The Storm

by Shelley Thrasher

  They were supposed to reflect, give thanks, and remember their loved ones now in paradise. So she managed a brief prayer for Eric and Angus, for Mr. James, and for Henry and Helen. She doubted if many people were in the churches throughout the city, for according to Mother, many were still hiding from the flu.

  The famous statue of Our Lady stood in front of the shrine. Her gold robe shone too brightly for Jaq’s taste, the baby in her arms looked too smug, and evidently this time she hadn’t given New Orleans prompt succor like she supposedly had from past hurricanes, fires, and wars.

  But in spite of her objections to Our Lady’s appearance and shortcomings, she prayed earnestly for Patrick to recover quickly and dwelt on Molly during the remainder of the Mass. They’d each lost a husband, but her loss didn’t begin to compare to Molly’s. Mr. James was kind and tender, though patronizing. Molly and he had shared a son, which had to have created a bond that would be agonizing to break. When she recovered enough, would she call? And even if Molly did call, could she talk to her without suffering the worst kind of guilt?

  The sound of the small chorus roused her and she glanced toward the singers. Surely she’d see Sister Mary Therese. She’d been the assistant director six years ago, but now an unfamiliar woman led the girls. Jaq sighed at the reprieve.

  After the Mass ended, she stood in place and watched the small number of students and sisters file past. She recognized none of the students, of course, but a few of the nuns nodded. Sister Celestine, the prioress, who came last, stopped and half smiled. Her pince-nez sat crooked on her nose.

  “Jacqueline Bergeron. Thanks be to the saints. I’ve prayed to see you again, and now God has answered my prayers. Would you be so good as to visit with me for a few minutes in my office?”

  Puzzled that the prioress even remembered her, much less wanted to talk to her, she nodded.

  Sister Celestine chatted as they strolled across the courtyard toward the main building. Once in her office, she slumped into her desk chair and motioned her into the chair in front of her. Jaq knew it well, for she had once received several reprimands there as she tried to sit still and be respectful. This time she had no trouble doing either.

  Judging by Sister Celestine’s thin gray hair and marked stoop, she’d spent the past month serving the sick and dying in the infected city. The last time Jaq saw her she’d had dark hair and sat as straight-backed as the chair Jaq perched on.

  “How have you been, Jacqueline? Your mother tells me you have seen the world.”

  “Yes, ma’am. More than I bargained for.”

  “As have I, my dear.” She shrugged and let out a deep breath.

  “What’s it been like in New Orleans? Mother told me a bit, but I’m sure you’ve seen more than she has.” She couldn’t help herself. She felt like a kid tearing at a scab on her arm to see if it was healing.

  “We’ve done what we can to help people through this epidemic. I suppose you’ve heard some are calling it the Blue Death? The purple blisters, the terrible earaches and headaches, and finally blood oozing, even shooting from the nose, ears, and mouth. And all the while the patient gasps for breath and turns dark blue for lack of oxygen. The ones with those symptoms never live.”

  She knew them well. That’s exactly what had happened to Eric and Angus. She trembled.

  Sister Celestine shifted in her chair. “The individual deaths have been horrifying. As have the way so many people reacted to this disease. At first the rich blamed the poor, and the poor blamed the rich. Then people blamed the Germans, the Negroes, the Jews, and any other minority group they could think of. Sick people starved because those who were well panicked and refused to go near or give food to anyone with even one ill family member. And others would have nothing to do with any of the orphans. We have done what we could, but several of the sisters have died.”

  And she’d thought things were bad in New Hope. Aunt Anna hadn’t exaggerated. Those living in a small community or town evidently hadn’t suffered nearly so much as those in the large cities.

  Sister Celestine seemed eager to share her burden. “Eventually, though, as more people realized that only the influenza was to blame, some of them, white and black, banded together and worked side by side. Of course, the undertakers still had to hire guards to protect their valuable coffins. Who would have thought they would be in such demand? At times when we didn’t think we could continue, the children helped keep us from despair. They made up little poems and songs. I had a little bird. Its name was Enza. I opened the window, and in-flu-enza.”

