A Death-Struck Year (17 page)

Behind me, the line snaked out the open door. The office was cramped and overheated, and the sounds of traffic drifted in from the street. No one complained. The mood was quiet and sober, with everyone looking downward, preoccupied with their own troubles.

Just like me.

The first telegram was to the kind Mrs. Balogh in Hood River. Explaining who I was. Thanking her for her note. Asking to be kept informed and offering any assistance she could think of. Though, as I wrote the last part, I wondered what I could really do. Even if I took the steamer to Hood River and searched out the Fosters in the hospital, what would I do? Spoon soup? Change sheets? Feeling helpless, I eased my grip on the pencil so I would not snap it in half.

I set Mrs. Balogh’s form aside. Behind the counter, more clerks hunched over their desks, typing madly. Through the front window, I could see the Skidmore Fountain. A man stood by the fountain’s stone steps, waiting patiently while his horse drank its fill.

The second note was harder. I wrote it quickly, before I changed my mind. And as I signed my name at the bottom of the form, it occurred to me that I didn’t used to be such a liar. It wasn’t a good feeling, knowing how much I kept from my family. The clerk looked up at my sigh.

“All done, miss?”

“Yes.” I handed both forms over, along with my payment, and watched as they were passed on to one of the transmitting clerks. I accepted my receipt and left, feeling several levels below wretched.

T
O
J
ACKSON
B
ERRY
, T
HE
F
AIRMONT
,

S
AN
F
RANCISCO
, C
ALIFORNIA
.

D
EAR
J
ACK
, M
RS
. F
OSTER IS HOME
. W
E ARE BOTH WELL
.

C
OME HOME WHEN IT’S SAFE
. L
OVE
, C
LEO
.

Wednesday, October 16, 1918

From the
Oregonian:

Deaths yesterday wiped out all but one of a family of four received at the emergency hospital Tuesday—all in delirious condition. Mrs. Godfrey Marshall, who succumbed yesterday, was preceded in death by Carl Marshall, eighteen months of age, and Nina Marshall, eight years, whose fever was one hundred and four when brought to the hospital. Mr. Marshall was removed to the county hospital yesterday. His condition is believed critical. They resided at 123½ Third Street.

A home for two girls of three and six who are convalescent from influenza is being asked by Miss Waverley Bennett of the American Red Cross. The mother and father still are confined at St. Vincent’s Hospital and the children have no place to go.

How the influenza attacks whole families again was illustrated by a report yesterday of eight cases in the family of G. F. Linton, 555 Flanders Street. No deaths yet have been recorded.

Two hundred and seventeen new cases of Spanish influenza were reported to the City Health Bureau, bringing the total number of cases to 1,517. Total influenza deaths number 86.

“You think you’re smarter than me.” I kept my voice low and threatening. “And maybe that’s true. But if I wanted, I could take you apart. Piece by piece. I could use you for firewood. What do you say about that, huh? What do you say?”

The washing machine said nothing. It stood there, a useless wooden tub, with its hoses and belts, its cranks and levers. As foreign to me as a submarine. How did Mrs. Foster manage this thing? How did anyone?

I was downstairs at home, in the room used for washing and ironing. A pile of laundry filled the basket by my feet. It was early, not yet five in the morning, but since I couldn’t sleep, I thought I might as well attempt the wash. I’d hoped to have some of my clothing cleaned—the bloodiest shirtwaists, the foulest coat—before I left for the hospital. The trouble was I’d never laundered anything before.

I spent some time searching for an instruction manual. Rummaging about the worktable, I found an iron and a small wicker basket filled with needles and thread. Another basket held buttons and ribbons. Above the table, boxes of washing powder and stocking shampoo lined the shelves. Several shirts, draped across the back of a chair, needed mending. But no manual.

Vexed, I studied the washer. The attached wringer looked ominous. I was afraid to go anywhere near it. Wasn’t there a girl once who’d caught her fingers in a washer wringer and had them torn right off? Two fingers. It was in all the newspapers. Maybe if I unplugged the washer cord from the socket and plugged it in again? I tried, gasping when a nasty jolt raced up my arm.

“Stupid thing!” I cried, dropping the cord. Grabbing my blue coat from the basket, I flung it at the washer. It hit the tub, before slithering to the floor in a puddle of smelly wool.

