“We have to get everyone immunized,” I say. “It’s the only solution.”
“No!” His face is red; his nostrils flare.
“It’s science, Jing. It’s like the electric lights. Remember how we didn’t believe that would work, either?”
He shakes his head, his face stony.
Half of my father’s patients think evil spirits cause disease. They’re certain a charm hung on a ribbon, a rabbit’s foot, or an astrology chart is more effective than real medicine. But this is Jing. He’s not like that.
I stand in front of him. “I was immunized. I can’t get the plague.”
Jing turns and walks out the door.
In the parlor, the dark night cloth still hangs over the parrot, Mr. P. “Maggy Doyle,” the parrot chirps. “Maggy Doyle. Maggy Doyle.”
Strange, I’ve never heard the parrot say that before. Pretty much all he says is “dirty work” and “supper’s ready.”
My boots are in Maggy’s room. I go back up to get them. The hall is silent. Her door is closed. “Maggy? Are you up here?”
I knock. “Maggy?”
No answer.
I crack open the door. The room is hot and stuffy. Maggy is on her bed, shiny with sweat.
“Maggy!” I touch her forehead; heat radiates through my hand.
“You’re sick,” I whisper.
She moans. Her eyes are closed, and her arms are crossed in front of her.
I try to think clearly as if this were a patient and not Maggy. Papa would wash his hands. He would take time to gather the supplies he needs. He would bring cool cloths for her fever, then examine her. He wouldn’t jump to conclusions. He would remain calm.
I go downstairs, wash up, and get what I need.
Back in Maggy’s room, I take the towel from her dresser, pour water into the bowl and soak the towel. Then I lay the cool cloth on her forehead, loosen her apron and high-collared shirtwaist. She must have gotten dressed for work but was too sick to leave her room.
I give her a sponge bath, gentle with her the way she is with me. I try to get her to take a sip of water.
Examining Maggy feels strange. But who is there to take care of her? Papa is gone. Dr. Roumalade won’t treat a servant. There is only me. I need to find out as much as I can so I know how to help her.
“Maggy.” I try to make my voice as soothing as Papa’s. “I’m going to take care of you.”
“No.” She sits up straight in bed.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
“Maggy works for Miss Lizzie,” Maggy says, trying to get out of bed.
“Today is opposite day,” I say. “Lizzie is going to work for Maggy.”
“Opposite day?”
Her arms relax, and she sinks back into bed. Then she begins shaking, thrashing, kicking off her covers.
I take a deep breath and examine her.
It’s when I get to her left armpit that my hand begins to tremble. In the soft tissue of her lymph nodes are bruised swellings.
A drip of sweat slips down my back.
Don’t jump to conclusions, Papa’s voice in my head reminds me. It could be a bruise. Carefully I check the right armpit, where I see the same thing a bit fainter and not in the same spot.
Maggy’s eyes are closed, her head sunk back into the pillow. She’s half-asleep, mumbling, talking like she sometimes does when she works. I get the worn old stuffed bear she keeps on her dresser and place it next to her.
“I’ll be back.” I dash down the stairs just as Jing is coming up. “Maggy’s sick,” I tell him.
His eyebrows rise.
“It looks like the plague,” I mumble.
I see the shock in his eyes, then run to Billy’s room. Billy is still asleep. I gently wake him. “Billy, we need Papa. You have to get him now!”
“What?”
“You said Papa was in San Rafael. You said you knew where. Can you find him? It’s Maggy … I think, I’m afraid … it’s the plague.”
Billy’s sits straight up in bed. “Get out of here so I can get dressed.”
A minute later he bolts out of the room, leaps down the stairs, grabs a cinnamon roll, heads to the barn, hooks the wagon to John Henry, and is gone.
I head for the cold box in the cold storage room, where Papa keeps his medicine. The bottles are in alphabetical order. Acetanilide, arnica, belladonna, bichloride of mercury … paregoric. No bottles say “Yersin’s.”
I search the cabinets—bandages, scalpels, magnifying glasses, ointments, brace. Not a single bottle of Yersin’s Plague Antiserum. I don’t even know if it will work, now that she has it, but it’s the only thing I can think to do.
