I took an unexpected trip yesterday that I thought might interest you, especially in light of your bouts with influenza that you described to me last fall during your brief visit.
William and I left before sunrise, and I drove us out to Camp Upton on Long Island—seventy miles one way. We reached the army camp about noon. It’s in the pine barrens of central Long Island, a huge, raw-looking, isolated place thrown up last summer, swarming with mosquitoes.
In a gigantic room there, of the eight rows of cots, with about twenty in each row, only one bed was empty. All the young men there wore long white gowns, and some breathed through white gauze masks. I soon learned this was one of several convalescence wards.
Two doctors hurriedly took us to the area where the actively ill men lay. Some cried out in pain, and some were strangely blue in the face. After the doctors described the patients’ symptoms, we swabbed the throats and nasal passages of several men and preserved each sample in a glass tube to take back to the lab with us.
Then our hosts led us next door to the morgue, where they were autopsying a handsome young Texan. He’d recently died of influenza, and aside from his skin’s blue pigmentation, his strong body looked untouched, possibly because he’d died quickly. Everyone wanted to know what caused his death.
The doctor conducting the autopsy cut into the soldier’s chest with a scalpel and shears, removed the chest plate, and revealed dark red lungs. When detached, both the lungs remained expanded and didn’t collapse as normal ones should. As the doctor sliced one open, a mass of fluid gushed out. Of course I took a sample.
But here’s the strange thing, Jaq. A battle seemed to have raged inside the soldier’s lungs, and the invader won. The young Texan’s defenders were dead and had clogged his lungs. Just before he died, he must have been short of breath, then felt as if he was suffocating or drowning. I couldn’t help but wonder if the internal struggle actually killed him. If his defense system hadn’t put up such a fierce struggle, he might still be alive
I asked one of the doctors if this was the worst case he’d seen, and he said this was typical. So, my dear Jaq, I thought you should know about this in light of our conversations about your illness and the War. The one in Europe isn’t nearly as terrible as the one that took place in this poor boy’s lungs. At least the Allied forces can see the Germans approach. I don’t want to alarm you, but no one has a chance against an invisible enemy as predatory as this new form of influenza.
You can take heart because your cases in Europe last summer and fall probably immunized you to this mutated form. But stay isolated in the country, and don’t let any of your loved ones near a crowd until we can find a cure for this horrible disease or it disappears on its own.
Your loving aunt,
Anna
P.S. I’ve been so busy I forgot to mail this for several days. Sorry.
*
As soon as Molly heard the news, she telephoned Jaq, who sounded very down in the dumps.
“I guess you’ve heard Eric’s brothers died in the Argonne Forest,” she said. “Eric’s driving to town to register for the draft tomorrow, then on to Dallas to go with his cousin, who’s finally old enough to enlist. Eric can’t stay away any longer. His leg has completely healed, he’s regained his sight in his bad eye, and he says he’s licked his drinking problem. He’s sure the US will accept his services.”
“He has to be devastated about his brothers and sick of sitting on the sidelines,” Molly said. “I’d almost rather see him go back to war than to the bottle.”
“I agree. I begged him not to, though. My aunt wrote me about a horrible new type of the flu that’s beginning to hit the big cities hard. And this means I won’t get to leave here as soon as I hoped. I’ll have to stay and help Angus until Eric returns from wherever they send him. Oh, I’m ashamed to be so selfish.” Jaq sounded like she might cry.
Though inwardly Molly rejoiced, she forced herself to say, “I’m sorry you can’t go as soon as you want. Everyone’s saying the tide of the War has turned in our favor. And maybe they’ll station Eric nearby.”
“Yes, but if I know Eric, he’ll insist that his aviation skills will help win the War quicker. He’ll want to help train new pilots, and with his record, they’ll station him wherever he wants. Even if the War ends soon, he’ll probably be involved in the aftermath. I’m afraid I’m stuck here until the men begin to come home and the labor shortage eases. Eric and I won’t have a chance to annul our marriage until who knows when.”
