Deadly (18 page)

Early this morning, after the story broke, several men from other newspapers gathered about on the pavement in front of our building, hungry for a story. As I walked up the steps, a man came to me and pushed his pencil and pad into my face.

“Miss Prudence Galewski, is it true that you had a hand in the capture and arrest of Mary Mallon, the human typhoid germ carrier?” he shouted at me.

I tried to pass him, stunned by his question, by his use of my name. He planted himself in front of me and would not budge.

“Miss Galewski, does the department really have proof that this woman carries disease?”

The way he shouted made me want to shield my head, to run from him.

“Is it true you're treating an innocent woman like a criminal? A criminal, Miss Galewski?”

I could not breathe; tears gathered in my eyes, a burn began in my stomach. He would not step aside to let me through. The other reporters crowded me, throwing words at me. Like a pack of wolves biting into me. I covered my ears and bowed my head, hoping they would go away.

Suddenly, from behind, I felt hands on my arms, grabbing me, pushing me around the man. I heard: “Leave her alone!” I tried to see who it was, but the hands guided me through the crowd. “Outta the way, give us room!” he demanded. This man directed me up the stairs and to my office, where he released me. I saw the face of the science fellow who had tormented me. Jonathan. I wanted to holler at him for touching me and thank him for saving me at the same time. I could not stop shaking. He walked away before I could collect my senses.

All the months we worked to find Mary, all that we went through, boiled down to this one article. Now I know who the strange men were in our office, talking to Mr. Soper and Dr. Baker. I don't understand why my chief and the doctor didn't show them our notes or the test results, or explain the steps we went through, or the theory itself.

Or maybe they did.

Our superintendent is outraged; he can't believe the brazenness of the press, and the way they twisted the facts. He called a meeting this evening; everyone involved in the case attended, even Dr. Parks and the policemen who brought Mary in.

“We will give them no more information, since they don't know how to treat it properly,” Mr. Briggs said. He's a small, nervous man, but his voice boomed, “I don't want
any
of you talking to
anyone
about this case. Not a name, not a place, not a single fact! That's it! Not a word!”

We found out that it was the Bowings, the family Mary worked for, who went to the newspaper looking for public sympathy.

Before I left work tonight, I saw that Mr. Briggs had ordered men to be stationed in front of our building. We now have police guarding our doors.

T
he newspaper
articles about Mary Mallon and our work have mushroomed, with a new crop of falsehoods every day. The
Herald
article named me as a medical intern, and the
Sun
said Mary Mallon has been removed from the city entirely, to a hidden destination in New Jersey. I am now famous in the neighborhood thanks to the papers, and I wake up with a stomachache every morning. Her Majesty Zanberger calls me into her stuffy, cabbagey apartment and tries to get gossip out of me. She has begun a scrapbook, which she shows to anyone who'll stop long enough to look. “Everyone's so proud of you,” she says, “and we want to know all about this human typhoid germ.”

Of course, I cannot and do not tell her anything.

Where I was once the observer, now I am the observed. This attention is like a constant bright ray in my eyes that I
cannot shut off. It's painful and upsetting, all the personal questions, the probes into my privacy. Miss Lara pinned me to the vegetable cart to ask when I had attended medical school. Our butcher, Mr. Barren, withheld meat from me. He wanted to know where exactly this Germ Lady was imprisoned, and wouldn't give me the soup bones unless I told. He seemed very nervous about me touching the meat cases, as if I myself carried disease.

Once false stories are printed in the newspapers, my neighbors believe them. It's impossible to correct every misstatement, especially since I'm forbidden to speak about the case.

Seeing my name in the newspapers has changed me down deep. It's given me a sense of responsibility, it's made me see how important the truth is.

I wish there was a way to tell the truth. To make people understand.

Mary Mallon has been moved to a hospital on North Brother Island, between Queens and the Bronx, just a short ferry ride away. Mr. Briggs had her moved right after the first article appeared. This place affords the doctors the privacy to study her properly. They are contemplating removing Mary's gallbladder, which they suspect is the culprit in producing
the typhoid germs. I worry about this sort of experimentation with her; I think of the nightmare I had, her pleading with me to protect her. Mr. Soper assures me they will first try every other manner to cure her, as stomach surgery is fraught with the possibility of infection, for which there is no cure. There is no proof it would work, he says, but it may be her only choice, if she wants to return to her previous life.

Perhaps that's what makes this case so hard to explain to other people.

How do I tell them: We are not sure how to treat her?

We don't know how to cure her.

All we know is that she mustn't cook for anyone.

F
inally I
found the right moment to tell Marm my decision about medical school. Our attention had been drawn to the newspapers, and maybe I was a little frightened of what she might say.

Last night she looked so sweet, warming her knees by the stove, sewing a new bag for her midwifery instruments. I leaned on the arm of her chair and took one of her curls in my finger. My throat tensed; the words tangled there. I worried she'd be unhappy with me for wanting to go so far from her. I feared the cost would be too much for us. I didn't want to burden her in any way.

But I made myself speak. “Marm, I wanted to tell you about Dr. Baker. The woman doctor in the department?”

“Hmmm?” Marm continued her sewing.

I went on, “Well, she has presented me with the possibility of attending medical school.”

Marm blinked up at me, shaking her head. I let go of her curl. She put her work aside. I stepped back a little.

“I haven't discussed it further with Dr. Baker, because I wanted to talk it over with you. But I think I want to go.”

“Medical school?” she asked. “How is that possible?”

I couldn't tell if she was upset or … or something else.

“There's a college in Pennsylvania that takes girls,” I told her. “That's where Dr. Baker herself went, and she says I could go there too.”

Marm had a strange look in her eyes. Suddenly I wavered. Was I doing the right thing?

