The Taint

by Patricia Wallace

  “Where did you get those?”

  “From the chapel. Reverend Frey uses them to carry donated flowers from the patients out to the cemetery.” She smiled. “We’ll just collect another type of donation.”

  “The last thing we need,” Emma struggled to keep a straight face, “is holy barf buckets.”

  “I’m just going to draw a little blood, Mrs. Ragusa.” Rachel approached the bed with the venipuncture tray and the old woman began to moan.

  She tied the tourniquet around the woman’s thin arm. “Make a fist, please.”

  The tiny gnarled hand clenched.

  She ran her fingers along the inside of the arm, feeling for the vein. It was a roller; she could have guessed as much. She wiped the arm with alcohol and picked up the needle. The skin punctured easily and she paused before beginning to probe for the vein.

  “Oh no, oh no,” the woman moaned.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed, “it’ll just take a minute if you’re still.”

  “Oh no.” The woman licked dry lips.

  The vein was tough and it took some skill to be able to exert enough pressure to puncture it without passing through and blowing it. She did it, though, and quickly pushed the first tube into place, watching the blood fill the tube.

  The woman had begun to cry, a high keening wail.

  “Almost done,” Rachel said and pushed a second tube onto the needle. The blood was slowing, the pressure in the vein barely enough to keep it moving.

  She didn’t want to stick her again.

  Finally there was enough blood and she pulled out the needle. Another alcohol swab, a bandage and she was out the door before the woman realized she was gone.

  “Nathan,” Rachel came up to him, “I’m glad you’re here.”

  “We’re having some sort of a crisis?”

  “An epidemic . . .” they were walking toward the lab and she held up Mrs. Ragusa’s blood samples. “I want you to run these through your magic machine.”

  “Certainly.” He took the vials from her. “Looking for anything in particular?”

  “A straw in the wind.”

  “Look at this,” she said. She held an open culture dish in her hands.

  “Mr. Tyler’s culture? Still growing like mad.”

  “But this isn’t Tyler’s. I did four cultures yesterday,” she was pulling more culture dishes out the incubator and opening them, “and all of them are the same.” She looked at him. “What does this mean?”

  He bent over, looking at the dishes, each with a heavy growth completely covering the nutritive base. “Well, it might mean that we have a defective shipment of culture dishes, some impurity or contaminant.”

  She waited while he picked up one of the dishes.

  “Or we might have an extremely virulent form of organism on our hands.”

  They prepared the specimens for shipment to the CDC in Atlanta, working hurriedly, aware of the patients waiting down the hall.

  “Do you think they’ll be able to identify it?”

  “I imagine so.” Nathan sealed the box with tape. “Although there are new mutations occurring all of the time. Still, they have a better shot at it than we do.”

  Rachel took the box after he’d finished marking it and headed back toward ER where Earl Wagner was waiting to drive it down the mountain for immediate shipment to Georgia.

  Then she went back to work.

  By ten a.m. the storm had arrived in full force and the patient influx had stabilized. The majority of patients had improved following medication and were discharged to their homes with prescriptions and orders not to eat and to take fluids slowly.

  They had admitted only four of the twenty-nine and all four were considered isolation cases.

  Emma went off duty shortly after ten, three hours late. Her shift report was shorter than was her practice, but she was too tired to search her mind for details.

  On the way home she thought that something was waiting to be remembered but she couldn’t make the effort. It would wait.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Rachel was standing at the window in his office when he returned from making his rounds.

  “Look at it rain,” she said, looking out into the courtyard. “I’d almost forgotten rain.”

  Nathan pulled a book from the shelf and sat at his desk. “It’s the last thing we need right now. Some people who need medical treatment will stay home because of it, the older ones especially.”

  “And Nora.” She turned to face him. “Earl told me they’ve had to postpone the search for her . . . I hope she isn’t out there in the cold.”

  “I’m sure she smelled it in the air long before there were any storm clouds.”

  “You’re lucky it didn’t rain while you were at the lake.”

  He swung around in his chair. “I want to talk to you about that.”

  “What?”

  “We’ve always been honest with each other,” he began, and then paused, taking a deep breath. “I didn’t go to the lake.”

  “Nathan . . .”

  “I spent the day with Joyce Callan.”

  “Really?” She had to work to keep from smiling.

  “We’re very close friends.”

  “How long,” she said, “has this been going on?”

  “Years. Actually ever since we first met at one of those medical conventions, I think I wrote you about it . . .”

  “About the convention, yes, but not . . .”

  “I wasn’t sure whether it would last. But it’s been four years now . . .”

  “Four years,” she echoed.

  “Anyway, I thought it was about time you, and everyone, knew.”

  Now she smiled. “I’m happy for you.” She crossed the room and kissed him. “It’s about time.”

  “You approve?” He held her away to look at her.

  “Nathan, it’s time you stopped worrying about me. Of course I approve, but that shouldn’t be a deciding factor. If you’re happy . . . I’m happy.”

  “Joyce thought you might feel that way.”

  “I do,” she said firmly.

