A Death-Struck Year (3 page)

“There you are!” She pushed Greta aside and collapsed onto the bench. Her face was flushed and her spectacles crooked. She looked like she’d run around the entire school twice.

“What’s wrong?” I asked, alarmed.

Grace caught her breath, and then spoke in a great rush. “I was walking by Miss Gillette’s classroom. She was talking to Miss Abernathy, and I heard her say that soldiers arrived at Camp Lewis a few days ago. Their train came from somewhere back east. Boston, I think.” Emily and Anna fell in a giggling heap nearby. Grace lowered her voice. “The soldiers—they’re all sick, Cleo. Every last one of them. They’re saying it’s Spanish influenza.”

A tight, unpleasant feeling gathered inside me. “It could just be regular old influenza,” I argued. “It’s almost October. How do they know for sure?”

Grace looked frightened. “Miss Gillette says it’s not like any influenza they’ve ever seen. And two of the men have died already. Died, Cleo! You don’t just
die
after two days of the flu!”

I gripped my pencil. My mouth felt, suddenly, as if it were filled with ashes.

“Cleo.” Grace wrung her hands. “Oh, Cleo. Camp Lewis.”

I stared at Greta. She looked up at me with her two button eyes. It struck me that I would have no comforting words to offer Emily now. Because Camp Lewis wasn’t thousands of miles away, in some godforsaken part of the country. No. Camp Lewis was an easy train ride north. In Washington.

Only one state away.

I sidled around a corner, quick as a cat. Past the music room, the art studio, the science laboratory, the library. I crept by the teachers’ parlor, where muffled conversation rose and fell behind thick doors. Dinner was long over; the halls were empty. Thankfully. It would not do to be seen wandering about at this hour. I should have been in my room, finishing my homework and preparing for bed.

Not helping a friend with a ghastly,
ghastly
task.

At the end of the hall, I slipped into the dining room. Moonlight filtered through the diamond-cross windows, casting shadows onto long, wooden tables. Usually, the chatter of one hundred and fifty girls filled the space, along with the clink of silverware and the scraping of chairs against the floor. Tonight the silence swallowed me up. I made my way to the far end of the room, where the teachers’ table stood upon a slightly raised dais, and opened the door.

Margaret stood in the center of a sizable kitchen, swimming in one of Mrs. Brody’s aprons. She jumped at my entrance, her blue eyes wide. A scrub brush clattered onto the countertop.

“It’s just me,” I said, apologetically. I walked into the room, careful not to trip over the apple crates scattered across the tiles. I could guess the menu for the week: baked apples, apple dumplings, apple stuffing, apple cider, applesauce. With the food shortages and inflation caused by the war, Mrs. Brody, the school cook, had grown especially careful. We would be eating apples every day until the last one was gone.

Margaret pressed a hand to her chest, leaving a damp imprint on the white cloth. “Honestly, Cleo,” she said, glowering. “I thought you were Lizzie Borden.”

Two metal buckets had been placed on the counter before her. I peeked in one of them, recoiling when I saw it was filled with discarded nectarine pits, chunks of slimy fruit still hanging from most of them.

“Ugh,”
I said. “How much longer?”

Margaret made a face. “Ten days.”

“What rotten luck.”

Last weekend Mrs. Brody had caught Margaret trying to sneak in through the kitchen well past curfew. Her hair was mussed and her blouse misbuttoned, though she refused to tell anyone where she had gone. Or whom she had met. It was not hard to guess. Her parents were away, so Margaret’s true day of reckoning was postponed. In the meantime, she was to collect the fruit pits from our plates and scrub them clean before they were delivered to the Red Cross.

The pits were needed for carbon. The carbon was needed for gas masks.

I watched as Margaret scooped a pit from one bucket, scrubbed the flesh free with her brush, and tossed it into the second container. I glanced around. Another, equally enormous apron hung from a hook beside one of the iceboxes. I put it on, wrapping the belt three times around my waist before securing it behind me. I slid onto a stool and reached into the first bucket. Saliva and old fruit coated my fingers.
Ghastly.
Swallowing hard, I fumbled with the slippery pit, scrubbed the offending flesh off, and tossed it into the second bucket. It was trickier than it looked, and a thousand times more disgusting.

Margaret watched my struggle. A small grateful smile replaced her frown. “Thanks, Cleo.”

