Quarantine

by John Smolens

  It bothered him when his mother called him Doctor. Both she and Enoch did so in a way that made him feel inconsequential and fraudulent. “Excuse me?”

  “You have never married,” she said; “and you have never … been where you shouldn’t have been, at least not long enough for it to have a lasting effect?”

  Giles cleared his throat. “Not to my knowledge, no.”

  “No, dear. You don’t make such errors of judgment, while your brother lives from one error to the next and, remarkably, has managed to profit considerably from it. Three wives. Three! But, like my husbands, they all had the decency to die young.”

  “But the second one, Lucy, bore him a son.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Young Samuel. More than two years now in Paris, spending his father’s money on God knows what. Well, I know what!” She raised a hand and let it fall on the counterpane, a gesture of futility. “And now Enoch is suffering serious financial reversals. Sometimes I fear he will squander every coin he has. These frequent scenes of revelry and debauchery—they do come at a price.”

  Familiar with these complaints, Giles said nothing.

  This only seemed to make his mother less satisfied. “The difference between you and your brother is like the difference between your fathers. I can usually read Enoch’s mind. Generally, he reacts to whatever sensation he experiences without any reservation. He’s motivated by wants: food, wine, warmth, and, of course, women. I never understood your father, which was probably why I married him. Curiosity. There are worse reasons to enter into the matrimonial state. At a very young age you began to devise ways to conceal your thoughts and feelings from me, and after that dreadful disease that took your father, you were really quite lost to me. It was a loss greater than losing your father, if you must know. I imagine that you practice medicine because you felt helpless as your father suffered from the horrors of smallpox.”

  “There wasn’t much thought to it, really,” Giles said. “During a battle at sea, a doctor simply ordered me to clean a sailor’s wounded leg, and from there it seems my future was settled.”

  “But you are loyal. I live under Enoch’s roof, but you come when I call.”

  “Like Bowsprit.”

  “A detestable creature, that dog,” she said. “Frankly, I sometimes worry that your brother is afflicted in some way that neither medicine, nor religion, nor common sense can remedy.”

  “Mother, I cannot cure my brother of such ailments.”

  Exhausted, she sighed, “I know.” She turned her head away, the usual sign that he was being dismissed.

  “What I can tell you is that you worry things so that you place your own health in jeopardy.” He got to his feet and removed a bottle from his bag and placed it on her night table. “Every couple of hours,” he said.

  “Yes, what I need is a cure for Enoch,” she whispered.

  “Really, Mother.”

  “Certainly you could give me something, Doctor? Something I could put in his food. Or his drink—that would certainly be the quickest.”

  “Of course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m a doctor, so to speak. We try to heal, remember? Not—”

  She laughed. “Giles. You were just a bloody sawbones in the war. You could at least do this for your mother.”

  “Do what?” he said impatiently as he picked up his leather bag.

  “Cut him up. Get out your saw and, you know—” She made a back-and-forth motion with her hand. “Drug him first, if you like, so he won’t make a fuss.”

  “Mother, please, you can make this request only so often before one takes you seriously.”

  Wronged, she pleaded, “You have no idea what it’s like for me, living under his roof.”

  Giles nodded toward the bottle he’d left on the table. “Every two hours.”

  “You won’t help me? Then you are an absolute coward.” In exasperation, she looked away, and closed her eyes. “I do so hate the sight of blood.”

  Leander left his house on Orange Street, carrying his two empty dreeners, wire baskets that rattled in his hands. His short-handled rake stuck out of the back pocket of his britches. He walked down to Water Street, which ran alongside the Merrimack. The houses here were small and close together. People were doing morning chores, feeding animals, chopping firewood. Insects filled the air, and a fresh sea breeze tossed the marsh grass. It was a day that promised to be hot and humid, with perhaps a thunderstorm by late afternoon.

