A Death-Struck Year (13 page)

“Sure.”

Edmund hoisted me into the back of the truck. Wooden crates of varying sizes filled the cavernous space, along with metal headboards, footboards, and side rails. I lifted one of the smaller crates. Edmund grabbed one of the large ones. We passed them down to the soldiers who waited at the edge of the truck.

“Can I ask you something?” Edmund held a footboard and headboard in each hand.

“Yes,” I said.

“Are your parents liberals?”

The unexpectedness of the question made me laugh. “Liberals? Why?”

He smiled back. “Well, most girls aren’t even allowed to answer their front doors anymore. But you’re driving around, visiting every sick house in the city. Your parents sound more liberal than most. Like Kate’s.”

I passed a side rail down to a freckled soldier who looked younger than I did. “I don’t know if they were or not. They died a long time ago.” I saw his grimace, waved off his apology. “I live with my brother, Jack. He is the opposite of a liberal.”

He looked surprised. “Your brother’s Jackson Berry?”

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve heard of him. Is he your guardian?”

I nodded. “And his wife, Lucy. They’ll be home from San Francisco in a few weeks.” I wished my words back as soon as I spoke them. Why oh why did I say that? Now he would wonder . . .

“Where are you staying while they’re gone? With other family?”

I hesitated. “There’s just the three of us.”

Edmund glanced at me, and I looked away. “So you’re living with friends?”

Very carefully, I handed down a headboard. “No.”

Turning back, I inspected the crates, taking my time deciding which one to lift next. The seconds ticked by in silence. I heard a solid thump as he set his own crate down a few feet away. I hoped it wasn’t filled with morphine.

“You’re living by yourself?” Edmund sounded incredulous. “There’s no one else with you?”

It was beginning to feel uncomfortably like the Spanish Inquisition. Irritation sparked. I was not a child, and I did not need Edmund worrying about me. Again. “It’s only been for a few days. Our housekeeper will be home tomorrow.” It took some effort, but I kept my tone reasonable, hoping that would be the end of it.

Edmund refused to let it go.

His green eyes narrowed, showing the first signs of temper. “Cleo, what if you’d fallen ill before then? Hannah doesn’t check on volunteers who don’t show up. She’d never get anything else done.”

“I’ve been very careful,” I said, defensive. “I always wear my mask when I’m with patients. I’ve washed my hands so much they’re raw.” I held them, palms up, so he could see. “And I sleep with my windows open. I’ll be fine.”

Edmund looked unimpressed by my diligence. “I wouldn’t put much faith in that mask if I were you.”

“What do you mean?” I’d been wearing that rotten itchy mask for days. I saw now that he had not bothered to tie one around his neck. How come? Did he know something I didn’t?

“I mean you might as well try to keep the dust out with chicken wire.” He leaned against a stack of crates and folded his arms. “I was at St. Vincent’s last night. There are two nurses, one chaplain, and two doctors lying in those cots. All of them wore masks. All of them followed the rules. And all of them are sick. And not one of them is over thirty years old.”

I gripped the sides of a crate but did not lift it. In my head, Lucy’s soft, lilting voice reminded me that I did not get into arguments with boys I hardly knew. Especially not in the back of trucks.

“You’re trying to frighten me,” I said.

He muttered something rude under his breath. “I am trying to show you how careless you’ve been. You—” He looked down, startled by the finger I’d poked into his chest.

“
You
live in a flu hospital!” I snapped, pointing toward the Auditorium. “You eat here, breathe here,
sleep
here, and then lecture me on staying safe. You are a black pot, Edmund Parrish!”

“Maybe so.” His voice, though soft, was just as angry. “But if I were sick, everyone here would know it. I am accounted for, every hour of the day. And if I’m not where I’m supposed to be, someone comes looking. It is common sense, Cleo.” He took a deep breath, fighting for patience, which only made me madder. “You could be dead in your empty house, and no one would know it. What do you think that would do to your family? To anyone who cares about you?”

There was an awful truth to his words. I knew it, but just then I would rather have jumped off the Hawthorne Bridge than admit it. We glared at each other. I looked away first.

