A Death-Struck Year (16 page)

I shook my head, baffled. The schools were closed. The theaters, bowling alleys, and churches too. So why was the library open? Some of the new city rules just didn’t make a whole lot of sense. Some did. Such as the telephone company asking everyone to keep their calls to a minimum. There was an operator shortage, and the lines were bogged down. I understood that. Even though it meant the only sure way to contact Jack and Lucy was to send a letter. Or, God forbid, to stand in line at the Western Union Telegraph office. I’d driven past the office yesterday. It was downtown, by the Skidmore Fountain. And the line of people—miserable, resigned-looking people—was so long, it had wrapped clear around the block.

But I wondered how telling us we couldn’t buy candy at certain times of the day was helpful. Because that was another rule. The sale of candy, ice cream, and tobacco before nine in the morning and after three thirty in the afternoon was strictly prohibited.

Then there was the Meier & Frank Department Store, which placed an advertisement in the newspaper, asking customers not to come in unless absolutely necessary. Why bother? Why not just close the store down entirely? Who had emergency clothing needs anyway? Although, now that I thought about it, maybe I did. Or would soon. The pile of laundry in the washroom had grown beastly high. Thank goodness Mrs. Foster was coming home today. I’d had quite enough of living on my own.

Kate and I walked into the library, past the marble columns and up the main staircase. Our footsteps echoed in the quiet. At the top of the stairs, in the rotunda, I whispered, “Where are we supposed to go?”

“Hannah said to look for Mrs. MacMillan,” Kate whispered back. “She’s expecting us.”

Everyone knew Mrs. MacMillan. She was the head librarian, and had been forever. When I was younger, she never minded when I forgot myself sometimes and spoke too loudly. Unlike Miss Tarbell, the assistant librarian, who was always scolding and shushing.

Just off the rotunda was the reading room. We peeked in. Arched windows ran along an entire wall, beginning six feet off the ground and soaring high above toward the carved plaster ceiling. Bookshelves filled the space beside card catalogs and oak tables.

A massive four-sided circulation desk dominated the center of the room. Mrs. MacMillan stood behind it. She was small and thin, birdlike, and wore a high-necked gray dress the same shade as her hair, which was pulled back in a braided roll. I guessed she was in her sixties, but I couldn’t be sure. Jack swore she’d been in her sixties when he was a kid. Miss Tarbell, wide-hipped and sturdy, sat at the back of the desk area. A great stack of books teetered beside her.

People waited in front of the desk. Every one of them was masked. But rather than stand directly behind one another as was the usual practice, the men and women in line were spaced at least five feet apart. I imagined I could step between any pair, arms spread wide, and spin around without knocking into anyone. I glanced about. There was something else strange about the room. What was it? It dawned on me. All the chairs had been removed. A sign on the wall ordered
NO LOITERING
.

At the head of the line, a boy several years younger than me stood before Mrs. MacMillan with his head hanging low.

“You may insist all you please, Mr. Dosch, but late is late. And a fine is a fine.” Resignation seeped through the librarian’s mask, suggesting this was not the first time she had articulated these words. She looked over and spotted us. Her gaze fell on our armbands. She said something to Miss Tarbell, who lumbered over to take her place, then she hurried toward us.

“Goodness!” she said in a loud whisper, glancing back and forth between us. “Cleo. Katherine. Hannah Flynn sent you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Kate and I said together.

“I see.” Mrs. MacMillan wrung her hands. The look in her eyes asked why Hannah was sending her schoolchildren.

Kate tried to reassure her. “The car is right outside, Mrs. MacMillan. Hannah said she was still able to walk?”

“Yes. Yes. Cora is the new children’s librarian. She was coughing when she arrived. A terrible sound. And her right ear is bleeding. There’s no one at home to care for her.” She gave us another dubious look and sighed, left with little choice. “You girls wait here. I’ll bring her out.” She disappeared through an unmarked door at the opposite end of the rotunda.

Kate wandered off to examine a seascape hanging on the wall. I headed toward a cart near the staircase. It was full of books.

Curious, I read the spines. They were works by German authors. Many were printed in their original language. Goethe. Gryphius. Jacobi. Klopstock. Kafka. Stramm. Schiller. I tugged at a volume.