  He hugged her. “I’m relieved. It’s been you and me since Tim died and I didn’t want you to think I’d abandon you now.”

  “I’d never think that.” She held his eyes. “And I’m grown up now . . .”

  “And you’ll probably be getting married before too long.”

  “Well . . .”

  “Oh, don’t think I don’t know, I’ve got eyes in my head.”

  She blushed. “Know what?”

  “About Jon.”

  She looked at him. “You know what about Jon?”

  “You’re in love with him. Have been since you were a little girl. And that he’s the reason that you didn’t marry Kelly.”

  “But how . . .”

  “I know you. I can see it in your face.”

  She sat down, digesting this information. “Like a lovesick adolescent.”

  “Oh, you’re better at hiding it now than you used to be.” He smiled at her fondly. “But I can see it.”

  “A transparent lovesick adolescent. Except, sometimes, he makes me so mad . . . it’s as if he doesn’t even see me at all.”

  “Well, if it’s any comfort to you, I can tell you, he sees you.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Jon is a complicated man. You have your work cut out for you.”

  She nodded slowly and looked back out the window.

  “But he’s worth it,” she said.

  FORTY-SIX

  “Mrs. Frey,” Joyce stood in the doorway. “I just had a call from your husband, and he’ll be down to pick you up in a few minutes.”

  The woman sat, very still, in a chair by the bed.

  “Thank you,” she said finally, and gave a little nod.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, I’ll just wait for Martin.” She folded her hands in her lap.

  Joyce watched her for a minute but she seemed l
ost in thought and did not look up.

  “Mrs. Frey’s very quiet,” she said when she got back to the desk.

  “Amanda’s not very outgoing, at least with adults.” Nathan finished writing orders, closed the chart and looked at Joyce. “She’s great with kids.”

  “Well, she looks better, anyway. The last time I saw her at church I thought she was too pale.”

  “She’ll be fine if she takes it easy. Not that I expect her to.” He searched the chart rack. “I’ll go talk to Frank now.” He started to walk away and then stopped. “By the way, I told Rachel about us.”

  “What did she say?”

  “That it’s about time.” He looked either way down the hall. “Nobody’s looking.” He grinned and came back to her, leaning down and kissing her lightly on the lips.

  “That’s nice.” She put her arms around his neck for a second kiss, and lingered.

  “Ahem.”

  They parted and turned.

  The Reverend Martin Frey bowed and gave a thin smile. “Good morning. I’ve come for my wife.”

  Rev. Frey assisted his wife into their car and tucked a blanket around her legs. “Now we’ll be home soon,” he assured her, getting into the car and starting it.

  “Yes dear,” she said. She kept her eyes straight ahead on the way home.

  “Don’t worry about making lunch, either, there were plenty of left-overs from the potluck. Not as many people came this year,” he sighed and glanced at her. “Not that it has anything to do with the food, I’m sure, but maybe we could do something a little different for our next one. Beef Wellington, I was thinking. Something with a little sophistication.”

  “Yes dear,” she said.

  “I’m glad you agree. I have to tell you, I was a little worried that you might take it personally. But, I understand that down in the city they’re having great luck with stuffed grape leaves.” He reached out and patted the blanket where he estimated her hand would be. “It is a shame, but we do have to compete.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the summer camp. I’ve talked to some of the parents and they think you’re doing a marvelous job—I reassured them that you wouldn’t delay opening—but I’ve been thinking that maybe we should concentrate on more substantial matters. I told them how well you speak French and they were very enthusiastic about a French theme. You could give lessons, and cover a little history, cook them genuine Gallic meals . . . I know this doesn’t give you much time to prepare, but you can start out simple with just a few flashcards, some slides, maybe crepes suzette . . .” Another sideways glance.

  “It sounds wonderful.” Her voice was barely audible.

  “Oh, and one other thing. A few of the parents were wondering if they might leave their children overnight on occasion. A little vacation away from the kids.” He looked at her again. “And you’re so good with them, all of the kids love you. I didn’t think you’d object . . . ?”

  After a moment: “No.”

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Melissa Davis flounced out of the living room and made her way noisily up the stairs and to her room.

  Summer school. Just what she needed.

  She threw herself dramatically on the bed, burying her face in the pillow while listening for the sound of footsteps, but apparently no one was following her.

  They didn’t want her around, that much was clear. She was in the way. Not that she hadn’t expected it because the moment her mother had announced that she was marrying Tony, Melissa knew things were going to change.

  The fact that Tony was only twenty-two and her mother was thirty-five had a lot to do with it. Eliminate the fourteen year old daughter and suddenly mother could pass for . . . twenty-nine? By all means, eliminate the daughter. Ignore that fact that her new step-father was a lot closer to her age than her mother’s.

  Not that they would admit to it, but Melissa’s budding figure was the fly in their ointment. She got off the bed and stood sideways in front of the full-length mirror, sucking her stomach in.

  As if she could help it. Was she supposed to stop puberty?

