A Death-Struck Year

by Makiia Lucier

  A man in a white orderly’s uniform spotted me hovering. He was short but strong-looking. He lifted Mateo in his arms easily and carried him down an aisle. Relieved, I watched him set the boy on an empty cot. A nurse appeared by my side, her pencil poised above a clipboard. I gave her what little information I could: Mateo’s name, address, his father’s name. There wasn’t much. I hoped I wouldn’t have too much trouble locating Nicolo Bassi.

  Iron ladders scraped against a steel-hulled ship at the Columbia River Shipbuilding Company, reminding me of fingernails on a blackboard. Assemblymen pounded on metal plates and hollered for bolts. Two dogs barked at a passing produce boat. Horns blasted from the bridge, from the ships in the river, from the trucks rumbling by pulling timber logs, wide as a grown man. Alarming thuds shook the warehouses lining the dock, followed by the whoooosh of smoke shooting from chimneys. The drills whirred. The cranes screeched. My ears rang from the sheer force of it all.

  I headed toward the dry dock, where a massive cargo vessel stood near completion. A three-story jumble of scaffolding was braced against it, the planks thick with workmen. I hoped someone might be able to point out Nicolo Bassi. The day had warmed slightly. A good thing, as I could not wear my coat. It had been left in the car, along with my shirtwaist, to fester.

  I heard a warning shout. A rough hand grabbed my arm and hauled me aside, an instant before a wrench crashed onto the spot where I’d just stood. My heart pounding, I faced the owner of the ham-size hand. I guessed he was old—grandfather old—though the grime on his face made it difficult to tell for certain. His smile was wide and amiable.

  “Careful where you stand, miss.” He released my arm. “No telling what’ll fall out of the sky ’round here.” He pointed to the scaffolding, where a man sent an apologetic wave before turning back to his work.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “No trouble.” My rescuer started to walk away.

  “Wait!”

  He paused and turned back to me, eyebrows raised.

  “Do you know where I might find Nicolo Bassi?” I asked. “I was told he works here.”

  He laughed. “Nicolo? Sure. He’s the man who nearly sent you to the hospital.” He scratched his chin, adding, “It might be a long while before he comes down, though. The boss wants those plates in by nightfall.” With one final smile, he stuck his hands in his pockets and ambled off.

  I craned my neck to look at Mr. Bassi, who perched on the highest level of scaffolding. His back was to me, making it impossible to gain his attention. I could not wait here all afternoon, but I hated to leave a message. I doubted he would see it anytime soon.

  “Mr. Bassi!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, waving both arms above my head. My voice melted into the din and was lost. Two more attempts failed. How did people work here? I wondered. I could barely hear myself think.

  Frustrated, I glanced down and saw the armband. I looked back at Mr. Bassi, considering the distance. Then, raising both pointer fingers, I stuck them inside the corners of my mouth, exactly the way Jack had taught me. A shrill, unladylike whistle emerged. The sound pierced through the wall of noise, causing several men on the scaffolding to glance down.

  I ignored them, my attention focused on one man.

  When Nicolo Bassi paused, distracted by the whistle, I was ready. He looked down and as soon as our eyes locked, I lifted my arm and pointed directly at the American Red Cross symbol sewn onto the band. I held my breath, hoping he would understand.

  He did.

  Mr. Bassi’s eyes widened. Bemusement gave way to panic. He threw down his wrench, jumped over the two men working beside him, and flung himself onto the ladder resting against the hull. The ladder swayed. Mateo’s father clambered down to solid ground faster than I thought possible. Faster, I reckoned, than Tarzan had ever climbed down one of his trees. My nerves frayed as I watched his descent. Please, Lord, I prayed. Please don’t let him break his neck.

  With five feet of ladder left, Mr. Bassi jumped onto the dock.

  “Who are you?” he demanded, terror lacing his heavily accented English. “Dov’è la mia famiglia? Where are my children?”

  Chapter Ten

  Saturday, October 12, 1918

  “You came back.”