“Jaq, I’m so sorry. Listen, Patrick will be thrilled when he finds out Eric’s enlisting. He wants to talk to him about flying. Why don’t I bring him over when Eric gets home from Dallas? Maybe Patrick can help us soften him up so we can talk him into getting home as soon as possible.”
“It’s worth a try, though it probably won’t work. He’s so stubborn. But maybe we can talk him into requesting an assignment here in the States instead of abroad.”
Until then Molly had never realized how desperately Jaq wanted to get on with her own life. But now she was determined to help her leave New Hope, no matter how much she wanted her to stay. She would encourage Patrick to treat Eric like a war hero for signing up, but the prospect of living here without Jaq tore her apart inside.
She had been entranced with Jaq since she first saw her at church wearing her bright-yellow dress. A canary among crows, she had thought then, and now she knew how true her vision had been. Jaq had enlivened her, put her in touch with the larger world, made her feel again.
But Jaq could fly away at any time, and Molly would never see her again. The prospect made her tightening throat ache and her arms feel shaky. She would be even more alone than before, now that she knew what life could be like with Jaq. She’d be left without anyone that she totally fit with or belonged to. Only her piano, her music pupils, and Patrick would ease the pain. He was worth it, she kept reminding herself.
*
Jaq got up earlier than usual to fix breakfast. Angus wanted to try once more to convince Eric not to register.
They were sitting at the table eating biscuits and gravy when Angus said, “Son, you’ve been in this war since the beginning. Don’t you think you’ve done enough?”
But Eric was mulish. “I know what I’m doing, Pop.”
She tried to warn him. “My Aunt Anna said a bad strain of influenza is killing people, especially in the big cities. Everyone should stay away until it dies down.”
They all argued until she almost screamed. She was more than ready to see Eric go when her Model T chugged out of the driveway at six o’clock.
Molly and Patrick planned to arrive about four o’clock the day Eric was due back, so she and Molly could spend some time together first. That would be the highlight of her week, because she planned to clean house the rest of the time. She’d even decided to fry a chicken and fix mashed potatoes and gravy for their welcome-home supper.
She worked steadily for a couple of days changing the beds, sweeping and scrubbing floors, washing the windows, and dusting. All that time, she couldn’t keep her mind off Molly. What would they be doing if she were here?
On an ordinary day they’d sleep late then stroll to the barn, arms around each other’s waists, Molly’s head on her shoulder, watching the birds and the squirrels. Molly would have to milk their cow because that’s one thing Jaq simply couldn’t master. She hoped she could manage the few days Eric was gone. And from the way Molly talked about Nellie, she enjoyed their daily communion. Jaq could feed the chickens and gather the eggs. That seemed easy enough. But as long as she was dreaming, she wished she’d come into a fortune. Then she and Molly could do exactly as they pleased.
So, since they had money, they’d sleep late because they’d stayed up late the night before kissing and…When they finally dragged themselves from their big double bed with its thick feather mattress, they’d smell bacon frying. They’d kiss—long, deep kisses—then slowly dress. Neither would have worn a stitch to sleep in. They wouldn’t want a
nything to come between them. She’d run a comb quickly through her short hair but take her time brushing the tangles from Molly’s luxurious mane—so long she could sit on it—and kiss her neck between each stroke. Molly would be wearing only her chemise, so Jaq would pause to run her fingers over the buttermilk skin of Molly’s shoulders and arms, unable to resist her taut, cushiony body.
By the time they dressed and drifted downstairs, their hired woman would have fixed breakfast, with fresh eggs and hot bread. They’d smear butter and strawberry jam on generous slices and feed them to one another, laughing between bites. Jaq would have churned the cream for the butter while she listened to Molly play the piano, and they would have made the jam from tart, sweet strawberries they’d grown and picked together.
They’d work in the flower beds and tend their vegetable garden, where they grew lettuce and spinach. Their hired man did all the heavy work, and they’d all live together happily ever after on the farm, while Patrick (she’d almost forgotten him) grew into a fine young man, met the girl of his dreams, and set up housekeeping just down the road.
