A Death-Struck Year

by Makiia Lucier

  I nodded. It sounded simple enough.

  Hannah pointed at the bag. “Every person should receive a mask, and each household should get a copy of our influenza care guide. It’s not necessary for you to wear your own mask outdoors. Fresh air is best. But we ask that you please wear one when you enter a home. And always when you’re in the hospital wards.”

  I tied the white fabric around my neck. “Where should I start?” I asked.

  “There’ve been several reports of flu on Caruthers Street,” she said. “Just south of here. I’ll have you start there. The addresses are in your bag. You can just cross them off as you go and bring the list to me before you head home for the day. And remember, if there is family at home who can care for the ill, then by all means leave them to it.” She glanced over her shoulder at the Auditorium. “This hospital is mainly for those who have nowhere else to go. Otherwise, we’d be overrun. We might be overrun as it is.

  “We don’t have extra uniforms, unfortunately. But, here, hold out your arm.” She stood and wrapped a white armband around my right coat sleeve. The brassard was about four inches wide, with a red cross emblazoned in the center. After a few adjustments, she secured the armband with two pins. “So people will know why you’re looking in their windows,” she explained. “It wouldn’t do to have you shot.”

  I blinked, waiting for her to laugh at her joke. When she did not, I responded with a cautious, “Oh.”

  Hannah sat. “I have to warn you, telephone service is becoming more and more unreliable. And many families don’t even own a telephone. And there’s only one ambulance service in town. Sometimes they don’t show up right away.”

  I stared at her. “Then . . . what would you have me do?”

  “Do what we all do in times like these,” she said. “Hazard a guess. I’m Hannah Flynn. Good luck to you, Cleo Berry.” Leaning slightly to one side, she looked around me.

  “Next, please.”

  I stopped the car, waiting as the elderly man shuffled across the street. He was dressed in a black suit and hat, and had a wiry beard that tumbled to his chest. On the sidewalk, a group of similarly attired gentlemen gathered outside a synagogue. The old man raised one papery hand in greeting as he headed in their direction.

  South Portland was home to thousands of Jewish and Italian families. Around me, family-run businesses lined both sides of Second Street. Merchants had flung open their doors, hoping to entice customers with corned beef and pastrami, bagels and challah, cheeses and salami and green olives soaked in brine. A small tailoring shop stood dark and shuttered, but beside it a kosher butcher did a brisk business. Men and women went about their day. It would have looked like a normal morning, had it not been for the masks.

  An impatient horn blasted, startling me, and I saw that the old man had made it safely across. I was blocking the street. Chagrined, I stepped on the gasoline pedal. The car lurched forward.

  Several blocks later, I turned onto Caruthers Street. Old homes and modest apartment buildings came into view. Squinting up at the addresses, I stopped at the end of the street. Then I reached for my bag, jumped out, and hoped for the best.

  The house was several stories high—narrow, with a weed-filled yard and sagging porch. Brown paint had flecked off the sides in such quantities that the house had taken on the appearance of a speckled egg. I climbed the steps and knocked on the door. A child’s squeal rang out, followed by shushing noises. The door opened a sliver, just enough for me to glimpse a woman with a thin, suspicious face. I smiled.

  “Yes?”

  “Good morning.” I held up a pamphlet. “I’m with the Red Cross. My name is Cleo Berry. We’re in your neighborhood today distributing information on the Spanish influenza and handing out face masks for your household.”

  “How much does it cost?” the woman asked, still frowning.

  “Why, nothing. It’s free.”

  “Oh.” The door opened further. The woman wore a threadbare yellow housedress, printed with tiny red flowers. A toddler, dressed only in a diaper, clutched the woman’s dress in two little fists. I could not tell if the child was a boy or a girl.

  “Hello,” I said to the baby, who ducked shyly between dress folds. I looked back at the woman. “How many masks would you like?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s just my husband and me. And Bertie here.” She gave the child a doubtful look. “We don’t need one for him, I guess. He’d never keep it on. So two.”

  I handed the woman two masks and a pamphlet. “This will tell you how to care for your family if they get sick. And where to find help if you need it.”

  The woman flipped through the brochure. A mottled flush crept up her neck. “Can you tell me what it says?” she asked, then hastily added, “Just the important bits, is all. I . . . I’m not too good at reading.”

