TITLE: Grantville Gazette.Volume XVIII (ring of fire)

by Eric Flint

  She answered, "I know Velma pretty well. I've been her daughter all my life."

  "I'm not sure you know her all the way. We lived next door to each other. Ben was busy in the mines. Gloria Kay had to go to summer school every year to keep her teaching certification up because she only had a two-year degree. Velma was pretty much on her own. They counted on Irene to keep an eye on her, but she was six years older and had other things on her mind. We were fourteen when we did it the first time. We went steady all through high school. She thought that Gloria's 'keep your legs crossed' chat was a real scream, considering that it came two years to late. By then, we were doing it as often as most married people. Her folks were glad that I went into the army when I graduated. Looking back, they probably shouldn't have been. She missed it and started dating Joe Lang, Cory Joe's father. That marriage was okay for her while I was gone, I guess, but we started up again every time I came back on leave."

  He looked a little uncomfortable at that. "I mean, that was what we did with each other."

  This lay between them for a minute or two.

  "When Joe found out, he got real mad, yelling that she was cheating on him. Velma pointed out that he wasn't missing anything-it wasn't as if she wasn't doing it with him, too, whenever he wanted it. Joe didn't see it that way and divorced her. Velma-well you should know the way she sees things, I guess. She thought that he was being just terribly unreasonable about it all."

  Pam nodded. That was exactly what her mother would think in a situation like that.

  "He wanted to take Cory Joe, but Velma realized that she could get back at him by keeping custody, so she did. Judges always favored the mother, her lawyer told her. He was from over in Fairmont. She didn't have any money. She couldn't pay his bill, so he wrote it off for nooky. Could have been disbarred, if he'd been caught playing those games."

  Rodney Trimble looked at the girl. She was as white as a sheet. He'd never actually seen that happen, before. But she was so pale-complected to start with.

  "Maybe she really did think it was the lawyer, the second time. She'd never gotten caught when she was doing it just with me, all those years through high school, but she got pregnant with Cory Joe real soon after she married Joe Lang."

  Pam looked at him. "Thank you."

  ***

  Rodney watched her leave, walking down the corridor from the sun room where they had been talking to the street exit. He hoped she was feeling a little better. He'd invited her to come back again if she felt like it. She seemed like a nice kid.

  That's why he hadn't mentioned the other obvious possibility. People being people and Velma being the kind of girl she was. The one that had never seemed to occur to anyone but him. He'd adopted Laura Beth's two kids and given them his name before they came back from LA. They hadn't had any more of their own.

  Joe Lang? He'd been awfully mad at Velma, but that probably hadn't stopped him from wanting her. And he'd been at her place twice a week, to pick up the boy for visitation and to bring him back.

  If it had been Joe, who had been such a good father to Cory Joe and apparently had never given the girl a glance, well, that could really have hurt her feelings.

  Himself, he sure wouldn't mind claiming a daughter like that one, if some down-time nutcase refused to marry her unless she had an official father.

  He was a crock, of no use any more except to go to the sheltered workshop a couple times a week and sew pieces of leather together to make soccer balls. Dead beat for a full day after that little bit of work.

  Laura Beth wasn't the kind to take umbrage about something he'd supposedly done a dozen years before they ever met. Just think how, stuck here in a town thousands of miles from her own home, his military disability payments gone with the wind in the Ring of Fire, two kids to support, she'd taken hold, gotten a job right away, then a really good apprenticeship learning to be an elevator mechanic. Not that there were many elevators in Grantville, but once old Howell Tillman died, she'd be the only person in the USE who really understood how elevators worked. In a few more years, Howell had told her, the country would be wanting a lot of elevators and people would be beating a path to her door.

  Laura Beth was a great gal.

  He wasn't going to last much longer. Maybe he could do this little Pam a favor before he went. It wouldn't be that far off the mark. He and Joe were some kind of cousins, after all.

