“I had no idea there was a vaccine for influenza.” Miss Latigue looks shocked. “Why isn’t this more widely known?”
“Because it’s experimental.” Vera leans forward. In the candlelight her bushy auburn hair gleams. “Hiram, Dr. Jellicoe, has done brilliant research. He’ll explain it all to you tomorrow. There are risks, of course, as with any experimental vaccine. But we feel the risks are worth it, because the benefit is so great.”
Miss Latigue frowns and taps her finger on the table. “The Council will take a dim view of any experiments carried out on these unfortunates. Heaven help all of us if the press catches wind of it.”
I almost miss the look of panic that flashes between Vera and her mother.
“There are always accidents,” says Vera. “And yes, some campers did die. But”—she jabs her finger at Miss Latigue—“only those who had never been exposed to flu before they came here. As a test, Dr. Jellicoe injected himself and then Mother and me, and look, we are all still standing. As are the majority of campers.”
Injected himself? Miss Latigue raises her eyebrows. I don’t believe it either.
“Please give me a head count of campers who died of the flu this summer,” Miss Latigue says. “I know you’ve had a lot to contend with and have done your best to protect all of the campers. Still the Council must have the facts.”
“Sadly, fourteen campers reacted badly to the inoculation or came here so ill it did no good,” Cecily says bleakly. “Every one of those deaths tears at my heart. Their bodies have been buried here and their institutions advised. But when they come here infected, what can we do? It would be criminal not to use the means at hand.”
She and Vera watch Miss Latigue. I would swear they’re holding their breaths. Cecily twists her string of pearls so tightly that I’m afraid it will break. It makes me wonder about Father’s reaction to Cecily’s letter all those years ago. Did he suspect her and Vera of something?
Finally Miss Latigue nods. “The perception might be that we are experimenting on the campers with this vaccine, so for now the information about the inoculations and the deaths will remain private. I will inform the Council, and it will stop there.”
Did Father find out they wanted to experiment on the campers?
She turns to me. “I’m sorry to burden you with this, Rowan, but you must promise to tell no one about this conversation. No one. Not even Dorchy.”
“Of course.” I look down at the table, afraid they’ll see I’m lying. But what I said wasn’t really a lie. I meant, Of course, I will tell Dorchy.
“What will the Council say?” The words burst from Cecily.
“That depends on what I find out tomorrow at the medical tent.” Miss Latigue turns to me. “I’d like Rowan to come to the gym tomorrow with her camera. I’ll be interviewing the girls and would like a photograph of each one. You do have a darkroom, Cecily, do you not? That Rowan can use?”
My heart leaps. I’ll be back in the gym with Dorchy.
Cecily frowns. “I need Rowan’s help filing tomorrow.”
“Well, after she assists me, she’s all yours,” Miss Latigue says. “What about the darkroom?”
“Mother,” says Vera. It’s a warning.
“Vera is very proprietary about the darkroom,” Cecily says.
“I don’t care who does the job, but the Council needs to have the film developed and prints made here,” says Miss Latigue. “I hope that won’t be a problem.”
Vera shrugs. “If Rowan knows what she’s doing, I guess….”
“I do know.” I haven’t been in a darkroom in years, but Father taught me well.
“One last question,” Miss Latigue says brightly. “I’d like to contact the Boston office at some point tomorrow. What is the best way to communicate with the mainland?”
Another glance between Vera and Cecily; this time it’s surprise.
“We don’t have a way to contact them,” Cecily says. “I’m afraid you’ll have to wait until you’re back on the mainland.”
“No contact?” Miss Latigue sounds horrified. “What about emergencies? How would you call for help?”
“Dr. Jellicoe is here to handle any medical emergencies, with Dr. Ritter as backup,” says Vera.
“And we have the lighthouse,” Cecily says. “Although it was damaged by fire some time ago.”
“We saw it from the ferry,” says Miss Latigue doubtfully. “It’s in ruins.”
Cecily smiles. “Oh, it’s workable. Reuben, the caretaker, assured us of that.”
