A Death-Struck Year

by Makiia Lucier

  I settled into a chair, reaching behind me to switch on a second lamp. The book was oversize, with a deep purple cover bordered in gold ivy. I had been six years old the first time I’d seen this copy. That morning the sun poured in through the classroom windows, so bright I could see the dust motes suspended in the air. I’d been scribbling on my slate, practicing my penmanship with the rest of the girls in the lower school, while Miss Gillette wrote out the day’s lesson on the chalkboard. And then I had started to cry. It happened sometimes, tears that would come from nowhere. One moment I felt fine, and the next I would remember what I’d lost with a keenness that left me breathless.

  The whole class had ground to a halt, shocked. There was a giggle from Fanny, quickly shushed. Miss Gillette escorted me to Miss Elliot’s office, murmuring words such as There, there and You poor dear.

  Jack was summoned to take me home for the day. I was sent to wait for him in the library with Mr. Brownmiller. I sat on the floor in a puddle of white muslin. A book on horses lay unopened before me. An hour passed. There was no one else about, Mr. Brownmiller having gone off to run a brief errand. Once again, my tears fell unchecked. Pushing the book aside, I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my face in my knees.

  It was not long before I realized I was not alone. I lifted my head. Jack stood several feet away, hands buried in the pockets of a tan suit. He perused the bookshelf, seemingly unaware of my presence. I glanced around, wondering if I had somehow become invisible.

  Finally, he glanced down. “Do you know the stories of Aesop?” he asked, making no mention of my tears.

  I shook my head, sniffling, and stared at the rug. I did not know what to make of this brother, whom I did not remember but who looked so much like my papa it hurt to watch him. Jack had gone to an important school in Paris, I knew, where they taught you to build beautiful buildings. Mama had said Jack and Lucy were to stay in France, and we would visit them the following spring. But that was before. Jack had come home, appearing at the Keatings’, where I had gone to stay after the accident. My brother was kind. But I knew he was only here because he had to be. Because of me.

  “No?” Jack selected a large purple book from the shelf. With little regard for his suit, he dropped to the rug beside me and crossed his legs. He set the book aside before reaching over, lifting me beneath my arms, and plopping me in front of him. Jack settled Aesop’s Fables onto my lap and paged through it.

  “When I was your age,” his voice rumbled against my back, “I always liked ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’ and ‘The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs.’ But my favorite was . . . ah. Here it is. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “Yes.” I studied the title. “Grief and His Due.” Below it was a picture of a bearded man dressed in a flowing robe. He sat on a throne, one hand stretched toward the dark-haired woman who knelt before him. The woman’s head was bowed, and tears poured from her eyes to form a small lake on the ground before her. I swiped at my damp cheek, hesitant.

  Jack cleared his throat. “‘Grief and His Due. When the Roman god Jupiter was assigning the various lesser gods their privileges, it so happened that Grief was not present with the rest. But when all had received their share, Grief arrived and claimed his due. Jupiter was at a loss, for there was nothing left for Grief. At last, Jupiter decided that Grief should be given the tears that are shed for the dead. Thus it is the same with Grief as it is with the other gods. The more you honor him, the more lavish he is with his gifts. It is not well, therefore, to mourn long for loved ones. Else Grief, whose sole pleasure is in such mourning, will be quick to send fresh cause for tears.’”

  Jack tipped my chin and studied me, his gray eyes somber. “Do you know what this story is trying to tell us, Cleo?”

  I was unsure. “That . . . that I should try not to be so sad all the time?”

  A small smile appeared on his face. “You can be sad. I miss them too.” He wiped my tears away with his thumb. “But sometimes the hardest decision is choosing to be happy again.”

  My lip wobbled. Four months had passed since Mama and Papa’s carriage had careened off the road into the ravine. Four months since I had gone to bed without having to cry myself to sleep.

  For a long time, the only sound came from the ticktocking of the grandfather clock in the hall. My brother, this stranger, pressed a kiss to the top of my head. He drew out his pocket watch—Papa’s old watch—and flipped it open. “Well, it’s nearly time for lunch,” he said. “And I have a hankering for Swetland’s. What do you say?”