The Writings of Kant.
We’d been reading Kant that day when Miss Abernathy had told us school was closed.
Enlightenment
. . .
demands nothing more than freedom—the freedom that consists in making public use, under all circumstances, of one’s reason,
I remembered, and I couldn’t believe I’d been in a classroom less than a week ago. So much had happened since then. I wondered how Grace was doing in Florence. And how much trouble Margaret was in with her parents. I hoped Fanny was safe. I hoped Emily wasn’t too lonely and that Greta’s eyes were staying put. I didn’t know if anyone else would take the time to sew them back on. I told myself I would write to Grace. Tonight. Or tomorrow. As soon as I had a moment to spare.

A man materialized beside me. He was in his twenties but already balding, with a belly that strained against the fabric of his red sweater. He gave me a sour look, plucking the book from my hands and returning it to the cart. “Excuse me.” His voice was strangely high-pitched. “These books are
not
for public use.”

“Why not?” I asked, taken aback by his unfriendly tone.

“Because they’re
German,
” he said, the same way one would have said, “Because it’s
poison.
”

“You’re taking away all the German books?” I glanced at the cart. “Even the music books? For how long?”
Until the war ended?
I wanted to know.
Or forever?

His answer was to sneeze. Directly in my face. The sound echoed throughout the rotunda, and the spray misted around me even as I tried to avoid it. I’d forgotten my mask. I wiped my cheek with my coat sleeve and gave him the dirtiest look I could manage.

Kate appeared by my elbow. “You need to be more careful!” she scolded, pointing a finger at him. Her voice rang out loud and indignant.

The throat clearing coming from the reading room was loud and indignant too. I glanced over. Behind the circulation desk, Miss Tarbell glared at us.

“Sorry,” the man said, without sounding sorry at all. He pushed the cart toward the reading room. Short, wheezing pants followed in his wake.

Kate scowled after him before offering me a handkerchief. “Some people should be rationed more than others,” she said in a low voice.

“Ugh.” I took the handkerchief, scrubbing my face as best I could. The stranger’s breath had been rank, his spit equally so, and I wondered how long it would be before I could stick my face beneath a faucet.

The door opened. Mrs. MacMillan appeared with the new children’s librarian, whom I’d never met. She was young. Most of her straight black hair had escaped from its roll, straggling around her face. Mrs. MacMillan looked like she was going to topple right over trying to keep her upright. Kate and I rushed to help. I draped one of the librarian’s arms over my shoulder. Kate did the same with the other.

The children’s librarian looked at Kate, her expression dazed. “Thank you,” she whispered.

“You’re very welcome,” Kate said.

She turned to me. “Thank you,” she said.

“Of course. It’s nothing,” I said.

The children’s librarian looked at the floor. “Thank you,” she said.

Kate and I exchanged a look. Excited whispers drifted over from the reading-room crowd, though no one approached. Mrs. MacMillan, teary-eyed, told us to be careful. We dragged the librarian down the staircase, past the marble columns, and out of the hush.

The
Evangeline
was to arrive at the dock at two o’clock sharp. As it always did. Today it would be carrying Mrs. Foster, and I planned to drive down to the river and surprise her. I knew she was expecting to find her own way home. As far as she was concerned, I was still at St. Helen’s.

I dropped Kate off at the Auditorium and promised Hannah I would be back the next morning. I would, no matter how much Mrs. Foster railed and threatened. I knew I was in for it, that I would receive a terrible tongue-lashing once she learned what I’d been up to. But right now, I was too happy to care.

Good food. Clean clothes. A familiar face. Knowing there was someone else in the house while I slept. Simple things that I would never take for granted again.

I drove home for a quick lunch. Parking out front, I cast a wary glance at the sky. It looked like rain. Which reminded me, I needed a new umbrella. My old one lay crumpled and broken on the rear seat, having lost the battle against Sunday’s rainstorm.

“Hello!” a voice behind me called.

I turned. A blond boy, no more than thirteen, rolled toward me on a bicycle. He wore a blue courier’s uniform with gold buttons. He slowed to a stop.

“Hello,” I said. “A telegram?”

“Two, miss.” The boy pulled identical yellow envelopes from a battered leather satchel. He glanced at both. “Are you Luciane or Cleo Berry?”

