A Death-Struck Year

by Makiia Lucier

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, subdued. Pushing the tangled mess of hair from my face, I looked around the upstairs hall. A tiny yellow bird emerged from the wall clock and sung a gentle morning cuckoo. I counted six chirps and stifled a groan. Six o’clock in the morning. Lucy had always been an early riser.

  Lucy continued. “Well, what’s done is done. Jackson says you have provisions, and I’m sure Mrs. Foster will order more when she returns. But other than deliveries, not a soul enters that house. Is that understood?”

  “Yes.” I paused. “Are you well? The baby . . . ?”

  Lucy’s voice softened. “You sound like your brother. This feels different, Cleo, and—”

  The telephone operator interrupted. “At this time, we are permitting emergency calls only.” Her tone was firm. “It has been determined that this conversation does not meet our emergency standards.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Lucy said.

  At the same time, I said, “Wait!”

  The operator ended the call. I tried to reconnect, but the line remained silent. I looked at the telephone, wide awake now and infuriated. I did not have the chance to tell Lucy how happy I was about the baby. I did not even have time to say goodbye.

  I was in the ticket lobby, waiting for Kate, when I felt it: a faint rumbling beneath my feet, growing stronger and stronger with each passing second. Others in the room felt it too. It was eight in the morning. A handful of people were already gathered in the waiting area, hoping to learn how well, or how badly, their loved ones had fared overnight.

  Hannah was conversing quietly with an older couple who looked as though they hadn’t slept in a week. She stopped and glanced over at me. “What on earth is that?” she asked.

  I lifted both hands, just as lost. Hannah said something to the couple, before heading for the outer doors with me close on her heels. Standing at the top of the steps, we peered down Third Street.

  At first we saw nothing but a wet sidewalk and an overcast sky. Then a large truck appeared around the corner, followed by a second one, and a third, fourth, and fifth. Five trucks in all pulled to a stop, taking up the entire length of the Auditorium. Painted along the sides in bold black letters were the words U.S. ARMY.

  Soldiers spilled out of the trucks like worker ants, unloading crates and disassembled cots onto the sidewalk. Hannah looked astonished. They had clearly not been expected.

  A familiar figure jumped from the back of the first truck. “Hannah, look,” I said.

  Hannah followed my line of sight. A rueful smile appeared. “I might have known,” she said, as Edmund strode toward us, along with another soldier.

  It gave me a jolt to see him dressed as he was, in olive drabs, with a smart cap and brown boots that laced clear up to his knees. What was it about a military uniform, I wondered, that had girls making cow eyes even at the homely boys and turned someone who already looked like Edmund into . . . I fumbled for my mask before realizing I’d left it in the car. I could have used a mask right now. I was sure everything I thought and felt was written plain on my face.

  We met them halfway down the staircase. At the last moment, my boot came down on a slick step. Edmund’s hand shot out. He grabbed my elbow, steadying me. Without acknowledging my clumsiness or even saying hello, he pulled me close enough so that our arms touched before dropping his hand. He looked unruffled, as though being pressed against his side was the most natural place for me to be.

  Hannah’s eyebrows arched upward. I stared straight ahead, painfully self-conscious, but she let the moment pass without comment. “All this,” she said to Edmund, “because old ladies like you?”

  Edmund grinned, turning toward the soldier who’d accompanied him. I eyed the blond stranger, wary. Edmund was tall. This man was taller. And fearsome-looking, with wide, powerful shoulders, a hawk nose, and stern features. He looked like he could take on the entire German army on his own.

  “Hannah, this is Sergeant Simon LaBouef with the Army Spruce Division,” Edmund said. “Sergeant, this is Mrs. Hannah Flynn. She’s in charge of all Red Cross operations here at the Auditorium. And Miss Cleo Berry, also with the Red Cross.”

  Sergeant LaBouef stepped forward. After a brief nod to me, he said, “Mrs. Flynn, General Disque wishes to convey his deep regret that he was unable to meet with you in person.” He gestured toward the trucks. “Everything you requested is here. Beds, as well as bandages, masks, pneumonia jackets, codeine—”

  “Morphine?” Hannah asked.