I gave up. Thoroughly defeated, I rubbed my arm and slunk upstairs to pour myself a bowl of cereal.

“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” Kate asked. “We have plenty of room.”

“I can’t. I need to spend some time at home,” I said, smiling to soften my words. Ever since she’d learned what happened to Mrs. Foster, Kate had been trying to get me to stay with her family. I kept one hand loosely gripped on the steering wheel. “Jack might get through on the telephone. Or a courier might come by. I’d hate to miss them.”

“But—”

“Leave her be, Kate,” her sister Waverley said from the sidewalk. “She’s made up her mind.” The head nurse at St. Vincent’s Hospital, Waverley was a shorter, plumper, and more serious version of her younger sister.

Kate sighed and gathered her bag and umbrella, joining her sister on the curb. “I’ll see you in the morning. Don’t be late, or I’ll worry.”

I smiled. “I won’t.”

Waverley held the passenger door open. “You’ll give Hannah my regards? Tell her I can spare a nurse or two if she still needs them.”

“I’ll tell her.”

“And, Cleo?” Waverley glanced up at the late-afternoon sky, a washed-out gray that was slowly darkening to lead. “It looks like rain, but try to keep these windows open as much as possible.”

I promised I would, and Waverley swung the door shut. The sisters disappeared into the hospital.

St. Vincent’s was a dramatic-looking building, rising five stories off the ground, with arched windows and dormers lining the rooftop. Unlike the other city hospitals, it was isolated, located high up in the hills and surrounded by rolling fields and farmland. My mother had spent some time at St. Vincent’s, nearly eighteen years ago. I was born there.

Rather than driving off, I leaned back and closed my eyes. Now that Kate was gone, there was nothing to distract me from my own thoughts and worries. I tried to rub the tiredness from my face. A crinkling sound emerged from my coat pocket. I tugged free the copy of
Family Limitation
that Kate had given me yesterday, written by the nurse in New York. Margaret Sanger. I’d forgotten it was there. I opened the leaflet and glanced at a random passage:

I
T SEEMS INARTISTIC AND SORDID TO INSERT A PESSARY OR A SUPPOSITORY IN ANTICIPATION OF THE SEXUAL ACT
. B
UT IT IS FAR MORE SORDID TO FIND YOURSELF SEVERAL YEARS LATER BURDENED DOWN WITH HALF A DOZEN UNWANTED CHILDREN, HELPLESS, STARVED, SHODDILY CLOTHED, DRAGGING AT YOUR SKIRT, YOURSELF A DRAGGED OUT SHADOW OF THE WOMAN YOU ONCE WERE
.

I straightened. Quickly, I flipped through the leaflet and read from the very beginning.

W
OMEN OF THE WORKING CLASS, ESPECIALLY WAGE WORKERS, SHOULD NOT HAVE MORE THAN TWO CHILDREN AT MOST
. T
HE AVERAGE WORKING MAN CAN SUPPORT NO MORE AND THE AVERAGE WORKING WOMAN CAN TAKE CARE OF NO MORE IN DECENT FASHION
. I
T HAS BEEN MY EXPERIENCE THAT MORE CHILDREN ARE NOT REALLY WANTED, BUT THAT THE WOMEN ARE COMPELLED TO HAVE THEM EITHER FROM LACK OF FORESIGHT OR THROUGH IGNORANCE OF THE HYGIENE OF PREVENTING CONCEPTION . . .

On and on Mrs. Sanger went, discussing condoms, sponges, douches, and pessaries. There were instructions. There was a picture of a woman’s womb. There was a periodical, the
Birth Control Review,
available through subscription for one dollar a year. Sixteen pages in all. Every one of them riveting. Of course I’d heard of condoms before, but only in a vague sort of way, accompanied by giggles and whispers among my schoolmates and Margaret in particular. There was nothing unclear about
Family Limitation.
Mrs. Sanger was so explicit that I felt myself turning red, even though there was no one else in the car.

A door slammed. Startled, I shoved the leaflet into my coat pocket. I felt a seam rip. A car was parked in front of me, a familiar figure standing beside it. It was Mr. Lafayette, looking just as dignified and somber as he had that evening outside the Auditorium. Well, I amended with a bemused smile, looking just as dignified as a grown man could while clutching two rag dolls. I followed his gaze.

