Deadly

by Julie Chibbaro

  I feel like things are changing for me and Marm, the way the light does through the seasons, rays becoming whiter in winter, thinning out, separating. We don’t have enough time together anymore—though we have more money because of my job, we haven’t had any outings at all. I wish I could be more for Marm, do more for her—I think she is getting older and more tired. I must make an effort to spend time with her, if I can.

  November 14, 1906

  I’m not sure how it happened, but it appears that the strange science fellow has found himself seriously interested in me, though I can’t say I return the feeling. He has waited after work to walk me home twice this week, to my great embarrassment. I don’t want Mr. Soper to see me associating with him; I don’t think my chief likes this boy much. I have turned him down, yet he follows me like a pup. His stare troubles me, and the prospect of his touch is distasteful. I suppose the best I can do is to ignore him, and perhaps he’ll leave me be.

  November 16, 1906

  It turns out that there was a cook who worked for the family back in August that none of the Thompson household had thought to mention. When we asked specifically about the peach ice cream, they all remembered this woman as the one who made it. Mrs. Thompson went over her housekeeping records for us and came across the woman’s information. She said her name was Mary Mallon, and described her as fortyish, tall, heavy, Irish from Ireland, in perfect health, and not known to have ever had an attack of the typhoid. She was not a person of many words. Apparently, she kept to herself, quietly cooking adequate meals and retiring to her room when her job was done. She did not stand out in anyone’s mind (except for the ice cream), and left after three weeks, just after the illness hit.

  Mr. Soper thinks this cook Mary may very well be the key to our case. There’s one problem: We can’t find her. It seems she changed employment bureaus, and the one who hired her out to the Thompson family hasn’t heard from her. They sent us over to Mrs. Cleanglove’s Handy Helpers, but they have not seen her either. The man at Handy Helpers was very forthcoming and gave us a list of residences where she has worked for him in the last five years. Mr. Soper wonders if she has taken ill, or has left the city, in which case our whole lead may fall apart. He says Monday we will begin with a concerted search for this woman, physically traveling house to house until we find her.

  The cook has no record of the typhoid, nor any significant illness, so I’m not sure I understand exactly why Mr. Soper suspects she is at the heart of our case. Usually typhoid is carried by a person who suffers from the disease. If this woman didn’t become ill at the Thompsons’, and never contracted the fever, I don’t follow Mr. Soper’s line of thought.

  I fear we may be traversing down another dead end.

  November 23, 1906

  White ribbons snake into my heart as our work progresses, deathly white ribbons that frighten me.

  We started off the search for Mary Mallon with the only information available to us—the record of the families the cook worked for over the last five years. We took upon ourselves the task of visiting every household on the list. Mr. Soper wanted to know if they remembered the cook, and if they knew anything about her past, or her present whereabouts.

  I feared a blind search that would yield nothing. Who would remember a cook from five years past, and why would they keep track of her? And how would we explain our purpose in looking for a woman who’s never been sick, but who supposedly carries disease?

  But Mr. Soper’s instincts were right.

  At the first house, a surly maidservant answered, and my chief introduced himself and explained that we were from the Department of Health and Sanitation and were looking for one Mary Mallon. The girl’s face shuttered completely, and she said she didn’t know anything about the cook. It happened to us more than once this week. I think there is some code of silence among these servants: The moment they sense trouble, their entire countenance snaps shut like an irritated clam. Once their masters are retrieved, the true story arises. Her lady came down the stairs, and when we put to her the same inquiry, her eyes brightened. “Why, of course, Mary Mallon,” she exclaimed, “she was such a darling help when the children were ill.” She turned to her maid and said, “You remember, Sally, you were ill too, and Mary nursed you to health.”

  Mr. Soper asked, “What illness?”

