A Death-Struck Year

by Makiia Lucier

  “No! I’m leaving. Don’t you try to stop me, Kate!” A young woman bolted down the steps, dressed in a serviceable brown coat and hat. Close on her heels was a girl, about my age, dressed in a yellow shirtwaist and slim brown skirt. She wore no coat. They were obviously related, both of them pretty and slender, with brown hair and rosy cheeks.

  The second girl, Kate, looked infuriated. “Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Ruby! It will get better. You wanted to help.”

  Ruby’s voice was shrill. “They’re beyond help! I’m not about to die for a stranger. And you shouldn’t either!” She brushed past us, jostling Hannah, but did not stop.

  Kate stopped beside us and threw up her hands. “How am I supposed to get home?” she hollered at the departing figure. Ruby ignored her. We watched her wrench open the door of a battered old truck and drive away.

  “Well, she lasted a full hour at least,” Hannah said, resigned.

  Kate looked embarrassed. “I don’t know why she wanted to come in the first place. My sister’s never been very good around blood. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

  Hannah rubbed the back of her neck with one hand, and for the first time I noticed the shadows under her blue eyes. “More will come, and stay. Kate, did you bring a change of clothing with you?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “Could you spare a blouse for Cleo? She’s had her own interesting time of it.”

  Skeptical, my gaze dropped to Kate’s bosom, far more generous than mine. I would feel swallowed up in anything she owned. From the look on her face, I knew she agreed.

  “I’ll find something,” Kate said, extending her hand. “I’m Katherine Bennett. Kate.”

  I took it, noticing for the first time that I was missing my right glove. When had that happened?

  “Cleo Berry,” I said. “I would be grateful.”

  I saw the instant the stench reached her. Kate opened her mouth to say something and then snapped it shut. She dropped my hand and stepped back.

  “Whew!” she said.

  “I’m sorry.” Unable to bear it, I peeled off my remaining glove and shoved it in a skirt pocket, then shrugged out of my coat. It made no difference. I would need a new shirtwaist, a new coat, and a bar of strong-smelling soap.

  “Well, enough with the pleasantries,” Hannah said. She turned and started up the stairs. “Let’s get you freshened up and back to work, shall we?”

  I was no stranger to the Public Auditorium. Jack, Lucy, and I had attended a performance of Verdi’s Rigoletto just last month. Walking onto the main floor, I saw that the first- and second-tier balconies remained unchanged. The red velvet stage curtain was drawn. And high above our heads, the same five crystal chandeliers lit the room.

  But nothing else was as I remembered.

  Gone was the Auditorium’s rich, patterned carpeting, now covered over with wooden floorboards. The red chairs were also missing, replaced by metal cots arranged in ten rows. I counted ten beds per row. Add to that the cots crowded into the orchestra pit—one hundred and twenty beds, approximately. The pipe organ, usually housed in the pit, was nowhere to be seen.

  Gone too were the elegant men and women out for an evening’s entertainment, dressed in fine silks and jewels. Instead, doctors, nurses, and volunteers, all masked, circled the infirmary, monitoring the sick with brisk efficiency.

  Hannah, Kate, and I walked down an aisle, my filthy coat clutched in one hand. I could not help it. I gawked, mesmerized by the men, women, and children lying hollow-eyed and feeble beneath white sheeting. The sound of misery suffocated me, an unsettling symphony of rattling coughs and unchecked moaning.

  I scanned the room, but there was no sign of the lieutenant or the two children. We passed a soldier, still in his uniform, who hacked up blood onto a towel while a nurse gripped his shoulders. Others lay unmoving on their beds. They had a peculiar bluish cast to their skin. For some, the faintest stroke of color slashed across the cheekbones. But others were so dark they appeared almost black. What was causing it? Bruising? Had they fallen?

  “There are so many,” I said through my mask.

  Hannah looked somber. “There are more at St. Vincent’s,” she said. “And they’re setting up tents outside County Hospital and Good Samaritan. They’re already running out of room.” She stopped beside one bed, examining a blond girl who looked to be about ten.

  I turned to Kate as we waited in the aisle. “Have you been here all morning?” I asked.

