A Death-Struck Year (22 page)

A car door slammed. There were voices, male voices. I scrambled out of bed, shivering in the morning chill. Goose bumps appeared on my arms. I tugged the quilt free and wrapped it around my shoulders before scurrying across the wooden floor. I peered out the window.

A truck was parked on the curb, the words
U.S. ARMY
emblazoned across its side. I could see Sergeant LaBouef in the driver’s seat, his profile sharp and distinctive. Behind the truck was my own Tin Lizzie, looking as clean and polished as when Jack first drove it home. As I looked on, Edmund stepped from my car dressed in a tan mackintosh and a brown checked cap. He didn’t try to smother a yawn. He walked around to the truck’s passenger door, then paused, turning to look at the house.

Our eyes met through the glass. I placed one palm against the windowpane before mouthing the words
Thank you.
Unsmiling, Edmund inclined his head. An acknowledgment. The truck roared to life, its engine loud enough to wake the neighborhood. Edmund jumped in. His window remained open. I could see his arm resting on the frame.

Touched, I leaned my forehead against the glass and watched as the truck disappeared down the street.

The courier hurried down my front path, tripping once before climbing on his bicycle. I didn’t pay any attention as he pedaled away—I was too focused on the Pikes’ home across the street. A sliver of black wool fluttered against their front door. It had been there all morning.

I walked into the house and shut the door.

C
LEO, LEAVING TOMORROW
. W
ILL STAY NIGHT IN
K. F
ALLS
, B
ALDWIN
H
OTEL
. H
OME
F
RIDAY
. H
AVE
M
RS
. F
OSTER MEET
S
O
. P
ACIFIC
#13. 7:30. J
ACK
.

Klamath Falls. Jack and Lucy would be in Oregon tomorrow. There was a chair beside the entry table. I sat down, hard, and pressed the telegram to my chest.

The spider was black and hairy, with scuttling little legs that made my skin crawl. I shoved my chair back so fast it nearly tipped over. The spider made its way across the kitchen table and onto my spoon before tumbling into the bowl of oatmeal. Normally, I would have hollered for Jack, who would have coaxed it onto a newspaper and escorted it outdoors. Or screeched for Mrs. Foster, who would have rolled up the same paper and thumped the spider flat. I would not have bothered with Lucy. She would have taken one look and started screaming right alongside me. I eyed the creature floundering in the milk.
This is your lucky day, spider,
I thought. I did not have the heart to watch anything die today.

I folded the front page of the
Oregonian
into a square and set the paper’s edge alongside the bowl’s rim. Seeing the lifeline, the spider plucked its thin legs from my breakfast and scurried onto a small, grainy photograph of Mayor Baker, who looked as if he were at his wits’ end. Tipping the paper downward so the spider wouldn’t be tempted to crawl up onto my arm, I opened the back door and knelt, giving the newspaper a gentle shake. The spider jumped onto the porch and scurried between the railings.

It was midmorning. Since waking at dawn, I’d done nothing except think of Kate. And of Edmund. And of Hannah. I wondered how she was making do, with people falling ill all around her. And with volunteers like me, who’d decided they’d had enough and stayed away.

Straightening, I watched my old wooden swing rock in the breeze beneath a gnarled oak tree. Great piles of wet sunset- colored leaves carpeted the ground. Our gardener, Mr. Rose, should have been here by now, raking and preparing the garden for winter. I thought about sifting through Mrs. Foster’s telephone numbers and contacting him myself, then dismissed the thought. Even if I could get through, Mrs. Foster would not appreciate my meddling with her routine. She would call Mr. Rose herself when she returned.

Behind me, the kettle whistled. I shut out the cold and tossed the newspaper onto the counter. I set about making my tea. Gathering my cup, I retrieved the newspaper and placed both beside the bowl of ruined oatmeal.

I stared at the paper. Minutes ticked by before I unfolded it and skimmed through until I found the list on page seven. Twenty-nine dead yesterday. More than two hundred in total. A terrible curiosity filled me as I read through the names:

• B. B. Armstrong, 39, machinist, 998 East Seventeenth Street.
  
• Zoe Z. Novel, 25, teacher, 853 Upshur Street.
  
• George A. Groshens, 33, fireman, 426 Beech Street.
  