“I have to go,” I mumbled. “Kate’s waiting.” Seeing me at the edge of the truck, the freckled soldier smiled and offered up his hand. I reached for it.

“Cleo,” Edmund said.

There was an apology in his tone. It stopped me. I looked over my shoulder. Edmund stood in the center of the truck, hands shoved deep in his pockets, his face half lost in the shadows.

“Maybe I was trying to scare you,” he admitted. “A little. I’m sorry. It’s just . . . It bothers me that no one is watching out for you.” Silently, the soldier glanced back and forth between us, his eyebrows raised right up to his hairline.

It bothered him. Well, it bothered me too.

“I am not your responsibility,” I said. Without another word, I grabbed the soldier’s hand and jumped onto the street. I marched off, wondering what in God’s name had just happened.

“This is a terrible idea.”

“Five minutes,” Kate insisted. “We’ll buy our lunch and leave in five minutes. Look, we can eat over there.” She pointed down the street, toward the entrance to a square.

“I don’t know . . .” I cast a dubious glance at our surroundings. Thousands of circulars had been distributed, warning everyone to keep away from crowded places. Was no one reading them? Or were they just ignoring the flyers, as we were about to do? There was no place in the city more crowded than this.

Kate’s sigh lasted a full three seconds. “Cleo, I’m famished. It’s five minutes. Come on!” She grabbed my hand, and, against my better judgment, I allowed myself to be pulled into the throng.

The Carroll Public Market stretched along Yamhill Street for three long blocks. Each morning, hundreds of vendors converged, hawking everything from eggs to cream to freshly slaughtered meats. A family sold jars of warm, golden honey, while one mustachioed vendor shouted, “Oranges! Sweet oranges!” The heady aroma of frying potatoes filled the air. Housewives arrived on streetcars, baskets swinging from their arms, taking advantage of the break in the weather. The women rubbed elbows with businessmen and laborers and vagrants, each haggling for the lowest prices on the choicest offerings.

We passed a stand displaying crates of juicy Spitzenberg apples. A short, stocky man stood beside it, polishing the bright red fruit with his apron. He held the apple up to us, a persuasive smile on his face. I smiled and shook my head, then glanced at the clock tower. It was one o’clock. We had spent the morning visiting one rooming house after another. I was very hungry, which always made me snappish, and my mood soured even further every time I thought about Edmund Parrish.

Which was often.

In the hours since I’d seen him, my indignation had shifted to a deep embarrassment. Because I’d come to accept that, to Edmund, I was my own sort of unattended case. Not sick or helpless, but on my own. Without anyone knowing where I was or whether I made it home safely. He’d only been concerned, and I’d stormed off in a huff—after jabbing him in the chest. I relived our conversation over and over again, wincing every time.

“My brother Charlie says that if you scowl like that, and someone slaps you on the back, your face will stay that way forever,” Kate said.

“Very funny,” I said.

Kate tucked her arm into mine. “Don’t be mad at him for keeps, Cleo. He means well.”

“He hardly knows me.”

“Why does that matter?
I
hardly know you,” she pointed out. “But I still worry.” She stopped in front of a cheese vendor and pointed to a small orange wheel. “How much?” she asked.

While Kate haggled, I wandered over to a neighboring stand that sold fresh bread. It was run by a stooped elderly woman. A worn red kerchief covered her hair. I dropped coins into her outstretched palm and tucked a long, crispy loaf into my empty bag. It extended a foot behind me. This part of Yamhill was closed to automobiles, and as I rejoined Kate, we made our way down the center of the street toward the square.

“Pardon me,” said a voice behind us.

We turned. A young man stood with a rolled-up newspaper in one hand. He had a rugged, muscular look about him: dark curly hair and eyebrows so thick they nearly met above his nose. He wore a black topcoat and yellow scarf, overdressed for the weather. Pinpricks of sweat beaded his forehead.

“I beg your pardon,” he repeated, tipping his hat and offering a friendly smile. “I’ve just arrived in town. I wonder if you could tell me where I might find the Dekum Building?”

“Certainly.” I pointed down the street, past the hotel and courthouse. “It’s a few blocks that way. You’ll want to turn right on Washington Street.”

“The Dekum will be several blocks down,” Kate added. “It’s difficult to miss.”