  Kate shook her head. “Since last night,” she answered. “My sister Waverley is a nurse at St. Vincent’s. She came by the house, saying the Red Cross needed help and lots of it. My sister Etta is volunteering at County. Ruby, as you know, is useless. And my younger brothers and sisters are at home with my mother, helping with the pneumonia jackets and bandages.”

  Briefly, I wondered how many siblings Kate had before my thoughts returned to the patients. “Are those bruises?” I whispered, gesturing discreetly across the way toward a young man.

  Kate followed my gaze. “He has cyanosis,” she whispered back. At my blank look, she added, “It means his lungs are failing, and he doesn’t have enough oxygen in his blood. It can turn a person’s skin blue or purple. Sometimes even black. At least that’s what Hannah says.”

  It sounded terrifying. “Will it go away? Once they get better?”

  Kate glanced sideways at Hannah, who leaned over the child with a stethoscope. She kept her voice low. “Dr. McAbee has never seen anyone with cyanosis recover. And he’s been a physician for forty years.”

  I turned to look at the man again, certain I’d misheard. “But . . . there are at least a dozen people here who look like that,” I said.

  “There are thirty-one,” Kate said.

  I didn’t have a chance to respond. Hannah tucked the girl’s blanket around her and straightened. Kate and I exchanged a look. The three of us continued down the aisle. This time I tried harder not to look at the patients.

  Something else was bothering me. Most of the cots here were occupied. And extra room was being prepared at St. Vincent’s, Multnomah County, and Good Samaritan. I did a quick mental count. “We were told there were two hundred sick in the whole city,” I said. How many patients were they expecting?

  “There were two hundred,” Hannah replied. “But that was yesterday. There are at least twice that now. And those are just the ones that have been reported.”

  I stopped in the center of the aisle. Two hundred yesterday, at least four hundred today. What did that mean for tomorrow? Or next week? And what about me? How long would it be before I ended up on one of those cots?

  Surrounded by the smell of antiseptic and a coppery sweet scent I recognized as blood, I realized I could not do this. I did not want to be a patient here. I did not want to die. I should have remained at school, where it was safe and isolated. I should have listened to my brother.

  Hannah and Kate were three cots down the aisle before they realized I had not followed.

  Hannah turned. “What . . . ?” She took one look at my face and fell silent.

  “I’m sorry.” I backed away, slowly, toward the main doors. Mortification welled up inside me. “I’m very sorry. I can’t stay here.”

  Sympathy flickered in Kate’s eyes, but Hannah’s expression gave away nothing.

  “I understand,” Hannah said. “Thank you for your help today. It was good to meet you, Cleo Berry.” She turned on her heel and walked off. Kate followed.

  I watched them go, wondering if some people were simply born brave and others not, and that was that. Or maybe Hannah Flynn and Kate Bennett were just crazy. Knowing the risks, one had to be crazy to remain here.

  “Aren’t you frightened?” I asked, my voice small, barely audible.

  They heard me anyway and turned. A nurse and a doctor hustled by, each in the opposite direction. It was Hannah who answered.

  “Of course I’m frightened,” she said quietly. “And so is Kate. And everyone else here. But these people need help. If not
me, then who?”

  I thought about the baby I’d carried into the Auditorium only a little while ago. On a nearby cot, a woman struggled onto her elbows. The noise she made was terrible. Wild and rough at the same time, like a cat grappling with a massive hairball. An empty bucket lay on the floor. I dived for it, thrusting it forward just as she leaned over the side and retched. Revulsion filled me. But so did pity. Eventually, the woman fell back against the pillow, her breathing labored. Hannah leaned over her, clucking and soothing. I moved away to give her room.

  Kate stood at the foot of the bed, holding the coat I’d dropped. She eyed my shirtwaist. Additional chunks of vomit covered the fabric, reminding me, disgustingly, of Margaret’s nectarine pits.

  I looked at Kate, at Hannah, at the bucket filled with vomit, at the endless rows of patients. I took a deep breath. Gathering up the tattered remnants of my courage, I asked, “May I still borrow that blouse?”

