Deadly

by Julie Chibbaro

  “Mrs. Browning,” I said, “I’ve been working as Marm’s assistant through the whole summer.”

  I glanced at Marm, thinking of our argument about Mr. Soper choosing me.

  I pushed on: “I thought my mother was satisfied with me as assistant, even though I am only sixteen and a girl.”

  A blush spread on Marm’s cheeks, anger and embarrassment at my bringing our private argument about my interviewer to the public.

  I pushed myself to continue, to fight for this job: “Mrs. Browning, I feel inside me a need to expand my knowledge, to learn more about how the human body functions, and I think this job assisting the head epidemiologist would help me do just that.”

  Mrs. Browning’s eyes pressed into me like little thumbs. She said, “I’m surprised at your choice for your life, Prudence. I thought after graduation that you would seek work as a secretary, and not muck about in human filth. A girl with your skill could acquire respectable employment at one of the finer banks in the city. You could work up to private secretary for the bank manager. Or perhaps keep books at one of the fashion houses. Even governess for royalty. Proper work,” she said, “for which we’ve prepared you.”

  The thought of being in one of those jobs, counting other people’s money or watching their babies all day, nearly choked me. I looked at Marm, then back at my teacher, who nodded at me to speak.

  “I have learned a great deal at your school, Mrs. Browning,” I said.

  Her expectant eyes didn’t leave me, so I went on, “The work for Mr. Soper would challenge me.”

  Mrs. Browning asked me what exactly I meant by that.

  “I will not simply be a witness to death,” I said. “In working with Mr. Soper to find the source of disease, I will be helping to stop its spread. I feel that it’s an important job.”

  The tips of her nostrils flared. “And why does this man want your help? A young girl like you? Can’t he find a budding science fellow to do the work?”

  I felt my own eyes open like tea saucers. I wanted to shout, I am a budding scientist! He saw that in me, why can’t you see the same? But she didn’t see me as anything more than a girl, that was the problem, it had always been the problem. I held in the fury that twisted around my heart like rope.

  Instead I quietly replied, “He hired me as typist and note taker. It was only afterwards that he called me assistant.”

  An awfully wry smile spread over Mrs. Browning’s face. “Beyond typing, what exactly are your tasks?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Mr. Soper will teach me when I begin,” I said.

  “For example, will you cure the disease?” She smiled and tilted her head.

  I didn’t like her implications one bit. I repeated slowly, “I will help to stop its spread, ma’am.”

  That gave her pause. She sipped her tea and nibbled a ladyfinger, and I felt the relief of her wide gray stare removed from me, only to turn and catch Marm, the dull, unhappy look in her eyes changed to a curious sort of pride.

  “And so what is the problem?” Mrs. Browning asked. “You know that you can work at any job you like.”

  “He expects me there at eight in the morning,” I told her.

  “Ah,” she said. She sniffed her tea and put it down and wiped her fingertips on her satin napkin. “You know my rules,” she said.

  Marm spoke up, surprising me. “Mrs. Browning,” she said, “can’t you consider giving Prudence credit for doing such a worthy job? Surely you could overlook the rules this one time and allow her to make up the lessons nights and weekends.”

  My eyes stung salty when I felt Marm at my side once again. I told Mrs. Browning I’d do any work she asked.

  “Jealousy is a large commodity at our school, you know that, Prudence. Rules are created to keep order,” Mrs. Browning said. “The girls would not think their education was very important if I let you work instead of attending school.”

  “Let’s not tell the other girls,” I suggested.

  “Miss Prudence Galewski,” she said, “if you can no longer appreciate the standards of our institution, perhaps I can find another needy girl on whom I can bestow the donated funds that you currently enjoy.”

  I never saw my missus so frosty before.

  “Do you not own the school, Mrs. Browning?” Marm broke in. “Can you not consider for one moment the rare situation my daughter is in? For once, a man in high position has recognized a girl’s talent, and is willing to give her a chance to use it. I don’t understand why you won’t help Prudence, why you can’t see the opportunity being offered to her!”

