Authors: Noelle Carle
These thoughts
coursed through her mind all through the supper, which no one ate, and as she
cleaned up afterwards. The girls and Vernon had gone to bed almost after the
meal, exhausted by their sorrow. Gladie lit an oil lamp and tiptoed into the
parlor where the coffin rested on their dining room table. She drew up a chair
and sat beside it. She tried to reach Timmy with her mind, but suddenly
realized she was leaning towards that dangerous type of mysticism that Pastor
Whiting warned about. She had always felt she had some sort of connection with
Timmy. They were close and she would know if there was anything wrong with him.
But she had to admit, even as soon as he left for training, she couldn’t reach
him in her mind. She thought of him now and there was nothing. Was it Tim in
there? Her throat closed up and she swallowed hard, unable to keep the tears
from seeping out her compressed eyelids. I need to say goodbye to him, she
thought. My baby. My little baby boy.
She listened suddenly
and heard the rumble of Vernon’s snoring upstairs. She set the lamp on the
table by the coffin and went out to the little shed where Vernon kept his
tools. She brought in a crowbar and a screwdriver and soon had removed the
lock. You can’t keep out a determined mother, she thought triumphantly. He
was dead, she reasoned. How could he harm anyone now?
Slowly she lifted the
lid. Her heart quickened as she made out a form, encased in a sheet. An odor
of decay enveloped her and her stomach clenched. She swallowed hard, but she
lifted the sheet, unwrapping the layers around the head. With a swift intake
of breath, and then a quiver of disgust, Gladie saw her only son, lying as if
he slept. His skin was gray and he was bloated but it was her son. Liquid had
gathered at the corners of his mouth and eyes and she took her handkerchief and
wiped it away. Tears fell unheeded as she gazed at him. Her boy, yet not her
boy. A man now. How could he be dead? She dare not touch him; the smell was
almost overwhelming but she continued to gaze. After some time, she felt an
easement in her heart. This decaying body was just a shell, wasn’t it? His
soul was no longer there. It wasn’t wrong to feel repulsed at a body that was
empty. She raised her head and looked about the room, whispering, “Good-bye,
my darling boy.” She allowed herself one light touch on his forehead, just a
brush of her fingers, remembering times when he was sick and she’d lay her hand
across his hot dry forehead. He felt cold and damp now and she knew that
whatever happened after you died had happened to Tim. He was not in this
rotting body anymore. She wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and reattached
the lock, regarding it critically to see if Vernon would be able to see that it
had been tampered with. Satisfied with her work, she went to bed.
The next day, Gladie
shook hands and greeted every person who came to Tim’s funeral. Almost
everyone in the village was there, she noted with satisfaction. And even though
the service was for her son, she had made most of the food for the reception
after. Vernon stood with his friends in a corner and spoke to almost no one,
but Gladie thanked each person for their presence there. It was the best
funeral she’d been to in a long time.
Fiery Trial and Sacrifice
Alison first realized that
something was wrong, really wrong, when the next week in the middle of the day,
school was closed and all the children were sent home. Mrs. Reid had received
a note from Pastor Whiting and immediately she stopped the classes. Many of
the students were out sick already. Davey stayed home, tended by Aunt Pearl,
while the doctor saw to several patients in several different homes.
Owen said to Alison
as they streamed out the door, “I’m going over to Cooper’s store with Will.”
“No, you’re not.
Mrs. Reid said we’re all to go to our own homes.”
“Aww, come on, Owen.
How’s she gonna know anyway?” Will asked, fidgeting with his books.
Mary Reid, with
narrowed eyes and a grim mouth, stood behind Will and said in a voice that made
him jump, “Do you think I’ve gone blind, lad? Now go on home. The store is
closed besides. You cannot go.”
Owen laughed and Will
scowled. Alison questioned, “Cooper’s store is closed again?”
Mary nodded and
pulled Alison aside. In a low serious voice she told Alison, “The pastor
brought a note from your Da. Mrs. Cooper died this morning. Vernon has
whatever took her. He wants everyone to go home and stay away from each
other.”
Alison peered at her
teacher. Her skin was pale but she seemed to be perspiring. “You’re not well,
are you?”
But Mary waved her
away, hustling to take the Eliot girls in hand. Alison hollered to Owen, “Wait
for me!” and ran to catch up with him.
Aunt Pearl had moved
Davey downstairs to her room. When Alison tapped on the door and peeked in,
Davey was asleep. Beside him in the rocker, Pearl dozed too; her hand lay on
his arm. Alison could hear the congestion in Davey’s breathing and smelled the
onion poultice that Aunt Pearl had spread on his chest.
Doctor Granger
stopped home briefly in the mid afternoon. He was tense as he scrambled down
from the buggy and strode into the house. “Owen,” he barked. “Where’s
Remick?”
“Out in the garden,”
Owen replied, not glancing up from his drawing.
“Go get him and bring
him in here.”
Owen dropped his
pencil at his father’s abrupt tone and ran out through the back kitchen door.
“Alison. I want you
to move out as much furniture from the den as you can. Get all our extra
blankets and make four beds on the floor.”
Alison gazed at him,
never having seen him in such urgency. “Yes, Father. What is it?”
“Your teacher has collapsed. The twins have it too. And Mr. Cooper
is bad. I need them all together to care for them.”
The boys came in through the kitchen and heard his last words. He
turned to them. “Remick, go over to Gilman’s farm and borrow their wagon. Ask
Ida for as many blankets as they can spare. Owen, you go with him and bring
Mary and the girls, and Mr. Cooper here. They’ll all need help moving.”
“But we just saw Mrs.
Reid this morning,” Owen noted. “She seemed fine. The twins too.” Even as he
spoke Alison remembered her teacher’s pale sweaty face. She wasn’t fine.