  “Yes.” I hovered in the doorway of the ticket office, riddled with anxiety. Edmund Parrish looked grim, just as he had this morning. Did he always look so serious? Or was he getting ready to share terrible news? I gripped the door frame. “Can you tell me what happened to the family from Caruthers Street?”

  The lieutenant stood beside the room’s only desk, his white coat replaced with gray trousers and blue shirtsleeves. I’d found him prying open a wooden crate, the word MORPHINE printed along the side. Against the wall, additional crates bore labels ranging from ASPIRIN and DIGITALIS to PAPER CUPS and DISINFECTANT. At the opposite end of the room, through a second door, I could see past the seller’s box into the lobby. Hannah was there. She spoke with an older bearded man. His waving hands and panicked expression reminded me of Mr. Bassi.

  At my question, the lieutenant set the lid aside and gestured toward the desk chair. “Have a seat,” he said. “Relax.” He glanced over, and I caught the hint of a smile. “I think you’ve earned it, after saving three lives today.”

  I walked toward him on unsteady legs. “You’re sure?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. But we managed to keep some food and water in them. And they don’t have pneumonia, which is what we were most worried about.” He watched me collapse into the chair. When he continued, his voice was very quiet. “We don’t know enough to say how well they’ll get along next week. Or next month. But I do know they wouldn’t have lasted another night on their own. It was a lucky thing, finding them when you did.”

  Until that precise moment, I had not realized how tightly I was wound. I pressed both hands to my lips, willing myself not to cry. Not here, in front of a stranger. They were all right for now. What a day this had been. What an awful, wretched, wonderful day.

  “You know you don’t have to do this.”

  I looked up and found the lieutenant’s eyes on me. This morning I’d been too distracted to notice more than the scar on his hand and the startling green of his eyes. Now I saw that he was tall and lean. Twenty or twenty-one maybe. His hair was dark brown, and rough stubble covered his jaw. Two square-shaped tags hung from his neck; I could just make out his name and rank stamped onto the disks. Like Hannah and Kate and everyone else I’d met today, he looked like he’d passed a hard night. He smelled like soap, though, and I was suddenly conscious of my borrowed blouse, and of the faint, persistent odor of dirty diapers clinging to me.

  “I know,” I answered, wishing he wasn’t standing quite so close.

  He glanced through the ticket window. “Hannah’s desperate for the help. But I would think very hard before staying on here. There are far more young people in those beds than old ones.”

  He did not have to tell me that. I had walked down those aisles too. “You’re staying,” I pointed out. “And you’re not very old.”

  A half smile appeared as he removed glass vials and set them onto the desk. The jars were brown in color and tiny, the length of my thumb. “That’s true. But you’re what? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

  “I am eighteen,” I said indignantly. Seeing his skepticism, I reluctantly added, “Nearly.”

  “So you’re seventeen.” His smile faded. “And you’ve already helped more than most. There’s no shame in walking away. In trying to stay as safe as possible under the circumstances.”

  I stirred in my chair, suddenly restless. Was there no shame? I didn’t think that was true. Not for me at least. My papa couldn’t have been saved. Even as young as I’d been, I’d known. From the angle of his neck. From the way he stared at me but did not see. But maybe, just maybe, my mama would still be alive today had someone thought to look for us. Had someone, anyone, known we needed help.

  I touched one of the vials with a fingertip.
“There was a story in the newspaper,” I said. “About the Red Cross needing volunteers.”

  “Yes. I saw it.”

  “I nearly threw it away. But if I had, if I’d stayed home, would someone else have found them in time?”

  Something . . . understanding, perhaps, flickered in those green eyes. “I don’t know,” he admitted.

  In the silence, I could hear a raised voice through the glass and Hannah’s soothing response.

  The lieutenant set the empty crate on the floor. “I beg your pardon.” He extended a hand. “I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Edmund Parrish.”

  I grasped his hand, feeling its warmth—feeling also the angry ridged skin beneath my thumb.

  We held hands for one heartbeat longer than necessary, then two. Our eyes met. I snatched my hand away, flustered. “Cleo Berry. How do you do?”