  Jaq smiled in spite of herself, but one question wouldn’t leave her alone. “You said some of the sisters died. Anyone I knew?”

  The prioress opened her mouth to speak, frowned, closed it, replaced her pince-nez and adjusted it, and finally seemed to reach a decision. “I take it you have not heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “About Sister Mary Therese. I know you especially admired her. That is why I asked to speak to you.”

  “Did she…was she one…?” She gripped the slick, varnished oak of the chair that supported her.

  “No, child. It is not what you think. It is…actually…worse.” The sister hesitated, as if wanting to spare her.

  What could be worse than dying from the flu? “What happened? I have to know. Please.”

  Sister Celestine jerked off her pince-nez and folded her hands in front of her on her desk. “After we left the old convent in the French Quarter and moved here, Sister Mary Therese was never the same. She shut herself away and rarely spoke. At first I thought she was merely having a difficult time adjusting to the move, but she failed to improve.” She had laced her fingers together and was squeezing them so tight they looked like the blood had drained from them.

  “She did not appear for early chapel one morning. I sent one of the sisters to see if she was ill, and the sister ran back with a horrible expression and pulled me toward Sister Mary’s room. When I entered, I saw her bare feet rotating slowly. Somehow we cut her down, but of course we were too late. And then we had to return her body to her parents without even saying a Mass for her eternal soul.” Her eyes shone with unshed tears, and she swiped at them as she replaced her pince-nez.

  “Why?” She grabbed her own left wrist and clamped down on it until she was afraid she’d bruised it.

  “We have no idea. Perhaps she told her confessor, but whatever led her to take such an extreme measure must have tortured her like the flames of hell. I only wish her suffering had ended then, but we both know it has merely begun.”

  She had to get out of there. Sister Mary Therese’s blue eyes and blond curls were shriveled now? She couldn’t bear the thought.

  Feeling as cold as the stones of the archway she hurried through after she quickly said good-bye to Sister Celestine, Jaq almost stumbled down the long flight of stairs from her office. Somehow she drove back down State Street and rushed into the room she had slept in as a schoolgirl. Sister Mary Therese would never sing again.

  As she lay there and wondered if she’d caused her death too, all her bitterness dissolved in the tears that wrenched her. She’d never considered how Sister Mary must have felt after their lovemaking. Her own pain had enveloped her so fully she hadn’t been able to look outside herself.

  This morning she had gone halfheartedly to the Shrine of Our Lady of Prompt Succor to pay her respects to her loved ones now in paradise. She dared the church to tell her that Sister Mary Therese was in hell. She was in a place where women could love one another freely and openly. She was in the type of heaven Jaq vowed to spend all her energy making into a reality on this earth.

  And she could begin by asking Molly if they could make a life together. Actually formulating the thought made her hesitate. Would Molly be able to withstand the strange looks that people would give them when they learned that the two of them were raising Patrick together? Were Molly’s feelings for her strong enough to defy everything she’d known and been taught? What about her fa
mily? How would they react?

  If she even suggested such a life together, would Molly reject her like Sister Mary and Helen had? Molly might already be thinking about looking for another husband. After all, a boy needed a father, didn’t he? A new husband could rescue Molly from the farm and Mrs. Russell, move her to Dallas or Austin, where she could have a life more suited to her interests and accomplishments.

  But wouldn’t it be heavenly to be able to offer Molly what a man could?

  She lay still for a while then wiped away her tears. She was as good as any man. Better. And Molly loved her. She felt it with her whole heart. She’d give Molly a little more time to recuperate, then she’d call her. No, she’d write her. But wouldn’t it be better to discuss something this important face to face?

