Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  It didn’t surprise me that most of the chairs were occupied. Society women, who were active in the city’s park and public health committees, sat in intimate clusters, dressed in short jacketed suits and felt boaters, all in somber colors appropriate for the occasion. Men from all ranks, wearing their black, double-breasted frock or sack coats, depending on their age, milled about the aisles. The men, unlike the women, didn’t bother to regulate the decibel of their voices. The low roar of a mass of people filled the room. I felt enveloped and disconcerted by the singular sound. It was ominous, like the rumbling of an approaching storm.

  A number of ministers were among the crowd, easily recognizable by their gray Prince Albert coats. I wondered which bill, in the long list of those scheduled for today, interested the clergy. A number of contractors mixed with the crowd also, although I didn’t see Dugan. I was annoyed by the sense of relief I felt at Dugan’s absence.

  I was surprised when Mrs.Warwick, the mayor’s wife and chairwoman of the Women’s Park Beautification Committee, had asked me to testify on her behalf. Her committee was presenting its report of recommendations to the Select and Common Councils. Of course, I was more than happy to support such a worthy project, but I hated having to do so in this forum.

  The Hearing Room was cavernous and ornate, and dark wood paneling covered the walls.The expansive table in the center of the room, soon to be occupied by the Councils’ City Parks Committee, matched the dark mahogany of the paneling. Everything was dark here, the better to hide their backroom business. Pews for the public, like those found in church, rimmed the perimeters of the chamber, lending what I felt to be a false sanctity to the posturing and politics. A brilliant chandelier hung from the center of the room, casting the only artificial light. Today, the natural light penetrating the cathedral-sized windows was muted, as the day was overcast.

  The sergeant at arms suddenly entered the room and announced that the session would begin. An expectant hush fell upon the crowd, as men suddenly jostled for the best seats. Representatives of the Select and Common Councils began filing into the area reserved for Councils. The committee table and the assortment of desks and chairs were separated from the public space by a thick, velvet rope loped through gold-plated, polished posts that came just above my kneecaps.

  I watched Mrs.Warwick, mesmerized, as she stood and faced the Council members, some of whom were seated at the table beneath the dais, which held the Select Council president’s throne. Others sat at their individual desks. Some of the representatives appeared to be finishing their lunch or chewing tobacco, judging by the number of silently moving jaws. A few were scribbling notes. Most had fixed an expression of dutiful attentiveness on their faces, as it was the mayor’s wife who was waiting patiently to begin. I wondered again why Rose and Mrs. Murphy were absent. This was their work that was going to be presented.

  The mayor’s wife, who was in her late forties, was a dignified woman with a no-nonsense demeanor. She was not one who suffered fools easily or who took kindly to being patronized. A lot of time had gone into their committee’s report. I knew that Rose and Mrs. Murphy had been quite active in its development.

  “Have you completed your testimony, Mrs. Warwick?” the Council president drawled, just barely allowing her to finish her sentence. He was already beckoning to an errand boy to take an envelope from his hand.

  Mrs.Warwick slowly raised her chin, undaunted. She said nothing until she had the Council president’s full attention.

  “If I may conclude,” she announced in a regal tone, “Our report emphasizes the necessity of maintenance schedules for park benches and statuary to ensure the parks’ sustained beauty.” Mrs. Warwick paused dramatically before continuing, daring the Council president to interrupt. He stood and nodded his consent.

  “We also must implore that the city inspects the mills, breweries, slaughterhouses, and other businesses situated on the riverbank to stop them from dumping their wastes. Indeed, public sewers have been built to divert the waste to a point in the river below the dam to ensure that sewage shall not be pumped into the Water Works’ reservoirs. Enforce the use of these sewers.”

  When she completed her testimony, she stood erect, her steely eyes trained on the Council president. Her hands were steady as she clasped them, allowing them to rest sedately in front of her. I noticed that some of Councils’ members had noticeably straightened in their seats. Mrs. Warwick must be an even match for the mayor.

