“What does it say?” I asked, curious despite myself. I realized I had never heard the words “birth control” spoken out loud before. Not even by Margaret. Certainly not by Lucy.
Kate thought for a moment. “Well, she recommends condoms, but you have to make sure they don’t break.” She laughed at my expression before continuing. “Then there’s the sponge, and the douche, and Beecham’s Pills. And women in France use the pessary all the time. It’s supposed to be very efficient.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a rubber—”
A woman screamed. Startled, I looked around. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk just outside the Portland Hotel. Several pointed to a prone form lying on the ground. It was a person. A person. And no one was trying to help.
Kate and I exchanged a frantic glance and sprinted over.
“Cleo,” Kate puffed beside me, sounding scared. “The scarf. I think it’s the same man.”
It was. We knelt on either side of him. He lay face-down, his hat crushed beneath one shoulder. We turned him over. His eyes were closed. In the minutes since we had last spoken, blood had appeared on his face, streaming from his nose and soaking his yellow scarf.
“Oh!” I cried.
Kate lifted the man’s head off the sidewalk so it rested against her skirt. Blood dribbled onto her.
Around us, I heard the whispers of influenza and plague and la grippe. Someone said the man didn’t have a prayer. A woman on a bicycle swerved around us without stopping. I looked into the crowd, saw the anxiety and the fear. Everyone took care not to come too close.
I jumped to my feet. “I’ll get the car,” I said.
Kate’s eyes were wide with fright. “Hurry,” she said, but I needed no further urging.
I ran.
The car was parked three blocks away. I returned within minutes, pressing the horn so the other drivers would clear out of my way. The crowd had thinned, though people continued to walk by with their eyes averted. Kate looked at me and shook her head. Stunned, I dropped to my knees and checked his pulse. One thumb pressed lightly against his inner wrist, the way I’d seen Hannah and Edmund do it. I felt nothing.
He had been alive and well minutes ago, asking for directions.
The man’s newspaper had fallen to the ground. It was a special edition I had not yet seen. The headline read INFLUENZA WANES IN PORTLAND, SERIOUS SPREAD UNLIKELY.
PART TWO
What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well.
It helps men to rise above themselves.
—Albert Camus, The Plague
Chapter Fourteen
Monday, October 14, 1918
Kate slammed the car door shut and ran up the Auditorium steps. I followed at a snail’s pace, watching as she vanished inside. My feet were heavy, sluggish. I tried to make sense of what had just happened but could not.
Not everyone had forsaken us on that busy downtown sidewalk. Help had arrived in the form of a man and woman rushing across the street toward us. They were an older couple, round and gray-haired, with white aprons. They had stopped in front of us.
“Well, hell,” the old man had said. He stared down at the stranger, whose head still rested on Kate’s lap.
The woman’s plump hands flew to her cheeks. “Is he . . . ?”
When Kate didn’t answer, I struggled to my feet. “He . . . we saw him in the market. Just now. He was fine and then . . .” The old man knelt and checked for a pulse. He sat back on his haunches and sighed. I continued. “We’re with the Red . . . the Red . . .” I gestured helplessly toward Kate’s Red Cross band. Toward mine. I could not string an entire sentence together, could not work through my muddled thoughts. I tried again. “If you could please help us lift him into the car, we can take him with us. To . . . to the morgue. Is that where we’re supposed to take him?”
Kate looked at me. The color had leached from her face, and her brown eyes were enormous. She shook her head. “Cleo, no. Please.”
I didn’t want to take him with us either. I looked at my car, recoiling at the thought of him lying in the seat behind me. But what else could we do?
The woman pressed a hand against an ample bosom. “You girls won’t take him to the morgue! The idea! Franklin?”
The old man lurched to his feet. “No need to bother with an ambulance now,” he said. “I’ll get the truck. Emmett and I will take him.” He waved over another man who watched from across the street. The sign behind him read ROYAL BAKERY.