  “I’m afraid you do not see what is before you,” Mrs. Browning huffed. “The opposite sex stands ready to take advantage of your daughter, and you are ushering her straight into such difficulty!”

  “I beg your pardon!” Marm exclaimed, jumping out of her chair. “Prudence is the most important person in the world to me, and if I thought she would come to harm in any way, I would not let her work in that office. But I am proud of my daughter for her intelligence and bravery, and I am sorry you don’t feel the same way. Good night to you, ma’am!”

  She took my wrist and we walked out. It was all so horrible.

  And now I’m not in school anymore.

  I hope I have made the right decision.

  October 19, 1906

  Today was my first day of work with Mr. Soper. It was disorienting for me to rise with the church bells and get ready for work instead of preparing for school. I felt confused, and didn’t know what was appropriate dress for my first ride in a motor carriage as my wardrobe consists mainly of my simple black school skirts and white shirtwaists and jackets. Would I need something more professional, like a suit? I didn’t know what an assistant was supposed to look or act like. I wasn’t sure I would be able to meet my chief’s expectations. Mrs. Browning’s doubts sounded in my head, but I put on my good maroon outfit with matching cape and hat and made myself walk the whole mile to work as walking always calms me.

  I met Mr. Soper at the office, where he waited outside in the crisp morning air with Mr. Thompson, our round, balding client. They both leaned on one of those Stanley Steamers I’ve seen advertised on billboards near Tin Pan Alley. When Mr. Soper saw me, he nodded to Mr. Thompson, who went to the front of the motor carriage, opened the hood, and began to do something with the engine. I had never been so close to an actual locomobile—they’re always passing so rapidly on the streets, and seem so unstable, as if they may explode any second. This one was grass green with white spoked wheels and a black top, neatly folded down. It shone so brightly, I felt myself drawn to touch the vehicle. The coach came to life with a spit and a roar, and I jumped back, feeling as if a friendly dog had suddenly barked at me. Vapor emanated from the hood, and for a moment, I didn’t want to go in. But Mr. Soper reached out a hand and assisted me into the back. The expanse of padded leather seating was as comfortable as a sofa.

  Once the auto was running smoothly, Mr. Thompson wiped his bare head and his hands on his kerchief and entered behind the wheel, beside Mr. Soper. We began to drive. Everything seemed so close, riding without the top—the snorts of horses that loomed overhead, the loud explosions of gasoline carriages, the bells and clanging of trolleys, and the shouts of pedestrians into whom Mr. Thompson nearly crashed several times. We flew past everything so quickly, my head spun. I clutched the side of the carriage, trying to steady myself, and held on to my hat, afraid of what I had gotten myself into. Mr. Soper broke off his inaudible shouts to our client and turned to glance at me every now and then, I think to make sure I hadn’t been hit by flying debris. I’m ashamed to say it, but secretly I prayed to be back in school, sitting beside Josephine, looking out the window at the smokestacks and thinking my own quiet thoughts. It wasn’t until we crossed the grand, jammed Brooklyn Bridge and drove up through Queens and out to more rural lands that I began to enjoy the ride, and the feel of wind on my face. I’ve never had reason to visit the New York countryside, and the vision of cows mun
ching hay in the fields and the fresh smell of the reddening autumn leaves soothed me.

  Mr. Soper is a very serious man, with hardly a moment to explain things to me. At Oyster Bay, on Long Island, we pulled up to a stone mansion surrounded by exotic flowers dying in their pods and ripening apple trees overlooking the water. The country seemed so serene. Mr. Soper got out with Mr. Thompson; they’d been discussing how typhoid could be carried in food, and Mr. Soper wanted to see the kitchen first. I followed them around back. That kitchen was bigger than our entire apartment! Light poured in through four windows and bounced off the shiny bottoms of the dozens of copper pots that hung against the wide brick chimney. I felt myself shifting from foot to foot, distracted by the size and blackness of the stove, the look of the real icebox, the chopping block as long as my bed.

  “Pay attention, Miss Galewski, and write this information into the folio!” Mr. Soper barked at me. “Think of what Mr. Thompson is saying.”