  The lady answered, “Why, the typhoid fever. It came not long after Mary, maybe two or three weeks later, I guess. It was late fall of that year, and as cold outside as a chicken’s beak. She stayed with us for about six months, till the spring of 1903, when we moved here. For an Irish girl, she was quite the angel. The children loved her.”

  I could see Mr. Soper pale. He asked how many in the household had fallen ill, and she counted on her fingers, her two children, the maid, and the laundress.

  “Did they all recover?” he asked.

  “Why, yes,” she said.

  He asked if the lady knew of Mary’s present whereabouts, but she did not. She mentioned another employment bureau that placed the cook in her next job. She asked if we needed a recommendation for Mary’s services, which she’d be happy to provide. Mr. Soper politely declined. We bid the woman good day and left.

  Riding the elevated train to the next family on our list, I think we were both too surprised to say anything. It felt as if Mr. Soper’s idea had been proven—not a good feeling—quite terrible, in fact. For if this woman has been carrying around disease, we don’t know where she is. And an even bigger question stands: How is she able to carry typhoid if she’s never had typhoid?

  We reached the next home, where the lady remembered Mary, and the sickness. There, a girl of eighteen had died from the fever. The sadness of that muted me, a girl nearly my age succumbing.

  The following day we continued down the list, and each time, yes, they caught the fever, and the cook nursed them, or left shortly after. Of the nine households we visited last week, six suffered from typhoid fever during the time Mary cooked for them. At the other three homes, no one answered our call.

  All totaled: Twenty-seven ill, one dead. And these are only the families we know about.

  By the end of the week, Mr. Soper appeared struck as if hit by a physical blow. It was quite obviously painful for him to have his revolutionary idea confirmed. I could think of no way to console him, nor could I ease my own heartsickness.

  Once we spoke to the last family, my chief sat me down in our office and explained the new scientific theory that was fueling our search. Dr. Koch, a scientist in Germany, has put forth this idea: That a healthy person can carry disease inside himself without suffering from it, and can transmit this disease without knowing it, a so-called healthy carrier. This is a theory I simply cannot understand. If it’s true, then how did Mary get the disease inside her in the first place? Why doesn’t she become ill herself? How come the sickness doesn’t go away like it normally would once it has run its course?

  This news, this trail of fevered and dead, has left me sore inside, and deeply sad.

  The challenge ahead of us is to find this elusive cook and test her for the typhoid germ by examining her body fluids. Mr. Soper has charged me with telephoning all the employment bureaus in the city next week, not giving up until I find her.

  November 30, 1906

  Crossing Cherry Park yesterday, I encountered a sick dog expelling from its body wormlike creatures—it was particularly offensive, but I found myself drawn to watching the worms move about on the ground after dog and owner left. I wondered at my own fascination, and the lowly act of observing excrement in the dirt. I thought what I might do if one of my schoolmates were to see me, or worse yet, Mrs. Browning. But a stronger thought overwhelmed me, an understanding that was too powerful to turn away from.

  It was this: The worms showed me Mr. Soper’s scientific theory.

  They showed me how one creature can live inside another, eating from it. Once sated, the creature is expelled out into the world through the feces, where another animal can pi
ck it up. It became clear to me how the fever spreads—if the cook uses the toilet while she is working and doesn’t clean her hands well before returning to the kitchen, she passes the typhoid creature—bacteria, he called it—out of her body and into her household’s. Mr. Soper has told me that these germs are shaped like noodles, and maybe they have limbs to propel them. Fascinating how living things can live inside us. But I still don’t see why Mary doesn’t get sick herself.

  I must figure that part out, if I can.

  I wish I could get into the laboratory and look through the microscope and see for myself what this typhoid germ looks like, but Mr. Soper has not yet responded to my few subtle queries to that effect. In fact, he had me working all week at the task of contacting every employment bureau in the city by telephone to find Mary Mallon.