It went on. Machinist, teacher, fireman. Lives reduced in print to the barest of facts. Was that really all they had been? There was no mention of their dreams or disappointments, or of the people left behind to mourn their loss. I felt angry at the waste. I started to turn the page when I saw the last name printed on the list.

And I remembered there was another reason I’d begun to shy away from the paper. A part of me had known that, had I continued to look, eventually I would come across a name that would crack my heart wide open. For me, today was that day.

• Katherine Bennett, 17, 520 Goodpasture Island Road.
  

Kate.

I crumpled the paper with both hands and threw it across the room.

“Hannah.” I was hovering in the door of the ticket office.

Hannah glanced up from her desk, her eyes widening when she saw what I held in my arms. “Oh!” She jumped to her feet and crossed the room.

I tightened my hold on the sleeping toddler—a brown-haired, blue-eyed little girl—and spoke in a rush. “I could hear her crying from the porch. No one answered my knock and the doors were all locked, so I climbed in a window. I took her temperature. She has a fever, but it’s slight. I thought it best to give her a bath and feed her before I brought her in. She took some water, but she won’t eat. And her name is Winnifred. Winnie.” I took a deep breath and finished: “She told me her name before she fell asleep in the car.”

Hannah was staring at me with the oddest expression.

“What is it?” I asked, smoothing the child’s hair.

“Nothing. I didn’t expect to see you. Here, give her to me.”

I transferred the child into her arms. I’d had no intention of ever returning to the Auditorium, of even driving near it. Until I’d climbed into my car, merely meaning to move it into the carriage house, and saw Kate’s Red Cross bag lying up on the front seat. The list of addresses had fallen to the floor. We’d not had a chance to make our rounds yesterday before Hannah had called us in. Before Dr. Montee had spoken of a vaccine. Before my whole world had gone to pieces. And tempted as I was to throw the list into the fire and be done with it, I couldn’t.

If not me, then who?

Hannah pressed the back of her hand against Winnie’s cheek. “Where are her parents?” she asked.

“I don’t know. She was alone. I searched the house and the yard. There was no one.”

“Where does she live?”

“On Russell Street. Eight twenty-three Russell Street.”

Hannah looked thoughtful. “A woman was brought in late last night. Someone found her wandering Morris in her nightgown. No shoes. No coat. He brought her here.”

Morris was only a few blocks away from Russell.

“How is she?” I asked.

“I’ll find out. Thank you, Cleo.” Hannah adjusted the blanket around the girl and turned to go.

I stepped forward. “Hannah.”

She turned.

“I wanted to say goodbye. For now. My brother’s coming home Friday and I’m not sure . . . that is . . .” I trailed off, feeling terrible. What a time to abandon ship. “The truth is, I’m not supposed to be anywhere near here. I’m sorry, Hannah.”

To my surprise, Hannah smiled. “Cleo, look at this child. Why are you sorry?”

I looked at the ground. “There are other children.”

“And you are one person.” Her tone was firm. “You’ve been a godsend. Just like Kate was. But there’s such a thing as tempting fate.” She leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Go. Keep your family close. I’ll see you when this is all over with.”

With that, Hannah left, Winnie cradled in her arms.

I left the Auditorium, my steps slow and tentative on the slick granite. I’d tried to find Edmund, but Sergeant LaBouef said he’d gone to Chinatown with some of the other soldiers. Patients had been turning up from the Chinese district, an area just south of the train station. Most of the men who lived there didn’t have families, so no one thought to check on them. Edmund had gone to help. He wouldn’t be back anytime soon.

The wind whipped at my scarf, lifting it off my red coat and flinging it over my shoulder. It was a strange feeling, walking around without pamphlets and masks, without my armband. Without Kate. I held my hat in place with one hand as I crossed the street.

I drove away without a backward glance.

Thursday, October 24, 1918

The Bennetts lived on the eastern edge of town in a cherry-colored farmhouse. A dairy barn, also red, with a Gothic roof and adjacent silo, stood off to one side. Cows grazed in the yard, and the smell of hay and manure scented the air. I stood on the porch with my hand raised to knock. A voice drifted through an open window. Old and frail. An elderly man. I dropped my hand and listened.

“I have scheduled the service for Saturday, Mrs. Bennett. I’m afraid it will have to be very small, under the circumstances.”

