This past week or so she’d been more hateful to him than at any time during their marriage – and she’d been very hateful for most of it, so he found her silence this morning a refreshing change of pace.
Mumbling a vague goodbye, he let himself out the back door, closing it quietly behind him. The crisp October wind hit him full force and he reached up to hold his collar close, wishing he’d opted for his heavier winter coat.
Pausing at the bottom step, Colby donned the white mask he would never grow used to wearing. The way it covered his nose and mouth reminded him of stories from the Wild West, a time when outlaws wore kerchiefs tied over their faces to conceal their identity.
He would have made a poor bandit, he decided, his steps taking him along the walk that ran in front of the house. The mask made him feel claustrophobic. A complaint he’d heard mumbled from others he talked to the day after the town meeting, before everyone had closed themselves up in their houses.
This mask wasn’t meant to hide identities, though. And no matter how uncomfortable it might be, it was a necessary evil.
Not that it made a whole lot of difference. The influenza struck down those it would, regardless of even the most meticulous measures taken to prevent its spread. The dozens of bedsides he’d knelt at to pray was proof enough of that.
Wearily he wiped a gloved hand over his brow and made his way down the deserted street. Except for an occasional flutter of curtains as vigilant inhabitants kept guard against unwelcome intruders, nothing stirred for as far as he could see.
An eerie feeling came over him. The wind howling through the trees, bits and pieces of paper and other debris blowing here and there – and not a soul in sight. Almost as though he were the lone survivor of some horrific disaster that had wiped mankind from the face of the earth. His stomach rebelled at the thought and he fought a wave of nausea as his steps quickened.
His first destination would be the church. He felt the need for some time alone to pray before facing the frightened faces of his parishioners. Like Anna they, too, feared he might bring the sickness with him, though he never went near the homes that didn’t have a black flag on the porch. No flag meant no influenza. Yet. Those were the houses he preferred. The ones where he wasn’t needed.
Not like the others, where family members were ill. Dying. Wanting assurances that they would spend eternity in heaven. Most would, he was sure. And where there was doubt, he reminded them of the way to get there. Some, he knew, were there now who a week ago would have missed out.
The worst, though, were the situations where it was obvious, to his eyes anyway, that the victim wouldn’t be granted entrance at the pearly gates. And even in such tragic circumstances, he couldn’t lie to the surviving family and say things would be all right. Instead he would suggest that, at the end of life, people tended to see beyond this world and make things right between themselves and God. And like the families he tried to comfort, he hoped it was true.
His path took him past Marcus’ house and an involuntary shudder passed through him. He’d helped him collect far too many bodies, and performed more funerals in the past week than he normally did in two years’ time.
“Why?” a young mother had wept the day before, clutching the still form of her two year old to her bosom. How, when she’d prayed and believed for a miracle?
How many other mothers, other fathers, husbands, wives and children had asked the same question? How many more times would he have to say that God had a good reason, even if they didn’t understand it now?
He wished he could understand how God could allow the deaths of thousands, no, hundreds of thousands of people. Was this it? The end of the world? One of the plagues foretold of in Revelation? The beginning of the end?
Somehow, though he’d been paying little attention, Colby found himself standing at the door of his church. Feeling older than Methuselah, he turned the knob and let himself in.
The stained glass allowed very little of the gray light inside and, even though the sanctuary was filled with eerie shadows, Colby made his way to the altar. He knew this place as he knew no other, and could find his way around blindfolded if need be.
“What!” he exclaimed. As he neared the pulpit, one of the shadows moved and he started violently. “Who is it?” he demanded, a tremor in his voice. The figure rose slowly.
“It’s me, Reverend Thornton,” a soft voice spoke. “Nina Pullman.”
“Goodness, Nina, you gave me a fright!” He laughed shakily and pressed a hand to his chest.
“I’m sorry,” she apologized, sounding tired. “I needed a place to pray.”
“Me, too.” As he neared he saw that her face was flushed and he knew. “Would you like me to pray with you?” he asked softly, taking one of her too warm hands in both of his. She looked at him tearfully and nodded.
“Please.” Her face crumpled and she almost choked on a sob. “Reverend Thornton?”
“Nina?”
“I’m so scared,” she whispered. “I don’t want to die.”
~~~
“When you and Elizabeth are feeling better,” Mother was saying as she wrapped an arm around his shoulders, helping him to sit up for a sip of water, “I’ll have your father go out to the lake and get some ice, and then we’ll make ice cream.”
“It’s not summer anymore,” Jonathon croaked, his voice nearly gone from all of the coughing he’d done since he’d realized he was sick this morning.
“Who said it had to be summer to have ice cream?” she asked, easing him back against the pillows. She quickly wrung the cloth out in the bowl that sat on the table beside his bed and resumed the gentle wipes across his face, neck, arms and bare chest.
“Ice cream sounds good,” he whispered.
It would feel good right now, too. His throat felt raw and he didn’t want to cough anymore. But hard as he tried not to, it wouldn’t stop. Sometimes, like now, it was better, then it would get so it was hard to breathe and it would start all over. He remembered the day that Steven and Tommy beat him up when he tried to get Kathleen’s doll back, how he felt afterward. He hurt worse now. A lot worse. Like a hundred boys had been beating him for a week.