  Late March 1635

  Pam sent Jean-Louis LaChapelle back to Haarlem with some forms that he was to get Velma to sign. Rodney Trimble wanted his name put on her birth certificate. Jean-Louis would have to get Velma to agree to that. Jenny Maddox had supplied a whole batch of forms for Velma to fill out.

  He was also to get Velma to sign a notarized statement that both she and Rodney had been unmarried, neither of them married to anyone else, when Pam was conceived and when she was born. That seemed to be important to down-timers. In the year 1635, it seemed, if you had to be a bastard at all, it was a lot better to be a plain bastard than to be an adulterine bastard. Calvinists weren't any more modern about it than Catholics were.

  Apparently Velma had forgotten to mention that one of her daughters was illegitimate when she married Laurent. Jean-Louis thought that they had better not mention it to his uncle.

  Haarlem, Netherlands

  The second run of lava lamps that emerged from the laboratories of the University of Leiden commanded prices equally extortionate with the first. At that point, Jean-Louis, with the receipts in hand, approached his uncle's wife in regard to the forms he had brought to Grantville.

  Velma could scarcely believe that he was willing to transfer half of his shares in the project to her simply for signing some forms from Jenny Maddox.

  As for Rodney? Why did he want to put his name on Pammie's birth certificate? He wasn't going to get anything out of it. It wouldn't have occurred to her at the time. By then, she had assumed that he was shooting blanks, not that he hadn't been good at it. Good old Rodney hit the target right on the button, most of the time.

  Damned old goat of a lawyer, dying when Pammie was just two, after he'd promised child support if she didn't make it public. Well, maybe that had been better. Lots of little kids were real blonde, but not many of them kept that hair when they got older. He'd been her divorce lawyer, after all. He'd seen Joe lots of times. What the hell? She'd sign the papers. Joe was somewhere up-time and he sure would never have claimed Pammie.

  Not that she wasn't happy to take the shares in exchange for doing it, of course.

  She didn't mention the transaction to Laurent. He knew, of course that she had shares in the lava lamp project. That had been unavoidable, under the circumstances. She didn't expect to see any of the money from the shares that he knew about. These were another kettle of fish. Invested somewhere.

  But why would Jean-Louis care who Pammie's father was? How had he gotten involved? She shrugged. No telling. Given that all she had ever seen of the price of the trailer in Grantville since she had handed the bank draft over to Laurent were quarterly interest statements, it couldn't hurt to have a source of some ready cash that she could stuff under the mattress, just in case.

  A girl had to look out for herself.

  Too Late for Sunday

  Written by Michael Badillo

  December, 1633, Grantville

  "Roberta Allene Haggerty! Come here for a minute, please."

  "What is it, Momma?" Allie answered, entering her parents' room. The "please" didn't fool her a bit. Nobody called you by your full name unless you were in trouble.

  "We need to talk, honey."

  "'Bout what?"

  Her mother studied her for a moment before speaking. "I'm worried about you, honey. You ate three helpings of meatloaf for dinner, and you've been sick every morning this week." She fingered the rosary in her hand for a few seconds before continuing. "Are you pregnant, baby?"

  "What?" Why would you even think that, Momma? I'm still a virgin."

  "Because you've been
eating like a horse," Momma said. "And because you've been so sick. I can't even see you under your baggy old clothes. Have you been gaining weight?"

  "No, I don't think so."

  "Haven't you weighed yourself lately?"

  "Why? I'm skinny; we don't even have a scale in the upstairs bathroom."

  "Well, use mine then." Momma stood beside Allie while she stepped on the scale and waited for the dial to stop.

  "See," Allie said. "I ain't getting fat."

  "My God." This came out as a shriek. "How can you weigh ninety-six pounds? Take off that baggy sweater so I can get a look at you. Why do you have to dress like a scarecrow, anyway?" Momma ran her fingers through Allie's unkempt chestnut hair. "You're so pretty."

  Allie didn't much like to do it, but she took off her sweater.

  Her mother's face paled. "I can see your ribs… Your collarbones are sticking out. You're going to see Doctor Adams tomorrow morning."