Edmund came down the hospital steps, a dark topcoat flapping about his knees and a cap pulled low over his head. A little girl was perched in his arms. She could not have been more than three. Just behind them, a girl of about six clutched the hand of an older woman. Both children wore red coats and hats. As the small group approached, I saw that the children were very thin, with straight brown hair and a marked family resemblance.

Edmund spotted me over the toddler’s head. A surprised smile lit his features. He said something to the woman. After a curious look in my direction, she took the toddler from Edmund and continued with both children toward Mr. Lafayette. Edmund headed my way.

“Cleo.” Edmund leaned in through the open passenger window. “Hello.”

“Hello.” I looked at the faint smudges beneath his green eyes, at the hair allowed to grow too long, and felt suddenly, inexplicably, out of sorts. I pressed one hand to my stomach to contain the butterflies, dropping it when Edmund glanced down. I gestured toward the girls, who clutched brand-new dolls. “Are those the children from the newspaper?”

Edmund nodded. “I’m never home. Annabelle and Stella will stay there with Mrs. Graham until their parents are well.”

“Has no one else offered to take them in?” I asked, unsurprised when he frowned and shook his head no.

“Mrs. Graham is my old nurse,” he added, watching as Mr. Lafayette helped the girls into the car. “She likes to think she still is.”

We smiled at each other.

“Are you heading back to the Auditorium?” he asked.

I wasn’t. I was on my way home, where I planned to take the hottest bath imaginable and then spend the rest of the evening within arm’s reach of the telephone. Just in case it actually rang. The Auditorium was clear out of my way.

I nodded. “Would you like a ride?”

“I’d appreciate it. I’ll be right back.”

Edmund went over and said a few words to Mr. Lafayette, then stuck his head into the rear window before stepping back onto the sidewalk. He waved as the car pulled away. After turning the hand crank at the front of my car, Edmund climbed in. I started the engine.

“Thanks, Cleo. I came with some others, but they’ve already left.”

“Sure.” I headed back toward town, turning off Westover Road and leaving the hospital behind us.

Edmund picked something up off the car floor. One of my influenza flyers, it looked like. “You dropped this.” He held up the flyer to catch what was left of the afternoon light. “‘
Family Limitation
by Margaret Sanger.’ Sanger. Isn’t she the nurse—?”

Mortified, I snatched the leaflet out of his hand and flung it over my shoulder, toward the rear seat. Only the windows were all open. The birth control guide flapped in the wind, like a startled chicken, before being whipped right out of the car.

Edmund turned and watched the leaflet fly away. I could not look at him. Both hands gripped the steering wheel. The stupid leaflet had fallen from my stupid coat. What must he think of me? That I was fast? But I wasn’t! “It was Kate’s.” I blurted out the only thing that came to mind.

“Was it?” I could tell he was trying not to smile. “I think it would be fine, even if it wasn’t Kate’s.” He looked over his shoulder again. “I’ve read all of her books. Hannah has them in her office.”

“The ticket office?” I asked, baffled.

Edmund laughed. “No, on Marquam Hill. Hannah runs the nursing program there. It’s right next to the medical school. It’s how I met her.”

I slowed the car, waiting as two brown cows ambled across the road. “Will she get in trouble?” I asked, worry for Hannah overshadowing my embarrassment. I knew a little about the Comstock laws, which made it illegal to distribute obscene material. Didn’t that include information on contraception?

Edmund shrugged. “She doesn’t hand out anything. She just leaves her door open and lets everyone know they can make themselves comfortable.” Mercifully, he changed the subject. “Any word on your Mrs. Foster?”

I shook my head. I’d surprised Edmund and Hannah when I had returned to the hospital the night before, instead of spending the evening with Mrs. Foster as I’d planned. I’d changed bedding and fed patients and scrubbed dishes until Hannah had ordered me home around midnight.

“Cleo, I was thinking . . . My aunt Clarissa lives with my father. Over on Davis. You could stay with them until your family comes home. They’d be happy to have you.”

I glanced at him. “You’ve already asked them?”

Edmund wouldn’t look me in the eye. “There’s plenty of room. And they know you’re helping out at the hospital. You could come and go whenever you liked.”

Kate had offered up her own family home. And now Edmund had as well. It dawned on me that had it not been for the influenza, I would not have met either of them.