Papa has a small practice. Maybe they didn’t give him much. But what about Billy’s dose? If I can find it, should I give it to Maggy? I wish I’d asked Billy before he left.
Did he immunize himself with the Yersin’s? It’s only one vial, and everybody needs it. Jing, Noah, Aunt Hortense, Uncle Karl, Maggy, Gemma, Gus, and Hattie. And all of those men last night. Papa said there isn’t enough Yersin’s.
How can you decide one life is more valuable than another?
I try to calculate how long it will take Billy to get to San Rafael and then for Papa and Billy to get home. One day. Is that too long for Maggy?
No one survives the hospital. It’s unthinkable to send anyone there. We need Dr. Roumalade, but how do we get him here for a servant?
Aunt Hortense likes Maggy. Can she persuade Roumalade to treat her?
I dash down the stairs and across the way to the Sweeting kitchen, where the quiet stuns me. No clanging of pots and rolling pins. Where is everyone? What happened?
“Aunt Hortense!” I panic, running through the empty rooms. The house echoes. “Aunt Hortense! Please!”
“Aunt Hortense!” I run up the grand stairwell and down the servants’ stairs. I check the Irish quarters, then go down to the Chinese floor and back into the kitchen and dining room. Up the stairs to the music room. The whole house, as big as a hotel, is deserted.
What if Aunt Hortense is sick? She always worries about me, but I never think about her. It’s just like Mama. I paid no attention, and then she was gone.
I hurry outside to the Sweeting stable. The horses are there. “Aunt Hortense!” I shout. “Don’t leave me, too.” The tears run down my cheeks.
“Aunt Hortense!” I run up to our stable, my feet pounding the walkway.
And then she’s here. Slipping and sliding in her fashionable boots, wearing a lavender dress that hangs loosely without her corset. Her hair is down. No hat or gloves. She reminds me so much of Mama this way.
“Lizzie,” she cries.
“I love you, Aunt Hortense. Do you love me?” My voice is cracking. The feelings are rising up in my chest, clogging my throat. She wraps her arms around me.
“Of course I love you, Lizzie. You and Billy are more important to me than anything else in the world. Don’t you know that? Did you think I’d put up with all your nonsense if I didn’t love you so much?”
“Maggy’s sick. I think it’s the plague. I read up on it. Fever, small bruised marks, a swelling in her armpit.”
Aunt Hortense freezes. The shock hits her hard.
“Are you sure?”
“Pretty sure.”
“Where is she?”
“Her room. Aunt Hortense.” My throat is thick with fear. I can hardly get the words through it. “What about you? Have you been immunized?”
She nods. “Dr. Roumalade immunized me. Yersin’s. Cost a pretty penny, too. Your papa told me he immunized you.”
I let out my breath. For a minute I just hold her, my arms trembling, aching with gratitude that she looked after herself.
“Can you call Dr. Roumalade? Will he come for Maggy?”
Aunt Hortense frowns, considering this. “Mr. Sweeting will get Roumalade.”
“He won’t treat her.”
“He will if Mr. Sweeting insists.”
“Will Uncle Karl do that?”
&n
bsp; Aunt Hortense looks at me. “I’ll make certain he does.”
Whatever Uncle Karl’s faults, he can bring Roumalade out when we need him. No one else could do that.
Chapter 31
Rhymes with “Persons”
“Mr. Sweeting! Mr. Sweeting!” Aunt Hortense shouts, half-running after Uncle Karl’s motorcar.
Uncle Karl stamps on the brakes. The motorcar sputters and dies. “What’s the matter?”
“Lizzie thinks Maggy has the plague.” Aunt Hortense’s hands are holding each other so tightly, her fingertips are red.
“Not possible. Where is your father, Peanut?”
“San Rafael,” Aunt Hortense answers for me.
“Billy has gone for him,” I say.
“Can you get Dr. Roumalade?” Aunt Hortense asks.
“Calm yourself, Mrs. Sweeting!” Karl tells her as he climbs out of the horseless carriage.
“Will you get him?” she shouts.
“Of course I will. But it’s not the plague. You’re getting yourself worked up for nothing.”
“Elizabeth thinks it is.”