  I hoped my surprise didn’t show. The woman looked embarrassed enough. “I can, certainly. Here.” I reached for the pamphlet and read:

  INFLUENZA: HOW TO AVOID IT—HOW TO CARE FOR THOSE WHO HAVE IT. THE USUAL SYMPTOMS ARE INFLAMED AND WATERY EYES, BACKACHE, HEADACHE, MUSCULAR PAIN, NOSEBLEEDS, AND FEVER. PROTECT OTHERS BY SNEEZING OR COUGHING INTO HANDKERCHIEFS OR CLOTHS, WHICH SHOULD BE BOILED OR BURNED. KEEP AWAY FROM CROWDED PLACES. INSIST THAT WHOEVER GIVES YOU FOOD OR WATER OR ENTERS THE SICKROOM FOR ANY OTHER PURPOSE SHALL WEAR A GAUZE MASK. MAKE FULL USE OF ALL AVAILABLE SUNSHINE; WALK IN THE FRESH AIR DAILY. ISOLATE YOUR PATIENTS. SLEEP WITH YOUR WINDOWS OPEN. OBTAIN AT LEAST SEVEN HOURS OF SLEEP EVERY TWENTY-FOUR HOURS. EAT PLENTY OF GOOD, CLEAN FOOD. SMALL CHILDREN ARE PARTICULARLY VULNERABLE. SEE TO IT THAT YOUR CHILDREN ARE KEPT WARM AND DRY, BOTH NIGHT AND DAY.

  I read the pamphlet front to back. When I looked up, the woman had paled. She stared down at her child in his diaper, and at the goose bumps pimpling his skin. She grabbed him up in her arms before snatching the pamphlet from my hand.

  “Thank you,” she said, and closed the door in my face.

  I trudged up the pathway toward the next house. Unlike most of the homes on the street, someone had taken good care of the simple one-story clapboard. Fresh white paint brightened the exterior, and, beneath my feet, the porch gleamed glossy and black. I knocked, then took a step back and waited. There was no answer. I knocked again, harder this time. Still no answer. Feeling self-conscious, I peered through the only available window, set to the right of the door.

  A flowered settee stood against the opposite wall, a white crocheted throw spread over one arm. Two chairs, heavy and dark, crowded around an ancient piano, its top littered with framed photographs and tiny animal figurines. An unlit fireplace stood in the corner. The parlor looked charming and cozy and cluttered, but there was no sign anyone was home.

  I stood there dithering and wondered what to do next. Hannah’s advice to hazard a guess was not the least bit helpful. The family could be at work, or at the grocer’s, or out of town for all I knew. Or they could be lying just out of sight, unable to summon help. Apprehensive, I thought of the gun Jack kept in his study. A gun he wouldn’t think twice about firing should a stranger stroll, uninvited, into his home. But I knew I wouldn’t rest easy until I had assured myself that the house was empty.

  I gave the door one last rap, calling, “Hello? Is anyone home?” When my third attempt was met with silence, I threw a furtive look over my shoulder. The street was quiet. Not a single automobile or truck occupied the road. I reached down and tried the doorknob. Locked.

  I retraced my steps and skirted the house. Other than a rag rug hanging from a clothesline, the small enclosed yard was empty. I dropped my bag beside an old rocking chair on the back porch. Cupping my hands to each side of my face, I peered through a window.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim interior. It was a kitchen. In the center of the room stood a breakfast table and three chairs. A fourth chair was pushed up against the countertop. White cupboards hung open, exposing the pantry’s assortment of plates, saucers, and bowls. A cereal box lay on its side on the countertop, toasted oats sp
illed all over the linoleum floor.

  I looked at the chair, at the cereal, and felt the rapid beating of my heart. Only a child would use a chair to reach the cupboards. Why would he need to? Where were his parents? For that matter, where was the child?

  I pounded on the back door with my fist. I rattled the knob. To my astonishment, it turned in my hand. I pushed the door open and raced down a short hall. There were two rooms, both with doors firmly shut. I stopped in front of the first one. Lifted my hand. Dropped it. The temptation to run away was fierce. An odor, faint but ominous, enveloped me, causing the skin on my face to tighten. The only sound came from my own shallow breathing. Taking a deep breath, I opened the door and stepped inside.