  I quickly opened the folder and gripped my pencil. It was hard to pay attention with so much to look at, but I kept my eyes down on the paper, feeling the blush crawl up my neck.

  “This is our situation here,” he said. “Mr. Thompson’s family and servants first became ill September fourth, write that down, specific notes, his sons fell fevered at ten o’clock on that Thursday morning after eating apples and cheese, the laundress got sick that Sunday at seven in the a.m. after breakfasting on pancakes, stay alert and keep your hand moving. This is your job,” he said.

  He had heard things I missed completely. I wrote as quickly as I could, trying to keep my mind on my work.

  Mr. Soper began to question Mrs. Thompson, who came into the pantry (shelves and shelves filled with cookies and breads and honey and jarred jams, all the food one could ever want). I stood behind him, feeling a bit unsteady, my mouth dry, my stomach empty. Plump Mrs. Thompson’s thick yellow hair hung loose in its bun, her skin a rashy pink; clearly, she had barely recovered from the fever. But Mr. Soper questioned her thoroughly just the same.

  Her voice wavered as she described how she’d begun feeling sick on a Friday night at eleven p.m. in mid-September (the twelfth, same day as her daughter Amy), after her dinner guests—the McDonnell, Graff, and Chadwell couples (no children)—had departed. (Menu: Broiled sole with asparagus tips. Caviar, chocolate mousse. French bread, butter from a neighboring farm.) Mr. Soper asked her about the visitors, if any of them had fallen ill, or could have brought the disease into the house. She shook her head; her doctors had spoken to their acquaintances (the three couples, plus the Lyons family, Mr. Cerasano, and the neighbors, the Heightons, and their five boys). As far as they knew, her friends had neither brought nor contracted the typhoid.

  As she spoke, Mr. Soper made sure I wrote names, foods, times, dates. We will follow these like breadcrumbs through the forest, he says.

  Mrs. Thompson then showed us the dining room where most of the family’s meals took place, and after, she walked us through the house. I followed her and Mr. Soper through the bedrooms and bathrooms, feeling odd about being in this wealthy family’s home, their life so different from mine, their privacy completely revealed to us. I had to keep reminding myself that they had been struck by a terrible disease, and I was there to help find out why.

  In the afternoon, we talked briefly to the eldest son, Jimmy, a boy my age, blond like his mother, long-limbed, easy with himself. He had fully healed from the sickness, though I noted the prominence of his collarbones and the greenish tinge under his cheerful blue eyes. He had gone clamming in the bay with his brothers Ronnie and Billy all summer. They had played polo at their neighbor’s to the right, the Heightons. The three boys had come down with the illness on the same day (September 4). Mr. Soper asked him to remember when exactly it struck them, and the boy said that it was in the early morning (sometime before the mailman arrived at nine). Not a Friday like Mrs. Thompson; in fact, their illness came more than a week before Mrs. Thompson’s.

  We left the house after our interview with the boy. Mr. Thompson and Mr. Soper didn’t speak on the ride back. At the office, at the end of the day, Mr. Soper nodded to me and said, “There is a depth to this case we’re not yet reaching. We will return to Oyster Bay tomorrow. We have a good deal of work ahead of us.”

  All day, I felt as if things were going on somewhere above me, while I tried to climb high enough to see, to understand. Follow the food, Mr. Soper says, follow the movements of the family—but I feel like I don’t know what we’re looking for. I don’t even know how we’ll know when we’ve found it!

  October 23, 1906

  The typhoid that spread through the household ended its course by the beginning of this month. I understand now the nature of epidemiology, and Mr. Soper’s work: If we don’t find out how this fever started, it could resurface, and pass like a plague through water or food or some other means, into the neighborhood. That would be disastrous.

  We’ve gone back to the house each day this week, collecting evidence, building the information we have about this large household. With each visit, I learned more about their lives—Mr. Soper says we must especially focus on the foods they eat, an amount that seems enough to feed everyone on my street.

