by Mark J Rose
Matt measured out about a gram and a half of brown powder and put it in the empty cup. He pulled a bottle of rum from his bag, poured about an ounce over the powder, and swirled it around to dissolve it. Matt then filled the cup about halfway with cider and swirled again. He was relieved to see more of the brown muck dissolve than he had expected. He had thought the girl would be drinking mud, but after some stirring, the antibiotic mixture looked like a cup of strong, cloudy coffee. He became unexpectedly optimistic; maybe it could work.
By the time he finished mixing and stirring, the half hour was almost done and he walked up the steps with the glass, stirring it with a spoon to keep the powder suspended. Isabelle was sitting up when he entered the room. “My chills are gone,” she declared.
“The medicine should have brought your fever down,” Matt replied. “This next one will be tough.” Matt spoke to the mother. “I need you to find a big bowl in case she vomits.” They waited for her to return with a large wooden bowl.
Matt handed Isabelle the brown slurry. “Drink it all.”
It took a number of gulps to get it down. She gagged and her mother stepped close, ready with the bowl. “Tastes rotten,” Isabelle said when she finished.
“I haven’t had a chance to work on that,” Matt said, smiling. “Sorry.” Matt addressed her mother. “Someone should sit with her.”
“I will,” she replied. She nodded to her husband, who was standing by the door. As if on cue, they all stared at Isabelle with critical faces.
“It’s not killed me yet,” she announced back at them with a painful but irritated smile. Their laughter was enough to melt the thick tension in the room.
“Be ready for anything,” Matt instructed. “It can be vomiting, shakes, falling sickness, anything. She’ll need more in twelve hours, or the disease will return.” He grinned at Isabelle. “Hang in there.”
“Hang where?”
“Get better,” Matt said. He turned to walk away, again giving in to making deals with God.
25
Regret
They’d finished the asparagus and servants were bringing bread and roast beef topped with tomato sauce to the table. The meat was delicious and the bread was still steaming. On any other occasion, Matt would’ve been sitting and enjoying the excellent home-cooked meal. They’d poured him wine, but he dared not touch it. He wanted to be ready for anything. They sat there in relative silence until Ricken spoke.
“Where are your people from, Mr. Miller?”
Matt spent some time telling Ricken his story. The man acted like he was giving his full attention, but Matt suspected he was only partially listening as he snuck glances toward the stairs. When Matt reached a polite place to end his story, he said, “You should go check on her.”
“She’s all I can think of,” Ricken admitted. He pointed. “The library’s that way.” He stood and walked up the steps to his daughter’s room. Matt went down the hall and sat in the library to read. He read and nodded off for a couple of hours until he heard commotion from upstairs.
“Mr. Miller!” the mother said. “Please come!”
“Dammit,” Matt said aloud. He rushed up the steps. The girl was convulsing violently over the bowl her mother held for her. The room smelled of vomit and moldy cantaloupe. Both parents gave him venomous looks as he entered.
“We didn’t expect her to be so consumed,” the mother said harshly. She held the girl’s head by her hair. The contents of her stomach were all over the side of the bed where the mother hadn’t been able to control her. The father looked at him with fire. Isabelle’s eyes had rolled up into her head and her body had grown rigid. Her mother tried to push her abdomen down.
“This is some folly!” the father exclaimed.
“Can’t you do something?” the mother demanded of Matt.
Matt looked at her, bewildered. “There isn’t anything we can do now except wait.”
“You intend on giving her more of this rot?” the father asked.
“Even if she feels better, she has to take the medicine for a whole week,” Matt replied. Isabelle convulsed and threw up again.
“We’ve made a grave error bringing you here,” Ricken declared.
The mother was crying and shaking her head. “How did you convince us that you could help?” she asked as she tried to clean her daughter’s face.
“Our driver will take you home,” Ricken said.
Matt met the young girl’s sorrowful eyes and mouthed the words “I’m sorry,” then turned to leave. No one accompanied him out into the courtyard. He asked the driver, who had been standing in front of the carriage, to take him home and he stepped inside. Matt regretted deeply that he had ever gotten involved.
26
Misery Loves Company
Matt stepped from the carriage and walked directly to the stable to check on the horse and dog. He saw Thunder first. “Sorry, boy,” he said as he rubbed the horse’s head. “Nothing for you today.” He had been too preoccupied on the journey home to think about stopping to get the horse a snack. Matt could usually find carrots or apples at the market, although they were getting more expensive as winter progressed. It was surprising how long fruit and vegetables could be preserved in a cellar. He patted Thunder one last time and walked to Scout’s stall.
Scout was chewing on a bone. Matt stooped there and ran his hands through the dog’s fur, hoping for his mood to change. Usually the animals had a calming effect, but it was different tonight. Matt couldn’t get the image of Isabelle out of his head. It was going to take more than petting the dog to forget the girl he could not save, so he contrived a plan to go immediately to the tavern and drink himself into a stupor. Matt gave the dog one last pat and then returned to his room to prepare himself for a night of drinking.