  He came to a row of clam shacks above Joppa Flats and stopped at his grandfather’s. The door was open and the shack was empty. Leander gazed out at the flats and could see that the men had already begun digging, though it was still a few hours before low tide. He took off his boots, leaving them on the stoop next to his grandfather’s, and then walked down the path and crossed the beach that was strewn with wrack lines of dried seaweed. When he stepped out on the flats, his feet sank down in the cold muck.

  About a hundred yards out, he found his grandfather bent over this morning’s trench. His legs were spread wide and he pulled the muck back carefully with his rake. When he gathered up clams with one hand he inspected each one before putting it in his dreener. Those that were too small he pushed back in the trench. He already had filled one basket.

  “My little darlings are singing and whistling to me today,” he said without looking up.

  Leander put down his dreeners and took his rake from his pocket. “Have you left me a few, Papi?”

  “Got to be fast, boy, if you want to harvest Joppa clams.” Coverly Minot was a lean man with a white beard that fanned out over his chest. His shirt sleeves were rolled up all the way to his shoulders. Leander was taller already, but he still didn’t have taut, muscular arms and shoulders like his grandfather.

  Papi said loudly, “‘Now the word of the Lord came unto Jonah the son of Amittai, saying—’” and here Leander joined in, for they often recited the Bible together as they dug clams—“‘Arise, go to Nineveh, that great city, and cry against it; for their wickedness is come up before me. But Jonah rose up to flee unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord, and went down to Joppa; and he found a ship going to Tarshish: so he paid the faire thereof, and went down into it, to go with them unto Tarshish from the presence of the Lord—’” and then Papi stopped and straightened up to gaze out at the river.

  “Since I was your age,” he said, “I have worked these beds named Joppa and have often thought that this is why the clams here are so plentiful. This is blessed shellfish. But it makes me wonder about Jonah.”

  “How so?”

  “Why did the fool want to flee the presence of the Lord? You see my point?”

  “Well,” Leander paused over his trench and sat back on his haunches, “Jonah didn’t do as he was told. He didn’t go to Nineveh and cry against the wickedness there.” His grandfather continued to stare out at the river. “So if he had done what he was told, he wouldn’t have ended up in the belly of the fish.”

  Papi nodded his head. “Exactly.” He was staring toward the Miranda, which was at anchor about a half mile out in the basin. “That ship, it remains at anchor since arriving yesterday. And they fly the yellow flag. See those two boats drifting by her—it’s the constable’s men, standing guard to make sure the crew doesn’t try to come ashore.”

  “I was out there last night. Helped row Father’s boat,” Leander said with some pride. His grandfather regarded him for a moment. “Doctor Wiggins says there are men with fever on board.”

  Papi had thick eyebrows, which pulled close together, indicating that he was displeased. “I hear George Danforth rowed out and sold them some cod and mackerel.”

  “How long’s it going to last, this quarantine?”

  “Who knows? The newspapers say there are epidemics in Baltimore and Philadelphia. Hundreds of people dying. And there are cases of fever being reported in New York and Boston. I suppose it was bound to find its way to Newburyport.” His grandfather leaned over his trenc
h and resumed digging. “It is a form of wickedness, this fever. It truly is. We have just entered the belly of the whale, Leander, and ye must keep your faith.”

  Leander gazed out at the ship, watching a frenzy of seagulls wheel above its stern, squawking as they dove into the water after garbage that was being thrown overboard. He tried to convince himself that he had no fears—Papi was often telling him that if you are honest and you have faith, you need not fear anything in this world. But this wasn’t true, of course. It was really a matter of not revealing what you fear, to anyone, and perhaps even to yourself. Leander knew what he feared, though he seldom was able to name it. Fear would suddenly rise up inside him when he heard his parents talking about things he didn’t understand, and it often would crush him when he thought about his sister, the dark world she inhabited. Sarah rarely seemed afraid, but when she was she often turned to him, because she thought he was strong and brave. But he knew he wasn’t, and he didn’t know how to admit to his sister, his blind sister, that he was afraid of that which he could not see. The yellow quarantine flag luffed from the top of the ship’s main mast, indicating the presence of some invisible danger, a pestilence. Perhaps, Leander thought as he bent over and pulled the claws of his rake through the muck, it’s best not to think about invisible things—maybe his sister was brave, truly brave, because she could not see. Maybe it is better to be blind.