  I have never used a telephone and I was quite excited at first; I had the impression a voice would magically appear at the other end like in a conversation. Instead, it required heavy manual labor to produce a reply. You have to crank the handle on the square wooden box to speak to the switchboard operator, and that handset—like holding an iron against my ear! Half the bosses I reached seemed to be answering from beneath the river, the other half had tin throats. Most times, I had to yell and repeat my query, and pressed the set so close to my ear for replies, I feel as if I’ve been pummeled. I studied the instrument, the box, the wires, the metal handset, and still cannot figure out how a voice can travel through it all. Mr. Soper says the telephone converts the voice into electrical impulses, which vibrate the wire and then are transformed back into what sounds like a voice. It has to do with the characteristics of sound waves. An invention of affection, he called it—Mr. Bell created the telephone to communicate with his mother and his wife, who were both deaf.

  By the end of the week, I was almost wishing I had one of the convenient contraptions at home, imagining Anushka had one too. The wonder of it was, finally, that I could locate the cook’s present employment bureau, and all without taking a single streetcar trip. From the bureau, we found out that the cook currently works for a family on Fifth Avenue. Mr. Soper spent some time thinking of how to approach her.

  “I imagine she must be wondering why it is that the typhoid follows her to each job,” he said.

  “I think she’d be grateful to know that she carries the disease inside her and spreads it like a spice in her cooking,” I said.

  Of course, I did not mean it to be a joke, it was simply the picture that came to me, but Mr. Soper’s brow darkened at my words, and he barked at me sharply, “Prudence, this is an epidemic we’re facing here. This woman is very likely responsible for a girl’s death, and the illness of many others, and a humorous approach will not help her fathom the gravity of the situation. We must find a way to explain this in the proper manner to her, in a way she’ll understand.”

  His admonishment still rings in my head. I apologized, but Mr. Soper hardly heard me. My foolishness hung from me like a sign.

  He went on, “If she knows of the possible danger she is bringing into households, if she is made aware of it, I believe she’ll work with us. We need to convince her of the importance of testing, that we must check her bodily fluids, urine, blood, and feces. We must tread lightly with her, however, as this is a new theory, and not yet proven.”

  “Surely she’ll understand that she’s connected somehow,” I ventured to him, trying to make up for my joke.

  “We’ll approach her at her place of work,” he said. “The laboratory results will give us our answer.”

  He turned his attention to another task in the office, and I watched him for a minute over my typewriter. Here is a man who has not only solved epidemics, but other things too, like the running water they installed in our neighborhood tenements, and the toilets they put downstairs—all of this to conquer those things that cause death. His goal is cleanliness, an orderliness that will bring health to everyone who lives here. I feel sometimes as if I’m drowning in a sea of unknowns and Mr. Soper is like a ship passing. I call to him, but my mouth is full of dark water, and soon he is out of reach. He seems to work all hours, and never speaks of a family he must return to, not even for holidays like Thanksgiving. He is the first person I’ve met whose home life I cannot imagine. He never seems to need a rest; he lives for his work. One day I hope to be like him, my whole soul focused on my work, to the exclusion of all else.

  Yet I think I would be lonely without my family. We spent the holiday with Aunt Rachel and Uncle David in Williamsburg, and they were so generous, baking pumpkin pie and turkey legs, mashed yam and challah bread to celebrate the coming together of the Pilgrims and the red man. Uncle David invited a man from the factory, and I’m not sure how to feel about him. Directly after supper Marm sat alone, apple-cheeked in the corner, until the man went over and presented himself to her. It seemed expected that the two of them would meet, this man and Marm (I believe Uncle David invited him for that purpose) and I watched Marm very closely for her reaction. It’s been eight years since my father left, and in all that time, men’s attentions have rolled off my pretty Marm like water drops. I think my absence and the emptiness of my long work hours away from our apartment has given her thought. Maybe she is worried I’ll leave her, maybe the day has come—maybe my matchmaking aunt, as she has tried in the past, has succeeded in convincing her it’s time.