  I straightened as I noticed Rose and Mrs. Murphy slipping into the room, each carrying a small carton of what appeared to be reports.

  My heart leaped an extra beat when my name was called. Faces turned toward me as I stood, animated by murmurs and nods. I was nervous, not because I was speaking before a room containing over a hundred people, but because Rose was in the audience. Good God, I wondered, what is happening to me?

  Mrs. Warwick then beckoned me to stand bedside her. Apparently, she was not willing to relinquish her place at the rail but instead wanted me to testify at her elbow. I didn’t have a problem with that. I was pleased with her committee’s report. It was the most sensible and responsible one I had heard in a long time. I pulled my notes from my coat pocket and saw Rose and Mrs. Murphy taking their seats in the row beside me. Rose flashed me an encouraging smile. Her green eyes were bright and proud, and I couldn’t help but smile back.

  “Mr. Parker,” Mrs. Warwick intoned. “Are you ready?”

  I realized I was coloring from my head to my toes. But I managed to answer in a steady voice, “Yes, I am, Madame Chairwoman.” She nodded for me to get on with it.

  “Ladies, Gentlemen, members of the Council, I am honored to speak on behalf of this well planned report,” I began.Whisperings among the crowd grew louder. “Perhaps to understand my position, it would be helpful to remind you all as to why our city’s great park system was created to protect our city’s drinking water supply.” I suddenly felt stronger, the force of my convictions stoking my natural passion for the river and my work. Mrs. Warwick nodded her agreement and smiled pointedly at me to continue.

  “Most of you probably know that it was over forty years ago that our city fathers acknowledged the connection between the purity of our river and the incidence of disease. In order to ensure that the area surrounding the Schuylkill was natural and clean, our leaders purchased the land we now call Fairmount Park.”

  “But there are still factories and homes, on both sides of the river, Mr. Parker. Should we remove them too, to satisfy you and the ladies?” A voice called from the gallery. The Council president banged his gavel. “You are out of order, sir. Please wait until the testimonies are completed.” I didn’t have to see him to know who it was. Patrick Dugan stood in the front on the left side of the room. He cocked his head and smiled pleasantly at me. I could suddenly sense a thrill rippling through the crowd.

  “You are correct, Mr. Dugan.” I looked Dugan straight in the eye, willing myself not to be distracted by the mock attentiveness on Dugan’s face. “But as Mrs. Warwick’s committee so rightfully pointed out, the city only needs to enforce its sewer laws to maintain the loveliness of the parks and the cleanliness of the river. Our intercepting sewers were installed along the river for just that purpose.”

  “But what about the epidemics, Mr. Parker? How can we put an end to them, without filtration, as some quarters claim?” the Council president asked, throwing a glance at Dugan. “Surely you’re not suggesting that clean parks will rid us of all disease?”

  “Of course not, Mr. President,” I replied, my voice growing steady with conviction. “As Mrs. Warwick’s committee stated, maintaining the parks is only part of the solution.The typhoid bacteria is in our sewage. Every time a person with the disease disposes his waste into sewer pipes that are not properly connected to the interceptor sewer, the wastes are emptied into the river, the same river we pump to supply our drinking water.” I should slow down, I thought. Will people understand what I’m saying about the connection betw
een the sewers and river? I could only hope. “When many people are sick, you need only to multiply the incidence of disease pouring into the Schuylkill. That is why, as the Women’s Committee pointed out, it is essential to enforce our sewer laws.”

  I saw one of the clergy waving wildly to the Council president for recognition. The Council president appeared to sigh. “Yes, Reverend. You may address Mr. Parker,” he intoned.

  The old priest stood. His bushy, uncombed hair complimented the recklessness in his eyes. “Mr. Parker, you are doing the people of this city a disservice,” he shouted, wagging his bony finger accusingly at me. “God would not create an enemy that is invisible to our eyes. He would not mock us so.” The priest’s own eyes were full of fire and his hands were trembling.

