by Ami McKay
~ September 19, 1918
Boston is being laid to waste by the Spanish Influenza. Each day there are more doors bearing warning signs or a hopeless, sad curtain of black crepe. As with the Halifax Explosion, people are quick to place the blame on the Germans, spreading rumours that secret agents are roaming the city and turning influenza germs loose in theatres and dance halls. They are looking for the source of their fear and grief, for a place to point a finger. The truth is worse than their imaginings—there is no one to blame, no way to stop it and no way to tell who will be next. Official statements are in the paper every day. “Avoid crowds, especially movie houses, dance halls and pubs. Avoid anyone with a cold or cough. Avoid nervous and physical exhaustion. Avoid tight clothing and shoes. Do not dance. Cover face when coughing or sneezing and do not spit in public. Chew food carefully.”
It’s been spreading through the girls at the Trap. Three days ago the sign was nailed to the door:
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PostScriptPictureinfluenza.eps
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Today I heard Miss Honey coughing through her open window. I lifted the blind to look for her and noticed blue smoke curling out under the screens. I called to her, worried that the place had caught fire. “You need help?”
She opened the window, and more smoke billowed out. “Yeah, send somebody to shoot me.”
“Why’s there so much smoke, is there a fire?”
“Naw, just ole Paddy. He heard if you put sulphur and sugar in the ash bucket while the coals are still hot, it chases the flu away. I don’t know if it’ll work, but he might as well try. Half of us feel dead already, and the doctor refuses to call.”
“You can’t get anyone to help you?”
“We sent for two or three different ones, and they all say the same: ‘Those kinds of places with those kinds of girls are the worst offenders in spreading it around.’ Ain’t nobody care if a whore like me gets her six feet.”
I told her to tell Mr. Malloy to stop his smoke treatment and let in some fresh air. From the obituaries that have been running in the paper, I can see it’s not the influenza that does people in, it’s the pneumonia that settles in their lungs after. This afternoon I made a pot of chicken soup and handed it to Miss Honey through our windows. It’s the only safe way I can think of to help right now, as I can’t risk any sort of exposure. I will continue to give advice and send what I can in hopes that they are all strong enough to pull through.
~ September 23, 1918
Maxine is bedridden. She came down with it two days ago after having spent the evening at a suffrage meeting in the Back Bay. I have insisted that I be the only one to attend to her, since neither Judith nor Rachael has any experience in caring for the sick. Charlie will be the one to go out and get whatever we might need, following my rules of always wearing a mask, never shaking hands and stripping off his clothes on the back porch and knocking for a bucket of hot, soapy water before he comes in the house.
The ladies of the Trap are recovering. One girl was lost; her heart practically burst in her chest after the fever had passed. I’m happy to report that Miss Honey has mended. She came to call today, bearing a small bouquet of asters and brown-eyed Susans. I couldn’t let her in, but she stood under Maxine’s window, singing her song after song. “Sugar Blues” was Max’s favourite, and despite feeling weak and feverish, she managed to whistle and applaud Miss Honey’s efforts. Charlie comes home each evening carrying a new-found cure from the pharmacy. They are useless, made mostly of soda water and boric acid.
I’m sticking with Miss B.’s advice: Aspirin if the fever gets to where they’s gonna have fits. You can always tell it too…theys skin gets hot and dry, feelin’ thin like paper. If that don’t work, then dunk ’em in cold water. So far, Max is getting by. She goes back and forth between fever and chills, and she can only hold down tea and broth. She says her whole body aches “like I was run down by the 6:15 train.” I asked her if she’d rather have a doctor, but she refused. “Charlie says you were born a healer; that’s enough for me.” I’ve sent him off to Pastene’s to get a jug of castor oil. It’s gotta come from a believer. Don’t get it no place else. “Tell Mrs. Pastene you need cold-pressed oil, Palma Christi, not the stuff you spoon down the throat.”
