When I heard about the police guard, I felt terrible that the case had reached such a low point. I wished I could talk to the cook alone and beg her to see reason and not respond to us in such a violent way. We are only trying to do good, really; it’s awful that she can’t comprehend that. I try to picture her life, the strangers who keep approaching her, the trail of fevered she leaves behind, how trapped she must feel. There is no one with whom she can discuss what is happening to her. I can only imagine how she’ll respond to this woman doctor, to the team of police, to us once again on her doorstep.
January 18, 1907
Tonight I am to accompany Marm and Mr. Silver to the flickers, which will take my mind off this case for a few blessed hours. I have been in their lighthearted company three times, and he is a gentleman in every sense. He treats Marm with such kindness and generosity, and me as well, that I can feel tendrils of attachment growing to him. I feel my heart cleaving, with my purest love going to my father, yet broken by a budding affection for Mr. Silver. I fear that the fragment that belongs to my father is beginning to shrink; the colors of my memories of him fading. He has become a feeling, a longing I wish I could fulfill.
Mr. Silver is so alive and vibrant—we walk down the street arm in arm with him, and he can name every type of shape and a hundred different hues; he sees shade and light with an artist’s eye, and he can draw so well, I envy his talents! Last week at Aunt Rachel’s, I showed him a few of my renderings, which he gently corrected in perspective, but praised greatly as well, though I think my talents are limited in that area. Like Marm, he was forced to leave school at a young age, but he has taken on the task of bettering himself, which I know Marm admires in a person more than any other quality.
I feel guilty for liking this man, yet I feel grateful to him for cheering Marm so.
For tonight, I will tie together these fluttering ribbons of feelings and simply enjoy his company.
January 19, 1907
I always feel outside, the observer who writes what is happening, and I don’t know whether I will ever get inside, whether I will truly understand the workings of the field of science. It seems as impossible as understanding the reason we are born and die.
This sense came upon me when I opened the surprise package from my dear Anushka—a copy of Gray’s Anatomy, along with her brief note:
The pursuit of knowledge is
happiness, my friend. We women
must allow ourselves that.
I don’t know why I’m having such doubts tonight; perhaps it’s the waiting—at the office, we wait for this woman doctor to read our case, we wait for the police to join in, we wait to catch Mary, who is still at large and still spreading disease, we think. These things make me feel once again like everything is going on above me, and I am anxious to climb high enough, to climb inside, to see it.
This Gray’s Anatomy looks very much like the one that used to be in Anushka’s father’s bookshop—I remember when we discovered it in the back. I finger the pages; the pictures seem so much more complex to me now. I suppose we were immature then and didn’t understand what we were looking at. We whispered the strange names of the male and female body parts (with her father working ten feet away!) and our wonder—what must it be like to cut open a body and peer inside at all the intestines and bones and muscles? To see the innards with such detail, to know each and every part, and their functions, no matter how coarse, yes, this is what a scientist must learn.
Looking at the book, I still feel the thrill, but the journey to the true, deep knowledge I would need to be in the sciences seems so much longer and farther to me now.
January 22, 1907
I met the famous woman doctor. Contrary to my imaginings of her, she was neither thick nor ugly. In fact, she doesn’t fit so easily into a simple description at all.
She came into our office after having read over the records of Mary Mallon. I was sitting at my desk, and she sat in front of my chief, and they began to discuss the case. Though I set to the task of noting their discussion of our next plan of action, my eyes would not leave her—the stiffness of her forest green skirt suit, her brown curls, her silver spectacles, even the smell of cold air that clung to her fascinated me. She was younger than I thought she’d be, perhaps the age of Anushka’s friend Ida, and with that mature manner. At one point, during a mention of me in the conversation, she turned and frankly looked back at me over her wire-rimmed spectacles, but before I could look away, she smiled warmly, then returned her attention to Mr. Soper. I could hardly keep note of all they discussed, though my shorthand has improved greatly. Dr. Baker told Mr. Soper about her experience with the illness and death of underfed, neglected infants, and the firm way she has gone about righting the situation. She said she often rescued babies from drunken parents and she understood these poorer people, their fear of health inspectors, and anyone who threatened their ways of living. She had used direct force in such cases before, she said, and it always worked.