  Chapter Nine

  Saturday, October 12, 1918

  The smell of frying cabbage and sausages could not mask the odor wafting through the hall. Someone had used the stairwell as a toilet. I wrinkled my nose and knocked on a door with peeling green paint.

  I was back on Caruthers Street in an old, dilapidated apartment building. I had no idea what tomorrow would bring. Likely, I would be sitting in Jack’s study with my head hanging low. Listening as my brother yelled and Lucy stood by looking thoroughly disappointed.

  Today, however, I would finish what I’d started.

  Kate had led me to a bathroom and produced a fresh blue shirtwaist that fit surprisingly well. It belonged to her sister Ruby, and I was welcome to keep it, she had said. There was still no sign of Lieutenant Parrish or the children. But before I left the Auditorium, two familiar stretcher-bearers had swept onto the main floor. They carried the children’s mother, still unconscious, her long dark hair trailing off the sides. I watched as they disappeared through a door leading to an adjacent assembly room and wondered if that was where they treated the critical cases. But looking around, how could it get any worse than this?

  I’d stopped by the house to retrieve my bag from the back porch. Also, to make sure the house was locked up tight. Then I’d continued knocking on doors. I found a woman, mildly ill with the flu, but her husband and mother were both home to care for her. I left them to it. Several knocks went unanswered, though neighbors confirmed the occupants were seen leaving for work earlier in the day. I distributed most of the masks and brochures. Overall, the last few hours had been duller than dull, and I was grateful for it.

  This building was the last one on the street. With only a few apartments left, I glanced at my bracelet watch. It was nearly three o’clock. I was starving, though after all that I’d seen and smelled today, I was surprised I still had an appetite. I would finish here and find some lunch. And then I would head back to the Auditorium and learn, finally, what had become of that poor family.

  It took a moment before I realized no one had answered my knock. I tried again. A heavy object thumped against the thin wood, sending me hopping back with a yelp. From the other side of the door came a voice, deep and irate. “Go on! Get lost! What do I have to do to get some sleep around here?” There was another thud. Then silence.

  I pressed my hand against my chest and waited for my heartbeat to settle. I walked to the last door and knocked. To my surprise, it swung open fast and wide.

  “Well, hello.” I smiled behind my mask, which I hated already. It itched. I suspected my face would develop a rash before too long.

  The little girl before me was about eight, with messy brown braids and a blue dress. A small cloth bag hung from a string around her neck. The contents of the pouch were easy to identify. The smell of camphor balls permeated the air, so potent my eyes stung.

  The child stared up at me with interest. Or, rather, she stared at the white and red armband I’d removed from my coat and pinned to the sleeve of my shirtwaist. “Are you a nurse, miss?”

  The smile slid right off my face. “I’m not,” I said. My eyes darted over her head. The apartment was small; it looked like the space was used as a combined parlor, kitchen, and dining room. A single grimy window remained shut. I didn’t see a telephone, and there was no one else about. I looked down at the child. “Why do you ask? Do you need a nurse?”

  “I think so.” She looked over her shoulder to where a door stood open at the opposite end of the room. “Mateo’s been in his room all day. I shake him, but he won’t get up.”

  “Show me.” I dropped my bag just inside the door and followed her, then stopped in the bedroom doorway, heartsick but unsurprised.

  Sitting on the floor with his back resting against the foot of a bed was a boy of about ten. He was dressed in blue knickerbockers. Thin arms dangled on bent knees. The pouch hanging from his neck, identical to the girl’s, had not fulfilled its promise. He looked up at our entrance, his heavily lashed brown eyes bright with fever.

  The girl rushed to sit beside him. Tucking her arm into his, she looked up at me, fearful. “He’s very hot.”

  I knelt beside them. Mateo mumbled something incomprehensible as I rested a hand against his cheek. I felt the familiar panic rising and tamped it down. I needed to be calm. Or at least pretend. I was the oldest person in the room. The adult.

  “What is your name?” I asked the girl.

  “Francesca Bassi.”

  “Will your parents be home soon, Francesca?”

  She shook her head. “There’s just Papa and Mateo and me. Papa’s at the shipyard.”

