Fever

by Mary Beth Keane

  She made a small choked sound now, a sound he’d heard out of her only once or twice since she was seventeen. She drew a deep breath, and when she looked at him again she had composed herself.

  “Please,” she said, and he felt sobered.

  “But Mary, I know it would be different now. I haven’t—”

  Mary moved forward quickly as if she was going to hit him, all that rage simmering just below the features of her face, leaving a mottle of her cheeks, a man’s rage, as they’d noted in the newspapers, an animal’s rage, an immigrant’s rage, something that required four, five, six generations to be properly bred out. But it was only a flicker, and when he blinked she had already drawn herself back, closed her eyes, and then, after a beat, descended the front steps to the sidewalk. “I mean it, Alfred,” she said, and next thing she was gone.

  He roamed the city to clear his head, pausing only on park benches and barstools. He spent that night stretched on the long seat of a Model T parked under a tree on Fifty-Seventh Street, the owner’s blanket pulled up to his chin, and then spent the next day at Nation’s Pub. When the car was gone the next evening he found another. He went on this way for a few days, until he remembered the ice company stable, and how warm it would be there with all the animals lined up in their rows, the doors and windows shut tight. Since it was now just a few days until Christmas, there would be no one there except the poor soul who got elected to come by to feed the animals, shake out fresh straw.

  The stable was empty. Alfred scrambled through a window that stayed closed all winter but was never locked. Inside, staggering now with exhaustion, he pushed bunches of hay together on the dirt floor, found a spare horse blanket. He’d tell whoever came that he was back on a shift, that he was meant to be there. They would believe him.

  He slept for hours, and when he woke it was deep darkness, the horses breathing gently, the one closest to him snorting, as if asking Alfred if he’d awoken, if he was all right now. He sat, pulled his stiff knees to his chest. Mary would come around. She had to. If she didn’t, Alfred considered, then there was not a single person in New York City, not a single person in the world, who cared what happened to him.

  Alfred stretched, went into the back room in search of food, and instead found half a bottle of John Powers. Solemn in the face of such good luck, he picked it up as carefully as he might a baby, and brought it tenderly back to the spot where he’d slept. He slid to the ground. He pulled a blanket across his knees. Closing his eyes, he uncorked the bottle and drew a long, ravenous mouthful.

  Some time later, he wasn’t sure how long, he noticed the sky outside was gray and he couldn’t decide if that meant day was turning into evening, or night into morning. He placed the empty bottle on the windowsill. He made his way to the back room again, where a simple straight-back chair loomed before him, and behind, the horses made threatening noises with their throats and stamped their feet. It was darker now, and he found a lamp, found a bottle of oil, found a match. Had Christmas come yet? Was it now? He removed the glass and the wick holder and poured in the oil from the plain, unmarked canister in the corner of the room, cursing as some dripped onto the seat of the chair. He twisted off the blackened top of the wick with his fingertips. He shook out a wooden match and struck once, twice. The match broke. He dropped it on the ground, kicked it, shook out another. This time, he heard that small suck of surrounding air, and when the light was born, Alfred held it for a moment before touching it to the tip of the wick.

  • • •

  Later, looking back at the moment when the flame met the cloth of the wick, he would see it so clearly that he would wonder if he’d been more sober than he realized. He couldn’t recall the weather outside, or the state of his clothing, or the color of that horse blanket, or the last meal he had put in his belly, but he could remember that flame, and the white of that wick. It was as if his mind had taken a photograph that he was able to study only later, the position of the can, the direction of the spout, the odor of the oil. He touched the flame to the wick and swore later that he knew just before it happened, an instant before, a heartbeat before, a space of time so small it would have been impossible to measure. He knew as he was doing it, as he watched the orange meet the white, and one hair to the other side and he would have known before; he would have stopped. He touched the flame to the wick and the room exploded.