  “Reverend,” I attempted to speak calmly and slowly. “The typhoid bacteria have been seen by doctors under the microscope. We can see it, with the help of our own inventions. It has been found in the blood of many of our sick.”

  Before the priest could rebut me, Patrick Dugan interrupted. “But it hasn’t been found in our water samples, has it Mr. Parker? Isn’t our water too dirty to detect the bacteria that might be found if we filter the water?”

  “Mr. Dugan!” The Council president shouted, visibly angry now. “I insist that you wait to be recognized.” And then shaking his head, he turned to me. “But you may answer the question, Mr. Parker.”

  I looked at Dugan. I knew that Dugan was setting me up. Dugan stood patiently now, the picture of a gentleman, awaiting my answer. Heads in the room were swiveling between Dugan and me.

  I knew my reply was only half of the story. Dugan was a calculating opponent. Of course, I had to answer the question honestly. “As you probably know, Mr. Dugan, it is difficult for our microscopes to find the bacteria in our water samples because of the sediment in the water. The particles in the water mask them.”

  The din grew louder.The Reverend was standing again, waving to ask another question. But instead, the Council president rapped his gavel on the table to gain silence.When all was quiet, he addressed his request to me. I knew where Dugan was going with this. Filtering the water would remove the particles. But I didn’t want to recommend this technology. I was afraid that it would give the city a false sense of security, and the pollution would continue unabated. I wanted to see the river protected, negating the need for filtration.

  “Mr. Parker, you have some interesting, if not idealistic, arguments for the case of protecting our parks and river. I’d like to ask you to work with Chief Trout, who is oddly absent today,” he noted, looking around the room, “to work up some figures regarding the cost of filtration against the cost of your own proposals concerning enforcement of the sewer laws. At that time, we can take up this matter again.”

  “Of course, Mr. President,” I agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically, as the president moved to address the next council ordinance. As I picked up my bowler, Mrs. Warwick thanked me for my support, vigorously patting me on the arm. She then signaled to her fellow committee women with a wave of her hand that they were to accompany her. She was instructing them to distribute their reports to Council members and then meet in a City Hall office that she would commandeer to discuss the hearing. The women fell in line behind her, and I quickly stepped aside to allow them to pass. Mrs. Murphy was first, and she threw me a sympathetic smile and a nod of her head.The battle was far from over. As Rose passed, she shook her head, her lovely features pinched in consternation. “I am so sorry,” she whispered to me.

  I wanted to reach out and take hold of her arm, to stop her and tell her that it wasn’t her fault, that I didn’t associate her with her husband and that her husband’s meanness would never touch her. But I couldn’t move. I could still feel Dugan’s eyes on me, recording my trepidation and every weakness. I could only hope that my thoughts were conveyed to Rose in my tired smile.

  That evening at dusk, I walked my normal route on 13th Street, my hands shoved into my trouser pockets, my head down, my eyes focused on the blocks of cement sidewalk stretching out in front of me. I always walked in this manner when I was deep in thought, oblivious of the dull urban scenery. This evening, as usual, I was planning to stop to meet my father at McGillin’s Ale House on Drury Lane. We often ate our dinner there, as neither my father nor I had ever developed an interest in cooking, although we both relished a hearty meal.

  I was often preoccupied during my homeward walk, but today I felt a particular anxiety sharpening my mood. I was disturbed by the City Councils’ hearing, particularly as they came in the wake of the mayor and Dugan’s visit to the Water Works earlier in the week. Most alarming to me, at the moment, was my preoccupation with Rose Dugan. I had not felt the strong presence of a woman in my life—in any manner—since I lost Eileen to the typhoid.

  Dugan and Rose seemed like oil and water, neither element capable of an easy existence with the other. But many couples were surprisingly different in personality, I reminded myself. So why did this particular couple cause me such consternation?