  I sat back on my heels, thinking. Mateo had to go to a hospital. It would be easier to take him myself rather than search the building for a telephone. But I didn’t want to take the little girl with me. To expose her any more than necessary. I couldn’t leave her here alone. What should I do? “Listen to me, Francesca—”

  “Buongiorno?” A woman’s voice drifted in from the other room.

  “Elena!” Francesca leaped to her feet, dislodging her brother’s head so it flopped back against the bed. The girl ran from the room. Mateo began a slow lean to one side, and I grasped his shoulders with both hands, holding him upright. Fire seeped through his jacket, frightening me.

  “Dio mio! Mateo!” A woman in a green dress stood in the doorway, staring at us in horror. She had curly black hair and wore a green dress. Francesca clung to her skirts.

  Relief surged through me. “Are you a neighbor?” I asked. “A friend?”

  “Sì, sì,” the woman stammered, wide-eyed. “I am Elena Tolemei. I am a friend to Signor Bassi.”

  It was good enough. “I need to take Mateo to the hospital. Will you stay with Francesca until her father comes home?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Elena did not move from the doorway but instead wrapped both arms around Francesca. Her gaze was riveted on Mateo. “It is the influenza?”

  “I think so.” I gave Mateo a small shake. He jerked upright, for an instant, before slumping.

  I leaned closer. “Mateo. I can’t carry you. Can you try and walk for me?”

  Elena came over and crouched on Mateo’s other side. She smoothed his untidy black hair with her fingers. The boy stirred, opening his eyes. He mumbled something.

  “Mateo?” I prodded.

  “Sì, I can walk.” He slurred his words. “Certamente! For I am Tarzan, king of the beasts!” His eyes closed.

  Elena and I looked at each other, dismayed. The stories from the East Coast came rushing back to me. Patient after patient. Delirium.

  “Please, help me pull him up,” I said.

  We managed to half coax, half drag Mateo to his feet. I snatched my bag off the floor before we left the apartment. We led him down three floors of dim, rank stairwell and into the gray daylight. Francesca trailed behind us.

  With Mateo stowed in the rear seat, I turned the hand crank before climbing into the car. I started the engine, then looked at Elena through the open window.

  “I’m going to take hi
m to County,” I said, raising my voice to be heard over the engine. Multnomah County, just a few blocks south on Hooker Street, was closer than the Auditorium. I had completely forgotten that fact during my earlier panic with the two children. “And I’ll try to find his father. Do you know the name of the shipyard?”

  Elena clutched Francesca’s hand and nodded. “It is the Columbia River shipyard.” She pointed east. “It is just there, near the bridge.”

  “And his name?”

  “Nicolo Bassi. He is an assemblyman,” Elena said. “Scusa, signorina, but what is your name?”

  Good manners, I realized, were the first to go in a crisis. “I beg your pardon. My name is Cleo Berry.”

  Elena gave Mateo one last look before stepping onto the sidewalk. Standing on her tiptoes, Francesca handed me a thin paperback through the window. “Please give this to Mateo when he wakes. It’s his favorite.”

  I looked at the title. Tarzan and the Jewels of Opar by Edgar Rice Burroughs.

  “I will,” I promised, laying the book beside me. From the apartment building, people were pressed up against windows, watching us. I gave Elena and Francesca what I hoped was a reassuring smile before racing down the street.

  The Multnomah County Hospital was housed in a graceful three-story Victorian. When I turned onto Hooker Street, I saw two massive tents on the front lawn. Both were round and white, with a pointed roof. They looked like they’d been purchased from a circus.

  People poured in and out of the open flaps that served as doors. Patients were being carried in on stretchers. Others were well enough to walk in on their own two feet. No one looked like they had an extra hand to spare, so I dragged Mateo toward one of the tents on my own. It took some doing, and by the time we crossed the lawn, I was breathing hard.

  Mateo mumbled beside me. I peered inside the tent, half expecting to see elephants and tigers, or a crowd clutching bags of peanuts and waiting for a show. But no. There were the metal cots, the doctors and nurses, the bad smells, the crying—all of it now familiar.