  NINETEEN

  And just like that he was gone. I wanted him to leave, Mary reminded herself. I asked him to. All he did was listen. Christmas came and she gave the Borriello boys a set of checkers to share. They had bought her pins for her hair, and as they talked, and ate, and admired the Christmas tree they’d decorated with strings of popcorn, Mary expected him to knock on the door, beg to see her. Why hadn’t he married Liza? Did she kick him out when he came home stewed or did he need a drink only when he saw Mary? At the laundry, the Lithuanians gasped when she told Li to tell Chu that she wouldn’t be wrangle woman anymore. She’d had enough. She would wash. She would do her turns at the front of the store. But no more ironing on a Sunday half-day either. And on top of that she wanted a raise.

  “He won’t do it,” Li warned. “Irena and Rasa have been here five years. No increase. Not for you, either.”

  “Well then, Irena and Rasa deserve a raise, too,” she said. “What would you do if all of us left you at once? How much business would he lose training three at the same time? More than three, since together we do the work of five. There’s striking and organizing going on all over this city. Why not us?” Even outside of the laundry she felt the world back away from her lately, grant her passage in a way it didn’t do for others. When she walked into shops and pushed her goods across the counter, people shrank further within their overcoats. She argued prices to the penny. She inspected packages for dents, fruit for bruises, meat for dark spots, clothing for loose threads, and brought everything to the attention of the grocer or the butcher or the shop assistant. She bought a pair of shoes and brought them back two days later to say there was a wobble in the left heel. “There’s no wobble,” the man said without touching the shoe, without even putting down the polish rag he was holding. Looking at the haughty expression on his face, he a cobbler with black fingertips, his vest hanging open and missing a button, Mary felt as if time slowed down. She took the shoe out of her bag and dropped it to the counter with a clatter. She felt the eyes of every other person in the shop. “There is a wobble, and I want my money back.”

  “Did you wear them?” the man asked as he inspected the sole, and she said of course she wore them. How in the world would she know about the wobble if she hadn’t worn them? The clock ticked. She could hear the soft grunts of a second man stretching leather in the back room, the rhythmic punch of the sewing machine. The man at the counter pointed to a sign: No Returns on Worn Shoes. She nodded at him and then, raising her voice, announced: “This place sells broken shoes and refuses refunds.” She went to the shop door, pushed it open, and repeated it to a group of women passing by. A man browsing the selection inside the door slipped by her and hurried down the street. She picked up the sign on the women’s side of the display window.

  “This says Comfort Shoes. Is that meant to be a joke?”

  “What’s your story, lady?” the man asked, his hands on his hips.

  “I spent my money here thinking I’d gotten something for it. I’ll stand here for a month if I have to, telling people about this place, and about the crookery that goes on here.” She crossed her arms and looked at the man until finally, releasing a single loud sigh, he opened the cash drawer and returned her money.

  One day in January, she saw a cook she recognized leaving from the side door of a restaurant, and the thought of that woman basting and chopping and sautéing in there felt to Mary like a hand closed over her throat. For the first time in all those months of her new life she didn’t return to the laundry after her lunch break. Only at home, at Mila Borriello
’s table, did she feel some peace. She watched the boys do their figures. She took the scrub brush from her friend and helped her wash the floor.

  Jimmy Tiernan came upstairs and knocked one evening when his Patricia was out. Mila and the boys were also out. “Come in,” Mary said, pointing at an empty chair.

  “Nah,” Jimmy said, and leaned against the jamb of the door. “I was just wondering if you’ve seen Alfred.”

  Mary turned to the counter and made herself busy with the coffeepot, measuring out spoonfuls and cups of water. “No. Why?”

  “Well, a little while back I told him about a job starting up—you know, the new skyscraper being built down across from City Hall. He seemed interested, said he was getting bored at the stable, and told me to get him on. Then I don’t hear nothing from him. Not a peep. I told the boss I had a guy I wanted to get on but he can’t hold it much longer.”

  Mary turned and leaned against the counter. “I haven’t seen him, Jimmy. I don’t know.”

  “Well, where is he?”

  “I said I don’t know.”

