A Death-Struck Year (10 page)

“The Packard?” I asked, trying to make him laugh.

Jack snorted. “Only when I’m dead. Use the Tin Lizzie. And mind the gasoline levels.”

“You don’t have to tell me to mind the gasoline levels. I’m not the village idiot.”

“Huh” was his reply. There was a long pause. Then, “You’re keeping something from me. I can feel it. There’s something rotten in the state of Denmark.”

“There’s nothing rotten anywhere,” I said, the guilt gnawing at me. It was time to change the subject. “Will you have Lucy telephone? When she can?”

“I will. I’m not sure when that will be. These lines are god-awful. Send a telegram if you can’t get through. And if you need help before Mrs. Foster arrives, promise me you’ll go to the Keatings’.”

“I promise. And, Jack?”

“Hmm?”

“I am
thrilled to death
about the baby.”

“I guess I am too.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “Stay safe for me, Cleo. I’ll see you in two weeks.”

Sunday, October 13, 1918

“I don’t mind being alone.” I watched Hannah insert a thermometer into a patient’s mouth. The girl was younger than me, but not by much, and with her white gown and ashen complexion, she faded right into the sheets. “You’re short-handed already.”

We were in the orchestra pit, a deep, narrow space in front of the stage that stretched a full fifty feet. Beds crowded together in a single row, leaving just enough room for people—thin people—to squeeze through.

Hannah spared me a glance across the cot. “Short-handed or not, I can’t have you roaming about by yourself.” She removed the thermometer and studied it. Her brows drew together. She shook the thermometer, waited a tick, and popped it back into the girl’s mouth. “Take Sarah with you.”

Kate spoke up from the next cot. “Sarah’s left, Hannah.” She held a cup while her patient, a blond man, drank. “I saw her drive off a half-hour ago. I don’t think she’ll be back.”

Hannah looked at Kate. “Constance?” she asked.

“She’s gone too,” Kate answered.

Hannah looked at me.

“I can go alone,” I insisted.

Hannah sighed. “You can’t. I have enough to do without worrying about you being hurt. Or shanghaied and sold to some . . .” She saw my expression and stopped. She pulled the thermometer free. Even with her mask on, I could tell she was unhappy. “No mistake. One hundred and six.”

Shocked, I asked, “Is it broken?”

“I wish it were. But that would mean most of them are broken.”

The patient lay wretched and shivery on the cot with her eyes half closed. She reminded me a bit of Grace, and I wondered how my friend was faring on the coast. The beaches in Florence would be deserted at this time of year. The sand dunes too. I pictured Grace on the beach, dressed in a heavy sweater and skirt, searching for seashells. I was glad she was far away from here. I looked away from the girl, feeling grateful, and then guilty, that she wasn’t someone I knew.

“Hannah,” said a deep voice above our heads.

We looked up. It was Edmund. He crouched at the edge of the pit, wearing a white coat and mask. Seeing me, he tipped his head slightly. “Mornin’.”

“Hello.” I felt oddly relieved to see him. And Hannah and Kate. Was this how it was to be? Wondering if the person I spoke to one day would be around the next? It was a disconcerting thought. I would try to telephone Lucy and Jack this evening, just to hear their voices.

“How bad is it?” Hannah asked Edmund.

“Bad. We’re nearly out of everything. The codeine’s almost gone. And we’re on our last crate of morphine.”

“We’ll run out before the next shipment gets here,” Hannah said, frustrated. “I’ve tried calling General Disque to see if he can help, but I can’t get past his secretary. That old tyrant. I’ll try again.”

“I’ll do it,” Edmund offered.

Hannah looked skeptical. “Do you think it will make a difference?”

He shrugged. “I can try. Old ladies like me.”

Hannah snorted. “Then be my guest. Did the numbers come in?”

Edmund nodded. “About eight hundred cases. They’re the totals from here, County, St. Vincent’s, and Good Sam’s. They’re estimating the numbers from private residences.”

“And the morgue counts?” Hannah asked.

Edmund glanced at me before answering. “Eighteen.”

“Total?”

“Yes.”

Kate and I looked at each other.

“Eight hundred,” Hannah said. “In three days. All right. If you do get through, tell the general we’re also running short on aspirin and bandages and . . . well, everything. Just tell him we need everything. Right away.”

