Frank had thought of Lydia in her nightdress so often since the previous night that when he at first saw her in the ward, he did not recognize her.
“I’m sorry,” she confessed. “I know I ought to have said something, but I just couldn’t.” She could feel her beating heart. “I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”
The moment stretched. She looked from Dr. Gold to Frank. She thought she saw him shake his head.
Even on the day he got sent to the brig, Frank did not feel more cheated than when it looked like the doc might be onto him and Liddie.
When she turned back toward the doctor, he offered her a puzzled smile. “No apologies necessary, Wickett. I’m sure you got these beds together as soon as you could. Is the room ready?”
Only now did she see nine other men standing behind the first two, their scant possessions clutched in their hands.
“Oh yes, Dr. Gold, of course,” she replied in a rush. “The room is perfectly ready. Everything’s fine.”
She fought the desire to put as many words between herself and near catastrophe as possible. Even a misplaced breath might revoke her tenuous reprieve. The men filed into the room, in the absence of name cards assigning themselves the same beds they had occupied in the east wing. For a moment she allowed herself to enjoy the notion that time had reversed. Then Nurse Foley appeared at the group’s flank with a cart containing syringes and a tray of blood-filled test tubes.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Dr. Gold began. “As you may have heard, Acting Assistant Surgeon Percival Cole has contracted influenza. It is through his dedication to the study that we are able to perform this test, which will involve a small, subcutaneous injection of blood. It is not at all a painful procedure; in fact, it’s less intrusive than the blood samples you boys have grown so accustomed to giving. It will leave a raised bump underneath your skin a lot like a mosquito bite; and like a mosquito bite it may itch, but try to leave it be. Are there any questions?”
Bertram Peterson deliberately absented himself from this test, which Joseph implemented in direct contravention of the protocols they had cowritten.
Dr. Gold is afraid Bert has overinflated his role at Gallups.
There was a pause. Lydia recalled the happiness that had attended her earlier that morning. She would have preferred never to see Frank again than to see him in this room. She looked toward him briefly—she could not help herself—and was relieved to find he had not been looking at her. A shared gaze could indict them both.
Bertram holds Joseph’s inflated ego largely responsible for his failure to progress within the Washington medical establishment.
“How sick is he?” asked George.
“He’s got a rough case, but he’s receiving the best possible care,” Gold assured him. “Anything else?”
Dr. Gold is certain anyone possessed of rudimentary powers of observation would agree that his later career was thwarted not by the setback on Gallups, nor by “ego,” but by lesser men like Bert, who compensated for their lack of vision with petty vindictiveness.
Teddy spoke, shocking everyone, his quiet voice filling the otherwise silent room. “How long is this testing business going to keep up?” he ventured. “Are we stuck here until one of us gets it?”
A small muscle below Gold’s left eye pulsed three times and was still. Dr. Gold walked toward Teddy and placed one hand on the boy’s shoulder. Dr. Gold’s hand was large and broad and into Lydia’s mind unbidden came the image of Gold’s other hand encircling Teddy’s neck.
Dr. Gold smiled as he spoke, his words navigating his frozen grin. “You agreed to a month-long study, and Washington lacks the resources to extend our time together. In fact I did not expect I would be calling on you twice, but due to the extraordinary circumstances—let me assure you that the test we are about to conduct will be our last.”
Dr. Gold begs to differ: he conceived of the test himself.
The liquid filling the test tubes was a beautiful poppy red. She remembered the pride with which Percy had offered Dr. Gold his bandaged arm. She wondered when the blood had been taken and whose idea it had been.
Percival Cole is proud to claim the idea as his own.
Nurse Foley approached Dr. Gold with the notebook that in previous tests had been Percy’s sole dominion. To her dismay Lydia realized that with Nurse Foley filling Percy’s shoes, she was for the first time expected to play an active role in a procedure. Dr. Gold was deft with the syringe and the men—by now accustomed to needles—compliant. When she reached Frank she focused first on the scissors as she cut a bit of tape and then on the raised bump she was to cover on his forearm. She focused on the arm with such single-mindedness that she was able to separate the hand filling her vision from the one that had cradled her back—until Frank said “thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” she quickly replied, and hurried to the next man. Within minutes the deed was done, the test tubes spent. Dr. Gold and Nurse Foley departed, leaving Lydia to deliver the men’s breakfasts. She removed the bacon from Joe’s plate and wrapped it in a napkin to bring to Max. The men accepted their trays without a word, for which she was grateful, as she felt incapable of speech.
Frank was never all that religious, but right then he was praying that these wouldn’t be the last words they would ever say to each other.
Even with her back to the men she could sense his exact location. She did not turn toward him one last time. She put one foot in front of the other until she exited the room. And then, feeling as if her hand had been replaced by cinders, she locked the ward door.