I couldn’t picture Dr. Baker forcing Mary to give a sample. Convincing her with clever words, perhaps, but not forcing.
Once the discussion with Mr. Soper was through, Dr. Baker came to my desk where I was scribbling notes. I looked up, caught by the boldness of her manner.
“So you are the one keeping such neat and precise records,” she said.
I nodded into the bright light of her scrutiny.
“You seem to truly understand the importance of your data, and how it reflects the situation,” she went on, talking to me as if I were an associate. I glanced over at my chief, who wore a small, satisfied smile. He gave me a brief nod, and I returned my gaze to the doctor.
“Yes,” I finally said.
“Are you interested in the sciences, Prudence?” she asked.
“Very much so, ma’am,” I said.
“Which branch?” she asked.
My tongue froze; I couldn’t define for her what I did not know.
“Research? Surgery? Medicine?” she asked. She seemed genuinely curious about the answer.
“Well, ma’am, before I met you, I didn’t know there were schools for girls like me,” I said. She looked questioningly at me, so I clarified, “I mean, I didn’t know girls could go to a science school.”
She put her hand to her hip and said, “There certainly are schools for girls like you, Prudence! I wish more girls knew that! The only way for us to progress is by getting out of the factories and going to school.”
Her ardent conviction allowed me to dare a question: “May I ask what school you attended, ma’am?”
“I’m a graduate of the Women’s Medical College of Pennsylvania,” she said.
A medical college especially for women! In Pennsylvania! I tried to imagine what it might be like. I wanted to ask how one found the opportunity, and how one managed the cost, which I guessed was well beyond the twenty-two dollars I had saved so far. But I could only nod.
“Come and visit me in my office sometime,” she said. “We’ll talk.” The corners of her mouth rose into that warm smile.
“I would like to very much, ma’am,” I said.
She nodded once to me, and once to Mr. Soper. I knew then why Mr. Briggs had chosen her to reach out to Mary Mallon. The cook would not be able to resist her.
January 23, 1907
The low point we have reached—the huge distance we’ve traveled away from what is acceptable behavior—pains me. I thought the presence of a woman, of the sensible Dr. Baker, might convince Mary to see the light, but it did not. In fact, our approach to the cook was violent; it leaves me with a great guilt. I think of Mary tonight, the cuts on her face, her hands scratched and blue with cold. Her wrenching screams. I must ask myself over and over—was it necessary, what we did?
The day started with a shadow of what was to come. Dr. Baker, Mr. Soper, and I met on the pavement in front of the department and the police wagon pulled up. An officer stepped out to open the back for us, a hulking man with a crooked nose and
pinched eyes that seemed dead to me. I know some policemen, like Officer Donnell who walks the beat in our neighborhood, but this fellow wasn’t like Officer Donnell. In his stiff blue suit and tall hat and copper star, his size and strength seemed to make everything around him shrink. I climbed into the wagon first, trying to avoid his thick-pored face. Did the department really think we needed such a brute to help us get samples from Mary?
The good doctor climbed in beside me, and Mr. Soper squeezed in opposite us.
In the back of the chilly wagon were two empty benches which had held hooligans and outlaws; driving was another officer whose wide neck matched the first. We rode to an ornate West Side brownstone and tied up horses and wagon. The front yard was scattered with children’s sleds, toys, and a scraggly snowman (we had a fall, three inches of snow).
Dr. Baker walked up the steps alone while we waited on the sidewalk. I pictured Mary flinging open the door and charging after her with a knife, and felt a bit relieved to have the officers with us. The doctor rang the bell. An elderly maidservant answered, and the doctor introduced herself and asked for Mary Mallon. The woman took one look at the group of us and said she’d be right back. She closed the door on Dr. Baker without inviting her in.
