped onto her bed without bothering to undress. But the patter of rain against her window kept her awake.
She gave up and dragged herself to the shower. She soaped every inch of her body. The sweat and dirt and grime of travel swirled with the sudsy water down the drain. The lesions and scars remained. She dressed without taking inventory.
Outside, swollen, gray clouds blanketed the sky, but the rain had paused. She stopped by the infirmary and found Jean still asleep and febrile. A damp cloth covered her eyes. The medicine had reduced the swelling of her nerves, though, and staved off surgery. At least for now. Mirielle sat with her for several minutes, stroking her hand and listening to the small radio one of the sisters had smuggled in. In between advertisements for Ivory dish soap and Wrigley’s chewing gum, a deep-voiced newscaster reported flooding from Illinois to Louisiana. Hundreds of people had died or were missing. Country folk fled to the cities. Baton Rouge alone had over a thousand refugees.
In their back and forth between the sickbeds and the supply cabinets, the sisters and orderlies dallied by the radio, listening too. Plaquemine Point still held, the newscaster said, but several more weak points had been found in the levee, one at Southwood six miles away and another at the tip of the peninsula where the colony lay. One of the sisters gasped.
Before they could hear anymore, Sister Verena strode into the infirmary and switched off the radio. Everyone scattered to their tasks while Mirielle was shooed away with bundles of gauze and medicine to take to the schoolroom, where all the evacuation supplies were being stockpiled.
After dropping off the supplies, Mirielle climbed the observation tower. The view from the top struck her cold. Only the tips of the riverside trees showed above the turbulent gray water. It lapped at the plank buttresses and stacked sandbags that capped the levee. Upriver, two huge barges rocked with the current.
All around was chaos. Automobiles rattled along the River Road, suitcases and boxes spilling from the trunks, chests and furniture tethered to the roofs. Trucks and wagons carted dirt to shore up cracks in the levee. An airplane flew overhead.
“Just like war times.”
Mirielle startled at the sound of Frank’s voice and turned around. He’d managed to smooth his hair since last she saw him, and his cheeks were clean-shaven. He held out a letter. “This came while ya were gone.”
Charlie’s neat lettering marched across the envelope. She hesitated before taking it. “You’re making personal mail deliveries now?” She put the letter in her pocket and turned back to the river. “This morning you all but slammed the door in my face.”
“About that . . . guess I owe ya an apology.”
“You don’t owe me anything. I’m the one who made a mess of things.”
A bell rang from within the colony. Mirielle jumped, her entire body tensing before she realized it was just the supper bell. Neither of them moved toward the stairs.
“Mais la,” Frank said, after a strained silence. “Guess I’ll leave ya to your letter,”
“Wait.” Mirielle took a deep breath, her eyes still trained on the swollen river. “Do you remember that night in the rec hall when you played The Perilous Pursuits of Pauline?”
He came and stood beside her at the railing, propping one foot on the bench. “Didn’t make it but a few minutes into the first reel, as I recall.”
“One of the actors—Charlie West—he’s my husband.” Mirielle slipped a hand into her pocket, her fingers tracing the raised edge of the stamp. She knew without reading it what the letter said. “Was my husband. He’s divorcing me.”
The flatness of her voice surprised Mirielle. She ought to be choked up or crying. But at least one of them deserved to be free. And knowing Charlie forgave her, that he’d never blamed her at all, gave her a certain bittersweet freedom as well. Maybe at long last, she could forgive herself too.
Frank stood beside her in silence as another truck full of sandbags lumbered up the levee. A breeze troubled the leaves and excited the river’s dark water into waves.
“I’m sorry, Mirielle. Truly I am.”
She looked down at the towe
r’s rotting guardrail and traced the crooked initials of some long-forgotten lovers. “Are there any happy endings?”
Frank didn’t reply. A raindrop struck the deck beside them. Then another. Mirielle waited, listening, but no more droplets fell. The gray sky above them seemed to be waiting too, holding its breath.
“Come on,” Frank said. “Let’s get some supper.”
As they started down the creaky stairs, the sky exhaled, releasing a torrent of rain. They hadn’t yet reached the bottom when a cry sounded above the downpour. “We’re coming,” she muttered. It sounded once more, and Mirielle stopped, her foot hovering over the last step. It wasn’t the supper bell tolling again, but the sharp call of the evacuation whistle.