The anticipation that gripped the compound that day was a malevolent cousin to that which had set the staff scanning the horizon for an approaching ferry almost one month before, only now lookout had been posted for several portents, none of which was as simple as a ship’s outline against the sky. The junior medical staff were in agreement that in the course of that day or the next the volunteers in the east ward would manifest symptoms. It was only fair play that the quarantiners fall ill now that Cole was sick. Over lunch, they spoke of this event with the dogged certainty of war generals. After having stared at ten raised bumps left behind by ten injections of infected blood, Lydia was inclined to believe them.
The junior personnel were unabashedly relieved at the prospect of a positive outcome. Dr. Gold had promised individualized letters of reference, but the value of such a letter would be compromised if associated with a study that had yielded no results. All agreed that by falling ill Cole had guaranteed himself, at the very least, a prominent assistantship. The assurance of their words was undercut by the fear that inhabited their voices, reminding Lydia that white coats and elaborate titles disguised students ill-acquainted with genuine sickness. She felt unexpected compassion at the realization she was better prepared than they for what lay ahead.
It was a day of empty gestures performed to hasten the intervals that stretched between the times she might visit quarantine or the recovery room, which continued to be called the recovery room even though no one thought of it that way anymore: it was Percy’s room now. Whenever Gold and Foley collected quarantine samples, Lydia was glad to remain with Percy. She could not think of Frank without her hands shaking. Considering how badly they trembled whenever she delivered meals, it was a small mercy she was spared the prospect of handling thermometers.
Cynthia’s immoderate happiness at working alongside Joe during this brief period remains delectibly intact.
Most of her visits to Percy found him sleeping fitfully, her appearance at his bedside enough to wake him. Each time, he insisted on discussing his condition with her as if they were attending a third, invisible patient.
“The fever is not abating,” he would wheeze, “and the chest is becoming fully involved.”
Toward the end of the afternoon, his fever had climbed particularly high, and the cold compresses on his head required frequent changing. “Is the condition—” she began, but could not go on. “Does that feel any better?�
�� she asked, as gently as she could.
“Yes,” he whispered, reaching up to press his fingers against the cool cloth. “Yes it does.”
At dinner, news of Cole’s deterioration was never more than whispered, as if giving the words more substance would somehow make things worse. There was not much talk, and what there was pertained directly to the tests, to quarantine, or to Percy. Because Lydia was attending his bedside she was imbued with rare authority, her dining companions plying her for the smallest details of his condition. But she did not want to describe Percy’s pallor, his fever, or the swampy sound his chest made when he coughed; she had seen these things too many times before.
That night she returned to the spot at the compound’s periphery where she and Frank had stood a lifetime ago, before Percy’s illness. Then she passed through the hole in the fence through which Frank had come to her. At the beach, she walked into the surf up to her waist. On returning to her room, she did not change out of her wet clothes, but instead stood shivering at the room’s center, attempting to retain for as long as possible the feel of wet fabric against her legs and the smell of the ocean.
Explain to me how a doctor gets it and we don’t.
Is Cole the quiet one with the notebook?
That’s the one.
Then there’s your answer. A fella like him ain’t exactly durable.
Sure, but he was always wearing those masks.
If those masks was half as important as the doctors make out, one of us woulda caught a dose long ago.
I heard he got worse and now it’s pneumonia.
Naw, it’s flu.
It started out that way but now it’s flu and pneumonia both.
Can you get both at the same time?
Sure you can. Double whammy.
Does that mean we’ve got pneumatical blood in us?
I hope not. That’s serious.
Is yours still red Sammy?
A little. Yours?
Yeah. But it’s not a lump anymore. It flattened out.
I don’t like it.
Don’t like what, Sammy?
Having that sorta thing inside me. I can feel it traveling round my body. There’s this little lump of sickness traveling all around.
Aw, that ain’t how it works, Sammy. It don’t stay lumped together. It’s like putting whiskey in your coffee. The whiskey don’t stay in one place, it spreads itself out.
Why didja tell me that? That’s worse than having a traveling lump.
You feel all right though, don’t you?
Yeah, ‘cept when I think about that sick blood moving around inside me.
But it oughta make you feel better—you got the blood of a doctor in your veins.
I wish it was a nurse instead.
You can say that again. It’s been so long I’d take anything, even blood.
Can you do that? Mix a lady’s blood with a man’s?
Sure. It’s a modern age.
I’d rather be doing the injecting. A special injection just for Nursie Lydia.
Watch it.
What?
I don’t wanna hear you talking like that.
What’s it to you, Frankie?
Nothing. Just keep your trap shut.
What’s with you, Bentley? You been acting strange ever since we got back to the ward.
It’s nothing, Joe. I just want this whole mess over with.