  “Truly?” I asked. Swetland’s was an ice cream parlor. And a candy shop.

  Jack smiled. “Don’t tell Lucy.”

  The memory calmed me. I read through the old stories—“The Lion and the Ass,” “The Mice and the Weasels,” “The Monkey as King”—until my eyelids drooped. Placing the book on a small table, I pulled my wrapper tight around me. Only then was I able to sleep.

  Chapter Four

  Friday, October 11, 1918

  “As one of the most influential philosophers of the Enlightenment Age, Immanuel Kant believed in a life lived autonomously.” Miss Abernathy wrote on the chalkboard as she spoke, underscoring Kant’s name with a flourish. She dropped the chalk and faced the class. “His motto was the phrase ‘Sapere aude!,’ which translates to . . .”

  I propped my chin on my hand and looked out the window, where a heavy rainfall obliterated the view. Some cities had proper seasons: spring, summer, winter, fall. But here in Portland, we just had wet and wetter. And sometimes, during the summer, slightly less wet. Rain was a constant in our town; today was no exception. Most of the time I didn’t mind it, but this morning it just made me feel dreary. I listened to Miss Abernathy go on and on about long-dead German philosophers and felt my eyelids droop. I blinked slowly, once, twice . . .

  “If you would be so kind as to read the passage on Kant, Miss Berry.”

  I jolted. A pencil sailed off my desk and across the aisle, landing by Grace’s shoe. Miss Abernathy looked at me, brows arched, missing nothing. “Page fourteen.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” I cleared my throat. Grace offered a sympathetic glance. She set the pencil on my desk.

  I looked at my open textbook and started: “‘What is Enlightenment? Enlightenment is the triumph of the human being over his self-imposed immaturity. It demands nothing more than freedom—the freedom that consists in making public use, under all circumstances, of one’s reason. For it is the birthright of every human being to think for himself.’”

  “Thank you, Miss Ber—” Miss Abernathy began, but a sharp knock on the door interrupted her.

  Miss Bishop, the headmistress’s secretary, stood in the doorway, her pretty face harried. Beside her was a man I didn’t recognize. He was portly, with a thick broom mustache. He clutched a briefcase.

  Frowning, Miss Abernathy met her visitors in the doorway. The three engaged in feverish whispers. The man reached into his briefcase and handed Miss Abernathy a single sheet of paper. “Today?” I heard my teacher ask. The man threw his hands up in a hopeless-looking gesture.

  I glanced around at my schoolmates, all dressed in identical uniforms: short navy jackets, long navy skirts, crisp white blouses. They looked as nervous as I felt. We fidgeted in our seats. Only Margaret sat perfectly still. She occupied a desk in the back row, her spine as straight as one of Jack’s drafting rulers, her gaze fastened on the trio by the door.

  I watched my friend, remembering our conversation in the kitchen. After the soldiers had fallen ill at Camp Lewis, the influenza had made front-page news in the Oregonian. As a precaution, the city health office ordered theater managers to evict anyone who coughed and sneezed from the premises or face legal action. An announcement in yesterday’s edition had gone one step further. As of today, all soldiers and sailors were banned from Portland theaters.

  Here at St. Helen’s, the teachers smiled less and whispered more. Everywhere you looked, students huddled over newspapers. Even the
younger girls. A single sneeze was met with a wary glance and a quick backwards step. Two sneezes earned one a trip to the infirmary. Miss Elliot insisted there was no need to panic. These were simply precautionary measures.

  Lucy and Jack had telephoned. I could hear the worry in their voices when they suggested canceling their trip and returning home. I wanted to agree. But I knew I would have felt guilty forever. So I said, Stay. There is no influenza in Portland. Not one case. I’ll be fine. And after a lengthy conversation with Miss Elliot, they decided to stay.

  Just thinking about the last week brought on a nervous, persistent headache and an uneasy feeling in my stomach. I tried to ignore it. I tried very hard to believe we were still safe here.

  I turned back in my seat just in time to see the man leave. Miss Bishop’s skirt swished around the door frame as she followed, the rapid click-click-click of her shoes echoing down the hall.