  They dug for about another hour. It was getting hot and Leander was thirsty. His grandfather seemed to read his mind and when he’d filled his fourth dreener, he hung them on his long-handled rake, which he then hoisted up and laid across his shoulders. They walked back across the flats and climbed the beach to the shack. His grandfather had a jar of water, which they shared while sitting in the shade of the doorway.

  Other clammers passed by, and one, Silas Locke, stopped to sit a spell. “Ain’t seen Nathaniel this morning. Usually one of the first ones down to the flats.”

  Leander’s grandfather shook his head. “Aye.”

  “Strange.”

  “’Tis.”

  They passed around the jar of water and watched the other clammers at work. The seagulls had quit the ship, and now hundreds of them stood on the flats, white specks reflected in the wet muck.

  When Silas Locke got to his feet, he said, “All right, then,” as though they had concluded a long conversation, and he walked on to his own shack.

  Leander and his grandfather began their customary route toward Market Square. Water dripped from their dreeners and the clams continued to whistle. They stopped first at Mrs. Cottle’s at the foot of Bromfield Street. She usually bought a quart, but today she stepped outside her kitchen door, which she pulled closed behind her.

  “Won’t be needing any clams today, Mr. Minot.”

  “That so?”

  She wiped her hands in her apron. “But I thank you for stopping by.”

  “Tomorrow then?”

  She turned to open the door, and did not look back at them. “Perhaps.”

  “Is Mr. Cottle feeling all right?”

  “Well enough,” she said, closing the door behind her.

  They made their customary stops along the river, selling clams mostly at the back doors of taverns and ordinaries. There were establishments in Newburyport that only served clams dug by Coverly Minot. Leander had asked his grandfather why he had such loyal customers, and Papi merely thumped his chest with his thick fist. “Mine are sweeter. It’s always been that way. It’s a gift—runs in the family. And they make for the best farts. Nothing like a good cleansing clam fart,” he said with a wink.

  By the time they had worked their way through Market Square and up along Inn Street, Leander had less than a half dreener full, enough to bring home, and his grandfather’s baskets hung empty from his rake handle. They stopped at Yardley’s Tavern on Pleasant Street, where Coverly bought himself a mug of flip and a glass of cider for Leander.

  When they stepped out into the street again, Leander said, “Mother wants you to come for supper tonight.”

  “Maybe.” He never said no outright. After his wife died last winter, Papi ate frequently with his daughter’s family, but now he seemed not to want to come by in the evening, except on Sundays, when they usually killed and roasted a chicken. “If not, I’ll see you at low tide tomorrow.”

  Papi strolled back down Inn Street, empty dreeners swinging in from his shouldered rake. Leander went along Pleasant Street to the corner of State Street, where he stopped short: Enoch Sumner’s coach came rattling up the hill from Market Square. It was drawn by four horses, which were trotting at a swift pace, encouraged by the driver’s whip. Two footmen stood on the back of the carriage, dressed in fine livery, blue silk jackets and plumed tricorn hats. The shades in the carriage were drawn and the wheels threw mud, causing people to step back.

  After the coach passed, there was a moment of hesitation—no one moved, nor did they look at each other. Leander had seen this before in Newburyporters: they were being polite, but also tolerant. High Street sea captains and shipbuilders, in their fine new mansions, their coaches and four, were a separate breed—and they’d be the first to tell you so. But here, at the corner of Pleasant and State, people had business to attend to and they stepped out into the street again, careful of fresh road apples.

  Leander walked into the South End, thoughts of Enoch Sumner’s grand coach giving away to a more immediate concern: digging clams always worked up an appetite, and he wondered what he might find to fill his belly when he got home.