GAMES FOR STAY-AT-HOME CHILDREN
The closing of the Boston schools on account of the influenza epidemic and the advice of the health authorities to avoid as much as possible promiscuous association of all kinds have thrown thousands of boys and girls back upon the resources of the home for things to do during the long hours of otherwise unoccupied days. The Herald, appreciating the problem this presents to many parents, will publish daily for the next ten days a game suitable for the front-step, backyard, or indoor use by groups of from two to five children. These games have been selected and adapted for this purpose by Gilbert H. Boehrig, city-wide and community boys’ work secretary of the Boston Young Men’s Christian Association. Today’s game is:
“Buzz”
Children sit on step in row. First child says, “one,” next “two,” and so on until they reach “seven.” Instead of saying “seven,” he must say “buzz.” “Buzz” is said for every multiple of seven and for every number in which seven occurs.
For example—”Fifty-seven” would be “Fifty-buzz.” “Fifty-six” would also be “buzz.” “Seventy-seven” would also be “buzz-buzz.” “Seventy-four” would be “buzz four.”
A person who makes a mistake may either pay a forfeit or drop out of the game. The object is to stay in as long as possible.
January 7, 1925
Dear Mr. Driscoll,
This Christmas we took our boys to visit my youngest brother in South Boston and decided to visit you at the famous QD Soda Factory. We arrived in the morning but you were not in so we took the guided tour.
Mr. Driscoll, you are not telling the truth! The tour does not even mention Wickett’s Remedy and then there is that whole business with the dream about the Indian! If you had bought the recipe from me I suppose you could do whatever you wanted, but Mr. Driscoll, you never did! And when I went back to your office your secretary said that you would not be in for the rest of the day!
Mr. Driscoll, I believe that you are an honest man at heart. Even honest men make mistakes sometimes. You do not need to feel embarrassed, but now the time has come to do what is only fair and right! It would mean a lot to me and my husband.
Sincerely,
Your Disregarded Business Partner
Lawnview Senior Complex
14 Telegraph Hill
South Boston, MA
Mr. Ralph Finnister
162 B Street
Boston, MA 02127
September 10, 1993
Dear Mr. Finnister:
We at Lawnview Senior Complex have made repeated attempts via both telephone and mail to contact you regarding Lawnview community member Mr. Quentin Driscoll, but our phone messages and letters have gone unanswered. It has become of vital importance that we discuss with you our changed living strategies for Mr. Driscoll either by telephone or in person, as he has recently progressed to requiring new levels of care currently unaccommodated by the present terms of his residency. For his comfort and yours we urge you to contact us as soon as possible. A representative will be available to take your call Monday through Friday, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m. We look forward to talking with you very soon!
Sincerely,
Lawnview Senior Complex
Community Care™ Department
Ext. 62
By the next morning, Cole’s condition had further deteriorated. When Lydia stepped inside his curtain he was asleep, but she recognized all too well the dull cast of his skin, the grayness of his lips, and the sounds he made as he breathed. His notebook had fallen to the floor. When she replaced the book at his side, she was gripped by the terrifying, irrational notion she would see Henry’s eyes staring out of his face should he awaken.
Percy Cole was not asleep. Having heard Lydia on the far side of the curtain he deliberately dropped his notebook. Though he felt too ill to speak once she appeared, her presence was a balm.
After collecting the breakfast trays for quarantine, she found herself propelled toward the west ward by her desire to see Frank, only to stop in her tracks, cowed by a vision of him felled by illness. The fear that illness had preceded her transformed the entire morning into a sleeping figure whose eyes she dreaded, until her need to see Frank overpowered her apprehension and she started forward again. Percy had once comforted her with talk of making history. If this was what history required, then Lydia was content to remain outside history’s reach.
When she entered, she was careful to glance at two other fellows before turning toward Frank, and then she only gazed long enough to determine he looked no worse than the rest.
“Hey Nursie,” Joe asked
in lieu of good morning, “is it true that Cole fellow has caught pneumonia on top of the flu?”
He deflated at the sight of her nod.
When Lydia wouldn’t look in his direction, Frank was afraid she had forced herself to forget him.
“Then here’s the thing we gotta know,” Sam interceded. “Did he catch it before or after we got his blood?”
She could feel the men’s eyes on her. “I’m not sure,” she answered. “Perhaps Dr. Gold or Dr. Peterson would know, but it’s not the sort of thing—”
Sam slammed his fist against his bed frame. “Are they tryin’ to make us crazy as well as sick? You gotta tell us, Nursie. You’re the only one we trust.”
“You know as much as I do!” she exclaimed, her blood pounding in her ears. She was sure the sound of it could be heard throughout the room, a ball ricocheting off the hard, white walls. The men’s ten faces at that moment could have belonged to ten lost children. “You probably know as much as anyone,” she concluded, her voice its own apology.
Sam shook his head. “Even if they did know something, you can bet the docs wouldn’t tell us. They oughta try lyin’ here all night long, with some sort of injection spreading all through them and them not knowing what it is.”
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