The Vines

by Shelley Nolden

  Cora squealed in relief, so loud that the noise startled her. She’d forgotten what her voice sounded like when she was happy. A tear welled at the corner of her eye, but wiping it away would contaminate her glove.

  “Thank you, God,” she whispered. “I will keep my promise. No matter how hard it gets, I will trust in You.”

  Too far away to have heard her vow, the doctor clicked his tongue. “I’m happy too, but her survival doesn’t mean we can be less vigilant. You absolutely cannot go near Linnaeus. Or anyone else, for that matter.”

  The euphoric sensation evaporated, and Cora dropped her chin to hide her face within her hood.

  “During my courtship with Rolene, in Bavaria,” the doctor continued, “her parents didn’t approve of me. Because I wasn’t a Lutheran. I know firsthand that forbidden love emboldens the heart. The patients in the measles ward depend on that man. Riverside cannot lose him.”

  To prevent the doctor from seeing her despair, she pulled her hood farther down over her eyes.

  “Any day now, you could have your breakthrough,” she announced through the wool. “Then it won’t matter.” She pictured with beside Linnaeus and wondered if she would ever have the chance—or courage—to kiss him the way nurse O’Toole had greeted her husband.

  “That would be wonderful. I’m trying, so very diligently.” He ran his finger along the ribbon of his hat for good luck—the only superstitious habit the man had.

  “Miss McSorley?” He draped his suit jacket over his forearm and peered at her through his spectacles.

  The formality of his tone drew a pool of dread into her stomach. “Yes?”

  “I must be honest with you: I’m concerned.”

  “About what?”

  “The concentration of Ricksettia prowaezekki, the typhus bacterium, in your samples has been increasing. And the laboratory mice have been dying more quickly from Rubeola.”

  A tingling sensation raced through her body, and she pictured angry packs of wolf-like germs marauding through her organs. “What are you saying?”

  “I’m worried that the animalcules have been growing stronger and will eventually be able to best even your immune system.”

  The sound of snapping jaws clattered in her brain. She shook her head, but the din only grew louder. She scratched at her stomach. Somehow, she had to get them out. Whatever thoughts she’d had of suicide, they’d been foolish. With 100 percent conviction, she realized she wanted to live.

  “You have to help me.” Her voice had sounded husky, and she knew the germs were trying to prevent her from speaking. She forced out the words: “I’ll do anything. You mentioned cleansing my blood, running it through a filter? Shouldn’t we try that?”

  He pressed his hat to his head, and his eyes disappeared beneath the brim. “Let’s walk.”

  She followed him, her legs shaking with each step.

  Maintaining their standard distance, they moved toward the whitewashed fence that partitioned off the federal lighthouse. Far too quickly, they would complete their lap, reminding Cora of just how narrow her world had become.

  A world that might close to her entirely if the doctor didn’t find her cure soon.

  Ten Months Later

  June 1904

  ll that remained on the tin breakfast tray was a single crescent of syrupy, canned peach—the brightest object on the island. During her two and a half years at Riverside, the cafeteria food—and her newfound trust in God—had been among her only sources of comfort.

  The bitter taste of loneliness heightened her craving for another few seconds of sweet distraction. According to Dr. Gettler, as the pests continued to breed within her, she was becoming even more dangerous to the other teenagers on the island, whom she secretly longed to befriend. With a clammy, gloved hand she maneuvered the morsel onto her spoon.

  Her body always felt feverish beneath the heavy wool, yet today she seemed to be radiating heat. Perspiration trickled down her sides.

  Now queasy, she dropped her spoon. Ever since Dr. Gettler had voiced his concern that her germs might eventually best her immune system, she’d been watching for this symptom and a host of others.

  To assess her throat, she breathed into the cloth wrapped around her head. She felt no rawness, and the Williamsburg Bridge still appeared sharp in her vision.

  Cora raised a forearm to bring her veins to eye level. “You haven’t beaten me yet,” she jeered.

  In her head, she could hear their response: low growls, followed by the gnashing of teeth.