“I will.” He looked over at Kate. “Waverley telephoned. She’ll be by after her shift to take you home.”

“Thanks, Edmund.”

He stood and, with one last glance in my direction, strode off. I watched him go. When I turned back, Kate was eyeing me with a funny look on her face.

Hannah planted both hands on her hips. “What were we talking about?”

“Being shanghaied,” I said.

“Ah. Let’s see. Marion and Charlotte are both on the east side today. Paul is in St. John’s. Who’s left?” She surveyed the room. I looked too, but from where we stood, all I saw were the undersides of cots.

Kate cleared her throat.

Hannah continued. “I can’t spare Rose. She’s helping Mrs. Howard with the laundry . . .”

Kate coughed. She looked exasperated, but Hannah appeared oblivious.

“Well, why don’t you head to the ticket office,” Hannah said to me. “There’s a fresh list on the desk.”

Kate’s face fell. I sent her a sympathetic look and turned to go.

“And, Cleo?” Hannah said.

“Yes?”

“Be careful today.” A small smile appeared on her face. “And take Kate with you.”

The rain had stopped, leaving the air smelling fresh and clean. As Kate and I traipsed down Lovejoy Street, with its pretty houses and manicured lawns, she closed her eyes and breathed in deep, like a newly released prisoner.

I smiled. We had spent an uneventful hour together. I had told her about Jack and Lucy in San Francisco. And I’d learned a great deal about Katherine Bennett as well. Like me, she was seventeen and would graduate from high school in the spring. Her family lived on the outskirts of town, where the Bennetts had owned a dairy farm for generations. Kate’s mother had been a nurse until she’d married. Several of her older sisters were nurses or training to become nurses, and though Kate didn’t say so outright, I imagined she would follow in their footsteps. I liked her very much. She was smart and practical, and she did not faint at the sight of blood. In times like these, they were good qualities to have in a friend.

“It’s nice to escape the hospital for a little while,” Kate said. “I don’t think I’ll take fresh air for granted again. God bless Edmund.”

Surprised, I asked, “What do you mean?”

Kate glanced at me sideways, enough for me to see the humor in her eyes. “He told Hannah that sending you out alone was irresponsible. He said there were all kinds of lunatics out there, and what was she thinking? I heard them in the kitchen last night after you left.”

My eyes narrowed. “Edmund called Hannah irresponsible? Because of me?”

“Well, he phrased it differently. But yes. And he didn’t sound too worried about anyone else being sent out alone. Just you.” Her smile widened. “You must have made quite an impression.”

Kate was enjoying herself, but I didn’t find her words the least bit funny. Did he think I needed looking after? What did he know about anything? I was embarrassed that he’d spoken to Hannah. Had forced her hand. Especially when the hospital was so short-staffed.

I tried not to let my annoyance show. “Hannah called him ‘lieutenant,’” I said. “Why isn’t he at one of the camps with the other soldiers?”

Kate’s smile disappeared. “He’s already been to training camp. And to France. My sister Waverley knows him. The medical and nursing schools are right next to each other. She said he’d just started classes last year when he had to ship out. But he was hurt, and they sent him home. I don’t think he’s been back very long.”

“Was he sent home because of his hand?” I asked, even though that didn’t make sense. Men were coming home missing entire arms and legs. Edmund’s hand looked dreadful, but it still worked. I’d seen him carry babies and pry open crates. I didn’t think the army would send him home for that kind of injury. They were desperate for men.

Kate shook her head. “I think it’s more than his hand. He was in a hospital for a good long time. I asked Waverley about it, but she told me to stick to my own business.” She frowned. “It looks terrible, doesn’t it? Like someone used his hand for target practice.”

I winced, imagining all sorts of horrible scenarios that would send Edmund to a hospital for “a good long time.”

We stepped aside as three boys raced by on their bicycles, whooping and hollering, before disappearing around the corner.

We walked on.

“It must be lonely living in that house all by yourself,” Kate said. “I can’t imagine it. We have an extra bed, now that Etta’s moved out. You’ll have to put up with Ruby’s snoring, but you’re welcome to stay with us. My mama won’t mind at all.”

I stopped, surprised. It was a completely unexpected and generous offer. And from a near stranger during times like these. “I really am fine,” I said. “Our housekeeper will be home in a few days. But it’s very kind of you to . . .” I trailed off, looking over Kate’s shoulder.