  The smell of vomit and dirty diapers filled the air. My hand flew to my mouth.

  It was a bedroom, dim and silent. Two bodies lay on the bed. A woman in a white nightgown was twisted in the sheets, her long dark hair matted with sweat. Dried blood crusted her nose and lips. Her face was the color of chalk. A little boy, no more than three, curled into her side. He had thrown up all over his blue pajamas.

  A whimper emerged from my throat. Trying not to panic, I approached the bed. I felt the woman’s cheek with the back of my hand. She was on fire, her breath so shallow I had to concentrate just to see the rise and fall of her chest. The child didn’t feel nearly as hot, and he breathed easier than his mother. I sent up a tiny prayer of thanks. They needed help, and quickly, but for now at least they were alive.

  I ran to the kitchen. A telephone sat on a small table near the door. I snatched up the receiver and waited, only to be met with silence.

  “Damn, damn, damn!” Dropping the phone, I raced back into the bedroom, stopping dead in my tracks when I realized there was a third person in the room. How could I have failed to see?

  A wooden cradle lay on the floor, on the far side of the bed. Kneeling, I placed my hand against the infant’s splotchy cheek. Alive. I started to pick the baby up. As I did, a soiled diaper slid down dimpled legs and dropped into the cradle with a resounding plop.

  Frantic, I glanced into the hall, willing someone to appear and take charge. A police officer, a neighbor, my brother. Anyone. I wanted nothing more than to crouch in a corner and wail. But no one was coming. I was entirely on my own. Me, and three unattended cases.

  I gathered the infant, whom I discovered to be a girl, close in one arm. I scooped up the boy with the other. Then I spared one last look for their unconscious mother.

  “I’m sorry. I will send help. I promise,” I whispered.

  I stumbled to the front of the house, nearly dropping the baby as I fumbled with the doorknob. I half ran, half staggered down the path toward the car parked across the street. The roads were still empty. I looked toward the first house I’d visited. The woman with the yellow housedress watched me from a window. Our eyes met through the glass. She yanked the curtains closed, leaving me dumbfounded. I settled the children as carefully as I could onto the rear seat. I turned the crank at the front of the car, jumped into the driver’s seat, and started the engine.

  We were off.

  It was only then that I realized how badly my hands were shaking.

  Chapter Eight

  Saturday, October 12, 1918

  The car came to an abrupt stop outside the Auditorium, sending a tall, dark-haired young man leaping out of the way onto the sidewalk. Brown liquid flew from the paper cup in his hands, soaking the front of a white lab coat. He looked down at the dripping stains, then turned to glare at me through the windshield.

  “Hey—!”

  Ignoring him, I jumped out and reached for the baby. She felt as if she were being cooked from the inside out. With her head cupped in my palm, I whirled to face the stranger. He marched my way with a scowl on his face but stopped in his tracks when he saw what I held, indignation dissolving into astonishment.

  “Please help!” I stumbled over a sobbing breath. “There are two of them!”

  The stranger tossed his cup. I moved aside so he could lean into the rear seat, where the boy lay sprawled and feverish. He checked the child’s pulse and muttered something under his breath.

  I hovered, craning my neck to see around him. “Will he be all right?”

  “I don’t know.” Lifting the boy in his arms, he backed out, then reached over and placed two fingers on the baby’s neck. I inhaled sharply. Ugly, puckered flesh marred the skin of the young man’s right hand, above the knuckles. Was it a bullet wound? Had he been shot? He caught me staring—his eyes were the clear, crystal green of sea glass. I didn’t even have time to be embarrassed. Sparing me one quick, unsmiling look, he said, “Let’s go!” before racing up the steps toward the main doors.

  I ran after him, the baby clutched tight. There were people coming and going. Heads swiveled before we burst through the metal doors into the ticket lobby. Two white-clad nurses, masked, surrounded us in an instant. One rushed after the stranger, who had gone through the interior doors. The other I recognized as the older nurse from the volunteer table—the one who had thought I was far too young to be here. How I wished that Hannah had listened to her.

  “Let me have her,” she ordered. I gave up my hold on the baby. And watched as they too disappeared through the glass doors.