“I understand, Reverend Fitch. Thank you. There will just be my husband and myself. And the children, of course.” Kate’s mother sounded fragile and exhausted. And broken.

I lowered my head. What was I thinking, coming here? The Bennetts were in mourning. I was a stranger. I had not thought . . . I’d lain in bed last night until a welcome exhaustion overtook me and I fell asleep. Then I had woken, dressed, and come here. No, I had not thought.

“Where is your husband, Mrs. Bennett?” Reverend Fitch asked. “I had hoped to discuss Katherine’s arrangements with you both.”

“John is upstairs. Resting. Katherine is . . . was his favorite, you see. I’m afraid he cannot bring himself to discuss her burial just yet.”

“And your other children?”

“Waverley has gone back to St. Vincent’s. Ruby and Etta have taken the younger children to my sister’s.”

There was a pause. “I see. Very well, I will place the funeral notice in the papers. That is no trouble at all. But I’m afraid we . . . we won’t be able to have Katherine buried until the middle of November. Perhaps later.”

I heard a gasp and my hand flew to cover my mouth, before I realized the sound had not come from me.

“The middle of November!” cried Mrs. Bennett. “That is weeks away!”

There was a long sigh. “I am sorry. Most of the men we hired to dig the graves are gone. Some have fallen ill themselves. Some have fled. I cannot find anyone who will take the job. The men we do have are working as fast as they can, I promise you.”

“Couldn’t we hire someone ourselves? We’ll pay anything!”

“There is no one to hire. I am sorry, Cecily. More sorry than I can say. I have known that child since she was a baby. And if there was any strength left in these old bones, I would dig her grave myself. We have no choice but to wait.”

I heard weeping. Through my own tears, I noticed the crepe on the door. Horrible, white, flickering in the wind. Careful, so as not to alert the house’s occupants, I backed away. Down the steps, across the pathway, and through the gate, latching it carefully behind me.

“No! What are you asking, missy? Lord have mercy!”

The caretaker looked scandalized. He eyed my worn overalls, the ones I used to help in the garden and never, ever wore in public. Until today. I could tell from his expression he was wondering if I was gassed. But I wasn’t gassed. I was as sober and determined as the president of the Temperance Society.

“Mr. Tucker, I understand this is an . . . an unorthodox request,” I said, using Jack’s favorite term for all things preposterous. I gestured toward the caskets piled high against the cottage wall. The small stone house was situated in a far-off corner of the cemetery and served as the caretaker’s home. “But you have dozens of people waiting to be buried. You’re short on men. I can help.”

Mr. Tucker spat, nearly spraying the caskets with thick, dark liquid. My stomach lurched. I struggled to keep my expression neutral. I did not want to do anything to offend this crusty old man. I needed his permission.

Mr. Tucker scratched his ear. “This Katherine Bennett. She’s kin?”

“No, sir. She was a friend.”

“Hasn’t she got any brothers?”

“There are brothers, plenty of them. But the oldest two are in France. The rest are still little boys.”

“In France, huh? My boy’s off in Frogtown too. Fighting those good-for-nothing Krauts.”

He chewed his cud, deliberating. He wavered. I could see it. I kept silent, looking across the graveyard to where a pretty stone church stood at the top of a small slope. Though regular gatherings were prohibited, brief funeral services were still allowed. All around us, the trees sheltered the gravestones, and the grass lay damp and matted from last night’s storm. Men with shovels bent over muddy pits. There were three of them. Not nearly enough. The early-afternoon sun hid behind the clouds. I knew even that paltry light would disappear before long. I wished Mr. Tucker would hurry up and say yes. I did not want to be anywhere near this cemetery come nightfall.

Mr. Tucker shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I sure could use the help, but I can’t abide by a girl digging alone. It simply ain’t done.”

I opened my mouth to argue. From the other side of the cottage, I heard a car approach. The engine was cut, a door slammed. Then another. I closed my eyes, relief and fatigue threatening to send me to my knees. I wasn’t sure if he’d come.

I should have known better.

I had stopped by the Auditorium after leaving the Bennetts’. Edmund hadn’t been there, but I’d left word with Sergeant LaBouef, telling him where I’d be and why. The sergeant promised to deliver the message as soon as Edmund returned. Then I’d gone home to change and fetch a shovel. He must have raced over as soon as he heard.