  In disgust, she lowered her arm and strummed her fingers, sweaty within their glove, against her thigh.

  Today, especially, given the heavy winds, she longed for the cool relief that would come with removing the pair. But Dr. Gettler was pacing along the beach. Earlier this morning he’d informed her that his family would be attending St. Mark’s annual Sunday school outing. He planned to wave at them as the grand steamboat churned past on its way to a picnic site on Long Island Sound’s southern shore.

  Even though the doctor hadn’t said as such, she was certain he wished he was going with them. As the months had passed, their conversations about his family had become a careful dance, in which both were afraid of a misstep.

  “Deficiency of affection.” That’s what he’d termed the sorrow that felt like a grinding stone against her heart. Presumably out of compassion, he’d stopped referencing the blessings in his own, full life. But those awkward silences, when she knew he was missing his wife and children, made Cora feel even worse. She would ask him to share his thoughts, then regret it as the warmth in his eyes reached his lips in the form of a story. Envy would surge through her as he recounted the time Ulrich had spilled a flour sack while they’d been making Apfel Küchen, turning all four of them into Geisten (ghosts). Or when Ingrid had convinced herself that a troll was living in the tunnel that was being constructed beneath Kleindeutschland for the new underground transit line.

  Cora stared at the peach, which had slipped from her spoon. If she turned to look at the doctor now, his restlessness while he watched for the steamboat would deepen the void she felt. Yet, at the same time, her curiosity begged her to observe this rare exhibition of love. To fortify herself against the hurt she would surely feel, she ate the last wedge, allowing its sweet pulp to linger on her tongue, then pivoted on the wall to face him.

  He’d stopped moving, so completely that the shorebirds paid him no heed as they strutted past, plunging their beaks into the shallows for fish. With his body steel-beam straight, his mouth agape, his hand affixed atop his hat, he stared downriver.

  A chill passed over Cora.

  She followed his line of sight. An orange orb, far brighter than any sunset, hovered above the waters at the head of Hell Gate. Rising from it, a thick band of black smoke strangled the cornflower blue sky.

  It had to be a boat on fire.

  Cora flung her breakfast tray and pushed herself off the seawall.

  Her shoes met packed, wet sand, and she ran toward the doctor, stopping herself only five feet from him.

  “It’s headed our way,” he said, still motionless, his eyes wider than his spectacles.

  The wind buffeted her cloak, nearly knocking her over. She gathered the folds and held them tight at her sides. “Is it theirs?”

  “Ich weiß nicht,” he snapped and swiped the river mist from his lenses with the cuff of his shirtsleeve.

  Of course he doesn’t know, she thought, and chided herself.

  The blaze erupted angrily.

  Squawking, the birds in the shallows took flight.

  Either the vessel was approaching them, or the fire had spread. Or both.

  The brilliance burned her eyes, yet she couldn’t look away.

  A small hodgepodge armada had formed in the floating fire’s wake, and Cora became consumed with the plight of the passengers
who must be evacuating the vessel. Most likely they couldn’t swim. Twisting the fabric in her grip, she wondered why the captain wasn’t docking her along the wharf.

  Through the smoke emerged the outline of the ship’s white bow, three decks high, topped by a flag. Engulfed now, a bridge and two smokestacks towered over the midsection. A steamboat, Cora realized, designed to hold hundreds of passengers. For day trips to destinations such as Locust Grove. She stole a glance at the doctor, whose narrowed eyes and rigid jaw told her that he’d reached the same conclusion.

  Her legs wobbled; her mouth tasted like ash. The stench of burning wood, still familiar from the tent fires in the overflow encampment two winters ago, seeped into her nose.

  “Mein Gott.” He tore off his boater hat. “The captain. He’s going to beach her. Hier. I have to mobilize the staff.” His feet remained fixed to the sand, his eyes barely blinking.

  “Go,” Cora said in a commanding tone.

  His shoulders jerked and the hat fell from his grip. He spun away from the ship and dashed toward the main building.

