“Where is your husband, Mrs. Bennett?” Reverend Fitch asked. “I had hoped to discuss Katherine’s arrangements with you both.”
“John is upstairs. Resting. Katherine is . . . was his favorite, you see. I’m afraid he cannot bring himself to discuss her burial just yet.”
“And your other children?”
“Waverley has gone back to St. Vincent’s. Ruby and Etta have taken the younger children to my sister’s.”
There was a pause. “I see. Very well, I will place the funeral notice in the papers. That is no trouble at all. But I’m afraid we . . . we won’t be able to have Katherine buried until the middle of November. Perhaps later.”
I heard a gasp and my hand flew to cover my mouth, before I realized the sound had not come from me.
“The middle of November!” cried Mrs. Bennett. “That is weeks away!”
There was a long sigh. “I am sorry. Most of the men we hired to dig the graves are gone. Some have fallen ill themselves. Some have fled. I cannot find anyone who will take the job. The men we do have are working as fast as they can, I promise you.”
“Couldn’t we hire someone ourselves? We’ll pay anything!”
“There is no one to hire. I am sorry, Cecily. More sorry than I can say. I have known that child since she was a baby. And if there was any strength left in these old bones, I would dig her grave myself. We have no choice but to wait.”
I heard weeping. Through my own tears, I noticed the crepe on the door. Horrible, white, flickering in the wind. Careful, so as not to alert the house’s occupants, I backed away. Down the steps, across the pathway, and through the gate, latching it carefully behind me.
“No! What are you asking, missy? Lord have mercy!”
The caretaker looked scandalized. He eyed my worn overalls, the ones I used to help in the garden and never, ever wore in public. Until today. I could tell from his expression he was wondering if I was gassed. But I wasn’t gassed. I was as sober and determined as the president of the Temperance Society.
“Mr. Tucker, I understand this is an . . . an unorthodox request,” I said, using Jack’s favorite term for all things preposterous. I gestured toward the caskets piled high against the cottage wall. The small stone house was situated in a far-off corner of the cemetery and served as the caretaker’s home. “But you have dozens of people waiting to be buried. You’re short on men. I can help.”
Mr. Tucker spat, nearly spraying the caskets with thick, dark liquid. My stomach lurched. I struggled to keep my expression neutral. I did not want to do anything to offend this crusty old man. I needed his permission.
Mr. Tucker scratched his ear. “This Katherine Bennett. She’s kin?”
“No, sir. She was a friend.”
“Hasn’t she got any brothers?”
“There are brothers, plenty of them. But the oldest two are in France. The rest are still little boys.”
“In France, huh? My boy’s off in Frogtown too. Fighting those good-for-nothing Krauts.”
He chewed his cud, deliberating. He wavered. I could see it. I kept silent, looking across the graveyard to where a pretty stone church stood at the top of a small slope. Though regular gatherings were prohibited, brief funeral services were still allowed. All around us, the trees sheltered the gravestones, and the grass lay damp and matted from last night’s storm. Men with shovels bent over muddy pits. There were three of them. Not nearly enough. The early-afternoon sun hid behind the clouds. I knew even that paltry light would disappear before long. I wished Mr. Tucker would hurry up and say yes. I did not want to be anywhere near this cemetery come nightfall.
Mr. Tucker shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I sure could use the help, but I can’t abide by a girl digging alone. It simply ain’t done.”
I opened my mouth to argue. From the other side of the cottage, I heard a car approach. The engine was cut, a door slammed. Then another. I closed my eyes, relief and fatigue threatening to send me to my knees. I wasn’t sure if he’d come.
I should have known better.
I had stopped by the Auditorium after leaving the Bennetts’. Edmund hadn’t been there, but I’d left word with Sergeant LaBouef, telling him where I’d be and why. The sergeant promised to deliver the message as soon as Edmund returned. Then I’d gone home to change and fetch a shovel. He must have raced over as soon as he heard.
I opened my eyes. “But I wouldn’t be alone, Mr. Tucker. I wouldn’t think of it. I’m sorry I was unclear.”