  “Okay, okay,” Jimmy held up his hands. “I just wondered because I tried that address down on Orchard and the lady acted like she didn’t know who I was talking about. He hasn’t been around there, either.”

  Mary brought her fingertips to her temples and rubbed. “You know how he is. You tried at Nation’s?”

  “Yeah, I tried Nation’s. They haven’t seen him, neither. Tommy says he came in like a king a little before Christmas but they haven’t seen him since.”

  Mary put her hand on the door. Inch by inch she moved it, and inch by inch Jimmy Tiernan retreated back into the hall.

  “Well, if you see him, Mary, tell him thanks for nothing because I went out on a limb here, you know?”

  Mary shut the door and Jimmy shouted from the other side. “But tell him check in with me anyway, will ya, Mary? When you see him? Tell him I’m not mad! Just wondering is all.”

  Mary curled up on her cot and closed her eyes.

  • • •

  One Sunday in February 1911, an Irishwoman named Mrs. O’Malley, whom Mary knew a little and who lived in the building across the street, came looking for her to help with a hog her husband had won in a round of cards up on 102nd Street. Drunk and cocky, the husband had shown up at home with the two-hundred-pound beast on a tether, and could not explain to his wife’s satisfaction how he’d gotten the animal so far downtown. She told Mary that he presented the hog to her like he was giving her a basket full of money, or a room full of red roses, something beautiful or practical that she should appreciate, but instead it had been up to her to guard the animal where it now lived in the alley behind their tenement, tied to a piece of fence beside the common privy. He’d been there almost a week.

  “And now I guess it’s time to do something with him,” Mary said.

  “It is,” Mrs. O’Malley said. “And I’m useless.”

  There was no sense asking if she’d consulted with a butcher, because Mary knew, if the tables were turned, she wouldn’t have sought out a butcher, either. He would charge more than the pig was worth, and keep the best parts for himself.

  “I’ve a good mind to turn him out and pretend it never happened, because where in God’s name will I store the meat, but every time I go to do it, it nags me that someone else will get him. I’d rather keep some of the meat and give the rest away. My neighbors will pay me something for it.” The woman clasped her hands together. “I’d be very grateful to you.”

  It was not cooking, it was butchering. All the cooking would be done by those lucky ones who got a part. Still, Mary hesitated. She rubbed her eyes. She tried to think about it clearly while also wondering if she was still strong enough to butcher a full-grown hog.

  “Show him to me,” she said finally, and Mrs. O’Malley clapped once before grabbing Mary’s hand and thanking her.

  Full of purpose now, Mrs. O’Malley led Mary down the stairs, across the avenue, in through her building’s front door, out through the back door, and down four rickety wooden steps. There in the frost-bitten and muddy yard was the hog, rooting at the base of the fence. Mary crouched beside him, put her hand on his back. At least it’s winter, she thought. They wouldn’t have to worry about flies. She took off a glove and tested the dexterity of her fingers in the cold. The animal grunted and stamped. The fog of his breath rose up to meet Mary’s throat and she felt the same suspicion she always did when she was around animals, that they knew their fate, that they were born knowing it, that they were wiser than any human gave them credit for. She felt tenderness for him.

  “What floor are you on?”

  “Fifth.” Mrs. O’Malley turned and pointed up to a distant window.

  “We’ll do it here,” Mary said, without taking her eyes from the hog. “I have good knives at my place, but you find me a long, thin one for sticking him. Get me a saw if you can find one. A hammer. As many clean buckets as you can manage. Twine. I’m going to search out a few bits of wood to raise him up. When we have everything I’ll need boiling water. A lot of it, and quickly. When you’ve gathered everything and put on the water, go around and ask the neighbors who wants some of the meat. Tell a few of them to come down to help us turn him. Then come straight back to me.”