Numb, I waited as a truck was brought around and the body of the young man placed into the back. The woman untied her apron and laid it across his face. I placed his hat beside him. I wondered who he was. Who his parents were. Kate stared at the ground. Onlookers watched from a distance. After the two men drove off, the woman invited us back to her shop to sit for a spell. But neither Kate nor I wanted to linger. We thanked her, then drove to the Auditorium in silence.
Hannah burst through the doors, stopping when she saw me standing halfway up the steps. She took in my appearance from head to toe, and relief flooded her face.
“What on earth happened?” She came down to meet me. “Kate’s off crying in the stairwell. She’s covered in blood. Who is bleeding?” She stopped when she saw my chin tremble. “Cleo,” she said, her voice softer. “What happened?”
I told her, trying my best to keep the tears at bay, but as I finished reciting my awful tale, the tears spilled over. Hannah pulled me close, and I wept like a child in her arms. Above my head, I heard her murmur, “How much more of this can we take?”
Someone had wedged the basement door open with a stack of old sheet music. Faded, yellow, bound together with thin brown string. A piano sounded in the distance, telling me I was in the right place. After I’d spent several hours in the kitchen helping Mr. Malette, the cook, I’d gone in search of Kate. Hannah had told me to look downstairs. Go to the basement, she’d said, and follow the music.
I stepped over the bundle and found myself in a dimly lit corridor with a low ceiling. I passed one closed door after another, the music growing louder with each step. Goose bumps appeared on my arms. It was colder down here than in the wards. I came across another door propped open with more sheet music. I peeked in and found myself looking around in wonder.
Several floors above, nurses calmed the ill and comforted their families. Doctors injected morphine and closed the eyes of the dead. But here, in this windowless room, was a symbol of the Auditorium’s original purpose.
Pushed against the nearest wall was a tangle of musical instruments. Violins, violas, cellos, and flutes. Clarinets, bassoons, and piccolos. A French horn and a trombone. Some were locked in their cases; others were not. A thin layer of dust gathered atop a harp and a bass drum. I remembered Hannah mentioning that a symphony was to have performed the night the Auditorium was turned into a hospital. Were the musicians too frightened to return? Lining the remaining walls were stacks of chairs, four high, and row upon row of music stands.
In the center of the room, isolated and grand, was a piano.
Kate’s long, elegant fingers flew across the ivory keys, so fast they blurred. Her eyes were closed. I recognized Beethoven’s Sonata No. 8, his Pathétique, and was astounded. It was a melancholy, brilliant, difficult piece. One I’d practiced countless times, one I could never quite master. Kate played it effortlessly.
I sidled in and stood just inside the door. To my relief, I saw that Kate had exchanged her bloodstained clothing for a fresh shirtwaist and skirt. When the piece ended and the music faded to silence, she opened her eyes. I saw they were red and swollen.
“Did Hannah send you with the hook?” she asked. “I know I’m not supposed to be down here.”
I walked toward her. “There’s no hook. I wanted to see how you were. I can take you home if you like.”
“Thanks, Cleo. But Waverley will come.”
I gave her arm a nudge, and she made room for me on the bench. Neither of us was
in a hurry to say anything. In the quiet that followed, I realized, a little shamefully, that I had made an assumption about my friend, based on what little I knew of her family.
I gave her a sidelong glance. “You don’t want to be a nurse, do you?”
A small smile appeared. “I’ve never wanted to be one,” Kate said. “When I was in grade school, my great-aunt Beatrice used to take me to these shows: symphonies, operas, the ballet. Once a month, just the two of us. My brothers and sisters thought she was strange, because she never married and she liked to travel all by herself. But I adored her.” She ran a finger lightly over the keys. “When Aunt Bea died, she left me her piano. And enough money for lessons. We never could have afforded it on our own. Sometimes I wonder how different my life would be if she hadn’t.”
“I’ve never heard Beethoven played like that before,” I said. “Truly.”
Bright spots of color appeared on her cheeks. “It’s sweet of you to say, Cleo.”
“Well, I mean it. What will you do? Study at a conservatory?”
She nodded. “Next summer. I’ve been offered early enrollment at a school in New York.”