“Humph,” I replied, though her smile made up for it a little. Margaret rarely smiled these days. It was more common to see her sitting at her desk, staring off into space, twisting the gold locket Harris had given her for her birthday. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen her look anything other than miserable.

I held my hand over the trash bin. Fruit slithered from my fingers into the receptacle. “Grace told me about Harris,” I said. “I’m sorry, Meg.”

Margaret’s eyes flickered to mine, then dropped. “His mother had a fit when she heard.” There was a slight catch to her voice. “Harry says she won’t leave her room, not even to eat.”

I reached over and squeezed Margaret’s fruit-coated hand, near tears myself. Last year, only months after we’d entered the war, a draft had been passed, requiring the enlistment of all able-bodied men aged twenty-one to thirty. Harris was nineteen. But recently, the draft had been extended to those aged eighteen to forty-five. The first to be called up were young men without wives or dependents. Grace’s brother, Peter, had already left the University of Oregon for training. So had Fanny’s brothers, James and Robert. They were boys we knew. Brothers and chums. I thought of Margaret’s good-natured Harris Brown. And sweethearts.

My stomach knotted again, but this time it had nothing to do with pits. My own brother was thirty-four years old.

“Will he have time to come home?” I released her hand. “Or will he leave straight from school?”

“He’ll take the train home next week.” Margaret sniffled, then dashed away a tear with her sleeve. “He can stay a few days.”

“Where will he go? Not Camp Lewis?”

Margaret shook her head. “Fort Stevens,” she said, naming the military base at the mouth of the Columbia River. “Harry thinks there’ll be an official quarantine announcement at Camp Lewis soon. Only doctors and nurses are being allowed through the gates.” She gave up on the pits, staring down at her reddened hands. “At least he’ll be close by. Some of his schoolmates are being sent to California.”

“Maybe he won’t have to leave Oregon at all.” I tried to sound reassuring. “The newspapers are saying it won’t last much longer. I heard it could all be over by Thanksgiving.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” Bitterness crept into Margaret’s tone. “How long have they been saying that? ‘The war will be over by Thanksgiving. Our boys will be home by Christmas.’” She flung a pit into the bucket so hard it
thwang
ed against the metal side. “The newspapers say lots of things, Cleo.”

Stung, I said nothing. The silence stretched on for a time, broken only by the sound of pits hitting metal. I glanced at Margaret. A question hovered on the tip of my tongue. I hesitated, because I knew saying the words aloud would only make them harder to ignore.

“Camp Lewis isn’t very far.” I wiped my hands on Mrs. Brody’s apron. “Do you think we’ll see it here?”

Margaret didn’t answer at first. “My father says we won’t,” she finally said. “He says the influenza never lasts this long. That it’s bound to run its course before it reaches Portland.” She lifted a handful of pits and studied them, though I had the feeling she saw something else entirely. “I think they try to pretend that we’re still children. That we won’t figure it out for ourselves.” She opened her hand, allowing the pits to slide back into the bucket. She looked at me across the countertop, her blue eyes dark and sober. “But it’s everywhere else, Cleo. Why not here?”

It was midnight. The witching hour. I lay sleepless, listening as Grace’s snores filled the room. My mind whirled. I thought about the soldiers at Camp Lewis. About coffin shortages. About Jack and Lucy, hundreds of miles away in San Francisco. I tossed and turned, pounding my pillow into a shapeless lump. Finally, I gave up.

Carefully, so as not to wake anyone, I reached for my wrapper. I slipped out of the room and crept down the hall in bare feet. A single table lamp provided the only source of light. I gripped the banister and descended the staircase, wincing as the old steps creaked beneath me.

The library was located on the main floor just beyond the staircase. I felt my way about in near darkness for the door. Mr. Brownmiller never locked the room. I switched on a lamp, illuminating mahogany shelves that rose from floor to ceiling. Study tables were scattered about, along with wing-backed chairs the color of rubies. Mr. Brownmiller’s giant globe stood beside his desk. The library smelled faintly of lemons, reminding me, though I wished it didn’t, of home.

I wandered over to the closest shelf, one finger trailing along the spines as I searched for something to bore me into unconsciousness.
Meditations, The Muse in Arms, Ethan Frome.
Just as I was about to tug
Richard III
free, another title caught my eye. I reached down and pulled
Aesop’s Fables
from a low shelf.