The house seemed to glow with her fantasy as she scrubbed and cleaned, preparing for Molly’s visit. But it would never be real. She quickened her pace, barely managing to keep herself from giving up hope and just leaving.
*
Now what did Molly have up her sleeve? Mrs. Russell watched her help Patrick shed his play clothes and put on his Sunday best. She’d been dolling up and said Jacqueline had invited her and Patrick to supper. Something about Eric enlisting.
Losing both his brothers was a crying shame. But Eric’s stunt left Angus McCade holding the bag. He didn’t have nary a soul to help him harvest the fall crops now.
Hope he didn’t expect Jacqueline to give him much of a hand. She wasn’t good for anything except mechanicking and fixing a few light meals and keeping house. Speaking of the house, she’d heard tell Jacqueline could sure keep it a heap cleaner. Flat-out refused to milk, Ethel said, though she’d churn when she had to.
Well, if she wanted any butter to spread on her bread, she’d have to climb down off her high horse and make her arm start moving.
*
Thankfully Patrick was only seven, Molly thought. What if he were eighteen and wanted to sign up for the service too and drive to Dallas? How could she let her baby, the only one she’d ever have, go? The idea of him leaving her to risk his life for his country horrified her.
She’d known Mrs. McCade only from an occasional visit. Always so proud of Eric, but she’d doted on all her sons. The younger two had helped steadily around the farm and would have married soon and settled nearby, raised good crops and sons of their own. The salt of the earth, they lay in foreign soil now, their mother in her grave too.
Molly’s older sister had died also, when she was just a few years younger than Eric’s brothers were. She’d caught diphtheria when Molly was a child. Extremely religious, almost a saint, her sister saw the best in everyone and forgave them almost before they did anything to hurt her. The illness came on quickly, from some of the other students at school, they thought. She was hot to the touch for almost a week and grew weaker as she lingered, until she finally passed away. At least she’d died at home, with her family, instead of in some faraway country, alone and probably terrified.
Molly’s parents hadn’t let her near her sister during her illness. But when she lay on her deathbed, they let Molly say good-bye. Her sister had suddenly looked around the room and said in a beautiful voice, “Don’t you see them, Papa? Don’t you see them? The angels standing around my bed? They’ve come to take me home.”
Everyone was crying, which upset her, but she couldn’t decide if her sister was hallucinating because of her condition or if she actually saw angels. The peaceful death, and the fact that her parents had protected her so thoroughly from the ugly parts of the disease, hadn’t prepared her to know how she would react now if someone she loved died. She hoped she wouldn’t have to find out for a long time.
*
I declare, the world’s gone crazy. Mrs. Russell ruminated as she hoed the dry soil around her rosebushes. If the Frogs and the Krauts wanted to kill each other off, let ’em at it. Just warring over a little strip of land not much bigger than this county. Bunch of foolishness, sending the boys away when the old folks needed them on the farm.
Praise the Lord, James was too old to join up or he’d be riding alongside Eric, who didn’t have any business leaving home again. At least James had a speck of sense. Knew he had a young son, an old mother, and a worthless wife to support, so he couldn’t gallivant off to war in a T-Model with the rest of the boys, who didn’t think about anything but glory and shiny medals.
They didn’t remember the big fight against the Yankees—a righteous one. Some nerve those Northerners had, thinking they could dictate how everybody should live from way up there in Washington. That monkey-faced President had no more idea about Georgia folks than he could fly. And it took him four long years of making all loyal Southerners suffer like they were savages before the soldier boys finally had enough. Eventually some of ’em realized fighting’s nothing but terrible destruction and heartache for all involved, ’specially the women and children.
Yep, she was powerful glad Patrick was too young and James was too old for this gol-danged silly war. Sure hoped Clyde made it back in one piece.
Chapter Thirty-three
Jaq was exhausted, especially after the ordeal with the chicken. Eric never seemed to have any trouble wringing a chicken’s neck, so she hadn’t thought she would either.