“With all due respect, Mrs. Sweeting, our Peanut is a thirteen-year-old girl. This is Roumalade’s province. Not ours,” Uncle Karl barks.
Aunt Hortense nods, but when his back is turned, she whispers into my ear, “See if you can find any more Yersin’s, Lizzie. Go now!”
I run to the cold storage room again. It has to be here. I must have missed it before. I tear the place apart looking for a bottle marked with IP for “Institut Pasteur.”
When I return, Dr. Roumalade is making his way out of the Sweetings’ motorcar.
Dr. Roumalade straightens his coat. He reaches into the back for his doctor’s bag. Aunt Hortense pounces on him. “It’s our Maggy Doyle … There’s talk of the plague.”
“The plague? And how has this been determined?” Dr. Roumalade takes off his hat and smoothes his bald head.
“My niece examined her. Jules Kennedy’s daughter.” Aunt Hortense nods toward me.
Dr. Roumalade snorts. “A girl has diagnosed the plague? Forgive me, Mrs. Sweeting, but—”
“I told you it was nonsense,” Uncle Karl tells Aunt Hortense.
Believe in yourself. Papa’s voice in my head reassures me. “I know what I saw.”
“You’re going to take a child’s word for it, when every doctor worth his salt knows these plague rumors are untrue?” Uncle Karl says. “The president of Cooper Medical College has assured us there is no plague, woman!”
Dr. Roumalade turns to me. “Does your father believe the plague is here?”
I shake my head miserably.
“Her own father doesn’t agree with her. Why are we taking a child’s silly ideas so seriously,” Dr. Roumalade asks Aunt Hortense.
I take a step back, ready for Aunt Hortense to tell me I’m wrong.
“Lizzie.” Aunt Hortense’s voice is low and strong. “What are the signs of the plague?”
“Hard red lumps in her groin and armpits, fever, black-and-blue marks, headache, dizziness, nausea.”
“She read up on it. Does that make her an expert?” Dr. Roumalade asks.
“Maggy has all of them?” my aunt asks. Her attention is on me.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Karl looks to Dr. Roumalade. “Surely there are half a dozen illnesses that present this way.”
“Not with lumps in the armpits and black-and-blue marks.” My voice comes out boldly. I know what I saw.
Roumalade clears his throat. “I’ll need to examine her.”
“Of course,” Aunt Hortense says. “But, Doctor, why would you immunize us if you knew the plague wasn’t here?”
Dr. Roumalade’s lips shift. “No harm in being cautious.”
Uncle Karl takes a bite of his cigar. He watches Dr. Roumalade make his way to our house. “I can’t live it down if Hearst is right. You know that, don’t you?” he tells Aunt Hortense.
“For the love of God, Mr. Sweeting, I don’t care if Hearst is right.”
All I can do is pray that when Dr. Roumalade examines Maggy, he’ll know how to help her. He’s the doctor for the railroad and Comstock millionaires. They wouldn’t hire a second-rate physician, would they?
I pace back and forth outside Maggy’s room. We need Papa. Has Billy found him? Should we send everyone away, or keep them inside? And what about the yellow plague flag?… Should we hang it?
When Roumalade finally finishes, he walks right by me without a word. I chase after him down our two flights of stairs and across the way to the Sweeting house. “Dr. Roumalade? Dr. Roumalade?”
He ignores me.
In the Sweetings’ kitchen, he confers with Uncle Karl.
The kitchen is silent except for their hushed whispers. Aunt Hortense and I stand in front of the stove, waiting to hear.
“Where are all the servants?” I ask.
“Gone,” Aunt Hortense says.
“Gone?”
“Last night, they heard ‘the plague,’ and they took off.”
I think about the mob in Chinatown. Everybody is afraid.
“I tried to explain about immunization, but I couldn’t make myself understood. The more I said, the more upset they got,” Aunt Hortense says.
“It’s the same way with the smallpox vaccine. People have a hard time believing it will help.”
“It’s not just that. There was some kind of crazy article in Hearst’s paper. A reporter got immunized with Haffkine’s, and then he wrote about the side effects. Scared them all half to death,” Aunt Hortense says.
Dr. Roumalade and Uncle Karl have finished. Uncle Karl beckons for Aunt Hortense.