**********
Poor Tom’s Tavern was crowded with colonials laughing and carrying out boisterous conversations. The sounds of mugs slamming on tables were like explosions in Matt’s head. His initial thought was that he had made a mistake in coming and that he should leave, but then he saw a seat at the bar. Charity’s father came out from a back room as he sat.
“Good evening, Mr. Miller,” he said. “My daughter’s at home tonight. Could I still convince you to stay?”
“You have a beautiful daughter, sir,” Matt said. “But you know I’m promised to another.”
The man smiled knowingly. “What can I get you?”
“A large ale. It’s been a terrible day.”
The man came back with a stein of frothy dark ale. Matt sat there staring into his drink and thinking of the day’s events. He considered how he could have handled things differently and wondered what the consequences of his actions were. There was a selfish part of him that feared retribution from a wealthy man like Ricken. He might blame Matt for killing his daughter.
“Don’t you have a sick girl to cure?” Someone put his hand on Matt’s shoulder.
“Wha—?” Matt said, surprised as he turned. It was Ben Franklin. Matt frowned.
“You saw Isabelle?” Franklin asked.
“She had blood poisoning.”
“I’ve seen many die from her malady,” Franklin said. He scrutinized the bar. “Are you committed to spending your time at this filthy counter, or would you come to a proper table with Alexander and me?”
“I wouldn’t be good company. I’m planning to drink myself silly.”
“Do it at our table, then,” Franklin said. He had a mischievous twinkle in his eye.
“Fine,” Matt finally replied. He drained his mug and left it on the bar to follow Franklin back to his table. Franklin’s friend had two empty mugs in front of him. “Matt Miller,” Matt said, reaching out to shake the man’s hand as he stood.
“Alexander Collinson,” the man said, pointing to a chair.
Another man in the bar was waving to Franklin. “Alexander was at the Rickens’ earlier in the week,” Franklin said. The man at the bar was now motioning for Franklin to come over, so Franklin
put his finger up and stepped away. While he was gone, Matt and Collinson traded stories about Isabelle Ricken.
“I had leeches all along the poison,” Collinson explained with a cracking voice. He went silent, trying to regain his composure, and then took a long drink of ale.
Franklin returned and quietly listened to their conversation. “She’s in God’s hands now,” Franklin said. He looked at Matt. “I thought you were further along with your medicine?”
“Ricken’s not too happy with me right now,” Matt replied. “Both he and his wife were in a rage.”
“Once they’ve had time to grieve, they’ll thank you,” Collinson replied.
“Was her death painful?” Franklin asked.
“I don’t know,” Matt replied. “They made me go.”
“You didn’t see her die?” Franklin asked, surprised.
“I’m pretty sure she did,” Matt said.
“Visit them tomorrow,” Franklin suggested. “First thing.”
Matt shook his head.
“Parents must be given leniency,” Collinson explained.
The men were irritating Matt. There was no way they could understand how upset Ricken was in those last moments. “He made it clear that I wasn’t to return.”
“You’ll go,” Franklin commanded, “to either apologize for his daughter’s death or join him in celebrating her recovery.”
“Fine,” Matt said drunkenly. He was intoxicated enough now to agree to anything.
Two hours later, Matt staggered home in the dark. When he crawled into bed, he prayed not to dream about the young girl he could not save.
27
Tuesday, Tuesday
The pendulum swept back and forth across the sky. Each swing cleared a path through the rubble and made ripples that formed streams that moved away until they disappeared. Matt shuddered with agonizing pain at each crash. The only respite from the suffering came when the pendulum pulled away from the swath it cleared. He looked closely along the track that it made. The rubble took form and he could recognize the pieces as they fell and were destroyed. There were people and places there, some he could recognize, and others that just slipped away.
Matt saw his father standing by his taxi and he watched as the pendulum smashed him into pieces. The fragments fell to the ground and he could feel his father’s life force draining away. But Matt realized that not every piece was falling. A few were being pushed into the streams that moved away from the swinging monolith. Is this how time works? Does it destroy the old and push the rubble to the new?
Matt looked to the side in time to see the pendulum crash into him. He felt the pain of change as he was broken and slammed into a new alley. When he slowed, his body reassembled and his world reappeared. The pendulum hit him again and there was more agony. He tried to dodge it the next time, but it hit him again. He couldn’t regain his footing, and it hit him once more and he couldn’t breathe. Incessant, it swung again and again, painfully smashing him every time he re-formed. Then the drumming started, bam, bam, bam, bam.
“Mr. Miller?”
Matt opened his eyes. He looked toward the door from his bed. Early morning light streamed into the room. “I’m here,” he called out. “Give me a moment.” He sat up in bed. His head hurt even more than usual from his hangover. Time to take those last headache tablets. He pulled his pants on and went to the door.
“What!” Matt said, opening the door. “It’s early—” It was Isabelle’s father, Phillip Ricken. “Mr. Ricken!” Matt stepped back, suspecting that the man came to hurt him, but Ricken wasn’t angry. Matt gambled on a question. “She feeling better?”
“Franklin told me you planned to visit today,” Ricken said, “but I’ll pay you a premium to come over now and take care of her.”
She’s alive! Matt looked up at the sun. He’d slept late.