  Their names were Tess, William, and Abigail Cooke. They slept in a far corner of the hospital floor, at the very edge of the stage. The nurse from this morning, Mrs. Howard, leaned over one cot, the back of her plump hand resting on the infant’s forehead. She glanced up as we approached, nodding at Edmund’s questioning look. She handed him a chart, surprising me with a quick, tired pat on my cheek. Before I could say a word, she was gone.

  While Edmund examined the children’s mother, I sat on the edge of the toddler’s cot. His face had been washed clean, but he was still very pale. A small arm had escaped from the blanket. I placed one finger on his open palm. It was hot. He didn’t move. I leaned over, resting my head lightly against his chest. His heartbeat was quick, fragile, uncertain.

  I had asked about their father—was there any trace of him? Edmund said Mr. Briggs, the ambulance driver, had recognized the mother. Her husband was employed by the Southern Pacific Railroad, one of the men who laid the train tracks. Hannah was trying to locate him.

  “Cleo,” Edmund said, his voice low. I lifted my head. He stood at the foot of the bed, the baby cradled in his arms. Though his smile hid behind his mask, I could see it reflected in his eyes.

  Following his gaze, I saw the boy’s lashes fluttering. He shifted, the move almost imperceptible, and as I watched, delighted, he closed his fingers over mine in a weak but unmistakable grasp.

  My smile faded when I saw Edmund staring past me. I turned. Not ten feet away, a young nurse entered the ward from an adjacent room. Before the door could swing shut behind her, I saw the bodies on the floor. There were three of them, lying side by side, each wrapped head to toe in white sheeting.

  The sun had vanished hours before, leaving in its wake a meager sliver of moonlight. Weary, I made my way from our carriage house to the back door, instinct alone preventing me from straying off the path and tumbling into the rhododendrons. I yawned, so wide my jaw cracked the silence.

  I let myself in. The kitchen flooded with light. I left my hat on a peg by the door, beside Lucy’s tan duster and Mrs. Foster’s pink housecoat. My soiled coat and shirtwaist landed in a heap by my feet.

  The cozy butter-yellow kitchen was quiet. There was none of the chopping, banging, laughing, and humming I was accustomed to. I unlatched the window over the sink and pushed it open, allowing fresh air to enter.

  A small fireplace and two stuffed chairs nestled in a corner, beside the pantry. I fell into a chair, unable to stop thinking of the three bodies back at the Auditorium. I wished I hadn’t seen them; I wondered who they were. Who their families were, and if Hannah was responsible for telling them that their loved ones were gone for good. What an awful responsibility that would be.

  For the first time I thought, very seriously, of my own death. When would I die? How? From influenza? An automobile accident? Of old age? My parents had passed on well before they should have. What would happen to me?

  The telephone ring tore through my macabre thoughts. I nearly jumped out of my skin. A second later I was on my feet and across the room, snatching the receiver from the counter.

  “Hello? Hello?”

  I heard nothing. Then, “You had better have an excellent reason for answering this telephone, Cleo Marie Berry. Are you trying to give me a seizure?”

  “Jack! Oh, Jack, are you all right?”

  “No.” He drew the word out slowly, the way he always did when trying to control his temper. “I am not all right. I’ve spent all day trying to get through to your school on this godforsaken telephone. Only when I did, I received some very interesting news. Quite unexpected.”

  “Oh.”

  “Precisely,” Jack said. “I was told I would not be able to speak with you, as you’d already left the grounds. Yesterday.” Jack allowed his words to resonate. “Your headmistress was under the impression you’d left with me.”

  I cringed. I knew this had been coming. For the briefest, briefest instant, I considered severing the connection and blaming the telephone company. Instead, I said, “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t think.”

  “That much is clear,” he snapped. “What happened? Didn’t you receive my telegram?”

  “I did,” I confessed. “And I’m sorry I didn’t stay at St. Helen’s. But I knew you were on your way, and I thought . . . Well, I thought that, under the circumstances, an empty house would be safer than a crowded dormitory.” It was not the precise truth. Not even close. But it sounded like it could be.