  The thought hardens my stomach. This man from Uncle David’s factory is handsome, with rounded features and a streak of gray in his otherwise dark hair. His eyes look directly and intelligently at a person. Despite Marm’s discomfort, he was impressively persistent and discussed all manner of subjects with her. But Marm is not like her sister Rachel, comfortable in her marriage to the same man for twenty-two years. She, like me, is used to being alone.

  A peachy glow rose on her cheeks as they spoke, and she laughed at the things he said. Her eyes flitted to me, seeming surprised at her own laughter, guilty at it even, yet she seemed engaged, happy, joyous in a way I haven’t seen her in a long time. I have to say, it bothered me. I loved to see her so happy, but I worried about my father, what he might think, what our neighbors would say, Marm with another man—yet even Mrs. Zanberger thinks Marm should surrender the thought of my father’s return….

  Before the night was through, the man was able to extract a promise of an outing with Marm.

  I cannot imagine her on an outing with a man. It doesn’t fit. She is otherwise occupied, she is married, she’s mated for life until death….

  Later I overheard Aunt Rachel and Uncle David talking in the kitchen about Marm marrying this man, and that made my throat hurt. What if the day came and my father returned and Marm had married Mr. Silver? What would happen to my father? What would happen to me?

  I feel torn by this man’s appearance—concerned for my lonely Marm and fearful of my father’s broken heart, should he ever return. I feel we should wait for him, just me and Marm alone, even if that means waiting forever. Receiving his checks is a reminder of him every month; it keeps alive the hope that he will come back, despite what our neighbors and friends say.

  I talked with Marm about the man on the way home, and she seemed to view him kindly.

  “He is a friend, Prudence, a gentle person to talk to, one who knows your aunt and uncle, that’s all.”

  “He seemed keen on you,” I said.

  She pulled me to her and kissed my cheek. We held hands. She said, “I know what you’re thinking, and there’s nothing to worry about. He knows about—your father. And he mentions only friendship.”

  “That’s all?” I asked.

  “That’s all,” she said.

  I worry that my Marm contains pockets of loneliness that even a daughter cannot fill.

  When I think about my father, I feel as if he and I are in a dense fog. He’s backing away from me slowly, the edges of the fog closing in on him, making it harder and harder for me to see him. Any day, I fear, any day he’ll turn away from me and be gone from my si
ght forever.

  December 7, 1906

  I have not been able to rid my mind of the look on that woman’s face—a wide-eyed dread at first, then a closing, smaller, as if her features were swelling shut, the anger turning her freckles a deep brown, spotting her high forehead. The fear, what is it from? I cannot figure out this cook, I cannot figure out this case; it seems to be getting more confusing to me the further we proceed.

  Monday morning, cautious and grave, Mr. Soper and I took the elevated train up Sixth Avenue to 57th Street and marched our way to Central Park and over to Fifth Avenue, up to the mansion where Mary Mallon works. We rang the bell and said we were from the Department of Health and Sanitation. We know now not to mention our real purpose until we speak to the head of the household. The very pleasant butler showed us to a dazzling parlor, where he asked us to wait while he fetched his employer. But his kindness gave me an eerie feeling; he seemed to be expecting us. Mr. Soper briefly met my eyes in question as we waited.

  I couldn’t help admiring the polished shine of the furniture and the floors and the window glass. I wondered how disease might come to such immaculate homes. How did it manage to survive in places with maids who swept and scrubbed daily? It was easy to see it in my own building, where we all live so close together and can practically feel each other’s coughs through the walls. But in a large, sparkling house with so few people—how did the bacteria continue to live?

  The butler returned and said his employer would be down shortly, as soon as he finished tending to his wife.

  Mr. Soper asked what ailed the wife.

  The butler seemed bewildered. “Didn’t you state you were from the Department of Health?” he asked. He thought we had been summoned by his employer.

  “We are in fact investigating a typhoid epidemic,” Mr. Soper answered.