I settled into a chair, reaching behind me to switch on a second lamp. The book was oversize, with a deep purple cover bordered in gold ivy. I had been six years old the first time I’d seen this copy. That morning the sun poured in through the classroom windows, so bright I could see the dust motes suspended in the air. I’d been scribbling on my slate, practicing my penmanship with the rest of the girls in the lower school, while Miss Gillette wrote out the day’s lesson on the chalkboard. And then I had started to cry. It happened sometimes, tears that would come from nowhere. One moment I felt fine, and the next I would remember what I’d lost with a keenness that left me breathless.

The whole class had ground to a halt, shocked. There was a giggle from Fanny, quickly shushed. Miss Gillette escorted me to Miss Elliot’s office, murmuring words such as
There, there
and
You poor dear.

Jack was summoned to take me home for the day. I was sent to wait for him in the library with Mr. Brownmiller. I sat on the floor in a puddle of white muslin. A book on horses lay unopened before me. An hour passed. There was no one else about, Mr. Brownmiller having gone off to run a brief errand. Once again, my tears fell unchecked. Pushing the book aside, I wrapped my arms around my legs and buried my face in my knees.

It was not long before I realized I was not alone. I lifted my head. Jack stood several feet away, hands buried in the pockets of a tan suit. He perused the bookshelf, seemingly unaware of my presence. I glanced around, wondering if I had somehow become invisible.

Finally, he glanced down. “Do you know the stories of Aesop?” he asked, making no mention of my tears.

I shook my head, sniffling, and stared at the rug. I did not know what to make of this brother, whom I did not remember but who looked so much like my papa it hurt to watch him. Jack had gone to an important school in Paris, I knew, where they taught you to build beautiful buildings. Mama had said Jack and Lucy were to stay in France, and we would visit them the following spring. But that was before. Jack had come home, appearing at the Keatings’, where I had gone to stay after the accident. My brother was kind. But I knew he was only here because he had to be. Because of me.

“No?” Jack selected a large purple book from the shelf. With little regard for his suit, he dropped to the rug beside me and crossed his legs. He set the book aside before reaching over, lifting me beneath my arms, and plopping me in front of him. Jack settled
Aesop’s Fables
onto my lap and paged through it.

“When I was your age,” his voice rumbled against my back, “I always liked ‘The Tortoise and the Hare’ and ‘The Goose That Laid the Golden Eggs.’ But my favorite was . . . ah. Here it is. Would you like me to read it to you?”

“Yes.” I studied the title. “Grief and His Due.” Below it was a picture of a bearded man dressed in a flowing robe. He sat on a throne, one hand stretched toward the dark-haired woman who knelt before him. The woman’s head was bowed, and tears poured from her eyes to form a small lake on the ground before her. I swiped at my damp cheek, hesitant.

Jack cleared his throat. “‘Grief and His Due. When the Roman god Jupiter was assigning the various lesser gods their privileges, it so happened that Grief was not present with the rest. But when all had received their share, Grief arrived and claimed his due. Jupiter was at a loss, for there was nothing left for Grief. At last, Jupiter decided that Grief should be given the tears that are shed for the dead. Thus it is the same with Grief as it is with the other gods. The more you honor him, the more lavish he is with his gifts. It is not well, therefore, to mourn long for loved ones. Else Grief, whose sole pleasure is in such mourning, will be quick to send fresh cause for tears.’”

Jack tipped my chin and studied me, his gray eyes somber. “Do you know what this story is trying to tell us, Cleo?”

I was unsure. “That . . . that I should try not to be so sad all the time?”

A small smile appeared on his face. “You can be sad. I miss them too.” He wiped my tears away with his thumb. “But sometimes the hardest decision is choosing to be happy again.”

My lip wobbled. Four months had passed since Mama and Papa’s carriage had careened off the road into the ravine. Four months since I had gone to bed without having to cry myself to sleep.

For a long time, the only sound came from the
ticktock
ing of the grandfather clock in the hall. My brother, this stranger, pressed a kiss to the top of my head. He drew out his pocket watch—Papa’s old watch—and flipped it open. “Well, it’s nearly time for lunch,” he said. “And I have a hankering for Swetland’s. What do you say?”