  “Is that so?” A sound emerged—part sigh, part snarl. “Dammit, Cleo, I don’t need to be worrying about the both of you right now.”

  “Both?” For the first time, I realized there was no noise in the background. No chattering, no laughter. Nothing. Usually, Lucy could be heard—a full over-the-shoulder participant in the conversation. I gripped the receiver. “Jack. Where is Lucy?”

  “She’s resting.”

  It was dinnertime. And there was something odd about my brother’s tone. I raised my voice and repeated, “Jack. Where is Lucy?”

  “Don’t fuss,” he said quietly. “She is only resting. Lucy’s with child.”

  “What? Oh. Oh!” My shriek must have ruptured his eardrums. “A baby! But that’s lovely! That’s wonderful news!”

  “Yes.” Jack sounded anything but excited. He sounded tired and anxious. “I wouldn’t get my hopes up just yet. We’ve been down this road before. You know it as well as I do.”

  Just like that, his words deflated me. “Yes,” I said, subdued. “Has she seen a doctor? Are there concerns this time?”

  “No, Dr. Hess says everything’s fine. But he’d rather we not travel for a couple of weeks. What with the influenza and Lucy’s history. That’s why I called.”

  Jack’s words sank in. They would not be home for weeks. I looked around the silent kitchen.

  “I’m seventeen,” I said. “Not seven. Remember? Of course you should stay.”

  “I remember,” Jack said, irritated. “Still, I’d feel better knowing you were staying with the Skinners until we return. I’ll telephone them myself.”

  “You can’t. They left for Florence on Friday.”

  There was a pause. “What about the Keatings?”

  Mr. and Mrs. Keating had been our parents’ good friends. I shook my head, even though he could not see. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable asking them. It would be an imposition.”

  “An imposition? Gerald Keating used to change your diapers. I saw him. Having you stay over for a few weeks can’t be as bad as that.”

  I looked out the window over the sink, staring into nothing. “It’s strange here, Jack. Different. And the Keatings have their grandchildren with them. It really would be an imposition.”

  Another pause. “How bad is it?”

  “The hospitals are already crowded,” I said. “The Red Cross moved into the Auditorium. It’s an emergency hospital now. And they’ve set up extra tents outside County Hospital.”

  I heard a long, drawn-out breath. “Christ,” he said.

  “What about you? How are things there?”

  “Bad enough. But we’re keeping to our rooms or staying outside. I d
on’t want you to worry. When will Mrs. Foster be home?”

  I looked at the note on the counter. Our housekeeper, ever efficient, had left her son’s address in Hood River and her return date neatly penciled in just in case we needed it.

  “Tuesday,” I said.

  He sighed. “Do you have enough money? Provisions?”

  My eyes traveled to the blue jar on the counter, where Mrs. Foster stored the housekeeping money. There was close to three hundred dollars in there. Almost enough to buy a second Ford if I wanted. “I have both. I had groceries and ice delivered today. And I know where the key to the cash box in your study is. And the numbers to the bank accounts.”

  “How do you . . . never mind.” Jack sounded disgruntled. “I don’t want you straying too far from the house. And I don’t want you using the streetcars. No good can come from being packed in like a sardine. If you need to get around, take the car.”

  “The Packard?” I asked, trying to make him laugh.

  Jack snorted. “Only when I’m dead. Use the Tin Lizzie. And mind the gasoline levels.”

  “You don’t have to tell me to mind the gasoline levels. I’m not the village idiot.”

  “Huh” was his reply. There was a long pause. Then, “You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it. There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark.”

  “There’s nothing rotten anywhere,” I said, the guilt gnawing at me. It was time to change the subject. “Will you have Lucy telephone? When she can?”

  “I will. I’m not sure when that will be. These lines are god-awful. Send a telegram if you can’t get through. And if you need help before Mrs. Foster arrives, promise me you’ll go to the Keatings’.”

  “I promise. And, Jack?”

  “Hmm?”

  “I am thrilled to death about the baby.”