We waited a minute. Then two. Then five. Dr. Baker rang again.
The door opened, and another servant stuck his head out, a small old man, who apologized that no one was in at the present time. He took a step back as if to retreat. Dr. Baker threw out her arm and pushed the door wider, nearly knocking him out of the way. She nodded to us at the bottom of the stairs.
“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask these officers to search the premises for Mary Mallon,” Dr. Baker said. She backed the old fellow into the hall.
The officers started up the stairs.
My heart froze; I now saw clearly what she meant by force.
The old man tried to stop her: “But no one is here, missus—”
“We shall see for ourselves,” Dr. Baker said. She disappeared into the house. The officers went in after her.
Mr. Soper followed the officers.
My stomach wrenched; I didn’t want to take part in this invasion. I hesitated—then, against my better judgment, I hurried up the stairs after them.
The overcast morning shed little light into the rooms. I could hear worried servants pretending to help Dr. Baker, but instead merely obstructing the way, pulling up carpets, misdirecting her.
“Well, you know, our employer should be back shortly. She went to take the children to their grandmama’s. If you want to wait in the parlor—”
“Sure, Mary came in this mornin’, but I think she stepped out—”
“No, I saw her in the drawing room—”
“Yes, she was in the pantry—”
The officers pushed past the servants and climbed the stairs to the second floor of the brownstone, while Mr. Soper followed the doctor back to the kitchen. I felt wrong; I held back. I thought we would get caught at any minute and would be unable to explain ourselves, traipsing through this house without proper invitation.
Yet my feet dragged me forward, into the kitchen, where Dr. Baker seemed untroubled by moral thoughts. She held her hand near the stove and pointed to the water steaming on it, and the cuts of meat laid out on the chopping block.
“I don’t think this household is big enough for two cooks, do you?” Dr. Baker asked us, raising her eyebrows over her spectacles.
I could not believe what she did next.
The doctor began to open the wide cabinets under the sink. Mr. Soper looked in the pantry. I was nearly paralyzed by their audacity until Mr. Soper said, “Give a hand, Prudence; we must find her!”
The sharpness in his voice shut off my surprised thoughts. I checked the wood room, the broom closet, and even opened the icebox. I looked in closets and under chairs and in trunks. Overhead we could hear the policemen’s feet tromping from room to room, calling warnings for Mary. I looked out the window to the backyard.
Footprints in the snow.
“Look!” I called to Mr. Soper.
He came beside me and tilted his head forward. The yard was fenced-in, with a gate opening out to the back road. Surrounding this yard were the backs of other brownstones, the long rectangles of other yards. The footprints were varied, and many.
“There’s a good chance she’s out there,” he said.
We found the back door, unlocked it, and let ourselves out. Children’s footsteps led around the swing set, the garden furniture, and the bird fountain; adult footsteps led to the coal cellar (which was empty of all but coal), the wood pile (behind which no one hid), and out the back gate, where they quickly melted into dozens of other footsteps in the road.
Mary could have hidden in any of the neighboring homes.
Dr. Baker followed us out to the back, her hands on her waist, her breath steaming from her mouth.
“I refuse to believe she’s disappeared,” she said.
The policemen joined us out back, and we moved to the neighboring yards and knocked on doors, inquiring after our escapee cook. I kept close to my chief, while Dr. Baker ventured out on her own, and the officers separated. We looked everywhere, under tarps, in treehouses, behind woodsheds; in all the yards near our brownstone. I was becoming used to this willful trespass, this disregard for the law a copper star gave us. Our officers were the law.
A cry went up from a yard nearly a block down, “Police! Police!” I recognized Dr. Baker’s voice. We all went running toward her; she stood beside a brick stairway that had a passage and a small iron door underneath. We stood, expecting to see Mary.