She met Frank’s eyes, and they ran toward the colony. Wind blew the rain sideways, droplets pricking her skin, even as they made it to the covered walkway.
“Head for the barges,” Frank said. “I’ll make sure everyone here gets out.”
“Don’t be a cluck. We’ll split the houses like before.”
He frowned, but she hurried off before he could protest.
CHAPTER 68
Mirielle’s heart hammered in her throat as she ran from house to house. Residents scurried past with their evacuation bundles. She rallied a small group to help the blind patients, then continued on.
Her last stop was house eighteen, where Madge was herding their housemates out to the barges.
“You coming, dollface?”
“I just have to get my bundle,” Mirielle said. “I’ll be right behind you.”
But when she got to her room, Mirielle realized she’d been so intent on getting everyone else ready that morning that she’d forgotten to prepare an evacuation bundle for herself. She glanced around at all the things that had once seemed so important—her wardrobe full of dresses and shoes and hats, her collection of creams and makeup, her silver comb and brush set. If the flood did come, it would all be lost. She wadded up a blanket, fished Irene’s ring from her purse, and untaped one of Evie’s drawings from the wall. Everything else would have to remain.
Outside, rain continued to fall. Every drop seemed to carry with it the power to swell the river to the breaking point. She fought the tide of stragglers on their way to the barges as she headed to the infirmary.
When she got there, Jean was gone. Had someone already taken her to the barge? Amid the chaos, no one could say for sure. Mirielle made a second sweep through the infirmary, half expecting to find Jean crouched behind the medicine cabinet or beneath the dusty old hypertherm, as if this were a game of hide-and-seek. But all the obvious nooks and crannies were empty, and Jean was in no condition to play.
Someone must have already moved her, Mirielle decided, despite her unease. She helped Sister Loretta lift one of the last remaining patients into a wheelchair and pushed the woman through the rain toward the barge.
“Are we going to die?” the woman asked as Mirielle struggled with the chair up the slick planks to the top of the levee.
“Of course not,” Mirielle grunted, hoping she sounded more confident than she felt.
Dusk had fallen, making the crowded barge even more difficult to navigate. At one end, a low-slung roof supported by thick pillars sheltered the deck. The sisters had congregated the other infirmary patients there. Mirielle helped the woman she’d wheeled aboard onto a low cot beneath the roof’s shelter and covered her with a musty, war-issue blanket. She searched the other cots. But Jean was still missing.
Mirielle’s heart beat with growing fierceness. The rain stopped, but the deck remained wet and slick. Only a hint of twilight filtered down through the scrim of clouds. She wound her way through the throngs of residents, asking after Jean. Some were too forlorn to answer. Others hadn’t even realized Jean was back. No one said they’d seen her. Mirielle tried to leave the barge to go back and search the colony, but Watchman Doyle wouldn’t let her off.
By the time she circled back to the makeshift infirmary, Mirielle’s breath came quick and shallow with worry. Jean hadn’t appeared, and at any moment the levee might break and water surge at them. Anyone not aboard would drown.
Mirielle swayed, sick at the thought. Had all her efforts been in vain? Then, in the last row of cots, she saw a small figure hidden beneath a heap of blankets. She hurried over, holding her breath as she yanked the covers away. Jean lay curled asleep on the cot. Mirielle gave a sob of relief. After rearranging the blankets and sponging Jean’s cracked lips with water, Mirielle sank to the floor beside her.
Night’s cold fingers ruffled her damp clothes and crept along her skin. She draped her own blanket over her shoulders and stuffed her hands into her pockets for warmth. Charlie’s letter brushed her knuckles.
A nearby oil lamp, flickering with the barge’s sway, offered just enough light to read by, and Mirielle pulled the letter from her pocket. Rain had soaked through the envelope, blurring the ink. But she could still make out most of the words. She prepared herself for more vitriol. Instead, Charlie’s letter—what she could read of it—was surprisingly tender. Yes, he’d filed for divorce, concealing the true reason, of course, to stave off a Hollywood scandal. But he wrote that he’d always love her and would continue to receive her letters for the girls. Someday, he said, they could tell them the sad truth of why she’d gone away. His final words surprised her the most.