  "I'm not pregnant. Why don't you believe me, Momma?"

  "I believe you, baby. I'm just worried now, is all."

  ***

  Allie walked back to her room and shut off the radio. She was worried now, too. She had never been overweight; in fact she'd always been somewhat on the thin side of normal. She'd lost a lot of weight.

  Most people had shed a few pounds since the Ring of Fire, just from walking more often. But she hadn't lost any until just the last few months. Since September she had lost twenty-eight pounds, no small amount for a girl who stood five foot four and weighed less than a hundred and thirty pounds to begin with.

  She was worried not just because the weight loss and the eating. She was always thirsty, and always cold. She was also slightly hurt that her mother would think she had strayed from God's plan and gotten pregnant. Even if, after their little talk, Momma said that she trusted her. It still hurt.

  She changed into her nightgown and knelt beside her bed, rubbing her hands briskly together to warm them before placing them together to pray.

  ***

  Allie had already finished her chemistry quiz and sat thinking. She really needed a good medical project, something with a lot of chemistry that would help her get ahead in nursing school.

  The idea of a blood drive occurred to her. She thought it would be a good idea, if the supplies were available. She made a note to seeDoctor Adams about how to get started.

  One problem solved, she turned to the next. Who should she ask to the prom? No one had asked her yet, but someone might still. She decided to wait.

  The ringing bell startled her. She hastily gathered up her books and papers and stuffed them into a worn denim backpack. She chided herself silently for daydreaming. She could get by with it in chemistry, but history class was different. She couldn't memorize every meaningless date that ever got written down. Especially now with two different centuries of current events and the Thirty Years' War happening in Grantville's living room. She was making a low B in history and she didn't want her grade to drop.

  Stopping by Mrs. Selluci's desk, she rooted through the pile of graded homework until she found hers. She scooped it up and deposited her ungraded work on top of the other pile. Ninety-one percent she noted, wondering what she missed.

  ***

  "Allie, honey, go on in and have a seat." Allie smiled nervously at the nurse and followed her into the cramped office. She shivered as she entered the room.

  There were three other people in the room besides her parents. One was Doctor Adams, her family physician. The second was his nurse, Sheila Baldwin. But she didn't recognize the elderly gentleman who sat in the far corner looking at her with what appeared to be great interest.

  Their faces were frozen in a look of dread. She could tell her mother had been crying. Her father sat looking glum with his arm around Momma.

  "Uh…" Allie looked around the room for a place to sit. Doctor Adams indicated a small folding chair. She took a seat and folded her hands primly into her lap.

  Nobody spoke for a few seconds. Finally, Doctor Adams cleared his throat and began to talk. "Allie, we've done some tests. I've discussed the results with your parents." He paused. Allie looked at him and then around the room. All eyes were on her.

  Momma stood. "Allie, honey… angel… you have diabetes." She began sobbing.

  "But I'm only seventeen!" Allie understood the implication. She planned on being a nurse after high school. She was just months from graduating and her birthday was soon after. She didn't think this was fair. There was only one fate for a diabetic in the seventeenth century. "I'm going to die, aren't I?"

  Her father stood up and started to speak. The nurse interrupted. "Maybe not, Allie. But it doesn't look good. At your age it's likely to be type I, insulin dependant. Before the Ring of Fire, it would have been more treatable. But we don't have the technology anymore. Some insulin is available again, but it's still experimental."

  Momma jumped at that. "What? I didn't know that. It could save her life." She turned toward the doctor. "Doctor Adams, you've got to do something. You can't just let her die."

  "Hold on, Bobby Jean. Sheila only gave you half the story. I'll get to the other half in a minute. But I warn you: It could be dangerous."

  "But she'll certainly die without it, right?" Her father spoke for the first time. There was an edge of anger in his voice.

  "Hold your horses, Ernest. I said there was another half. And that half is Zijbert." Doctor Adams indicated the man wearing a white lab coat and holding a cane. He had snow white hair and wore a white goatee and mustaches. The man stood. "This is Doctor Zijbert van Trumpe. He's the closest thing Thuringia has to an endocrinologist."