  When she exercised, as she did every day, in her leotard and leg warmers, Tony was always around. Her mother objected, but not openly. Even at her tender age Melissa knew that her mother could never come right out and accuse Tony of ogling. No, mother was more subtle; a new sweatsuit to cover every young inch of her, errands to get Tony out of the house and even—this was the lowest—tempting her with chocolate and pasta, designed to make her pudge out.

  Her own mother!

  And lately Tony had started with the games, rough-housing and tickling her, chasing her until she collapsed, giggling helplessly while he made her say uncle.

  So. . . summer school.

  She flopped back down on the bed, covering her eyes with her arm. There had to be a way to get out of it. She and Jennifer were the oldest kids last year, and she hadn’t seen any new male blood in town.

  There had to be a way to make her mother see that she was too old for Play-Doh and fingerpaints.

  Then she knew. She wouldn’t ask her mother at all. She would ask Tony—he was her step-father, after all.

  Tony made her feel funny. Kind of nervous and squirmy, like waiting to see the dentist when you know you need a filling. He had brown liquid eyes and curly black hair and he was always tan. He wore pants without rear pockets and expensive leather shoes and he smelled . . . none of the boys she knew had ever smelled like that.

  He kind of smoldered, throwing hot glances at her and smiling with perfect white teeth, looking hungry. She thought he could teach her a lot more than summer school could.

  She got up and put on her tightest jeans and the blue sweater that Jennifer said made her eyes like sapphire. And went looking for Tony.

  Jennifer Rogers looked at her father in disbelief.

  “French? You want me to learn French during my summer so-called vacation?” She groaned and sat back, throwing her fork on the plate.

  “A little education wouldn’t hurt you,” Stan Rogers said. “Heaven knows you get little enough during the school year.”

  “But Daddy . . .”

  “You’re going.” He took a sip of wine and regarded her over the rim of the glass. “You can get into too much trouble without supervision.”

  “Like what?” It came out more sarcastically than she had intended.

  “Don’t ‘like what’ me. Or do you think I’ve forgotten your little hitchhiking episode? If Mrs. Freeman hadn’t come along, who knows what might have happened? You could have been . . .”

  “Raped and murdered . . .”

  “. . . raped and murdered.” He pointed a finger at her. “There are men out there waiting, and the way you dress . . .”

  “Everybody dresses this way.”

  “They most certainly do not, and I’m not going to let you spend the summer hanging out, half-dressed, while some crazed sex-killer . . .”

  Her mother, who had been more than willing to stay out of it, looked up from her plate and cleared her throat. “Stan, not at the table, please.”

  “The point is,” he continued, “I want you where you’ll be safe . . . and the church summer school is just the place.”

  Jennifer looked at her mother pleadingly.

  “I’m sorry, Jennifer, but I agree with your father. It isn’t safe for a girl your age to be wandering about. Besides, you enjoyed yourself last summer . . .”

  “The matter is settled,” her father interrupted. “You’re going.”

  They finished the meal in silence.

  Later Jennifer sat Indian-style on Melissa’s bed and watched admiringly as Melissa tried on a pair of jeans she had altered into very short shorts.

  “Your rear end is hanging out,” Jennifer said.

  “Fantastic.” She looked over her shoulder into the mirror. “Mom’ll split a gut.”

  “My dad would kill me.” Jennifer took a pack of cigarettes out of her clutchbag and put one between her lips. “Got a lighte
r?”

  “There’s matches in the drawer.” She faced front, her legs spread and her hands on her hips. “Wow,” she said to her reflection.

  “It’ll really impress all those nine year olds in summer school,” Jennifer coughed, exhaling.

  “I don’t plan to go to summer school.”

  “What? You just told me your mother . . .”

  “. . . wants to get rid of me. But I’ve got a way to get out of it, at least part of the time.”

  “What? Burn down the church.”

  “Watch.” She opened the bedroom door and stuck her head out. “Tony!”

  “Rattle the windows, why don’t you.”

  “Well, I can’t exactly walk out there dressed like this.” She looked out the door. “He’s coming.”

  Jennifer ran a hand over her hair and moistened her lips, lounging as seductively as she could on the bed.

  Melissa left the door open about an inch and moved to stand in front of the mirror, then reached down, touching her toes.

  “Not fair,” Jennifer hissed, “Rosy cheeks!”

  Tony Buono came into the room, hesitating only momentarily at the sight of his step-daughter’s derriere. He smiled at Jennifer.

  “We were just having a drink,” he said to Melissa who had stopped exercising and was facing him, her hair wild about her face.

  “We want to ask you a favor,” Melissa said, “but it has to be a secret because Mom wouldn’t like it.”

  “Oh?”

  “Tomorrow’s the first day of summer school, but we were wondering if we could get you to take us swimming instead.”

  A flicker of something in his eyes.

  “We know this great place, real secluded, but it’s too far to get there on foot.”

  “Can’t it wait until the week-end?”

  “It’s only private during the week . . .”

  “It’s the best place to go skinny-dipping,” Jennifer added, her heart racing. She caught Melissa’s look of approval.

  “What if it’s still raining?”

  “That’s even better, swimming in the rain.” Melissa smiled secretively.