“But how would a lighthouse summon help?” Miss Latigue says.
I wonder the same thing.
“We’ll light the lamp. It’s unusual these days, so when people on the mainland see it, they will send a boat to offer assistance. The townspeople were quite fond of our lighthouse in its day and have told us many times, ‘If we see the light, we’ll know you need help.’”
Miss Latigue shakes her head. “Surely you could establish radio contact with the mainland?”
“We could,” says Vera with finality, “but we see no reason to. The lighthouse will work for a nonmedical emergency. Otherwise we handle things ourselves. How on earth do you think people got by before radio and telephone?”
Miss Latigue flushes and grips the table. “I will recommend the Council immediately look for another location for the camp. I always said an island was asking for trouble.”
She stands up. “And now, please excuse me. I want to make a final inspection at the gym.”
I stand up too, putting my napkin by my plate. “I’d like to speak to you before you go, please,” I say.
She nods and I follow her out of the dining room.
“May I go with you?” I ask. “I need to explain things to Dorchy. And really I would like to be assigned to work with her.”
Miss Latigue sighs. “They need both of you to work with the campers, and that’s a fact. Nurse Blunt is a nurse, not a counselor for healthy campers. But Cecily has decided she needs you, so my hands are tied for the moment.”
She puts her hand on my arm. “Stay here tonight and say nothing to Cecily for now. Dorchy is fine with the girls, and you’ll see her tomorrow. I’ll tell her you wanted to come but had no choice.”
I want to follow Miss Latigue when she opens the front door, but Cecily calls me back to the dining room. I go reluctantly.
Chapter 32
After breakfast with Cecily the next morning, Miss Latigue and I head out to the gym. I’m anxious to see Dorchy and tell her about the flu deaths. She’s sitting on the gym floor watching over the girls doing needlework. I only have time to give her a brief wave. She lifts the hem of her apron with the Council’s initials on it and glares at me in my new clothes. I shrug and hope I’ll have a chance to explain later.
Miss Latigue sits at the table where Cecily sat yesterday, with the interview forms in front of her and the window behind her. Sitting opposite her, the girl she interviews is forced to squint into the bright sunlight. I sit behind Miss Latigue with her camera, a newer Brownie, loaded with film. “Several photographs of each girl, please,” says Miss Latigue. “I like to have choices.”
This afternoon I’ll type the interviews on clean forms and develop and print the photographs.
“We’ll start with Lolly,” Miss Latigue calls to Dorchy.
“Not the twins,” Vera’s voice booms as she strides across the floor in her boots and riding clothes.
Posy jumps, and the short Italian girl lets out high-pitched squeal. Lolly and Dolly start jabbering in their private language.
“Why not?” Miss Latigue says sharply.
“My mother should have explained.” Vera comes to a stop, facing Miss Latigue and me. I’m tempted to take a picture of Vera’s angry scowl, but she would probably rip the film out of the camera. “Dr. Jellicoe and I have a special resear
ch interest in the twins,” she says in her loud voice. “We’re keeping all information about them private for the moment.”
“How very unusual.” Miss Latigue frowns. I look over to catch Dorchy’s eye, but she’s helping Posy thread a needle.
“Why don’t you start with Elsa.” Vera laughs. “She’s a rich source of material by the look of her. Get your camera ready, Rowan.”
Miss Latigue reads questions printed on a form and records Elsa’s answers in pencil. The first questions are: What defects, deformities, or birthmarks do you have? Did your parents have? Did your grandparents have? Were any of them vagrants? Feebleminded? Drunkards?
What childhood diseases did you have?
How are your teeth: Any decay? Extractions? Pain?
Are your vision and hearing good? Failing? Defective?
Elsa speaks no English. Her answers are: “Um.” “Scusi?” “Niente.”
“Miss Latigue,” I interrupt. “Maybe the other Italian girl could translate for…”
“No, no, no.” Vera, who has been listening to the interview, shakes her finger at me. I back away from her and catch sight of Dorchy staring at us.