  The man looked Allie directly in the eye and gave a slight nod. "How do you do, Miss Haggerty?" His English held a slight Dutch accent.

  Allie thought he looked like Colonel Sanders. The thought made her smile in spite of it all. "I'm pleased to meet you, Doctor."

  He smiled, showing beautiful white teeth. "Doctor Adams flatters me. I am more of an herbalist really, but I can treat your illness. Let us begin. This new insulin may save your life. You are a minor, but with your parents' consent, we can begin your treatment. I concur with Doctor Adams' diagnosis. Are you willing to undergo insulin therapy?"

  Allie's answer was terse. "Rather than die? Of course."

  "A year ago," van Trumpe began, "it would have been impossible to treat you. There are several things you can do about type two diabetes, but without insulin, hope for the type ones is slim.

  "The insulin we are using is still experimental, as Doctor Adams indicated. Each batch is a different strength, so you have to undergo tests which allow the technicians to dilute it to a given strength. This insulin is weaker than up-time U100 or U500. It is about U10. The lower strength means we can use the larger syringes that are being manufactured now. I have set up a small clinic in the Three M complex. The insulin labs are there too. Your dosing schedule will be really complex and, for a while at least, we will administer your shots from my clinic. If you will come to my office on Monday, we can begin."

  When Allie finally left the office, she was tired, cold and scared. But she wasn't too preoccupied with her own problems to notice the thin young man who sat alone in the waiting room.

  ***

  "Allie, this is Hugo." Nurse Baldwin introduced the young man Allie vaguely remembered seeing at Doctor Adams' the other day. He was very skinny, with sunken eyes and his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones. She could see the hollow spots around his collarbones. "He has diabetes too. We thought you might like to meet him."

  " Guten tag," said Hugo. "I am Hugo Sonntag."

  "I'm Allie." She held out her hand. To her surprise Hugo took it and bowed deeply as he kissed it. She thought he would be cute if he could gain a few pounds.

  Nurse Baldwin set a pitcher of water and two glasses on the table. "We're going to let you two get to know each other. Remember; support is really important. Don't give up hope."

  "Is good to meet you, Allie.
I also am type one." Hugo's English was stilted and halting, but understandable nonetheless.

  She smiled at him mirthlessly. "I'm so sorry."

  He shook his head tossing his wavy black mane. "Is the will of God. But I have been taking the insulin. Still, I am alive."

  "How long have you had diabetes?"

  "For three months." He shrugged. "I should have died, were it not for the medicine."

  "How old are you, Hugo?"

  "Nineteen."

  They talked for hours, just getting to know each other. It turned out that they had some things in common. They had hopes, and dreams, and aspirations. They both loved school. And they both hoped to live long enough to finish it. Hugo dreamt of being an astronomer; Allie wanted to be a nurse. Both of these things required time-time they might not have. By about sunset, they had finished three pitchers of water and had gotten to know each other fairly well. Allie decided that she liked Hugo.

  ***

  "This is the best we can do." Doctor van Trumpe held up something that looked like a tiny wine bottle. It contained a cloudy liquid with the slightest pink tint. "Three M extracts it from the organs-the pancreas actually-of slaughtered pigs."

  Allie knew insulin came from pigs and cattle, back before human insulin was available, but she was no less squeamish for the knowledge. "Well," she said resolutely, "it's better than no insulin." She squeezed Hugo's hand. In the past week they had become quite close. He wasn't her boyfriend, but lately he was the only person she felt understood how she was feeling.

  She looked to her parents. The chairs had been set up in pairs; one for the Haggertys, one for the patients.

  "Doctor van Trumpe?" Ernest Haggerty asked, "will this work?"

  "Eventually, of course, the product will be pure. It is natural, so it will work." He set the vial down on his desk. "It works now, but the question is how much to use. The concentration is weak and not entirely pure. The effects are not always consistent."