  Miss Abernathy held a single sheet of paper in her hand. Her expression was troubled, though her voice was as calm as always. “Ladies, I have an important announcement to make.” She glanced down at the paper. “‘As a precautionary measure and effective immediately, the Portland Health Department is closing all schools, public and private, within the city limits.’”

  A collective gasp filled the room, followed by the sound of a dozen girls attempting to speak over one another. My arm shot straight into the air and was lost in a sea of frantic waving hands. Closing the schools? Today? I don’t know what I had expected, but it was not this.

  Miss Abernathy held up a palm to silence the onslaught. “Let me finish, please. I promise I will answer your questions as best I can once I’m through.”

  Arms dropped. As I waited for Miss Abernathy to continue, dread snaked its way down the back of my neck. Because something smelled off. A precautionary measure, she had said. We already practiced precautionary measures. We washed our hands, left the windows open during the day, sent anyone who looked suspicious to the infirmary. But shutting down the entire school system? That sounded like far more than a precaution.

  Miss Abernathy returned her attention to the notice. “‘Thirty-six thousand students and one thousand teachers will be affected by this order. In addition, all public gatherings have been banned. There will be no theater performances, club activities, parades, pool halls, or church services.’”

  “No church!”

  “No theaters!”

  “Cleo!” Grace hissed beside me. I ignored her, trying to absorb one shock after another. Public gatherings. What about the train stations? My brother and Lucy would leave San Francisco as soon as they heard. I was certain they would. Would they be able to travel by train? Fear clutched me as another thought struck.

  How safe were the trains?

  For the second time, Miss Abernathy raised her hand. “These closures are by order of the mayor and at the suggestion of the United States Public Health Department. They will remain in effect until the spread of the Spanish influenza is no longer a threat. Miss Elliot has announced our full compliance with this order. Therefore, the following rules apply to all students at St. Helen’s Hall: First, all day students and boarders with homes in the city or surrounding towns will be picked up immediately by authorized family members.”

  Grace reached across the narrow aisle and grabbed my hand. I thought she would squeeze the life out of it. I kept silent, holding on just as tight.

  “Second, all boarders with homes outside Portland will remain on campus for the duration of the closure or until the arrival of an authorized family member. In this case, the student will meet her guardian by the main gates, as visitors will not be permitted on school grounds save approved deliverymen and medical personnel. If a student leaves the grounds without permission, she will not be allowed reentry under any circumstances.” She paused, long enough to aim a pointed look toward the back of the class.

  I snuck a glance over my shoulder at Margaret, who scowled at her textbook.

  Miss Abernathy continued. “St. Helen’s Hall will remain under—”

  A violent sneeze erupted. Our heads swiveled. Louisa sat, frozen, before her hand flew up to cover a second sneeze. She produced a handkerchief and blew her nose.

  “Off you go, Louisa,” Miss Abernathy said quietly.

  Louisa looked dismayed. “It was just the dust, Miss Abernathy. I—”

  “I’m certain it was just the dust. But you are as aware of the rules as I am. Off you go.”

  I held my breath, filled with sympathy as Louisa clutched her book to her chest and marched toward the front of the room. Fanny held a handkerchief to her nose and leaned as far back as her chair would allow when Louisa passed. The door opened, then shut. My nose tickled and I dropped Grace’s hand to rub it. I did not want to be the next person banished from the room.

  Miss Abernathy turned back to the class, unsmiling. “As I was saying, St. Helen’s will remain under quarantine until Miss Elliot and city officials deem it safe to reopen.” She folded the paper in half, then in quarters. She touched the small cameo brooch pinned to her blouse. Every one of us raised our hands. Miss Abernathy focused on Grace.

  “Miss Skinner.”

  “How long are the closures, Miss Abernathy?” Grace asked. “Days? Weeks? Surely there’s an estimate.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. It could be for just a few days. Or it could be weeks. At this time, we simply don’t know.”

  Grace sat back, looking panicked.

  Margaret raised her hand.

  “Miss Kesey.”