“Then who . . .”
Edmund and Sergeant LaBouef rounded the side of the cottage. Both men were in uniform. They looked ready to march in a parade. Or a funeral procession. But instead of rifles, they gripped long-handled shovels. Edmund was white-faced. I could tell it cost him to stand there and not say a word.
I turned to Mr. Tucker. “I’ve brought help. You see? I’ve brought the army.”
Mr. Tucker showed us to a far corner of the cemetery, where Kate’s family had been laid to rest for generations. He dragged a shovel across the grass, marking the area to be dug. And then he walked off to send a message to Reverend Fitch, letting him know that the Bennetts could bury their daughter as early as tomorrow.
After that, the time passed in a blur. I dug until there were blisters on my hands and mud in my hair. I dripped with sweat. The sergeant insisted that I rest, that he and Edmund could finish without me. I snapped at him, this giant of a man, and he threw his hands up in defeat.
We dug. Off to one side, a mound of dirt grew larger and larger. Edmund forced his thermos into my hands and ordered me to drink. I drank. I focused on the dirt and the shovel and tried not to think of what I was doing.
As we finished, the sun descended into the horizon. I was so weary, my legs trembled. We stood at the edge of the open grave. Edmund held my hand tightly, and we bowed our heads. I sent a quiet message from my heart: I wish I could have known you longer, Kate. Goodbye, my friend. God be with you till we meet again. Aloud, I recited a psalm. The only one I could remember. “The Lord is my Shepherd; I shall not want . . .”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Friday, October 25, 1918
One by one, the caskets left the train. The boxes were made of rough, unfinished pine, the work of a coffin maker far more concerned with volume than quality. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Six.
Four men arranged the caskets along the platform in a single row. Dressed in stark black uniforms, their eyes were solemn above their white masks, their movements quiet and efficient. These were not the first bodies entrusted to their care.
Union Station teemed with people. Travelers and porters crowded the platform, wrapped in warm coats and hats to combat the fall chill. Red Cross canteen volunteers stood off to one side, distributing food and sundries to soldiers far from home. There were people like me, who waited, impatient, for loved ones to make their way back to the city.
But for a moment no one spoke. Men removed their hats and lowered their heads. Women pressed gloved hands to their lips. The only sound came from the train’s powerful engine and the distant whistle of a departed express. And all around me, people thought the same awful, guilty words.
There but for the grace of God go I.
I looked across the tracks and up to where a clock tower rose high above the station. Ten minutes past seven.
Twenty more minutes.
The vigil ended. Something thumped against my leg. I looked down. A boy of five or six scampered by, tugged along by his distracted mother. He clutched a toy ship in one hand, the wood painted red, white, and blue. They boarded a train.
Determined not to stare holes into the clock, I turned back to the Red Cross booth. Cheerful women dispensed sandwiches, coffee, Juicy Fruit, and Lucky Strikes in vast quantities. A trio of navy recruits gathered around a slim, curly-haired blonde, the prettiest of the group.
I wore a coat the color of caramel, my last clean one, and gripped a long black umbrella before me like a cane. My fingers, wrapped in brown leather, dr
ummed against the curved wooden handle. I forced myself to stop and did my best to ignore the dull throbbing behind my eyeballs. A persistent headache, an unwanted companion since morning. I looked at the clock again.
Nineteen more minutes.
A wail, high-pitched and sudden, made me jump. I exchanged a startled look with the soldier beside me. Leaning forward, I glanced past him. A small group of men and women had converged on the caskets. An older woman had flung herself across one of them, her shoulders shaking with the force of her weeping. A gray-haired man tried to coax her away, his own face twisted in anguish.
I looked down at my shoes, unable to watch. The soldier did the same.
Minutes later, all but one of the caskets had been collected and whisked away to waiting trucks. Two uniformed men stood beside the last body, scanning the area for a final claimant. The others would be en route to the city’s mortuaries, I knew, and I wondered how long it would be before they were finally laid to rest.