“It’s a logical suggestion, Vera,” says Miss Latigue. “What is your objection? This girl, Elsa, cannot understand my questions.”
Vera turns on her. “We never allow the unfit to interview the unfit. Simply note any responses you get. She understands you better than you think. Proceed.”
Miss Latigue purses her lips. I can tell she’s not used to taking orders or being corrected. Vera has gone too far.
But Miss Latigue only says mildly, “All right, I will continue in my own way. Now, Elsa, please try to understand. Only a few more.”
From my vantage point, I can read the questions over her shoulder:
Condition of speech: enunciation—clear, lisping, stammering, stuttering, mumbling, hand gestures?
Miss Latigue circles mumbling.
Unfit. Vera’s use of the word sets off an alarm in me. Is the point of these interviews to confirm the unfitness of the campers? That seems to be exactly what Miss Latigue is doing. And I’m part of the process. Just as I was part of the Unfit Family show, reminding audiences how “fit” they were compared to us. A wave of disgust sweeps through me. I lower the camera.
“Posy, please come over here,” calls Miss Latigue. “I will evaluate your walk. Please photograph her, Rowan.”
Posy walks over to the table, unsmiling. I raise the camera and press the shutter release.
Over Miss Latigue’s shoulder I read: Walking gait—Brisk? Leisurely? Shuffling?
Miss Latigue circles Shuffling. Then she says, “Now we’ll test your sense of direction, Posy. Close your eyes and walk to the front doors.”
Posy closes her eyes and walks in an ever-widening circle, closer and closer to the windows.
“Stop,” Miss Latigue shouts just before Posy bumps against the wall. For Sense of direction, Miss Latigue circles Easily lost.
For defect or deformity, she writes in, Harelip.
Miss Latigue chooses words that make Posy sound unfit, because Miss Latigue sees her as unfit. The questions aren’t fair. The questioner isn’t fair. None of it is fair.
Then it’s the other Italian girl, Magdalena’s, turn. After a short conversation with her, Miss Latigue circles the following words for Temperament—Excitable, Low self-control, Talks to self.
She later circles Below-average intelligence and Poor grammar.
On one of the forms she writes Lolly’s and Dolly’s names and “No access to subjects, by order of Vera Van.”
When she’s through with the interviews, she turns to me and makes a face. “Well, Rowan, what do you think?”
I’m so surprised that I barely manage to say, “It’s hard to make sense of it all.” But that’s not true. I know exactly what I think. The interviews are meaningless. They confirm the interviewer’s opinions about the interviewee. They are as fake as Gilda, Half Woman, Half Snake; as prejudiced and demeaning as the Unfit Family show.
How many hours, how many years has Julia wasted interviewing people to determine if they should be sterilized when she already knew the answers? Does Father know he’s basing his lectures and articles on data collected by prejudiced interviewers?
A hot, furious fire kindles inside me. I wall it off.
Miss Latigue sighs. “The interview questions about parents’ and grandparents’ health and traits are ridiculous to use with orphans, wouldn’t you say? So much of their family information is unknown.”
“Yes. So why interview them at all?”
She looks startled. “How else can we determine who is fit to have children? From what Cecily tells me, your own father and sister are dedicated to our mission.” She looks at me thoughtfully. “I assume you are too.”
Cecily arrives to escort me back to her house for lunch, the darkroom, and note typing.
“The interviews won’t take long to type up,” says Miss Latigue. “Remember to make a carbon copy for me to take back to the Council. I’m off to inspect the medical tent.”
As I leave the gym, I look around for Dorchy. I haven’t had a chance to speak to her. She sits with her arm around Posy, who is weeping. When Dorchy sees me, she scowls and looks away.
That’s unfair. I didn’t make Posy cry. So why do I feel like the enemy?
Chapter 33
For “luncheon,” as Cecily calls it, the cook, a plain, sturdy woman in a long white apron, serves us consommé, cornmeal biscuits, and lobster salad.