“In a few days, when the influenza is gone, we’ll have a party to celebrate,” she continued, trying to make her voice cheerful. Jonathon could tell she wasn’t though. She was scared, same as him. “It will just be us, but we’ll have cake and ice cream. Then, before you know it, Thanksgiving will be here and we’ll have forgotten all about this. You’ll be out sledding and skating.”
“Not in November. Ice will be too thin,” he said, beginning to gasp. It was going to happen again. Mother knew it, too, because her voice began to shake a little.
“We sure don’t want you on thin ice, do we? I think one time in freezing water is enough for anyone.”
And then it started. The horrible coughing, so hard he could hardly catch his breath. He curled into a ball and wrapped his arms around his ribs, hoping that would help. It had for the first few hours, but now nothing helped at all. Except that Pop or Mother would hold him until it passed.
“Shh, shh,” Mother wept, wrapping her arms around him tightly. “It’s going to be all right. Shh.”
She had been crying a lot and he wondered, vaguely, where the tears kept coming from. It seemed like she would have to run out by now, but they kept coming. When she changed rooms to spend time with Elizabeth, he could tell that Pop wanted to cry, too. But even though he could see tears in his eyes sometimes, they didn’t fall very much. He guessed that men didn’t make as many as women did.
When the coughing finally ended she raised him up for another drink. He’d just taken one swallow when the door to his room opened and Pop came in – carrying Charles. Mother looked up and Jonathon was afraid she might be sick, right there on the floor beside his bed. But he knew how she felt because he wanted to be sick, too.
“No, Elliot. No!” she moaned, crying even more as she hurried to take Charles from him. Pop was
crying, too. Maybe men did make as many tears after all.
~~~
“Nina, we’re going to have to get you home. It’s cold this morning and you shouldn’t be out,” Colby said, helping her to sit in the front pew.
He knelt before her and prayed more fervently than he had in his life – and this week he’d sent up some pretty fervent prayers. When he finished he stood and told her to stay put while he went home and hitched up the buggy.
“Thank you,” she whispered, beginning to weep. He reached in his coat and pulled out a handkerchief.
“I’ll be right back.”
As exhausted as he was, Colby ran fast as he could for the small barn behind the house. Much as Anna coveted an automobile, she’d been unwilling to curb her demands for other costly things and his salary only went so far. But he was very grateful for their horse. Never more so than this moment.
“Please, Lord, not her,” he prayed, jumping out of the buggy to close the barn door. “Not her! She and Daniel have just found each other and they’re so happy. I know that heaven is a wonderful place, but let them have a little heaven here on earth first.”
In short order he’d settled her on the seat and was tucking three quilts around her snugly. For a change he was glad that Anna hated the cold and insisted on keeping a pile folded under the seat.
“Does Daniel know you came to the church?” he asked, snapping the reins. Elijah took off at a slow trot.
“No. He was sleeping. I- I was afraid to tell him,” she admitted, dropping her chin to look at her lap.
“Do you want me to go in with you when we get to your house?”
“Would you? He’s going to be upset.”
“Of course he will be. He loves you, Nina.” He reached over to pat her hand. “I’ll telephone the doctor while he gets you settled, and then I’ll be back later with some soup.”
“I was going to make soup,” Nina whispered, beginning to cry again.
“For the sick?”
“Yes.”
The mayor had called on those who hadn’t been afflicted with the influenza to help where they could, and many stepped up to do just that. Countless women were, at this very moment, making huge pots of soup to fill Mason jars. This afternoon he and other volunteers would pick them up and deliver them to the porches of homes where families were sick. George Densteadt had asked residents to hang a white sheet on the porch if even one person in the home had been stricken with the flu.
The grocers and butchers were supplying all of the ingredients and jars. Some were donating what fresh fruit remained in their stockrooms. Even the pharmacists were doing all they could to help, offering cases of aspirin and cough remedies to be given to anyone who needed them.
Never had Colby been so proud of his fellow citizens. But he wished more than anything that they didn’t need to be so unutterably generous.
~~~
“Papa?”
If Elliot hadn’t been sitting on the bed he doubted he’d have heard her weak voice. He leaned close and felt the heat radiating from her. Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against her cheek. It didn’t seem possible but the fever seemed to have risen even more.
“What, sweetheart?”
“Where’s Mama?”
“She’s- I’m not sure,” he hedged, not wanting to admit that she was tending the boys.
“I need to talk to you both,” she told him, the effort to speak visibly tiring her.
“You should be resting,” he said gently.
“Please, Poppy?”
Poppy.
His heart constricted painfully as he remembered. It seemed only yesterday when a golden-haired baby girl had toddled up to him, a smile guaranteed to melt the coldest of hearts lighting her face, calling for her Poppy.
“I’ll get her,” Elliot whispered. The bed springs creaked as he rose and strode quickly to the doorway so she couldn’t see his tears. “Margaret,” he called out, “could you come here for a moment?”