~ September 25, 1918
She’s suffering today. Once we got through the worst of the fever, she started coughing, struggling for air, her chest heaving and tight. I’ve been putting mustard plaster on her throat and chest, oil packs on her body, and have even started singing Miss B.’s old songs and prayers. Charlie’s face is desperate when he asks after her. I think he loves Maxine more than she knows. I can’t lose her.
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
September 21, 1918
Miss Dora Rare
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
Dear Dora,
Come home! Come home to Wrennie! Come home to us! We are going to ring the bells in the church tonight in celebration of your innocence. Hart came to the Bay tonight with the good news from the fire hall down in Canning.
It seems that after all this time of trying to take care of his brood without a wife, Brady Ketch gave up his sanity. He packed the children up (the ones he could find) and took them down to the town square in Canning and tried to sell them off, asking $25 for the ones who could do hard labour and $10 for the little ones. This made quite a scene and soon after he started people began to gather. Hart, who was down the mountain delivering barrels of smoked herring, was among those in the crowd. Well, as soon as he figured out what was going on, he quickly went to fetch the constable, the same Constable McKinnon who has been looking for you. The two men managed to shackle Brady’s hands and feet and carried him away to the fire hall so he could dry out. Once the children had some warm food in their bellies and saw that their father wasn’t able to lay his hands on them, they spoke right up, telling the constable and anyone else who would listen the truth about what happened to their mother. (I put in a clipping from the Canning Register so you can read it for yourself.)
Here’s a note from Ginny:
Dora, I hope you’ll be home for my baby’s arrival. Mrs. Sarah Deft’s cousin, over in Halls Harbour, had baby number three under the care of Dr. Thomas at the Canning Maternity Home last week. He said her labour was taking too long, so he cut her and gave her ether! She required quite a few stitches, and the ether made her sick. The baby’s fine, a boy, some big, but she said she’d rather have had her baby at home. They’ll have to sell their best milk cow to pay the bill. (Sound familiar?) My figure is changing every day, and the wee one is making his presence known by kicking quite vigorously, especially in the middle of the night. I say “his” because when Hardy came to shoe the horses he guessed I was carrying a boy. Said, “He’s travelling right low.” You know as well as I, a blacksmith’s never wrong at guessing babies.
I will admit I’ve been feeling rather strange. More swelling, even in my face. Headaches and a few flashes of light whenever I stand up too quickly, but Dr. Thomas says it is normal. “Get more exercise and stop reading so much.” Is there anything else to do?
So far we have no cases of the influenza to report in the Bay, although Jack Tupper’s brother down in Kentville passed over from it just yesterday. We have been taking your advice and are being cautious. Send word of your homecoming so we can put clean sheets on your bed and flowers on your doorstep.
Come home soon! Bertine and Ginny
Children Freed from Murdering Father
This writer has just learned of shocking news from Canning. Ten children, who have been held captive in their father’s house for over a month, have told authorities of their harrowing experience. The father, Mr. Brady Ketch of Deer Glen, has been charged with the murder of his late wife, Experience Ketch.
On August 2, the dear little souls looked on as their father brutal
ly beat their mother and then pushed her down the stairs. Mr. Ketch had formerly explained his wife’s untimely death as due to poisoning from a tainted home-remedy administered by a midwife, a Mrs. Dora Bigelow of Scots Bay.
The children are currently residing at the Methodist orphanage in Kentville. However, this writer is happy to report that an offer of adoption has been made by Reverend and Mrs. Joseph Pineo. They hope to take all ten children into their home as soon as the proper arrangements have been made.
The Canning Register,
September 22, 1918
Miss Dora Rare
23 Charter Street
North End, Boston,
Massachusetts
U.S.A.
September 29, 1918
Mrs. Bertine Tupper
Scots Bay, Nova Scotia
Canada
Dear Bertine,
What news from the Bay! While I am sad that the Ketch children were made to suffer for so long, I am happy that they will have a new family and a new life without the abuse of their father.