  “My parents will be returning from Seattle soon, Miss Abernathy,” Margaret said. “But our housekeeper is at home. And the rest of the staff. May I wait for them there?”

  “You may not. It is absolutely out of the question. All students will be picked up by parents or guardians only. There will be no exceptions.”

  Margaret crossed her arms and glared at her desk.

  I raised my hand.

  “Miss Berry.”

  “Has something happened, Miss Abernathy?” I asked. “Since yesterday? Are things worse at Camp Lewis?”

  “It is worse at the camp. But that isn’t why schools are being closed.” She hesitated; her gaze swept the room. “There are reports this morning of influenza here in the city.”

  Several desks away, Emmaline pressed a palm to her stomach and took deep breaths; inhaling through her nose, exhaling through her mouth, as though trying to inflate a paper sack. I could hear Miss Gillette in the next classroom, clapping her hands and demanding quiet.

  “How many reports?” This time Margaret didn’t bother to raise her hand.

  Miss Abernathy had been a teacher at St. Helen’s Hall for ten years. Not once in that entire time had she coddled her students. She didn’t start now. She looked directly at Margaret.

  “Two hundred,” she said.

  Chapter Five

  Friday, October 11, 1918

  “A telegram for you, miss.”

  “Thank you, Mary.”

  The maid hurried down the hall. I shut the door. For once, I had the room entirely to myself. Hours had passed since Miss Elliot had dismissed us for who knows how long. Fanny’s parents had already come to fetch her. The family was on its way back to Scappoose. Grace had gone downstairs to greet her father, who had just arrived from their home in Oswego. Margaret, like me, was trapped here until relatives arrived, but she’d said something about calling Harris and was nowhere in sight.

  The Western Union telegram was printed on yellow paper. The address read: MISS CLEO BERRY, ST. HELEN’S HALL, PORTLAND. The message was brief: AWARE OF CLOSURE. RETURNING EARLY. WILL SEND WORD ONCE ARRANGEMENTS ARE MADE. JACK.

  I leaned against the door. Tears pricked my eyes. But for the first time since Miss Abernathy shared the horrible news, the tension in my shoulders eased. The trains must be safe if Jack and Lucy were coming back. I could not wait to see them. Their anniversary trip was ruined, and I was sorry for it. But I would breathe much, much easier once they wer
e home.

  An automobile horn blasted. I crossed the room and looked out the open window beside my bed. I was two floors up. Down below, on the wide expanse of lawn, chaos reigned. The rain had stopped, though the clouds remained dark and heavy. Fathers and drivers stumbled toward waiting automobiles, their arms laden with suitcases. Mothers collected their children, from the smallest students in the lower school to girls my own age. The scene reminded me of the final day of classes, right before summer vacation. Only it wasn’t June, it was October. And not one person below was smiling.

  Miss Elliot was easy to pick out of the crowd. She stood in the center of it all—white hair, black dress. Pressed against her side was Emily. And Greta, whose button eyes could be seen even from this distance. Directly below my window, six-year-old Anna Clarke struggled to free herself from her mother’s iron grip.

  “But I want to say goodbye to Emily, Mama!” Anna’s cries carried up through my window. Her mother would not be swayed. When Anna continued to protest, Mrs. Clarke stopped, seized her daughter by the shoulders, and shook her. I could not hear what was said, but Anna finally followed with her head bowed low. Mrs. Clarke looked near tears.

  I watched as the line of cars snaked around the circular driveway and through wrought-iron gates. My schoolmates departed, one by one. Whisked away to the safety and comfort of their homes.

  Unlike me.

  I threw the telegram onto my apple-green quilt and flopped beside it. As I did, a faint tinkling sounded. Puzzled, I looked around. My leather satchel hung from a post at the foot of the bed. There were only a few items in it, I remembered. Some money. My sketchbook. Pencils. A pack of Juicy Fruit.

  A set of house keys.

  I sat up. I lifted the satchel from the post, undid each clasp, and peered inside. There they were. On a small silver ring. Lying at the very bottom. Long seconds passed while I considered how much trouble I was about to get myself into.