  We interviewed the two maids, the laundress, the gardener, and the butler, all of whom became ill on a Saturday (September 6), the same week as the boys. Mr. Soper asked each of them to recall what they ate in the last month, and I jotted everything in the folio. It’s a most difficult task trying to get eleven people to remember thirty days of eggs and bacon and grits, baked breads and muffins, cheese sandwiches and tomatoes and apples and plums, steaks and potatoes and salads and chops and spaghettis and sauces, desserts and snacks, especially when they don’t all join together for each meal, and the servants graze like cows, it seems. My lists are so complex, they’ll have to be cross-referenced and indexed like a book. I spent the week working on charts and graphs to order the types of foods together, with headings of Dairy and Meat and Vegetable and so on, but I’m not even halfway through.

  I cannot help but wonder what it would be like to have so much food to eat, whenever one wanted to eat it. With an icebox and a pantry, all sorts of things seem possible.

  I took notes of the household’s movements and developed charts of People Visited, Places Traveled, and Visitors to Home. I feel a little like a spy, writing down who this family goes to meet, and who comes to visit. I think of the social circles Mrs. Browning always had us aspire to—and wonder what she would think of me writing down the eating and visiting habits of the rich.

  Mr. Soper inspected the house and collected water from the well, and scrapings from the taps. We took samples of lamb, beef, chicken, and milk, and peaches, apples, bananas, and greens from the kitchen. Out in the backyard, he took a shovel and dug down deep until we reached the smell of sewage, which was the septic field for the house’s toilets. He shoveled up samples and bottled them, handing the odiferous tubes to me without worrying about offending my female senses. He put me in charge of labeling and stacking these bottled samples in their wooden holders, and I have to say, I felt a certain joy rolling up my sleeves and performing this dirty work alongside him. We brought the samples back to the laboratory to test for disease, and we now await the results.

  I found out that Mr. Thompson does not own this mansion—he only rents it from a rich merchant for the summer; he’s terribly nervous that the merchant is going to blame him for the disease, especially if we don’t find the cause. Worst of all, the family is trapped on Long Island and cannot return to their townhouse in the city, as their landlord will not take them if they carry the fever. The children cannot return to school until they are all completely well.

  I think the hardest hit by all this was little Amy Thompson, who just came out of Nassau Hospital. A shy child of seven, her long brown hair tied up in a bow, she is neat and polite, normal-seeming, until one looks at her face. It seems a fever rash had broken out over her neck and chin, and she could not le
t it alone. The itch plagued her, and she scratched and picked and left such awful sores that have not healed properly, patchy scars that will stay with her all her life. In a family portrait on the mantelpiece, I saw that Amy had been a beautiful girl with a bold smile.

  I fear the fever has taken her beauty and that easy personality away from her.

  October 25, 1906

  Mr. Soper and I went to the laboratory where the science fellows studied our samples through their microscopes, and again I felt that strange sensation of being aware of my face and body. It got worse when one of the boys leaned over and whispered as I passed, “Want to look through my microscope?” I felt as if all eyes in the room turned then, and were waiting for me to answer. I stood frozen while I searched my mind for a reply. Mr. Soper didn’t hear the boy’s words, but sensing his attention on me, snapped at the fellow, “Mind your work, Jonathan!” and the boy lowered his eyes. He had foppish hair and a patch of fur on his chin, looking rather like a he-goat, including the smile on his face. I’m not accustomed to such boldness.

  I don’t think I have ever known a girl like me who was so very awkward with boys. Even Anushka once had an outing with a feller—Jim McAvoy—though that turned bad when she tried to explain to him her father’s idea about the commune and living in nature. Poor Jim had never met a girl who understood such ideas, and never came calling for her again. That gave us both a lesson—don’t talk about ideas with boys. Maybe Anushka will have another chance—just yesterday, she wrote of being sweet on a feller named Randall. She met him on the Columbus Day hayride, but she didn’t say whether he knew of her feelings or if she’s still a secret admirer. She’s a girl of mystery when it comes to love. I wrote back, asking what exactly he looks like, and if she’s spoken to him in any meaningful manner. I asked her to write the whole love story out for me, dialogue and all. I told her to make it good, as I’d commit her lines to memory, and use them for my own next time a boy tries to speak to me.