  Without breaking her hypnotic connection with the approaching inferno, she stooped to pick up the hat, inches from the tide. Although she’d always avoided contact with his personal effects, now she felt a compulsion to run her gloved finger along the blue band.

  Praying that this wasn’t the ship carrying the doctor’s family, she watched the fire, fueled by a strong southerly wind, devour more of the massive, wooden steamboat. Smoke billowed around the paddle wheel, bringing into and out of view the vessel’s name, Gen! Slocum, painted in a large, Old English font. Cora could make out passengers clinging to the remaining railings, and others plunging into the water to escape the devastation. The thought of saltwater eating away at burned flesh was terrifying.

  Behind her, frantic shouting signaled that rescue efforts were under way. She turned toward the commotion.

  The entire Riverside staff, carrying blankets or medical supplies, appeared to be in motion on the lawn in front of the main hospital building. Nearby, three mechanics were dragging a hose from the physical plant toward the seawall.

  “They’re almost here!” O’Toole shouted and leaped from the wall, hitting the sand with a thud. He ripped off his shirt and waded into the shallows. Around him, a volley of people, including Linnaeus and several nurses—but not Dr. Gettler—landed on the beach. He must still be in the hospital, overseeing preparations for an influx of patients, she decided, wondering if that meant he didn’t believe his family was aboard. Then again, with so many people depending on him, Cora knew he wouldn’t shirk his leadership role for even the most sacred of personal reasons.

  Those on the strand began stripping down to their undergarments. Cora caught sight of Linnaeus’s lean, muscular torso, even finer than she’d imagined. Trying to concentrate, she told herself all that mattered now was his ability to swim.

  A thunderous sound invaded her hood and assaulted her ears as waves of scorching heat blasted her skin.

  Hysterical screams rose above the hissing and crackling. As she turned to face the steamboat, almost upon her, black spots filled her vision, like she’d just stared into the sun. Scrambling backward until the seawall halted her retreat, she shielded her eyes and took in the chaos. The people jumping for their lives from the decks, landing on others already thrashing in the churning water, were women and children. As were those clinging to the vestiges of railings.

  Twenty feet offshore, the bow ground to a halt with an ear-splitting groan, and the spray from the fire brigade disappeared into a wall of flames.

  O’Toole, Linnaeus, and the others in the shallows hurled themselves into deeper water and grabbed the nearest victims. Lulu McGibbons, the switchboard operator, ran past Cora and dove in, followed by nurse Pauline Puetz.

  The recently married head nurse, Kate White, barreled past, single-handedly carrying a construction ladder. She extended it beyond the shoal, and victims grabbed ahold.

  Dr. Gettler dropped to the sand, wrenched open his black physician’s kit, and began treating a teenage boy disastrously burned.

  The doctor wasn’t searching for his family; could it mean her premonition had been wrong? Cora willed it to be.

  Heat rolled off the ship like a blacksmith’s forge, cooking the shallows. She yearned to throw off her cloak and dive in to join the rescue effort.

  Three at a time now, O’Toole pulled children to shore. Linnaeus handed a toddler to a nurse who couldn’t swim and sprinted back into the river, thick with screaming, flailing, shocked parishioners.

  Still, the inferno raged on, feasting on more of those unable or unwilling to jump. Smoke from their burning flesh merged with the billowing black cloud.

  At the bow railing, the orange predator was advancing on a cluster of children.

  Cora shouted to the fire brigade to redirect their hose, and the spray disappeared into those flames.

  Desperate to help, she rocked on her heels. If the doctor saw her pulling someone to shore, he’d be furious.

  Hating her body for the vessel of death it had become, she raked her gloved fingertips down her forearms, wishing she could root out the microbes within her. “God, how can this be Your will?!” she shouted.

  Again, no answer.

  The screams of the young rose above the din: “Hilf mir! Hilf mir!” Help me! Help me!

  Cora recognized the German phrase. All her remaining hope that this steamboat hadn’t been the one chartered by St. Mark’s evaporated. Her legs buckled, and she fell back against the concrete wall, its sharp ledge digging into her spine.