  “Yes, ma’am. Lieutenant Parrish says you’re short on staff?”

  “Very.”

  The sergeant glanced behind him. “Twenty men will stay, myself included. With your permission, we’ll set up barracks here for as long as necessary. You can put us to work as you see fit.”

  Hannah pressed a hand to her cheek, looking slightly overwhelmed. “Thank you, Sergeant. I assure you I will. This is very unexpected.”

  “The general was unaware of your identity when you telephoned, ma’am,” he said. “Lieutenant Parrish was kind enough to clear up the confusion.” Sergeant LaBouef clasped both hands behind his back, his demeanor growing even more formal. “I had the honor of knowing Captain Flynn personally. Your husband was a brave man and an excellent soldier. You have my assurance that any request you have will be addressed immediately. The United States Army is deeply sorry for your loss.”

  I watched Hannah as the sergeant spoke. And saw, then, the grief that flashed across her face before vanishing.

  “Thank you, Sergeant. Edmund,” Hannah said. She drew herself up. “Now, where should we put your men? I think the stage would be best. It’s not ideal, but it’s where we have room. You’ll have some privacy, at least, with the curtains drawn. And we can move some of these cots to the second floor.”

  Hannah and the sergeant wandered off discussing logistics, while soldiers hustled up the steps carrying crates and beds. People poured out of the Auditorium to see what the fuss was about. Kate spotted me and headed my way. She stopped when she saw Edmund, smiled, and walked in the opposite direction. I stepped away hastily so that a decent amount of space lay between us.

  “When did he die?” I asked, watching Hannah inspect one of the crates.

  “Captain Flynn? In the spring,” Edmund answered. “He came down with influenza in France. It turned into pneumonia.”

  Captain Flynn had died of influenza. And now Hannah was working herself into exhaustion, trying to save every flu patient in her care. It made a terrible, wretched sort of sense.

  “Do they have children?” I asked.

  He nodded. “A boy. Matthew is seven. I think he’s staying with his grandmother until this is all over.” He tipped his head toward the last truck, which the soldiers had not yet unloaded. “Give me a hand?” he asked.

  “Sure.”

  Edmund hoisted me into the back of the truck. Wooden crates of varying sizes filled the cavernous space, along with metal headboards, footboards, and side rails. I lifted one of the smaller crates. Edmund grabbed one of the large ones. We passed them down to the soldiers who waited at the edge of the truck.

  “Can I ask you something?” Edmund held a footboard and headboard in each hand.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Are your parents liberals?”

  The unexpectedness of the question made me laugh. “Liberals? Why?”

  He smiled back. “Well, most girls aren’t even allowed to answer their front doors anymore. But you’re driving around, visiting every sick house in the city. Your parents sound more liberal than most. Like Kate’s.”

  I passed a side rail down to a freckled soldier who looked younger than I did. “I don’t know if they were or not. They died a long time ago.” I saw his grimace, waved off his apology. “I live with my brother, Jack. He is the opposite of a liberal.”

  He looked surprised. “Your brother’s Jackson Berry?”

  “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve heard of him. Is he your guardian?”
<
br />   I nodded. “And his wife, Lucy. They’ll be home from San Francisco in a few weeks.” I wished my words back as soon as I spoke them. Why oh why did I say that? Now he would wonder . . .

  “Where are you staying while they’re gone? With other family?”

  I hesitated. “There’s just the three of us.”

  Edmund glanced at me, and I looked away. “So you’re living with friends?”

  Very carefully, I handed down a headboard. “No.”

  Turning back, I inspected the crates, taking my time deciding which one to lift next. The seconds ticked by in silence. I heard a solid thump as he set his own crate down a few feet away. I hoped it wasn’t filled with morphine.

  “You’re living by yourself?” Edmund sounded incredulous. “There’s no one else with you?”