I eyed the envelopes. Why would someone send Lucy a telegram here? Everyone who knew her was aware of her trip. Knew she wouldn’t be home for weeks. “I’m Cleo Berry. I’ll take both, thank you.”

He handed me the envelopes. “Good day, miss.”

The courier pedaled down the street. I opened the telegram addressed to me first. It was from Jack. It read:

C
LEO
,
TELEPHONES ARE USELESS
. S
END WIRE—TODAY—CONFIRMING
M
RS
. F
OSTER’S ARRIVAL
. N
EED TO KNOW YOU’RE BOTH IN GOOD HEALTH
. H
OPE TO BE HOME NEXT WEEK
. L
UCY IS WELL AND SENDS HER LOVE
. I
’M SENDING MINE TOO
. J
ACK
.

I smiled. Opening the second telegram, I saw that it had originated in Hood River, from someone named Hazel Balogh. I’d never heard the name before. I read:

D
EAR
M
RS
. L
UCIANE
B
ERRY
, A
DELINE
F
OSTER TAKEN TO HOSPITAL WITH ENTIRE FAMILY
. I
NFLUENZA
. C
ONDITION SERIOUS
. I
AM THE
F
OSTERS’ NEIGHBOR
. C
ORRESPOND AT ABOVE ADDRESS
. S
INCERELY
, H
AZEL
B
ALOGH
.

My hand trembled as I reread the telegram.
Oh no oh no oh no oh no.
Mrs. Foster. The entire family? I pictured the photographs cluttering her sitting room. Her grandchildren were very young. A boy and a girl. Toddlers.
Condition serious.

I read the note a third time. Then I looked at my brother’s telegram. I needed to reply today. If I didn’t, he and Lucy would assume the worst. They would come home. Lucy would insist on it, despite her condition and in one of the crowded trains with their stagnant compartments. It was dangerous. But if I told Jack about Mrs. Foster, if he learned I was alone, they would come back anyway.

Leaning against the car, I stared across the street at the Pikes’ house. What was I supposed to do? I thought of Mrs. Foster, strict and kind at the same time, who had patched up Jack’s skinned knees and mine. And Grace’s and Margaret’s and Fanny’s too. The tears threatened. I blinked them back.
Stop it,
I told myself fiercely.
Stop panicking.
Sick did not mean dead.

I focused, startled when I saw Mrs. Pike standing in her open doorway watching me. She wore a green dress and a white mask. Our neighbor was in her forties. A striking lady, with fair hair and blue eyes. When I was younger, she’d reminded me of the porcelain dolls lining the shelves of the toy emporium. The ones with the blank expressions. The ones that made me grateful for my own scruffy, well-loved doll.

Sniffling, I gave her a small wave. She was the last person I felt like talking to, but I couldn’t ignore her. I started across the street, intending to be polite and ask after her health.

Mrs. Pike held up a hand. “Don’t come any closer, Cleo,” she called out.

I stopped in the middle of the road, surprised. “I won’t, Mrs. Pike. Are you well? And Mr. Pike?”

She ignored the question, her eyes fixed on my Red Cross band. “Have you completely lost your senses?” she demanded. “Where is your brother? How could he allow this?”

I stiffened at her tone. In all the years I’d known her, any goodwill toward Mrs. Pike had never lasted more than a minute. “Jack and Lucy have been delayed in San Francisco,” I said. “I’ve been volunteering at the hospital.”

Mrs. Pike pursed her lips at the news. “I’ve not seen your housekeeper.”

I glanced over my shoulder. Of course she would notice me coming and going at odd hours, and see how few lights were left on in the evening. Turning back, I held up both telegrams. “Mrs. Foster is sick.”

Mrs. Pike stared at me for such a time that I was reminded, once again, of those dolls on the shelves. “Then I am sorry for you.” My neighbor backed away, into her house, and shut the door.

“I’d like to send two telegrams, please. One to Hood River, the other to San Francisco.”

“That’s fine, miss. Fill these forms out. Be sure to sign at the bottom.” The Western Union clerk, an older man with a mask, was polite but brisk.

“Thank you.” Using one of the pencils scattered across the counter, I scribbled away, grateful to be at the front of the queue after waiting for two hours. Most of it outside in the rain. At least I hadn’t forgotten a new umbrella. Many had, and they’d looked wretched trying to shield themselves with newspapers and briefcases and purses.