The train stood ready to leave. Wheels churned and smoke billowed forth, enveloping the night sky. The engine was loud enough to sting the eardrums. From the platform, I felt the vibrations beneath my feet. Porters rushed to remove the small steps positioned by the train doors. A bearded conductor cupped both hands to his mouth and hollered, “All aboard! This is the number fifty-three for Seattle, Victoria, and all points north! Have your tickets ready, please!” He swung onto the train with a grace that belied his considerable girth. After one last call, the train chugged out of sight.
Another whistle blasted almost immediately. And as the glossy black passenger train pulled in, I heard, “Union Station, Portland! All depart for Union Station, Portland!”
Anticipation surged within me, as did an overwhelming sense of relief. This was the Southern Pacific number thirteen.
At last.
Passengers spilled from the train, crowding the platform in a sea of humanity. Most were masked. A few were not, including me. Craning my neck, I tried to catch a glimpse of Jack and Lucy. But bit by bit, the crowd dispersed, leaving only a few travelers in the area.
Reaching into my coat pocket, I pulled out Jack’s telegram. I reread it, then looked at the number on the side of the train. This was the correct train. This was the correct day. Where were they?
I hastened toward the passageway and across the tracks. Barely keeping my frustration in check as the old woman before me shuffled forth at the speed of molasses. Finally, I pushed through the glass doors and walked into the station’s large, high-ceilinged lobby. It was overheated. I felt the oppressive warmth wrap itself around me like a wool blanket in August. Ignoring the discomfort, I searched, and dismissed, one unfamiliar face after another.
My insides congealed into something cold and unpleasant. My headache intensified. I stood in the center of the elegant marble-floored lobby. I turned, one final, slow circle, before the truth sank deep within me like a stone.
They had not come. They were not here. What could have happened?
A barrel-chested porter studied his pocket watch by the doors. I hurried over.
“Excuse me, but is this the train from Klamath Falls?” I pointed toward the tracks.
The porter looked at me beneath thick black brows. “It is, miss.” His gravelly voice was muffled by his mask. “The Southern Pacific number thirteen. That is correct.”
“I don’t understand. My brother and sister-in-law were supposed to be on this train. They sent word.” I held up my crumpled telegram.
The porter studied it. “It’s possible there was some delay, and they simply missed their train. Do you have a telephone number? Or an address?”
I felt foolish for not thinking of it. “Yes, of course.”
“Well, come along. You can use the telephone in the office. If it’s still working, that is.” He offered his arm. I took it. There had to be an explanation. Perhaps Lucy was feeling poorly. Didn’t pregnant women tire easily? Especially early on? Jack must have decided to delay their trip so she could rest. There would be another telegram waiting for me when I returned home. That was it. I’d started to panic for nothing.
The ticket seller gave us a distracted glance. A thin man with black hair slicked with brilliantine, he stood behind a high counter. I took care not to brush my skirt against the cuspidors positioned by the wooden benches. Several of the brass containers oozed a nasty grayish spittle, the result of several failed aims.
A closed door was to the right of the counter. A sign above it read PRIVATE. The attendant patted my arm before releasing it. He pulled an oversize ring from his belt, squinting at the assortment of keys. “Let’s see, which of these . . . Aha!” Shaking one free, he inserted it into the lock.
We walked into a small office. What looked like several decades’ worth of company ledgers teetered in untidy piles on the desk, nearly swallowing the telephone that stood in its midst.
The porter gestured toward the telephone. “There you are, miss.”
“Thank you, Mr. . . .” I offered my hand.
He took it. “Latham. Alfred Latham.”
“Mr. Latham. Thank you, sir.”
Mr. Latham waved away my thanks. “Take all the time you need. I’m sure there’s a simple explanation.” He left, closing the door behind him.
Leaning my umbrella against the desk, I lifted the receiver. I hoped the telephone operator today would be merciful and agree to connect me. She was. I gave her the information and breathed a sigh of relief when I heard a male voice, brisk and pleasant, on the other end.
“The Baldwin Hotel. Good evening. This is Maxwell Bauer.”
“Good evening, Mr. Bauer. I’m calling for Jackson Berry.”