As much as I’d like to come home, I must stay in Boston for now. Maxine is holding on, but I cannot leave while she is confined to her bed.
Tell my mother not to worry. Charlie is fine, and I am somehow immune to this thing. Tell Wrennie I miss her terribly and her mommy’s coming home!
Will write soon,
Dora
~ September 29, 1918
I’ve put bricks under the posts at the head of the bed and propped Maxine up with pillows. She’s still having trouble breathing, and the only time she stops coughing and seems to get any rest is when I distract her with stories of the Bay. She begs every day to hear more about my growing up in a house full of boys, my “scheming dead husband,” and Miss B.’s wise advice. Today it was the story of my dousing Dr. Thomas with molasses, followed by the death of Experience Ketch. She was wide-eyed with concern when I finished, like a child who can’t wait to hear how the story ends. “You have to get back there, to fight for your place—your house, for Wrennie.”
I pulled the ties of her nightshirt open and rubbed mustard plaster down her back. “I need to stay here and take care of you.”
It was all she could do to stifle her coughs as she argued with me. “What about the women of the Bay? What will they do without you?”
“They took care of themselves before me, they can take care of themselves now.” I fluffed her pillows and settled her back against them. “Besides, who’ll lick all the stamps for the suffragists if I leave?”
Maxine pulled at my sleeve as I tucked the blankets around her body. “Never let someone take what’s rightfully yours. You can give all you want in life, but don’t give up.”
I gave her a smile and a kiss on the forehead. “I won’t, and don’t you give up either.”
~ September 30, 1918
This morning Maxine spit blood into the towel she uses to cover her mouth. I could hear the rattle of pneumonia in her breathing when I put my ear to her back. Beware the death rattle creepin’ in.
Miss B. told me of her pulling a man named Xander Lightfoot back from the death rattle. She gave him bain d’oignon et orge, the onion and barley bath. For three days she kept him buried in raw onions and fermented barley and fed him heavy doses of onion syrup.
Charlie has gone back to Mrs. Pastene for as many bags of onions as she’ll give him. Barley’s hard to come by, so he’s off to Mr. Burkhardt’s to see if he’s willing to part with a few bottles of beer. When I told Maxine what she’s in for, she gave my hand a squeeze and said, “Can I wash down the syrup with the beer?”
~ October 3, 1918
We’ve been weeping for three days straight, each day Maxine breathing a little easier. I can tell she’s feeling better because she’s been complaining, “This house will smell like a sausage stand for months. All that’s missing is the sauerkraut.” She laughed and shook her fist in the air. “Damn your Cajun witchery, Marie Babineau!” She told me that last night Miss B. came to her in a dream. “She was standing under a willow tree, with teacups dangling from every branch. She said the same thing over and over: Don’t you wanna know what done come next? I wasn’t sure if the message was for you or me, Dora, or exactly what she meant by it. All I know is that I feel like climbing on the roof and doing the Bunny Hog.”
~ October 10, 1918
The amendment that would allow votes for women in the U.S. has been defeated yet again. “Maybe I should take Miss Honey and the rest of Paddy’s Saturday Evening Girls out to D.C. and do a little dance for the boys in the Senate. I bet that’d open their eyes to women’s rights.” Maxine is in full health and back to being a ranting suffragist. She has been writing letters to every congressman and member of the U.S. Senate from morning until night.
I scrubbed the house from top to bottom. I’ll admit, it’s much easier to do all the household chores when there’s running water and electricity. As Maxine says, “How on earth did you ever survive without electricity, fine art, low-heeled finale hopper shoes and the blues?” I could do without the shoes and, to be honest, while I find the steady jangle of music from Paddy’s Playhouse to be exciting, I have grown far more attached to sitting in the back of St. Stephen’s Church and listening to the choir practice. In recent weeks, most all churches and temples have closed their doors. Authorities fear that any public gathering might encourage the spread of influenza. Although they have cancelled Sunday services at St. Stephen’s, the choir hasn’t stopped singing. Thursday evenings, at half past seven, they gather in the choir loft and sing out over the all-but-empty pews. It’s as if they can’t keep themselves from it, from sending their voices and their hope out into the air.