  It was beginning to feel uncomfortably like the Spanish Inquisition. Irritation sparked. I was not a child, and I did not need Edmund worrying about me. Again. “It’s only been for a few days. Our housekeeper will be home tomorrow.” It took some effort, but I kept my tone reasonable, hoping that would be the end of it.

  Edmund refused to let it go.

  His green eyes narrowed, showing the first signs of temper. “Cleo, what if you’d fallen ill before then? Hannah doesn’t check on volunteers who don’t show up. She’d never get anything else done.”

  “I’ve been very careful,” I said, defensive. “I always wear my mask when I’m with patients. I’ve washed my hands so much they’re raw.” I held them, palms up, so he could see. “And I sleep with my windows open. I’ll be fine.”

  Edmund looked unimpressed by my diligence. “I wouldn’t put much faith in that mask if I were you.”

  “What do you mean?” I’d been wearing that rotten itchy mask for days. I saw now that he had not bothered to tie one around his neck. How come? Did he know something I didn’t?

  “I mean you might as well try to keep the dust out with chicken wire.” He leaned against a stack of crates and folded his arms. “I was at St. Vincent’s last night. There are two nurses, one chaplain, and two doctors lying in those cots. All of them wore masks. All of them followed the rules. And all of them are sick. And not one of them is over thirty years old.”

  I gripped the sides of a crate but did not lift it. In my head, Lucy’s soft, lilting voice reminded me that I did not get into arguments with boys I hardly knew. Especially not in the back of trucks.

  “You’re trying to frighten me,” I said.

  He muttered something rude under his breath. “I am trying to show you how careless you’ve been. You—” He looked down, startled by the finger I’d poked into his chest.

  “You live in a flu hospital!” I snapped, pointing toward the Auditorium. “You eat here, breathe here, sleep here, and then lecture me on staying safe. You are a black pot, Edmund Parrish!”

  “Maybe so.” His voice, though soft, was just as angry. “But if I were sick, everyone here would know it. I am accounted for, every hour of the day. And if I’m not where I’m supposed to be, someone comes looking. It is common sense, Cleo.” He took a deep breath, fighting for patience, which only made me madder. “You could be dead in your empty house, and no one would know it. What do you think that would do to your family? To anyone who cares about you?”

  There was an awful truth to his words. I knew it, but just then I would rather have jumped off the Hawthorne Bridge than admit it. We glared at each other. I looked away first.

  “I have to go,” I mumbled. “Kate’s waiting.” Seeing me at the edge of the truck, the freckled soldier smiled and offered up his hand. I reached for it.

  “Cleo,” Edmund said.

  There was an apology in his tone. It stopped me. I looked over my shoulder. Edmund stood in the center of the truck, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his face half lost in the shadows.

  “Maybe I was trying to scare you,” he admitted. “A little. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . It bothers me that no one is watching out for you.” Silently, the soldier glanced back and forth between us, his eyebrows raised right up to his hairline.

  It bothered him. Well, it bothered me too.

  “I am not your responsibility,” I said. Without another word, I grabbed the soldier’s hand and jumped onto the street. I marched off, wondering what in God’s name had just happened.

  “This is a terrible idea.”

  “Five minutes,” Kate insisted. “We’ll buy our lunch and leave in five minutes. Look, we can eat over there.” She pointed down the street, toward the entrance to a square.

  “I don’t know . . .” I cast a dubious glance at our surroundings. Thousands of circulars had been distributed, warning everyone to keep away from crowded places. Was no one reading them? Or were they just ignoring the flyers, as we were about to do? There was no place in the city more crowded than this.

  Kate’s sigh lasted a full three seconds. “Cleo, I’m famished. It’s five minutes. Come on!” She grabbed my hand, and, against my better judgment, I allowed myself to be pulled into the throng.

  The Carroll Public Market stretched along Yamhill Street for three long blocks. Each morning, hundreds of vendors converged, hawking everything from eggs to cream to freshly slaughtered meats. A family sold jars of warm, golden honey, while one mustachioed vendor shouted, “Oranges! Sweet oranges!” The heady aroma of frying potatoes filled the air. Housewives arrived on streetcars, baskets swinging from their arms, taking advantage of the break in the weather. The women rubbed elbows with businessmen and laborers and vagrants, each haggling for the lowest prices on the choicest offerings.