  Fields, the butler, was showing Giles to the front door when Enoch’s carriage pulled up in front of the house. The footmen climbed down; one opened the carriage door, while the other pushed back the gate at the end of the brick walk. Enoch stepped down from the carriage, wearing a purple frock coat, a gold satin vest, and his enormous cockaded hat with a gold tassel dangling from each end. He was not a tall man, really quite paunchy now that he was nearing fifty, but this hat afforded him a stature that was as impressive as it was ridiculous. He was accompanied by his small, panting dog, Bowsprit, and followed by Jonathan Bream, the man who acted as his personal bard and sycophant. As always, Enoch walked with a cane, which gave his unsteady gait a threatening cadence. He came up to the front door and paused to run the soles of his boots across the iron boot-scrape that jutted out from the granite step.

  “Excellent, Doctor,” he bellowed, as he entered the front hall. “Come to see after the health of the beloved mother? I would have summoned you anyway. Please, tarry a moment before you venture forth to conquer disease and pestilence.” He moved down the hall, handing his enormous hat to Fields.

  “Doctor,” Jonathan Bream whispered, as he followed Giles. “Your brother’s in a vile mood today. One shan’t plan very long to stay.”

  Fields opened the door on the right side of the hall, and they entered a fine library with Oriental carpets. Enoch went to the tall window and poured himself a brandy from a cut-glass decanter.

  He glanced at Giles, who hesitated but said, “It’s a bit early, but a small one, yes.”

  The dog ran around the room, barking incessantly while Enoch poured their drinks. He appeared to be oblivious to the noise as he sat on the window seat and for a moment drew back the green velvet curtains, allowing sunlight to illuminate the dust motes that hung about his head. He had become, without a doubt, the ugliest man Giles had ever seen. It was as though some great powerful hand had taken hold of his face, balled it up like a sheet of paper, and then allowed it to slowly open up again, all jagged edges and imperfect proportion. One eye was larger and higher than the other. The nose was long, crooked, and pocked like a strawberry. The mouth was small, the lips slack, and what teeth remained were stained brown. Giles had pulled several of his brother’s teeth, always when Enoch was well fortified with whisky, and throughout the whole procedure the force of his breath caused the doctor’s eyes to water, making such gruesome work all the more difficult.

  “I have just come from a c
onfab with the harbormaster, the high sheriff, and several of this port’s civil officials.” Enoch let go of the curtain, casting his face in shadow. For a moment he adjusted his periwig with his free hand, and then took a sip from his tumbler of brandy. The dog jumped up on the window seat and continued to bark. Enoch slapped its head once, shutting it up. Growling, the little beast curled up on the seat cushion. “And they tell me that my ship Miranda is to be held in quarantine—upon your recommendation.”

  “It’s the harbormaster’s decision—but yes, it’s based on my inspection of the crew.”

  “What is it? Measles? Yellow fever? Smallpox? Plague?”

  “I don’t know what it is.” Giles drank his brandy down and winced, from the sharpness of the liquor, but also because he dreaded where he feared this conversation was headed.

  “You don’t know, Doctor?” Like their mother, Enoch always seemed amused when he employed the title while addressing his younger half-brother.

  “Not exactly, no.” Giles placed his empty glass on the corner of the desk. “There are a great many agues and fevers reported up and down the Atlantic coast, and we are merely taking a necessary health precaution.”

  To his right, Bream slid into an armchair. He had the expression of a child who is about to witness—gladly—the unfair reprimand of a schoolmate who has been falsely accused by the headmaster.

  “My goods aren’t to be delivered to port?” Enoch asked.

  “Not yet.”

  “My new horses are pining away in a ship’s hold, Giles. Do you realize that these two stallions are a gift from Mr. Thomas Jefferson? They’re high-strung animals and they’ll expire in those conditions.” He crossed his legs, two sticks in white silk hose. The dog rested its jaw on his knee.

  “It’s out of my hands,” Giles said. “This is Caleb Hatch’s decision.”

  “He and that high sheriff—they didn’t say so directly, but I assume they want money.”

  “It’s not a question of money.”