Puzzled, Kate turned. A two-story home stood before us, painted blue with white shutters. I followed her eyes past the picket fence, down the stone path, up the shallow porch steps, to the small piece of white fabric attached to the front door.

Kate wrapped both arms around herself. “Already,” she said softly.

It was considered tradition to hang a piece of wool crepe on the door to announce a death in the family. White crepe meant someone young had passed on. Black represented middle age. And gray was meant for the very old. Coming across such a sight used to be a rarity. I had an awful feeling this would be the first of many.

We watched the narrow strip of fabric flutter in the wind. A memory rose, of Jack, white-faced, climbing our porch steps and yanking the black ribbon from our door. I brushed the image aside and tucked my arm into Kate’s.

“Let’s go,” I said. “I don’t think they need us here.”

We rounded the corner. The three boys we had seen earlier stood just ahead of us, their bicycles left on the sidewalk in a tangle of metal and rubber. They were about ten, fair-haired and freckled, dressed in matching denim overalls. Try as I might, I could not tell them apart. Kate and I looked at each other, diverted. Triplets!

The brothers did not see us, so preoccupied were they with the low stone wall in front of them. Curious, I turned to see what had captured their attention.

“Oh!” I said.

Kate’s hand flew to her mouth.

The boys jumped, turning in unison to look at us with identical blue eyes. One of them recovered first.

“We didn’t do it,” he piped up, pointing at the wall. “We found it like this. Just now. It wasn’t us.” The other two shook their heads vigorously, their eyes wide and earnest.

Along the wall, someone had painted the word
kaiserite
in red. It was a vicious slur reserved for war protesters and deserters. And German immigrants. Each letter measured at least three feet and had been allowed to drip, so that it resembled a great big bloody wound.

“We know you didn’t.” Kate gave the boys a reassuring look. “Do you know who lives here?” Behind the wall stood an elegant gray house with black shutters. Two stone urns flanked the front door.

A second boy spoke up. “The Kruegers, miss. Mr. Krueger, Mrs. Krueger, and their son, Daniel Krueger. Our pa said Daniel Krueger left Camp Lewis last week.”

The third boy chimed in. “Just upped and ran away, even though the army said he couldn’t.”

A deserter. A Kaiserite. So that was it.

“Are the Kruegers home now?” I asked.

They shook their heads. “They have the influenza,” said the first brother. “The ambulance came yesterday. We heard the sirens and everything.”

“We can’t just leave this here with them sick,” Kate said in a low voice.

“No.” I looked at the wall, calculating the amount of hard scrubbing it would take to get all the paint off. “But we’re hardly dressed for
that,
Kate.”

She eyed my red coat, then looked down at her own blue skirt and jacket. “You’re right.”

She gave the boys a considering look. They were thin but sturdy. Their denim overalls and long sleeves looked one step away from the rag pile. She reached into her canvas bag and rifled around until she found a small purse. Snapping it open, she pulled out a single dollar bill. It was crumpled and sad-looking.

She grimaced. “Do you have any money, Cleo?”

“Sure.” I reached into my own purse and pulled out the handful of dollar bills I’d taken from the jar on my kitchen counter. I gave it to Kate. She counted, gave me back half, and held up the money. The boys straightened. Kate fanned the bills out until their eyes looked ready to pop right out of their heads.

I smiled.

“Well, boys,” Kate said. “School’s out and there’s nothing to do. How would you like to earn some money?”

The three brothers looked at one another, partaking in some sort of silent communication that included quick headshakes, pursed lips, and crossed arms. Finally, the first brother spoke up, sounding far more calculating than any ten-year-old had the right to sound. “How much money?”

The house was unlike any other on the street. Tall and narrow, it was painted forest green, with a gray scallop-edged roof and wraparound porch. A lovely home, but it was the windows that captured the eye. The windows that gave one pause. Curved and graceful, they had been shaped to resemble giant keyholes.

“Look at this house, Cleo!” Kate said. “It’s beautiful! It . . . Why are you smiling like that?”

I gestured toward the house as we walked up the path. “Do you really like it?”

“I adore it. It looks like a dollhouse. Why?”

“It was one of the first houses my brother built. He used to bring me here after school sometimes, during construction.”