He watched his wife scurry out of the boys’ room, her face so white it scared him. Elliot realized she was thinking the worst and wasted no time in saying,
“Elizabeth wants to talk with us.”
He caught her as her knees buckled and held her tightly. Did he look as haggard as she did? Neither had been able to sleep more than a snatch here and another there for the past two days. It seemed like so much longer ago that.
“She’s waiting, Meg,” he said quietly, taking her hand and feeling a small measure of comfort.
Margaret eased onto the bed and leaned down to place a kiss on her daughter’s cheek. Watching, Elliot felt utterly useless. He couldn’t ease his children’s pain nor his wife’s fear. He wished he could ease his own as he sat carefully behind his wife and took Elizabeth’s frail hand in his own.
“Mama?”
“What is it, darling?”
“I’m so sorry,” Elizabeth said, her voice faint.
“For what?” Elliot asked.
“For being so horrible to everyone.” A fit of coughing seized her and Margaret drew her into her arms until it passed. Elliot wrapped his around both of them, wishing he could do something as feeble sobs mingled with the violent coughs that racked her body until, finally, she lay limply against her mother’s breast. It was several long moments before she was able to speak again, only to repeat,
“I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Elliot assured her. The last thing he wanted was for her to be worried about silly adolescent moodiness.
“I hurt you both.”
“We’ve forgotten all about it. I won’t give it another thought. Neither will your father,” was Meg’s tender reply.
“It’s forgotten,” Elliot echoed, stroking her hair. She seemed to relax a bit.
For a while they sat there together and Elliot wished he could freeze this moment in time. To let it never end and, perhaps, rid himself of the awful fear that had taken root in the pit of his stomach.
“Will I go to hell?” came the fearfully voiced question.
“Elizabeth!” Margaret gasped, holding her closer.
“No!” Elliot exclaimed forcefully, the hand against her hair trembling. “You’re not going to die. Not for a long, long time. And when you do, you’ll be going straight to heaven.”
“But what if I do? Die, I mean,” she persisted. “I wouldn’t pray. I didn’t want to go to church-”
“You listen to me,” Margaret said firmly. “You listen. You were going through a very confusing time, sweetheart. God understands that.”
“But what if He’s mad at me?” Margaret began to rock her back and forth gently.
“Remember the story of the prodigal son? His father forgave him and God will forgive you if you ask Him to. As long as you believe that Jesus is your Savior, Elizabeth, you’re going to heaven. But not for a long, long time – like your father said. Do you understand me? Not for a long time.”
~~~
Marcus wandered around the now empty storeroom, his steps slow and labored. Thirty-six pine boxes. Plus seven nice ones. Mahogany, walnut, and another made of very costly metal.
Forty-three people. Forty-three. And he didn’t know how many more would be waiting for him when he went out today. Too many. There had already too many but it didn’t stop them from dying. They just kept dying.
He leaned his forehead against the wall, pressing a fist against his mouth as he began to sob.
He didn’t know what to do anymore. He’d tried calling Derek, had been trying for two days but he never got an answer. If things were this bad in Philadelphia, with so very many more people, he imagined that his friend was being run ragged. He knew he and his fellow funeral directors could barely keep up with Charlotte’s population, diminutive by comparison.
But it wasn’t going to be as laborious now. When Colby finished delivering food to the sick this afternoon, their jobs would be a little easier. With no more caskets to be had anywhere in town, and the mayor loathe to consider m
ass graves, all bodies were being delivered to the ice house behind Zourdos and Spires. He was determined that there they would stay until the threat had passed and construction could begin on dozens of crates. Not even pine boxes, just crates, the easiest and quickest way to give the victims proper burials.
Before this, Marcus would never have considered that a ‘proper’ burial. But given the alternative, it was the better choice.
Chapter 16
Margaret Owens rarely allowed her voice to rise above the gentle tone befitting a lady. Even raising five children made little difference. An expression of disappointment on her sweet face accomplished far more than the volume with which the reprimand was spoken.
That wasn’t to say she didn’t have her moments. Like the time Jonathon fell out of a tree at the home of the family they had been visiting out at Pine Lake. She not only shouted for help, but shouted so loudly that everyone within a quarter mile had heard, much to her distress.
No, Margaret Owens didn’t often raise her voice. But she did this late, overcast morning. One single word.
“Elizabeth!”
The anguish in the cry was heard by each member of the household and, for a brief moment, all activity ceased.
Elliot, fixing a tray with bowls of broth for Elizabeth and the boys, held a ladle in midair. Richard froze in his tracks, an armful of wood momentarily forgotten. Kathleen, reading softly to herself, stilled and looked toward the stairway.
Even Jonathon, dozing fitfully as the influenza induced fever ravaged his weakened body, woke and was lucid enough to realize that something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Charles managed to look at him, barely able to turn his head where it lay on the pillow, fear in his eyes.
Because Margaret Owens only shouted when something was truly wrong.
When her sobs filled every corner of the house, terror filled five pairs of eyes and Elliot finally moved, dropping the ladle with a clatter. Murmuring a numb, “stay here” to no one in particular, his reluctant feet led him to, and quickly up the stairs.
Enza Page 20