The stranger glanced down the street, before he said, “I’m obliged to you both. Good day, ladies.” After one final cheerful smile, he tipped his hat again and strode off. We watched as he made his way around a tired-looking woman pushing a stroller. Six well-dressed children—all blond, all masked—trailed behind her in a single row like ducklings. They ranged in age from two to ten. The younger children were amusing themselves with a song. As they passed, I heard:

Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching

I spy Kaiser at the door

And we’ll get a lemon pie and we’ll squash it in his eye

And there won’t be any Kaiser anymore.

Which reminded me . . . I turned to Kate. “How many brothers and sisters do you have?” I asked.

“Thirteen.”

I stopped dead in my tracks. Fourteen children in total! I couldn’t imagine a worse fate. I struggled to clear my expression, hoping Kate had not seen my horror.

Too late.

Kate looked at me with good humor. “Believe me, I know. Robert and Charlie are my older brothers. Then there’s Waverley, Etta, Ruby, me, Amelia, Celeste, Annamae, Michael, James, Dexter, Jonathan, and Gabriel. Gabriel is two.”

“That’s . . . that’s lovely,” I lied.

Kate laughed. We continued on our way. She gave me a sideways glance. “There are ways to prevent babies. Did you know that?”

My head whipped around. It was the very last thing I expected to hear. “How would I know that?” I asked, keeping my voice low as we were jostled on both sides. “How do
you
know that?”

Kate grinned. “Waverley used to bring all kinds of interesting things home from the hospital. I found a birth-control booklet once, written by some nurse in New York City. It’s fascinating. I’ll bring it tomorrow so you can see.”

“What does it say?” I asked, curious despite myself. I realized I had never heard the words “birth control” spoken out loud before. Not even by Margaret. Certainly not by Lucy.

Kate thought for a moment. “Well, she recommends condoms, but you have to make sure they don’t break.” She laughed at my expression before continuing. “Then there’s the sponge, and the douche, and Beecham’s Pills. And women in France use the pessary all the time. It’s supposed to be very efficient.”

“What is it?”

“It’s a rubber—”

A woman screamed. Startled, I looked around. A crowd had gathered on the sidewalk just outside the Portland Hotel. Several pointed to a prone form lying on the ground. It was a person. A person. And no one was trying to help.

Kate and I exchanged a frantic glance and sprinted over.

“Cleo,” Kate puffed beside me, sounding scared. “The scarf. I think it’s the same man.”

It was. We knelt on either side of him. He lay face-down, his hat crushed beneath one shoulder. We turned him over. His eyes were closed. In the minutes since we had last spoken, blood had appeared on his face, streaming from his nose and soaking his yellow scarf.

“Oh!” I cried.

Kate lifted the man’s head off the sidewalk so it rested against her skirt. Blood dribbled onto her.

Around us, I heard the whispers of
influenza
and
plague
and
la grippe.
Someone said the man didn’t have a prayer. A woman on a bicycle swerved around us without stopping. I looked into the crowd, saw the anxiety and the fear. Everyone took care not to come too close.

I jumped to my feet. “I’ll get the car,” I said.

Kate’s eyes were wide with fright. “Hurry,” she said, but I needed no further urging.

I ran.

The car was parked three blocks away. I returned within minutes, pressing the horn so the other drivers would clear out of my way. The crowd had thinned, though people continued to walk by with their eyes averted. Kate looked at me and shook her head. Stunned, I dropped to my knees and checked his pulse. One thumb pressed lightly against his inner wrist, the way I’d seen Hannah and Edmund do it. I felt nothing.

He had been alive and well minutes ago, asking for directions.

The man’s newspaper had fallen to the ground. It was a special edition I had not yet seen. The headline read
INFLUENZA WANES IN PORTLAND, SERIOUS SPREAD UNLIKELY
.

What’s true of all the evils in the world is true of plague as well.
It helps men to rise above themselves.

—Albert Camus,
The Plague

Monday, October 14, 1918

Kate slammed the car door shut and ran up the Auditorium steps. I followed at a snail’s pace, watching as she vanished inside. My feet were heavy, sluggish. I tried to make sense of what had just happened but could not.