  I had encountered Rose and Mrs. Murphy on the grounds of the Water Works over the past few months as they conducted their work for their park committee. I was always pleased to see them, as I viewed them as kindred spirits in a politically unpopular quest. But this afternoon, when I witnessed her embarrassment at the hearing today, I couldn’t but help think about her truly unpleasant husband.

  The ubiquitous shadow of City Hall’s tower prematurely darkened a swath of Market Street as I crossed it. I shivered wrapped in the coolness of the October twilight. I thought of the warmth of McGillin’s, the swell of friendly bodies, and the sweet comfort of ale, and stepped up my pace.

  I could not imagine Rose with a man like Dugan—living in the same house, sharing a meal. What did they talk about across the dining room table? Was he condescending and smug to her? I immediately felt ashamed. Maybe Dugan was a different man when he was with her. Many men present multiple personas, depending on the occasion and the company. Maybe Dugan was capable of gentleness and love. Yet my heart didn’t buy it.

  I took a deep breath as I turned up tiny Drury Lane. I wanted to expel these dark notions before I joined my father. I pulled open the heavy oak door of the tavern impatiently, and found an immediate comfort in the blast of warm air that engulfed me—air that contained a conglomeration of scents—spilled beer, moldy wood, and the sweat of men.

  The bar was dark, as it always was. The light from its illuminated fixtures, and the natural light that was defeated in its attempt to infiltrate the smoke-slimed windows, at best achieved a leery truce with the darkness. I stood by the door, squinting at the blurred, bulky shapes of the men who milled about the bar’s interior, ignoring the steady roar of conversation, indecipherable as anything but the hearty talk of working men.

  After a few moments, my eyes were able to discern the faces of the men that crowded the room—men that had pulled up their chairs at all sorts of angles to the round wooden tables, raising their glasses of beer or whiskey in a height proportionate to the decibel of their voices. I searched the faces of the men who leaned against the heavy mahogany bar to my right. A few of them, still dressed in their working overalls, were yelling to Tyne McGuire, the owner and this evening’s bartender, for a drink. His white apron hung on a hook at the end of the counter, begging to be used by the evidence of stains on Tyne’s trousers. I then caught my father’s reflection in the mirror behind the bar. He was waving to me to join him.

  My father, Thomas Parker, loved his Irish taverns. My grandmother had been Irish, my grandfather English. His father had long ago aligned himself with the Irish side of the family, mostly out of his fondness for whiskey and Irish sociability.The Irish “shebeens” or pubs had become a home away from home for him, ever since he had returned from Grant’s campaign in Virginia. He counted himself lucky to have escaped the “hell hole” of war with a left leg forever mangled by musket fire. He was no longer able to make a living as a surveyor, a skill th
at he had taught me when I was a young boy. But bitterness did not find a companion in him, and this attitude often left him holding another whiskey in his hand as friendly compensation.

  My mother had died from a terrible fever not too many years after my father’s return from the war. It could have been typhoid, although at the time, the doctor didn’t call it that, as there was no epidemic. But since working at the Fairmount Water Works, I had become convinced that it was infection that took my mother.Typhoid had stolen from me the two women I had loved. My father and I were now alone in our small three-story row home on Lyndall Street.

  “Father,” I greeted, as I slid onto the stool he had been holding for me. “Are you ready for another drink?” I asked as I held up a hand to get Tyne’s attention.

  “Never mind that,” my father growled back, taking me by surprise. He still wore the uniform of a working man—faded blue twill overalls over a checkered flannel shirt. He claimed that he felt like “a whole man” in them. My father didn’t trust the dress of a gentleman to show what a man could do.

  His still startling blue eyes squinted my way. “What’s this about those stories I’ve been hearing about you and that Patrick Dugan?” He rubbed the back of his hand across his grizzled chin. “Some of my friends from the stable tell me that you could be in trouble.” He cleared his throat as I was about to murmur some protest. But the look on my father’s pale, thin face made me pause. For all of my father’s physical weaknesses, his soul was one of a lion’s protecting its cub, despite the fact that his cub was twenty years old.