  By the time Mrs. O’Malley returned, Mary had led the hog to a shaded patch of clean-looking grass in the farthest corner of the yard. Mrs. O’Malley handed over the hammer and the knives Mary had instructed her to bring, and the four buckets she’d scrubbed—three borrowed, one her own—and when she was ready, when both women had removed their coats and gloves and hung them carefully on the fence, Mary told Mrs. O’Malley to get up on the pig’s back and brace him for the blow. It had been eight or ten years, at least, but her aim was still perfect, and the animal fell heavily.

  “Now,” Mary said, grabbing him by his massive head and using every drop of strength in her body to stick him. As she pressed the knife deeper, Mrs. O’Malley held the first bucket against him to catch what she could. Mary’s heart pounded and she felt the heat from her body form a barrier against the cold of the day. Both women looked troubled as they watched so much of the sweet blood run into the grass, under the fence, down the gentle dirt slope toward the privy.

  “Did you put on water?” Mary asked, and Mrs. O’Malley jumped up, ran into the building and up five flights of stairs. When she came back a few minutes later she was holding a pot full of boiling water, and poured it over the animal from head to hoof. “I’ve another,” she said, breathless, when the pot was empty, and came down a moment later with a second pot. Mary went to work with the blade of her knife, removing the hair.

  An hour later, Mary ran her hand gently over the pink skin to feel for an errant hair, and felt something move inside her as she looked at the animal, its blank eyes staring at an old metal bucket. He was a pathetic creature, had probably had a miserable life, and here he was. Mary pushed the knife into the pig’s belly, feeling with her fingers that the intestines were still intact. She pulled out the guts and tossed them toward the second bucket. Moving back up toward the head, she felt the hem of her skirt heavy with blood. She twisted and pulled the hog’s head free, and dropped it in the third bucket.

  “I’ll take that for my trouble,” Mary said. Smelling the inside of that body was like smelling Ireland again, and she remembered being a girl, bringing the cow’s stomach and intestines to the river, and the chill that ran through her to see the eels shoot out from under rocks the very same instant, it seemed, as the first drop of filth hit the water.

  By the time Mary arrived at the heart, the neighbors had begun to line up with their pots and bowls. Mila was there, and both boys, each with a vessel to carry a part home.

  Late that night, much later than her usual bedtime hour, after deciding that her clothes could not be saved, she scrubbed her body in the tub, pressed her knuckles into her
aching arms, cleaned underneath her fingernails, and noted that she felt wide-awake. Mrs. O’Malley had pressed money into her hand, and Mary had taken it, but it wouldn’t have mattered to her if she’d gotten nothing. All day long, and even now so many hours after helping Mrs. O’Malley wrap up those bits and pieces she wanted to keep for herself, Mary felt like someone had finally turned on a proper light after living for so long in a dim room. She smiled at the snout peeking up over the rim of Mila’s largest pot.

  • • •

  “You haven’t seen him yet?” Jimmy Tiernan called from across the street one early morning in March. Mary pretended she didn’t hear. He caught her again coming into the building a few days later. “I think it’s the strangest thing,” he commented, as if he and Mary were a pair of abandoned children, together in their hurt. She tried to let it in one ear and out the other, but once again, she began looking for Alfred when she stepped out of the building in the mornings. Michael Driscoll had not survived and several of them from the building had gone to the funeral Mass, but Alfred did not show. The first anniversary of her release from North Brother came and went without anyone noticing, and by herself she took the IRT uptown, walked over to the river, and stared across. She had never looked up John Cane. They’d never taken their walk together in Central Park.

  She’d felt less patience at the laundry ever since butchering the pig. What she’d told herself to accept, what she’d tried to face as permanent, could not continue. She was not a laundress and she never would be. It was no different from being on North Brother, looking out over the churning water at the life she was missing on the other shore.

  And then one warm Saturday afternoon in late March, when she was working the cash register and insisting to a gentleman that they’d done their absolute best with the ink stain on his shirt pocket but that it simply could not be removed, she stopped to sniff the air. The gentleman also sniffed, and followed his nose to the door. For the first time in more than a year, the Lithuanians put down their garments, dried their hands, and came to the front of the store. Everyone heard the alarm bell sound next door.