  We passed a stand displaying crates of juicy Spitzenberg apples. A short, stocky man stood beside it, polishing the bright red fruit with his apron. He held the apple up to us, a persuasive smile on his face. I smiled and shook my head, then glanced at the clock tower. It was one o’clock. We had spent the morning visiting one rooming house after another. I was very hungry, which always made me snappish, and my mood soured even further every time I thought about Edmund Parrish.

  Which was often.

  In the hours since I’d seen him, my indignation had shifted to a deep embarrassment. Because I’d come to accept that, to Edmund, I was my own sort of unattended case. Not sick or helpless, but on my own. Without anyone knowing where I was or whether I made it home safely. He’d only been concerned, and I’d stormed off in a huff—after jabbing him in the chest. I relived our conversation over and over again, wincing every time.

  “My brother Charlie says that if you scowl like that, and someone slaps you on the back, your face will stay that way forever,” Kate said.

  “Very funny,” I said.

  Kate tucked her arm into mine. “Don’t be mad at him for keeps, Cleo. He means well.”

  “He hardly knows me.”

  “Why does that matter? I hardly know you,” she pointed out. “But I still worry.” She stopped in front of a cheese vendor and pointed to a small orange wheel. “How much?” she asked.

  While Kate haggled, I wandered over to a neighboring stand that sold fresh bread. It was run by a stooped elderly woman. A worn red kerchief covered her hair. I dropped coins into her outstretched palm and tucked a long, crispy loaf into my empty bag. It extended a foot behind me. This part of Yamhill was closed to automobiles, and as I rejoined Kate, we made our way down the center of the street toward the square.

  “Pardon me,” said a voice behind us.

  We turned. A young man stood with a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. He had a rugged, muscular look about him: dark curly hair and eyebrows so thick they nearly met above his nose. He wore a black topcoat and yellow scarf, overdressed for the weather. Pinpricks of sweat beaded his forehead.

  “I beg your pardon,” he repeated, tipping his hat and offering a friendly smile. “I’ve just arrived in town. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the Dekum Building?”

  “Certainly.” I pointed down the street, past the hotel and courthouse. “It’s a few blocks that way
. You’ll want to turn right on Washington Street.”

  “The Dekum will be several blocks down,” Kate added. “It’s difficult to miss.”

  The stranger glanced down the street, before he said, “I’m obliged to you both. Good day, ladies.” After one final cheerful smile, he tipped his hat again and strode off. We watched as he made his way around a tired-looking woman pushing a stroller. Six well-dressed children—all blond, all masked—trailed behind her in a single row like ducklings. They ranged in age from two to ten. The younger children were amusing themselves with a song. As they passed, I heard:

  Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching

  I spy Kaiser at the door

  And we’ll get a lemon pie and we’ll squash it in his eye

  And there won’t be any Kaiser anymore.

  Which reminded me . . . I turned to Kate. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I asked.

  “Thirteen.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. Fourteen children in total! I couldn’t imagine a worse fate. I struggled to clear my expression, hoping Kate had not seen my horror.

  Too late.

  Kate looked at me with good humor. “Believe me, I know. Robert and Charlie are my older brothers. Then there’s Waverley, Etta, Ruby, me, Amelia, Celeste, Annamae, Michael, James, Dexter, Jonathan, and Gabriel. Gabriel is two.”

  “That’s . . . that’s lovely,” I lied.

  Kate laughed. We continued on our way. She gave me a sideways glance. “There are ways to prevent babies. Did you know that?”

  My head whipped around. It was the very last thing I expected to hear. “How would I know that?” I asked, keeping my voice low as we were jostled on both sides. “How do you know that?”

  Kate grinned. “Waverley used to bring all kinds of interesting things home from the hospital. I found a birth-control booklet once, written by some nurse in New York City. It’s fascinating. I’ll bring it tomorrow so you can see.”