“But that’s wonderful! Which one?”
“The Institute of Musical Art. Have you heard of it?”
I stared at her, open-mouthed. Had I heard of it? “Kate, that is the best music school in the country.”
“It is.” Kate shook her head, as though she still did not quite believe it. “And best of all, they’re offering me a full scholarship. I haven’t told anyone except my family. The letter came last week, before—” She broke off. “It came before. Do you know his name?”
Abrupt as it was, I was ready for her question. “Henry Thomas,” I said. “Hannah thought we would want to know. She sent Sergeant Briggs to the morgue. They found his wallet and notified his uncle.”
“Who . . . ?”
“Otto Thomas. He owns a printing office in the Dekum Building.”
Kate looked up at that. The Dekum Building. “Where was he from? Didn’t he say he was new to the city?”
I nodded. “He came in on the morning train from Astoria. His parents are on the way.” I felt sick inside as I said the words. “Hannah says it’s not uncommon for someone to die so quickly from influenza.” When Kate didn’t respond, I added, lamely, “There are plenty of cases in Philadelphia and Boston.”
Kate snorted. “That doesn’t make it any less awful, does it? You saw how young he was. He could have been you. He could have been me.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I said nothing.
“Have you ever seen anyone die? Before today?” Kate asked.
“Yes.”
Kate waited for me to elaborate. The silence stretched.
“I haven’t,” Kate finally said. “My brothers and sisters and I are hardly ever sick. But now Robert and Charlie are in France, and there’s the flu. I try to be brave. Like my sisters. Especially Waverley. And like you. But I’m so scared my luck is going to run out.”
Tears sprang to my eyes at her words. I thought of Edmund, warning me that I was being careless. I blinked them back, then wrapped an arm around Kate’s shoulders. Our heads touched. “No one will blame you for not coming back. Not Hannah. Not anyone.”
Kate swiped at a tear. “But you’ll stay.”
“Just for a few more days.”
Kate turned to study me. “I won’t pry, Cleo. But maybe one day you’ll tell me why. When everyone else is running away.”
I dropped my arm. “Why don’t you play something?” I suggested. “Hannah knows where we are if she needs us.”
“Oh. Well . . .”
I nudged her shoulder. “Just one? It might be my last chance to listen for free.”
Kate’s laugh was more of a hiccup. She relented. After taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders. She brushed at her skirt. She pulled herself together. Then, in a dark corner of the hospital, in the lingering footsteps of death, in the company of drums, Kate played Bach.
I moved away, so her arms would have room to fly.
Chapter Fifteen
Monday, October 14, 1918
The sun was a distant memory by the time I descended the Auditorium steps. Torch lights blazed along the front of the cream-colored brick, banishing the darkness as though anticipating a crowd of opening-night revelers. But the sidewalks and streets were nearly empty. Only two of us braved the cold, crisp outdoors on this night.
The man stood on the sidewalk beside a gleaming automobile. He was dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform. A wicker hamper hung from one gloved hand. He watched my approach before lifting his cap, revealing a shiny bald head.
“Good evening, miss.” His voice was low and pleasant, the deepest I’d ever heard.
“Good evening.” I eyed the hamper. “I’m very sorry, but visitors aren’t permitted inside the wards. Would you like me to deliver that for you?”
Relief flickered across his face. “If it’s not too great an imposition.” He held out the hamper. “This is for Lieutenant Edmund Parrish.”
Oh.
I had not spoken to Edmund since the morning. In the truck. After returning to the Auditorium, Kate and I had stayed close for the rest of the day, on Hannah’s orders, but Edmund had been sent to St. Vincent’s to help with some catastrophe there. I’d caught a glimpse of him an hour ago heading backstage, and though I knew full well the polite thing to do would be to seek him out and set things right, I’d been rather hoping to avoid him. Forever, if possible.
It was not meant to be. The stranger was offering the hamper, and I had no choice but to take it. It was heavier than it looked. A delicious aroma escaped from the lid, reminding me that I had not eaten since breakfast.