I could tell from your letters you’d come to yourself again, made a second life despite your ghastly circumstances. You inspired me to do the same. It’s what Felix would want for us, after all. I’m only sorry we couldn’t do it together.
With Love,
Charlie
Mirielle folded the ink-smudged letter and tucked it back in her pocket. Jean stirred on the cot beside her. She straightened Jean’s blankets and stroked her cheek. For once, her skin wasn’t hot or clammy. Her breath came soft and easy.
Had Mirielle come to herself again like Charlie said? Made a second life? Whether or not the flood spared Carville, there was still no cure for their disease. What kind of life was it when you lived caged behind a fence, an outcast from the rest of the world?
She laid her head on the edge of Jean’s cot and closed her eyes. This certainly wasn’t the life she would have chosen. But Charlie was right; it was a life nonetheless. And she was lucky not to have to go through it alone.
At dawn, she awoke to find the barge still securely tethered to the bank and the colony, with its wire fence and warren of whitewashed buildings, still standing. Jean’s cot, however, was empty. Mirielle queried the sisters, but none of them had seen her scamper off.
“What about the levee?” she asked.
“It broke in several spots along the western shore,” Sister Verena said. “But our side to the east, God spared.”
Relieved, Mirielle went in search of Jean. The rain clouds had vanished with the night, and a fine mist hung over the water. She picked her way among the residents, some still sleeping, others sitting in quiet awe as the sun rose over the river.
At the far tip of the barge, Mirielle found Frank and Jean seated together, staring out at the water.
“About time ya joined us, chère,” Frank said.
She sat down beside them and wrapped her arm around Jean’s shoulders. “Shouldn’t you be resting on your cot?”
“Can’t see anything from there,” Jean said. Her voice was raspy, but the whites of her eyes clear. “I wanna be front and center when we take off down the river.”
Mirielle started to say that the barge was securely moored and the levee safe. But she closed her mouth around the words. It was a nice thought. Sailing downriver to the wide-open gulf. Out to where their disease didn’t matter. Her arm tightened around Jean. She caught Frank’s eye and smiled. Maybe someday.
EPILOGUE
Carville, Louisiana
1942
Mirielle readied another syringe of Promin as the last patient sat down at the treatment table and rolled up his sleeve. She handed the syringe to Doc Ja
ck, who swabbed the patient’s skin with betadine, then carefully inserted the needle into his vein. Recent trials with sulfanilamide and diphtheria toxoid had proven unsuccessful, but this new drug was different. After a few months of daily injections, patients’ nodules and lesions began to disappear. They had more energy and better appetites. There were side effects, of course. Anemia, dermatitis, allergic reactions. But for once, the drug’s promising results outweighed the risks.
A minute’s slow injection, a bandage, and the patient was up and ready to leave. Nothing like the hours-long treatment they’d endured in the fever cabinet all those years ago. Mirielle put away the extra supplies and loaded the used needles into the autoclave. Though her shift was technically over, she climbed the infirmary stairs to the roof where several patients sat in the shade of a great arbor, enjoying the late afternoon breeze. She’d promised to set one of the women’s hair in pin curls before leaving—soft waves and rolls were all the rage these days. Besides, Mirielle welcomed any distraction from her creeping worry about tomorrow.
From this height, the entire grounds of Carville were visible. The magnolia trees preened with blooms, and the oaks stretched their gnarled boughs across the lawns. A flurry of construction had taken place in recent years. The vast, two-story infirmary with its lovely rooftop arbor had gone up nine years ago and could no longer be considered new. Last year, a modernized dressing clinic was added on. New patient housing built of concrete and stucco, two stories high with interconnected arcades, replaced the old wooden houses and walkways. Best of all was the theater in the new rec building. With velvet curtains and cushioned seats, it reminded Mirielle of the movie palaces in Los Angeles. It still struck her every time she saw a once-familiar face on the screen. Many of her old acquaintances, Charlie included, hadn’t survived the arrival of talkies. She still saw his name occasionally listed in the credits as a screenwriter or assistant producer and felt a certain tenderness. But no longer guilt or regret.
The Second Life of Mirielle West Page 37