She’d spent a good twenty minutes chasing the best-looking fryer in the yard before she finally cornered him and grabbed him with both hands, one over each wing. Then she eased him under her left arm and held him against her side so she could grab his neck with her right hand. She was afraid he’d peck her or she’d feel so sorry for him she’d let him go and open a quart of canned peas instead.
But, by God, she’d thought about how good he’d taste and how impressed Eric and Angus, and especially Molly, would be that she’d prepared him. So she grabbed his neck, closed her eyes, and started swinging him like she was cranking her Model T. When he whirled as fast as she could manage, she popped her wrist and snap—the chicken’s headless body flew across the yard and tried to run back and join the other fryers.
Chilled, she stared at it. Blood covered the front of her dress, and as she wiped at it she thought of Henry after he slipped into her tent. His blood had drenched the ground…
She rubbed her scar as a wave of compassion for him hit her. The horror of her actions gripped her. How easily things died. Men too.
*
Molly knocked on the front door and Jaq called, “Come on back. I’m busy cooking. But I’ll be through soon.”
In the kitchen, at first she saw only Jaq’s back as she stood at the stove busily dropping pieces of chicken into the skillet and jumping back when the hot grease threatened to spatter her. But when Jaq finally turned around, she burst out laughing. The fancy lady from New Orleans, used to having servants wait on her, stood there with bloodstains on the front of her housedress and chicken feathers in her hair.
“From the looks of it, the chicken lost the fight, but just barely,” she said to Patrick, who looked from her to Jaq with a puzzled expression.
“Mama, she’s pretty even when she’s all messed up, isn’t she?”
Jaq beamed. “Thank you, Patrick. And for that you get a teacake and a glass of milk. And your mother gets nothing.” Jaq playacted a frown, and she laughed again.
“Sit down at the table, Molly, and help yourself to the teacakes. I was kidding. You’re certainly getting to be a big boy, Patrick. Did you help your mother drive the buggy?”
He was already halfway through his cookie. “Yes, ma’am. But I want to learn to drive a Model T. Will you teach me?”
Jaq forked a piece of chicken and turned it over. “You bet I will. As soon as you can reach the pedals.�
�
As Patrick chattered, Molly let her mind drift. What if Jaq never moved away but stayed in New Hope so she could watch Patrick grow up and actually teach him to drive? Molly would be able to talk to her on the phone every day, see her at the church, and visit when she could escape from Mother Russell’s constant demands. She and Jaq could drive to town occasionally to shop and have an ice-cream soda at the drugstore, and maybe they could even join one of those new women’s clubs in town that Tabitha Milner had told her about, where they discussed great works of literature. Wouldn’t that be exciting?
But she couldn’t possibly expect Jaq to live in New Hope, so she pointed her dream in another direction. “If you could live anywhere in the world, where would it be?”
Jaq stood by the stove and turned the pieces over, to make sure they browned evenly and didn’t burn, then finally glanced at her. “That’s a hard question. London’s okay, but it’s too cold and damp and gray. I spent half my time inside, waiting to see the sun. And New Orleans is too hot and humid. Washington and New York are exciting, but I’d have to choose Paris.” She put a lid on the skillet. “What about you?”
She slowly bit her teacake. “I’ve always wanted to visit Vienna, because so many famous musicians lived there. But I don’t suppose I’d run across Mozart or Beethoven on the street now. And I’d like to see Athens. I enjoyed reading the ancient Greek tragedies when I was at the university, and I’d love to see the Parthenon. As for living somewhere else, I’ve never been anywhere except Texas so that’s hard to say. Why did you settle on Paris?”
She wanted to learn everything she could about Jaq before she disappeared.
*
Patrick was squirming in his hard-backed chair, so Jaq asked him, “Would you like to go upstairs and look at Mr. Eric’s treasures from some of his travels, Patrick? They’re in the room at the end of the hall on the right. Just be sure to put everything back, all right?”
The Storm Page 22