  Dr. Gettler moved on to another writhing, burned body as Cora wondered if he knew. She scanned the survivors on the beach for his loved ones, even though she wouldn’t be able to recognize them; so many were charred, and she’d never met his family.

  She couldn’t just stand there, watching babies, small children, and desperate mothers drown. I’ve been kept alive for a reason, and this might be it, she thought. The water: it would wash away any pests she expelled. Energy buzzed through her limbs; yet, so conditioned to shun human touch, she remained paralyzed in place.

  Every minute she wasted, another person would perish.

  Her muscles burned with a will of their own, and she caved to their desire.

  Simultaneously, she yanked off her cloak and kicked off her shoes. The fire spewed scorching air onto her skin, only partially covered by her thin cotton shift, and she realized she’d just removed the barrier that kept her germs from spreading. She wobbled on the sand.

  Passengers were dying by the second, whereas any she helped—even if she infected them in the process—would at least have a chance of surviving.

  Filling her lungs with acrid air, she charged into the shallows; a wave knocked a hymnal against her shin. She froze.

  The shrill scream of a young girl, calling Mutti, jarred Cora into action. She waded into the river until its drag became too great and dove forward. The heat scalded her skin, yet she forced herself to start swimming. All around her, legs kicked to be free of their Sunday best and hands clawed at other frantic parishioners to use their body parts like rungs on a ladder to reach the surface.

  Twenty-Five Minutes Later

  he thick, strong arm of what had to be a large man wrapped around Cora’s waist, and she writhed to free herself from his deadly grip. If she failed, he would drag her to the bottom with him. Already desperate for more air, the surface at least three feet above her, she kicked backward with all her might. Her heel met soft flesh, and the man released his hold. Her lungs seemingly ready to explode, Cora swam to the surface and gulped in the smoky, acrid air. Ignoring the burning in her muscles—already she’d saved ten children, she scanned the chaos for another to pull to shore.

  A body plunged into the river inches from Cora, sending a silty wave into Cora’s mouth. The woman bobbed to the surface, and a
small boy in her grasp spewed water.

  Determined to save them both, Cora hugged the mother’s waist with one arm and began swimming with the other.

  The woman couldn’t keep her son’s head above water.

  Again, and again, they stopped to give the child a chance to clear his lungs and breathe.

  The pair seemed to be getting heavier and the shore didn’t seem to be getting closer. None of the boats in the rescue effort was coming to their aid.

  Saltwater filled Cora’s mouth. She coughed it out, but it flowed right back in. Refusing to loosen her grip on the mom, Cora dog-paddled with one arm.

  “Wir sind zu schwer!” (We are too heavy!) the woman shouted.

  She kissed her son, tore herself free, and thrust the boy at Cora, who bobbed upward from the sudden reduction in her load.

  Before Cora had finished righting the child, his mother had sunk into the murk.

  Cora, terrified that the same would happen to herself and the boy, began to swim toward shore, paddling with one arm while clutching her precious cargo in the other.

  Just as her muscles began to seize up, her toes grazed the sandy bottom. Weighed down by the now unconscious child, she kicked hard three more times and allowed her feet to sink into the muck. Holding his head above the hot water, she called for one of the nurses to take him. Although she was too numb to feel it, Cora sensed that her body had reached its limits. But she wouldn’t stop. Not with so many on the verge of death.

  Nurse Brighton eased the boy, the skin of one shoulder badly blistered, from Cora’s grip. With his fate now beyond her control, Cora turned toward the deeper water to locate another survivor to drag ashore.

  The surface had calmed.

  They’d run out of time. Unable to hold it any longer, she released a single, strangled sob.

  In the shallows floated charred debris and bodies, so many of them, sliding toward her with the tide and then receding.

  Several members of the staff were standing stock still, shin-deep in the water. At first Cora assumed that they were simply exhausted. Then, when she noticed they were staring at the blazing steamship, she followed their gaze. A little boy was scaling one of the ship’s flagpoles to escape the ravenous death sentence beneath him. As he climbed higher, so did the flames.