“I—I wasn't sure I wanted to go. But now—now I am,” I said.

She stared at me. My hands began to shake; I clasped my fingers together. Then, I saw them—tears. Marm was crying.

“Marm—oh, Marmy—”

She reached up and pulled me into her arms like a little girl. I knelt to her and held her close to me. I could feel her tears on my shoulder through my sleeve, warm tears that made my eyes hot. We hugged each other tightly.

“You make me so proud,” she said.

Those words plunged into my heart, filling me with joy.

I held my breath and listened to her weep, feeling my
own tears slide down my face. I felt her whole body shake, and the strength of her arms as she clung to me. Proud of me—she was proud of me. The wonder of that struck me, all that she's done for me, all that she's given up for me, all that she has allowed me to do, to be. Then I saw why she cried—she had sacrificed for her children, she had lost one of us, I was all she had left. And I had done something to make her proud. I felt a great warmth in my chest, an honor. She honored me with her pride.

She released me, finally, and wiped her cheeks, and patted mine. I stood and slipped into my chair and took up the newspaper to hide my still trembling lip. I heard Marm pick up her sewing.

She is proud of me. Does she know how much that means to me? Does she know how closely she has guided my life, and how grateful I am to her for such a show of care? Looking at her, I see how I might be if I had a daughter of my own with the man I love—I would want for her everything I could not have for myself. I see now why people have children—to extend themselves, to become more than what they could be alone.

I vow to do my very best to be a worthy part of Marm's greater self.

E
ncouraged by
Marm's approval, I went upstairs to Dr. Baker's office today to talk to her. She welcomed me in. I took a deep breath and said, “I spoke to my mother about it. I have decided to become a doctor.”

Her sober face broke into a gleaming smile. She said, “Oh, Prudence, I'm so pleased. Our profession needs more women like you, with good minds and a firm discipline. I'm positive you'll do well.”

I felt all the weight of her expectation and feared she thought Marm would be able to afford it. I had to tell her how impossible that would be. I met her eyes and said, “Dr. Baker, as a midwife, my mother earns very little—”

The doctor held up her hand, stopping me. She said, “If you do well on the entrance examination, there will be occasions for funds donated or lent from prominent families. The
New York moneyed families love to support smart girls like you.”

“I
did
have yearly funds to attend Mrs. Browning's,” I said. “The first was given to me personally by Mrs. Morgan on my sixth birthday—”

I stopped; I meant to assure her, or myself, but it had the tinny sound of bragging.

“Yes, we could ask the Morgans, or the Vanderbilts, or the Livingstons,” she said, leaning back in her chair.

She tapped her fingers together, looking at me with her shrewd eyes, then she turned and reached behind her, pulling a book from her shelf. She held it and said, “But you must do well on the test! In order to pass the entrance examination, you must have an overall understanding of the human system. Begin your studies with this.”

She handed me the book. I looked at the title.
The Biology of Man
.

She turned and reached again, this time producing
True Blood Chemistry and the Myth of the Four Humors
.

“In exchange for your diligence, I will tutor you,” she said. “We'll start with biology, the blood, and anatomy.”

She reached for
Gray's Anatomy
.

When I told her I had a copy of the book at home, she
raised an eyebrow at me with a small smile and took instead
The Effect of Germs in Everyday Life
, a book on the work of Dr. Louis Pasteur.

“There is no time to waste,” she said. “People's lives will depend on how well you know your material, Prudence.”

I pulled the heavy books from the desk and hugged them to me. I felt as if she had turned a lens inside me and a hundred questions came into focus. How difficult was the test? Where would I take it? Did I have a chance of passing it? Could a girl like me really go to medical school?

As if she knew my questions, Dr. Baker said, “I will help you arrange for travel to Pennsylvania for the test. I have every confidence you will do well on the examination, Prudence, and that they will accept you into the school. I would not have recommended this path to you if I didn't believe that.”

Dr. Baker picked up her pen and pulled a stack of papers toward her. I stood, feeling as if she had released me. “When should I come for a tutoring session?” I inquired.

“When you have finished reading those books,” she said. “We will discuss the body, then I'll take you into the dispensary and you can visit patients with me.”

I thought of those dirty children I saw in the halls, and their sad mothers, and the idea of tending to them—of being
given permission to examine them closely—posed a whole new series of questions. What would I see? How would I be of help to them? How did Dr. Baker decide what illness a person suffered from, just by looking at them?

I returned downstairs, distracted by these questions. Mr. Soper showed an instant curiosity about the books I was carrying and asked about them. His nearness and interest sent a blush flaming up my neck.

I looked down at the books, my heart pounding in my throat. “I—I just came from Dr. Baker's office,” I said. “She's encouraged me to go medical school.”

His eyes took on a warm light; he nodded.

“Is Dr. Baker helping you with the entrance exam?” he asked gently.

“Yes, she is—she will be,” I said. My cheeks felt fevered under his gaze.

“Well, if you need further aid, let me know,” he said. “I'm an engineer, but I do know a little something about medicine.”

How he smiled and looked at me! The kindness in his face—I could barely thank him. Somehow I was able to escape the office this evening without revealing too much emotion. I can hardly allow myself to imagine Mr. Soper helping me to study. What if I make a mistake, or don't remember
something? I don't want him to see me falter. And his nearness would cause a distraction too great for me to overcome.

Despite my ambition, I do not look forward to leaving my chief for school. I feel sometimes as if I am an outline of myself, and each thing I learn from him is like a colored piece of yarn that gets knitted inside that outline, filling me, making me more defined. The longer I work with Mr. Soper, the more a pattern of him knits into me. He has become such an important, inseparable part of my whole being.