“There!” The doctor pointed to a crack where a piece of blue gingham fluttered.
One of the officers went to the door and flung it open. Mary stood shivering, her lips pale blue from the cold. The officer reached for her; she leapt out and scratched at his cheek. She ran down the yard. The other officer tackled her; she fell face-first into the snow. The policeman wrestled with her on the ground, trying to grab her hands, pushing her cheek down.
She screamed: “Don’t touch me! I’m innocent! Maggots! Lousy cheats! Get yer hands off me! I’ve done nothing to you!”
I could hardly bear to watch while one copper grabbed her and clapped her wrists together, and the other locked her in cuffs. Her still screaming, “Let me go, let me go!”
Her face and hands were raw and scratched from the scuffle. The first officer hooked her under the shoulders and the second picked her straight up off the ground. They carried her, kicking and screaming, to the wagon. The officer chained her to the bench.
Mary shouted, “Fer God’s sake, release me, man! Gutter snakes! Help! Somebody help me, please!”
“Let me sit with her,” Dr. Baker said, pushing aside the officers. She lifted her skirts and climbed right in back with Mary, who continued to bellow. People passing by stopped to stare.
“You quiet down now,” Dr. Baker said to Mary in a firm tone. “We will take you directly to the hospital, where you will give us a sample of your fluids. Once we have the results, we will release you.”
“Let me go! Help! Help me somebody, please!”
Mr. Soper and I boarded the wagon with the screaming woman, and the policemen sped us down to the East River, to the Detention Hospital for Contagious Diseases. By the time we got to the building, Mary had finally settled down like a beaten animal, terror and anger brewing in her red-rimmed eyes.
Dr. Baker admitted Mary for a full bacteriological examination. She was placed in a special room for testing. She wouldn’t look at any of us while the officer cuffed her to a chair. She was still breathing heavily and growling to herself, her gingham apron torn, her hair loose from her bun, cheek and knuckles scratched. Anger blew from her like smoke. Looking at her made me want to cry, or turn away, or kneel at her side and explain the whole theory to her, but I stood in the corner, frozen.
Dr. Baker asked a nurse for a basin with warm water and a tray of food. She sat
in front of Mary and said to her in a low tone, “We don’t want to hurt you, Miss Mallon, you must understand that. You must cooperate with us. Everything will be easier if you cooperate.”
She took hold of Mary’s hands and bathed them in the warm water, Mary’s body stiff in her seat, her face pinched and red.
“If you would relax, we could take off the cuffs and make you more comfortable,” Dr. Baker said. She wrapped bandages around Mary’s hands and washed the cuts on her face with fresh water.
I could feel Mr. Soper studying Mary. How did he and Dr. Baker find the strength necessary to take the cook from her life the way they had? I questioned my own ability to do what they did. Did I have the stomach for such interference? And was it right? I felt as if we had broken the law. We had no warrant for her arrest, no right to raid her employer’s home. Her typhoid was still speculative. Weren’t we obliged to release her?
A rail-thin young man, Dr. Parks, joined us.
He looked over his glasses at Mary and asked her, “Miss Mallon, have you ever suffered from the typhoid fever?”
She stared down at her bandaged hands and didn’t answer.
“Have you ever had any serious illness, pox, fever, consumption?”
She said nothing. The doctor glanced at us; Mr. Soper shook his head.
“We must take a sample of your blood now,” Dr. Parks said.
She tried to jump from the chair, the terror back in her eyes. The two officers pushed her down. Dr. Baker held her arm while Dr. Parks looked for her vein. I pried myself from the corner to help, but could only watch as the needle pierced her skin, her screams filling me with dread.
After, Dr. Parks made her swallow a green fluid laxative.
He spoke about Mary right in front of her, as if she were not there: “Since we are not certain how the disease may be produced in her body, it would be better to test her daily for a time. She’s a new sort of case and needs to be observed carefully.”
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