“This is fast and
it’s strong,” their father answered. “I believe it’s the influenza that took
Gladie Cooper. If we can keep it contained, it may not spread to the rest of
the community. Although I’m sure it’s what some of the others already have.
I’m going to check on Davey.”
Alison went about her
tasks, pulling extra chairs and a table from the den to the front room.
Chester Gilman had died from influenza. Is it what Davey had? Her mind was
scrambling even as her hands worked. Davey didn’t go to Cooper’s store
recently. And he wasn’t at school. Could it be something in the air? She
shook her head as she realized she was standing still. She carried the load of
blankets to the den and began arranging them on the floor. A step behind her
caused her to turn and see her father, pale and worried.
“Davey has the same
thing.”
“Oh, Papa!” she
breathed. Her father was a good doctor, but he always seemed to forget what he
knew when it came to his own children.
“I’ve got to help
him, but these others are sick too.” He fumbled with his watch, looking at it
as if it held the answer.
“Aunt Pearl can take
care of him. She knows as well as you what to do. And you can check on him as
often as you like.”
He drew in a breath
and slowly straightened. “You’re right, daughter. “ He held out his arms and
drew her near. “I’m going to need help here. The hospital in Bath is too far
away. I’ve been reading in the papers about this, if it’s the same thing that
has struck in Boston and Philadelphia. People can die very quickly from it.”
Alison pulled away
from him. “What do we do? Is there medicine for it?”
He shook his head.
“Aspirin for pain. There’s no vaccine I know of, although they’re working…”
His voice died away as he looked at his daughter. “We must cover our mouths
and noses, in case it spreads through the air. Find my handkerchiefs and tie
one over your face. Make some for the boys too. And wash your hands as well
as you can every time after you’ve touched a patient. There are some who think
disease spreads by touching the sick one. I’ve been reading…”
But he didn’t finish
for Aunt Pearl yelled at that moment; a shriek that brought Alison and her
father to the bedroom.
Pearl was holding a
towel in front of Davey’s nose. It was already crimson with his blood. “Oh,
dear Lord!” the doctor breathed. “Allie, get a bowl.”
She ran out to the
kitchen and back so quickly that later she couldn’t even remember moving. Her
father had moved the towel away to see blood dripping from the boy’s nose in a
steady stream. Pearl snatched the bowl from Alison and scrambled onto the bed
on Davey’s other side.
Alison could see
Davey’s lips were tinged blue; in fact his whole body looked dusky. “He’s got
a fever,” Dan muttered. “Get me a bucket of water from the well, Allie.”
When she got back in,
they had laid Davey on his side. Pearl held the bowl under his nose while Dan
listened to his back. Alison dipped a cloth in the cold water and handed it to
her aunt. Davey’s back was also dark, like it was covered with bruises. And
she could hear how difficult it was for him to breathe. He moaned after each
breath. It hurt Alison to hear it and tears welled in her eyes.
“Is this influenza,
Dan? How can it be?” Pearl asked in a panicky voice.
Two days later they
buried Davey beside his mother in a corner of their property. Nearby was a
large old sugar maple that Davey had loved to climb in. Ida Gilman showed up
at the door after the boys borrowed their farm wagon, saying she hardly cared
if she lived since Chester died, and she didn’t know much about nursing but
could cook for their hospital. Louise came to help also, as they both appeared
unaffected by the disease. Ida cried all day when they buried Davey but kept
an ear open for the needs of their roomful of patients and cooked soup and
bread.
Pearl took to her bed
with a crushing headache and limbs that felt as weak as a kitten’s. She
insisted she didn’t have influenza, yet lingered in a twilight between life and
death for three days before recovering.
Owen died in a matter
of hours, with such pain and suddenness that his father was completely
confounded. His symptoms resembled nothing anyone else had exhibited so far.
They lived in a fog
of grief. Remick took the wagon to town, to check home by home how people were
managing. He informed them how to care for the sick, if there were those who
could, and brought those who had no one back to their home. In one home both
parents were dead and the two children huddled in a bed together burning up
with fever. But in others the sick were being taken care of. The Alley’s,
Charles and Aurietta, were both well. Remick relayed to his father that they
yelled at him not to come in, but asked him if he knew where they could buy
garlic, a live deer or any cucumbers. To keep the flu away, they explained.
During the second
week of the sickness, Remick, who had been to the Eliot’s house to see Esther,
summoned Alison. Cleo was sick, along with young Richard, but Esther and Reg
were looking after them. “For two days she’s been clamoring to see you,” he
told Alison. “She’s not going to get better.”
Alison drew in a deep
breath and sighed. “There’s so much for me to do here. How can I just leave?”
“I’ll stay and help Father. You take the buggy and go.”
What a relief it was
to leave the house with its odors and sounds. The air was chilly, the leaves
were falling and the sun was shrouded in fog, but Alison felt invigorated and
refreshed just to draw in clean air.
The village was quiet
as she passed through it. The Cooper’s store was being taken care of by one of
the Ouellette girls. The school looked abandoned, standing dark and silent.
The boats in the harbor bobbed at their moorings, every one of them in shore
for now. The bait shacks were empty. No one was about.
Moving up the hill to
the Eliot’s she heard children laughing. The sound brought tears to her eyes.
One of the twins, Isabella, had died, but Ivy had recovered enough to go home.
Baby Caroline died while at the Whiting’s house. But the boys, William, Henry
and Peter were outside, chasing each other and wrestling with exaggerated
grunts and fake punches. When they saw Alison drive up, they ran over, sweaty
and tousled, to take her reins and hitch the horse to the railing. They
offered terse greetings. Will put his hands in his pockets and was suddenly
serious. “I’m sorry about your brothers,” he mumbled.