  Dazed, I sagged against a wall. The lobby was long and narrow, with black-and-white squares tiling the floor like a chessboard. Two ticket windows were positioned at opposite ends of the room. Chairs had been brought in, pushed against walls, every one of them occupied. A woman with a sleeping baby in her arms. Two men in sailor uniforms. There was a priest, a police officer, an old woman with a lap full of knitting. The ticket lobby had become a waiting room.

  A cup of water appeared before me.

  It was Hannah Flynn, her brows knit in concern. “Cleo, was it?” she asked. When I nodded, she said, “Here, drink this. You look like you’ve had quite the day so far.”

  I snatched the cup and gulped down the entire contents before coming up for air. An ambulance siren wailed in the distance. “Thank you,” I said after I’d regained my breath. “The children. They’ll be fine, won’t they?”

  Hannah glanced toward the glass doors. “I couldn’t say just yet. Why don’t we give Lieutenant Parrish some time with them, and then I’ll see how they are.”

  I stared at her. “Lieutenant? You mean . . . he’s not a real doctor?”

  Hannah shook her head. “Edmund is a medical student.”

  I’d just handed those children off to a student. Someone barely older than I was. “I don’t understand,” I said. “Where are the doctors?”

  “There are a few here,” Hannah said. “But many have been sent to the military infirmaries. Even more are abroad.” My feelings must have been written plainly on my face, because she added, “I know. But this flu is new to all of us, which means Edmund knows as much as I do. As much as any of the doctors. We’re all students here. Every last one of us.”

  Her words were the opposite of comforting. I hoped she kept those thoughts away from her patients. I tossed the cup into a bin. Above it was a handwritten notice that read: Visitors allowed in the wards only under extreme circumstances.

  Lieutenant Edmund Parrish. Whoever he was, I hoped he knew what he was doing. Those poor children and their mother . . . I gasped. Their mother!

  “We have to go back!” I said, horrified at myself for forgetting. “I couldn’t carry their mother. I need—”

  “Come with me.” Hannah strode toward the entrance doors. I hurried after her. We clattered down the steps toward an ambulance parked directly behind my car, the engine still running. Two uniformed men sprinted by in the opposite direction. Balanced between them was a teenage boy on a stretcher. I glimpsed a wan face and dull, listless eyes and had to force myself not to stare.

  Hannah circled the truck until she stood in front of the driver’s open door. The man at the wheel had brown hair threaded with gray and skin that sagged like an old bloodhound’s. A pencil was lod
ged above one ear. He used a second pencil to scribble on a notepad.

  He looked up at our approach and scratched his beard. “I’ve seen that look before, Hannah. I can guess what you’re after.”

  Hannah smiled. “And you would be correct, Mr. Briggs. You won’t mind moving this one to the top of your list? It’s an emergency.”

  Mr. Briggs looked exasperated. “They’re all emergencies,” he said, but relented. “Whattya got?”

  “A woman at . . .” Hannah turned toward me, eyebrows raised.

  I gave them the address. Mr. Briggs wrote it down.

  “Got it.” He tucked the small notebook in his shirt pocket.

  I stepped forward. “Mr. Briggs, she wasn’t awake when I left, but the front door should be unlocked. The back door, too.” I had also forgotten my new bag, filled with pamphlets and masks, on the back porch. And I had neglected to pull up my own mask before I charged into the house. I hoped I didn’t look as incompetent as I felt.

  There was a sympathetic gleam in Mr. Briggs’s eyes. I had a feeling he knew exactly what I was thinking. “Both doors open,” he said. “Good. Saves us the trouble of breaking them down ourselves.”

  I heard a loud thump. The men had jumped into the back with the empty stretcher. Hannah and I stepped away as Mr. Briggs swung his door shut. A siren pierced the air, and before I knew it, the ambulance sped down the street and careened around a corner.

  I turned to Hannah. “Thank you,” I said.

  She placed her hands on her hips and studied me. “Hmm.”

  I looked down and grimaced. My navy coat hung open, revealing a white shirtwaist smeared with stains I had no wish to identify. I lifted the sleeve and sniffed, remembering too late the baby’s bare bottom. My eyes watered. Hannah’s lips curved. Behind us, a door slammed against the concrete wall. Startled, we looked toward the top of the staircase.