  That was it. When her father felt better, she’d drive back to New Hope and bare her feelings to Molly. She didn’t know whether the prospect thrilled her or frightened her.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  “Do you miss Pa a lot?” Patrick asked her as they sat side by side on the porch swing the Sunday before Christmas.

  “Of course. Don’t you?” She put her arm around his shoulder and pulled him close. He still felt bony since being sick.

  “Yes, ma’am. I sure do. I miss him bringing me a box of Cracker Jack and a Dr. Pepper like he used to every Saturday when he went to town. And letting me have the first piece every time he cut a watermelon. But I miss his stories most of all. He sure could tell some good ones. Will I have to quit school like he did?”

  Startled, she said, “What makes you even mention quitting school?”

  “Grandma said I might have to, if you don’t find me another pa. She said I’d have to help out here on the farm all day. Is that so?” His expression was so earnest she wanted to kiss his smooth cheeks.

  “Would you like to have a new pa?”

  “I don’t know. Grandma says I need one. She said maybe Uncle Clyde might be good. What do you think? He’ll be missing Aunt Alice and his two boys when he gets home from the War. That Spanish flu sure did kill a lot of folks around here, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, son. A lot of good people. But your Uncle Clyde might miss his family so much he’ll want to be by himself for a while.”

  “Is that what you want, Mama?”

  She didn’t know what to say. She refused to let Patrick miss out on an education, but she certainly didn’t intend to let Mother Russell railroad her into marrying Clyde, even if Patrick did need another parent. Although Molly would never forget how well he treated her when Patrick was born, she had absolutely no desire to marry another man.

  “Right now I’d like to get my strength back and help you start feeling like your old self again. Then we’ll see what happens. Your Uncle Clyde won’t be home for a few months yet.”

  She did miss Mr. James—his kind blue eyes, his warm bulk beside her in bed on a chilly night, and even his soft snores. She grieved that death had claimed such a good-natured person. She could cry for him.

  But she mourned dry-eyed for Jaq.

  She couldn’t tell Patrick what she really wanted. Mother Russell said Jaq had helped take care of her and Patrick until she received an important phone call and had to leave. But why hadn’t she stayed long enough to say good-bye, or left a note or a message, or a phone number?

  She couldn’t tell Patrick she missed Jaq so much she was afraid her bones might melt, that she might dissolve like fog if she didn’t hear from her soon. Her heart was a stone stranded at the bottom of a deep well, with no way to retrieve it.

  Had Jaq meant what she’d said? Or had she simply been using Molly to pass the time until she could leave New Hope? Was she lying in the arms of that woman in New Orleans right now, the one she’d mentioned a few times, laughing about the little country girl she’d been able to twist around her smallest finger so easily?

  Ever since Jaq had told her that Mr. James was dead, then left her all alone, the days had been monotone. Occasionally she overheard a distant melody, glimpsed a flash of color, but the ache that spread throughout her kept her senses blurred.

  As the pain dulled, she might forget her losses for a second, then recoil from the quick memory that Mr. James was dead and, even worse, that Jaq had deserted her without a word. Mr. James hadn’t chosen to leave; Jaq had. Mr. James couldn’t come back; Jaq could. But what were the chances of that? About as small as the odds that she might pull her own heart from the well where it lay underwater.

  The women at church, even Mother Russell, seemed to sympathize with her. But she couldn’t admit to anyone, even Patrick, how much she missed Jaq.

  Only her pain kept her company, almost like a living creature. It existed even between her and Nellie, who should have been able to comfort her with her warm hairy side, her soft tits and eyes.

  Not even the Christmas carols she loved could make her feel better. She kept her distance and existed in a gray land with no music, no odor, no taste.

  “Why did you leave me, Jaq?” she would whisper as she milked Nellie.

  When she visited Mr. James’s grave she cried for him, but she also gazed toward the woods where she and Jaq had gone that picnic afternoon. She thought about Jaq’s stories, her driving lessons, their trip to town, their kiss. Who cared if the women voters had helped elect their favored candidates? Being able to vote meant nothing without having someone to live for. She wanted Jaq. She would become a cipher, vanish without her.