“Franklin told me where to find you,” Ricken said. “You understand? I didn’t know what to think.”
“A sick child is always upsetting to a parent,” Matt said, remembering the coaching he had gotten the night before. Wind blew through the doorway, making Matt shiver. He realized he was standing on bare feet, shirtless in the doorway. “I’ll need twenty minutes,” he told Ricken. “Isabelle shouldn’t be treated by someone who looks like a vagabond. Can I eat at your house?”
“Of course. I’ll wait for you,” Ricken replied. He smiled and went back to the coach waiting in the driveway. Matt watched him walk away and then looked at the sky, wondering again if he was part of some plan. I’m still in the game.
Matt put his shoes and shirt on, walked to the privy behind the building, and finished up as quickly as he could. He hurried back inside and washed. The water was cold, but not as cold as it would have been straight from the well. His head felt horrible. Serves you right! There weren’t many tablets left in the Advil bottle, so ibuprofen was out of the question. Matt considered that he might have one of his aspirin tablets. He had two adult doses left. Then he thought of Isabelle and decided that they were best saved for her. He could stretch the headache tablets out into four doses for someone her size. He’d have to tolerate his pounding head. Matt brushed his teeth, put clean clothes on, grabbed the leather case that contained the tin of penicillin powder, and walked out the door.
Ricken was a chatterbox as they drove. Matt’s head was swimming, but he tried his best to look comfortable. Matt nodded to the man as he put on his jovial façade. “She vomited for a long time after you left,” Ricken said. “’Twas a foul-smelling brown tar.” He was quiet for a time, then asked, “Is that the poison in her blood?”
It’s the nasty stuff I should never have given her. “You could think of it that way,” Matt replied.
“She fell asleep and we thought that we’d lost her,” Ricken said. “Her mother sat with her into the night cooling her forehead with a damp cloth. Isabelle was the first to wake this morning. She commanded her mother to repair to her chamber that she might rest. She said, ‘Mother, go to bed!’ Just like that, she said it.”
“I have to give her more medicine,” Matt said. “You know that, right?”
“Now we know what to expect,” Ricken replied.
**********
Matt was surprised to find Isabelle sitting at the dining room table eating. “How do you feel?”
“Not very well,” she replied. “My stomach hurts badly, but the worms have been chased away.”
Matt reached out and felt her forehead. “Your fever’s gone.”
“No more chills,” she added.
“Get something to eat, and then we’ll talk about what’s next,” Matt said. “I want you to drink a full cup of water, right now.”
“A full cup?” she asked. Her mother was already pouring water from a pitcher.
“Drink,” her mother said. There was more resolve in her than before.
“Can I see the rash while she eats?” Matt said to her mother. She nodded yes, reached down, and pulled the girl’s gown up. Her leg still had red splotches that traveled up to her trunk, but they somehow seemed less angry. She had survived the first dose and it looked to have worked. Matt would need to dose her every day for a week. He thought to warn her of this, but decided she should be allowed to finish her meal. The soup she was drinking was the perfect food to be absorbed quickly before he shocked her system again.
The servant brought him a breakfast of cornmeal cakes, eggs, and bacon, and he sat there with Isabelle, eating and asking questions about her life.
“Are you going to make me drink more of that medicine?” she said unexpectedly.
“Yes.”
“I’m not going to die now, am I?”
“No, you’re not,” Matt replied. He was struck by how confident and powerful he felt.
“I heard the others whispering.”
“They were wrong.”
“Then I’m ready for more medicine.”
“Take a break,” Matt said. “You need food.” They talked for a long time as her mother
moved in and out of the dining room to steal glances at her daughter, to judge her recovery and to listen. The mother interrupted them only once to set down steaming biscuits, peach preserves, and butter, which they both gladly accepted while discussing life in Philadelphia.
Matt dosed her again before noon and waited with her until she had finished vomiting. It wasn’t nearly as bad this time. He cut the dose in half after that and found that she only complained of an upset stomach for a couple of hours. She was cured of her infection after seven days, with only a few bouts of vomiting on the last two.
28
Progress
Three weeks had passed since he’d treated Isabelle Ricken. Matt was now selling so many sundries that he hardly had time to go into the laboratory. He’d only managed to harvest the mold from his cantaloupe cultures, and even then had to force himself. He was mostly selling personal care products, which included a number of toothbrushes and toothpaste. He had different kinds of soap and the candles from Baker and Sons. He’d sold every free candle they gave him and was now buying crates of them to keep up with demand. With the combined sales of all the items, he’d already made thirty pounds profit.
There were customers in his store constantly during the day and he was becoming a recognized member of the community. He’d close the store about three o’clock and take Thunder and Scout riding outside the city. He felt he wasn’t spending near enough time with either the dog or the horse, but he had no idea how else he could find the time with his busy schedule. He’d spend his nights reading Grace’s letters and writing his replies. The letter writing had gotten more difficult since treating Isabelle. He’d been able to write Grace a detailed account of his colorful adventure while curing the young girl, but lately there seemed to be nothing of consequence. I do the same thing every day. He was opening another box of candles when two familiar faces appeared.