Tonight, as I sat at St. Stephen’s, I fell asleep. The city whispered to me in a dream, telling me to start a new life. Boston’s voice was tempting and sure, thinking I’d choose to stay, barely believing me when I told her I couldn’t and that it was her own fault for making me strong enough to think for myself. Then I dreamed of the Bay, Mother’s smile, Bertine’s laugh, Spider Hill, the voice of the moon.
I’m worried about Ginny, and I miss my sweet Wrennie. It’s time to go home.
45
HART HAD THE HOUSE open and ready for my arrival. Bertine, Sadie and Mabel had clean sheets and food waiting. Wrennie seemed happy to have me home. She’s content to be propped up in a basket or to scoot around my feet in the kitchen. She loves to show off with a smile and giggles for everyone she meets. Last night she fell asleep while Mother rocked her in front of the stove, and, of course, Mother shed more than a few tears of relief at “having her girl home.” I thought I might feel at least some regret for having left Boston, but these two places are worlds apart. Now that I am here, I find it difficult to remember the city, even when I close my eyes. There is much for me to do…
I knew as soon as I saw her that Ginny was well on her way to trouble. She’s swollen all over, suffering from crippling headaches and nearly blind each time she tries to stand up. There’s no fever with her sickness, so I’m certain it’s something other than influenza. Her face is puffed up, features gone coarse. I think it’s what Miss B. called visage d’etranger, the stranger’s face. When you don’t know the woman no more by lookin’ at her, then she gots the mask of death come on her…after that, there’s not much can turn her back. The advanced state of Ginny’s condition worries me. I will do everything I can, but her symptoms should have been attended to weeks ago.
Stranger’s Face: I seen it in a woman over Blomidon way. By the time I got to her she was gone out of her mind with convulsions. I had to cut the baby out, losing the mother to save the child. The baby died anyways. Was too early to have enough strength to survive.
Miss B.’s sprawling script wanders across the pages of the Willow Book, her amendments and successes turned sideways, rhyming in the margins.
Skullcap tincture—good for any variety of anxiety. Potato skins and beets will put her back on her feet. Raspberries and nettle, sweet as can
be, perfect for a Mother’s Tea.
Ginny will stay at Spider Hill until after the baby is born. Mother, Precious and the rest of the Occasional Knitters will help look after Wrennie. If I can bring Ginny’s swelling down and keep her strength up for the next couple of days, then I should be able to bring the baby along without any trouble. (Albeit three, possibly four weeks early.) We cannot afford to wait.
~ October 17, 1918
I’m having trouble keeping Laird away from Ginny and my house. He’s worried about her, and has mentioned more than a few times that he’d be glad to fetch Dr. Thomas. It’s as if he still doesn’t trust me, despite knowing the truth about Mrs. Ketch’s death and the fact that I attended the birth of his last child. I’ve done my best to calm him down and then send him away again. It’s clear that the hard-earned money Laird paid for Dr. Thomas’s obstetrical theory hasn’t done Ginny any good. You must understand, Mrs. Jessup: like you, the majority of pregnant women are neurotic. The last time the doctor saw her, he told her that if the swelling in her ankles and hands didn’t go down he’d have to perform a bloodletting. If he shows his face at my door, he may be in for a bloodletting of his own. I know it can be difficult to get a straight answer out of Ginny, but no woman, no person, deserves such thoughtless care. More exercise, less meat. No wonder her blood’s gone weak. At least she had sense enough to put herself to bed.
~ October 18, 1918
A long day.
At first I was afraid that nothing was working. The swelling wasn’t going down and Ginny was getting quite agitated, but thankfully, she started to come around after supper. Tonight she is looking better and resting well.