  She pulled Patrick even closer and stared at the dim afternoon sun that barely warmed the gray, cold day. She wanted to rest her head on his and weep forever, but her heart lay stranded like a solitary pebble dropped on a vast desert.

  *

  Jaq laid her fountain pen down, slowly folded a letter, and placed it on the pile in her desk alcove. The stack contained one for every day since she last saw Molly.

  But she couldn’t send them. She was another Typhoid Mary. Someone should quarantine her indefinitely too. How many people had she killed unintentionally? Grandfather, Henry, Eric, Angus, Mr. James, and Sister Mary. She should add Helen to the list and was surprised Molly and Patrick weren’t on it. Almost everyone she’d ever loved or been close to had died or disappeared. She couldn’t bear to endanger Molly and Patrick, to put them in death’s crosshairs again. Molly needed to forget her and find a new, safe life.

  It had been two months, and Molly hadn’t called. She and Patrick needed to recuperate, and she needed to grieve for Mr. James, who’d been a good husband, as far as that went.

  Jaq had been busy too—helping Mother care for Father and doing most of the housework until some servants resurfaced after the threat of the influenza epidemic receded. At least she’d learned some useful skills in New Hope.

  But she wanted to talk to Molly. With Mr. James dead, maybe…

  She could have discussed the situation with Willie, but she’d left town. Jaq had eventually written Aunt Anna and had finally received a reply today. She slit the envelope open and began to read.

  Sunday, December 22, 1918

  New York City

  Dearest Jaq,

  I’ve been rooted here in my morris chair, my shoulders and arms so heavy I’ve had to strain to leaf through a newspaper and hold my cup of coffee. We beat the Kaiser, didn’t we, but the Spanish flu defeated us.

  I have real coffee today, and its fragrance tantalizes me. Was able to actually buy a small can of Folgers yesterday afternoon and look forward to an abundance of sugar and flour, as well as tires and gasoline. With the soldiers beginning to return, we should have plenty of manpower before long.

  Unfortunately, the news in the Times dampened the good mood my coffee created. An estimated three million have died these past three months, and the influenza is still racing along Alaska’s northern coast. Some are saying that it’s five times deadlier than the War.

  I know what you mean about being a Typhoid Mary. Not only did I fail to determine the cause of this outbreak, but I also couldn’t discover a cure.<
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  I’m still wearing my old chenille robe, and my hair’s down, so let me try to respond to your latest letter, dear Jaq. I’m certainly no authority on relationships, never having achieved a lasting one of my own. But if I were you, I wouldn’t let Molly slip away. She sounds like a good match for you. Let her continue to regain her health and put her past behind her, but keep your heart open. When she’s ready, you need to be ready for her. It won’t be easy for her to leave everything she’s known and venture into a new way of life with you, especially with a young son to care for. But I have faith in you, and in her, if she’s the one you really want.

  You’re not a Typhoid Mary. Your mother was wrong to blame you for her father’s death. She probably spoke out of shock and grief and doesn’t even remember her words. You’re an adult now, so try to look at the situation objectively. You’re a small cog in this great wheel of life, and although it may feel as if you can cause others to die, you can’t. No more than I can blame myself for causing the death of millions by failing to diagnose and cure this epidemic. It’s tempting for both of us to assume such self-importance, but we need to let it go and do what we can, instead of burdening ourselves with what we can’t.

  The world will go on. The War’s over and the politicians are haggling over the terms of the armistice now. Though the French and the British want to punish Germany harshly for their aggression, President Wilson is determined to be less punitive. I hope he can prevail. Women have almost achieved the right to vote, thanks to Alice Paul and her faithful followers. Your father is recovering from the flu, and I’m sure you played an important role in that victory. Let’s enjoy our gains.