“I’m very sorry, miss, but the Berrys departed earlier today.”
The words, so cheerfully relayed, felt like a slap.
“Are you certain?” I asked, fighting to remain calm. “My name is Cleo Berry. Jackson is my brother. Jack and Luciane were scheduled to arrive here in Portland this evening, but they weren’t on the train. Can you help me?”
There was a silence. When Mr. Bauer spoke, I heard his concern. “Miss Berry, your brother and Mrs. Berry were escorted to the train station by Mr. Wilson, our driver. If you will please hold, I’ll speak to him myself.”
“I will hold. Thank you.”
“I’ll be just a moment.”
My fingers drummed against the desk, a nervous, uneven tempo. It felt like ages before Mr. Bauer returned.
“Miss Berry, I’m sorry. Mr. Wilson was very clear. He drove the Berrys to the station and loaded their trunks onto the . . .” Paper crinkled in the background. “Onto the Southern Pacific northbound, number thirteen.” He paused again. “He watched them board the train. And he saw it leave the station.”
I braced a palm against the desk, dizzy. “I see.” My voice registered just above a whisper. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry I could not be of more help. I would like to add that I saw the Berrys this morning before they departed. They looked to be in perfect health. I’m certain it’s not what you think. There must be a simple explanation.”
A simple explanation. Why did everyone keep insisting on that?
“Yes, I’m sure of it also. Good evening, Mr. Bauer.”
“Good evening, Miss Berry. And good luck.”
I went back to the waiting room and studied the schedule above the ticket counter. There was another train arriving from the south, an incoming Shasta Express scheduled for 9:05 p.m. I looked at the clock above the departure doors. It was nearly eight o’clock.
The coffin keepers shuffled past, carrying their unclaimed charge toward the front doors. The kind Mr. Latham was nowhere to be seen. Tossing my umbrella onto an empty bench, I dropped beside it and waited.
I leaped to my feet with the arrival of the Shasta Express. Jack and Lucy were not on that train, but there was one more coming in. At 11:20 p.m. Surely they would be on that one.
My eyes were pinned to the clock. The ticket seller walked by,
his shift ended for the night. His attention was fixed firmly on his shoes, as if he sensed my terror and was afraid it was contagious. Contagious. Ha! I bit back a laugh, the edges stitched with hysteria. I knew what he thought and hated him for it.
There but for the grace of God go I.
The lobby was no longer warm. I pulled my coat closer, wondering if the heating had been shut off.
At eleven o’clock, I walked out onto the platform. The crowd had thinned. The canteen was closed. I unfolded my timetable so I could view the Southern Pacific route in its entirety.
The number thirteen train had originated from San Francisco’s Market Street station. I scrolled down two-thirds of the way until I found Klamath Falls nestled between Midland and Chiloquin. Jack and Lucy’s train had left Klamath Falls at a quarter past nine this morning. How many stops were there between Klamath Falls and Portland? Ashland, Tolo, Gold Hill, Grants Pass, Wolf Creek . . . the list marched on. I felt my heart sink.
Please. Please let them be on this train.
A whistle sounded. I started to fold the timetable. Stopped when I saw a drop of blood on the white paper. I reached up, touched my nose, and saw red on my knuckle. Even as I drew out a handkerchief and pressed it to my face, a strange awareness settled within me. Fear, but also resignation. A sense that this moment had always been inevitable. After everything that had happened, how could I have dared to imagine anything different? My family. Edmund. A future.
The train pulled in. Passengers disembarked, calling out and jostling. I looked around and wondered where Kate was. I stumbled. A hand reached out to steady me. I looked up, up.
And there was my brother.
Jack stared at me, gray eyes wide with shock and horror. He took in my soaked handkerchief, pressed a hand against my cheek. “Cleo,” he said. “Jesus Christ!”
I heard a cry behind him. Lucy. From far away, I heard Jack say, She’s bleeding. She’s on fire. Get help! Lucy’s hands, cool and soft, were on my face. She was crying. I wanted to tell her I was fine. That it did not hurt.
A Death-Struck Year Page 18