I can hardly wait to hear what happened. “What did Dr. Roumalade say?” I ask when Aunt Hortense finally comes back to me.
“Not much,” Aunt Hortense says.
I can’t stand this. I head back to our kitchen. On the way, I see Jing come in. He didn’t disappear the way the Sweeting servants did. Noah must still be here, too.
“Jing,” I whisper, “I’ll take care of Noah. I’ll make sure he gets immunized. I promise.”
Jing’s face turns a baker’s white. He wobbles as if I’ve kicked him in the shins.
“Dr. Roumalade has the antiserum. We have to get him to immunize everyone. Noah, too.”
Jing’s face sours. “The antiserum makes people sick.”
“That’s not true. I’ve had it, and I’m fine. So has Papa.”
“No.” The word comes out hard and angry.
“Papa wouldn’t have immunized me if it weren’t safe.”
“People die from the immunization. I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” Jing insists.
“I’m as fit as a fiddle, Jing. You have to put your faith in science. You know that,” I say.
Jing scowls. What is the matter with him?
Chapter 32
Roumalade’s Triage
Aunt Hortense and I look after Maggy. She sleeps fitfully, moaning in her sleep. She throws up, then curls up into a tight ball, kicking off her bedclothes. Dr. Roumalade and Uncle Karl are hunkered down in the Sweetings’ kitchen.
“It’s not the plague, Peanut. It’s a stomach virus,” Uncle Karl tells me. “Dr. Roumalade has done a thorough examination.”
“She was touching the rats,” I tell him.
“Doesn’t mean she has the plague,” Uncle Karl says.
Aunt Hortense looks at Roumalade. “Like I said, Doctor, let’s err on the side of caution and make sure our Maggy is immunized. Jing, too.”
“It’s not necessary. But I will do as you wish, Mrs. Sweeting.” He walks out of the house and across the cobblestone drive to the stepping-stones that lead to our back door.
In the big Sweeting kitchen, I help Aunt Hortense stoke the furnace and boil water for tea. I’ve seen Jing do this enough times to know how it’s done.
“I feel terrible about the servants, Lizzie. How was I to know there were two kinds of serum? The other night, Roumalade was
set to give something called Haffkine’s antiserum to them. Apparently Haffkine’s can kill you if you’ve already been exposed, and the side effects are terrible. Roumalade wasn’t going to use his precious Yersin’s on the help. And this from a man who swears there is no plague.”
In a flash, it all makes sense. Why Mei jumped out the window. Why Jing wouldn’t let Noah be immunized. It wasn’t the same serum. It wasn’t Yersin’s. The servants were going to be given the risky immunization. And then I can barely breathe. “Maggy!”
I fly out the door and across the breezeway, up the stepping stones, and up two flights of stairs, three steps at a time, grateful for my long legs.
When I get to Maggy’s door, I barge right in. “What are you doing?” I demand.
Roumalade’s small eyes glare at me. “Taking care of your maid. Since you have single-handedly caused a frenzy of plague fear, your aunt has insisted that everyone be immunized. A little knowledge is a dangerous thing, Lizzie.”
“Haffkine’s or Yersin’s?”
Roumalade’s eyes register his surprise. “Who taught you to be so impudent?”
“What kind of immunization are you giving Maggy?” I demand.
“It’s Yersin’s. She’s a maid. She shouldn’t have it. But your aunt insisted—”
“Aunt Hortense paid for Yersin’s,” I say.
“I know that. Didn’t you hear me? That’s what I’m delivering.” I see the bottle in his hand. He sticks the needle into the bottle, pulls the stopper back, and suctions the serum into the chamber.
When he pulls the needle out, I stare at the bottle. It’s round, and the IP mark is missing. “You’re not.” My voice shakes.
“Of course I am.”
I jump between him and Maggy. “Yersin’s comes in a different bottle.”
His nostrils expand. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“I know exactly what I’m talking about. That’s not Yersin’s. Shall I get Aunt Hortense?”
He glares at me, the filled hypodermic needle in his hand.
“Get away from her!” I yell.
He takes a reluctant breath, then digs into his bag for the bottle with IP on the side and prepares another shot. I watch his every move.
He turns the label toward me. YERSIN’S.
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