As she hands me my bowl of consommé, I ask her what her name is. Cecily calls her Cook.
“Louise,” she says, looking surprised and pleased.
When she comes to clear our plates, I say, “Louise, the lobster was delicious.”
A look of triumph crosses her face at the compliment. “Much obliged,” she says.
After that, I have an hour to work without supervision while Cecily takes a nap. I go to the office as soon as she disappears upstairs. I’m determined to make the most of my time alone.
My first job is typing the interviews. I’m tempted to change what Miss Latigue wrote, but Father and Julia instilled a reverence for research in me, so I type what I was given, hating every word. I finish typing and file the originals in the top drawer of the file cabinet.
Now is my chance. I take a deep breath, unfold a paper clip, and pick the lock on the first forbidden file drawer.
I open the drawer and pull out a folder labeled Summer 1922 Special. The first page is headed Betty Riordan, Camper. The notes about Betty’s deceased parents call them “non churchgoing,” “shiftless,” and “degenerate.” Her own traits are as bad as the ones Miss Latigue came up with for Posy and Elsa and Magdalena: “bad teeth,” “below-average intelligence,” “gets lost easily,” and “mumbles.”
Betty’s photograph is a shock. In it she’s lying down, eyes closed, wrapped to the neck in a white sheet. Riordan, B. Died 7/5/22 Influenza is written on the back of the picture. I drop it as if it burned me.
Betty died here. This summer.
Cecily said that fourteen campers died this summer, but I never expected to see a photograph of one of the corpses.
I flip through all the pages in the folder and count twenty-five photographs of a dead boy or girl.
Twenty-five campers died here this summer of influenza. Cecily lied at dinner last night. I put a new roll of film in the camera and turn on the desk lamp. Then I snap pictures of a few of the photographs to show Miss Latigue. After that I relock the forbidden drawer.
“What are you doin’ in here?” I jump and turn around. Louise stands in the doorway, arms folded.
“You scared me.” My heart thunders. I force myself not to look at the camera on the desk. Did she see me taking photographs?
“Mrs. Van Giesen and Mi
ss Van are in charge of the files,” she says. “Do they know you’re lookin’ in there?”
I frown at her. “What business is it of yours?”
“Oh, it’s my business all right.” She leans on the doorjamb. “Reuben, my brother, is the caretaker, and we know all there is to know about this island,” she says. “Ask anybody on the mainland about the Dubuques of Van Giesen Island. We have different views from the Van Giesens sometimes, always have, but we’re family all the same.”
“Well,” I say carefully, “I’m not hurting the island. But I thought its name was Loup Island.”
“That name’s just for the camp,” Louise says in a disgusted tone. “Miss Vera’s idea. She’s made a lot of changes. Not one of them any good, if you ask me. And if I read you right, you don’t trust her either. But be careful. She’s a step ahead of most folks when she wants something.”
“What does she want?”
“I couldn’t say for sure.” She abruptly leaves the doorway, and by the time I get to the hall to look for her, she’s disappeared.
Dust motes float through a shaft of sunlight from the west-facing window. So Vera’s “a step ahead of most folks” is she? But not you, Louise Dubuque.
Cecily didn’t tell me where to find the darkroom. I go back and look around the office. Then I go next door to Cecily’s. From there I follow my nose, because here the closet has been turned into a chemical-smelling darkroom. When I open it and go in, I’m back in our darkroom at the beach.
Father stood over his pans of chemicals, the amber safelight adding to the magic. His hands in black rubber gloves rose from the sink. He hung wet prints to dry and flattened the dried ones under a towel with a dictionary on top. “Your mother took the photographs, and I developed the film and printed them,” he told me that summer while he was teaching me. “Until she got so she could do a better job herself.”
I click on the amber light in this darkroom and close the door. This is a much smaller space, but the same brown glass jugs of developer, stop, and fixer rest on a shelf above the workbench where the paper safe, enlarger, and paper cutter sit. Above my head is a wire with clothespins for drying negatives and prints.
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