“Is there a message?” I asked.
“Just that Lafayette sends his regards. And if the lieutenant is able, his father would be pleased to dine with him at home on Sunday.”
Although it was phrased as an invitation—a gracious one—I had a feeling Edmund had better not miss Sunday dinner if he knew what was good for him.
“I’ll tell him, Mr. Lafayette. Good evening.”
“Just Lafayette, miss.” He lifted his hat once more. “Good evening.”
Edmund was not in the main ward or in either of the adjoining assembly rooms. Hannah thought she had last seen him in the kitchen, which also functioned as a temporary dining hall. Several soldiers congregated at one of the tables. They pushed their dinner around their plates with little enthusiasm. One soldier muttered something about gas bombs and monkey meat. Edmund was not among them. A search of the ticket lobby, the box office, the smoking room, and both coatrooms also proved fruitless.
The carpentry area was a cavernous space located beneath the stage. Hearing voices, I poked my head in. Two volunteers were stuffing large sacks with straw. Both were older: the widow Mrs. Clement and Mrs. Pitt, a retired nurse who’d recently moved from Seattle to live with her daughter. I knew the bags they filled would be used for fresh bedding. Propped against the wall behind them were several large pieces of scenery. The wooden boards were at least ten feet high and eight feet wide, painted in shades of swirling blue to resemble waves.
Mrs. Pitt spotted me first. “I thought you would be long gone by now.” She peered over her spectacles. “After the day you’ve had.”
“I’m on my way, Mrs. Pitt. I just wanted to give Lieutenant Parrish this hamper.” I held the basket up. “Have you seen him?”
Both women looked at the hamper, then at me.
“You’ve brought Edmund Parrish his dinner?” Mrs. Clement asked.
I felt my face turn red. “No! No, a man came with—”
“You don’t have to explain anything to us, dear,” Mrs. Pitt interrupted. She raised an eyebrow toward Mrs. Clement. “I think it’s lovely.”
“But—”
“The lieutenant was on the stage an hour ago,” Mrs. Clement said. “With the sergeant. Have a nice dinner, Cleo.”
“Thank
you, but you don’t . . .” I started to explain about the basket, then gave up. I left the carpentry room to the sound of laughter.
Frustrated, I wandered upstairs onto the stage.
“Are you looking for someone, Miss Berry?”
At the front of the stage, the fair-haired Sergeant LaBouef sat on a cot with a black boot in one hand and a stained polishing rag in the other. He set the items aside and stood. He must have been four or five inches over six feet. Though he padded across the stage barefoot, I realized he wore far more clothes than the men around him. I stared at the assortment of bare chests and hairy legs lounging about on metal cots.
A dozen pairs of eyes stared back.
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered. My eyes darted up to focus on the lighting and cables dangling from the ceiling. I tried not to think of how red my face must be; even my ears felt hot. “I’m looking for Edmund . . . for Lieutenant Parrish.”
A chorus of good-natured boos and groans erupted from the soldiers.
“What does the lieutenant have that I don’t have?”
My gaze dropped. The question had come from the skinny, freckled soldier who’d helped me from the truck this morning. His question was met with an unflattering litany.
“Money.”
“Class.”
“Deodorant.”
“Knock it off,” Sergeant LaBouef said mildly. He looked at me. “The lieutenant’s bunking down in one of the dressing rooms.” He eyed the hamper. “Do you need a hand with that?”
I stepped back and shook my head, careful to keep my eyes trained on the sergeant. I gave him a weak smile. “Thank you. I’m fine.” Spinning on my heels, I left the stage with my dignity in tatters.
The door to the first dressing room stood wide open. Great bearlike snores emerged, loud enough to raise the rafters. I peeked in. Lights blazed around a mirror set above a dressing table. The tabletop suggested someone had left in a hurry. A jar of face powder lay overturned, its contents spilled across the surface. Pots of rouge and lipstick were scattered about, alongside bottles of perfume and at least a dozen cosmetic brushes. A towering white wig, the kind Marie Antoinette would have worn, perched atop a bust.
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