Enza

by Kristy K. James

  Enza

  Kristy K. James

  Copyright 2012 – Kristy K. James

  I had a little bird,

  And its name was Enza.

  I opened the window,

  And in-flu-Enza.

  Chapter 1

  Whoosh!

  Like a cannon ball exploding from its barrel, the sled took off down the hill, runners slicing through the snow like a warm knife through soft butter as it gained speed.

  Jonathon Owens, all of ten years old, felt his heart pound at the thrill of it. He knew this was as close as a boy could come to flying, soaring over Europe at the controls of a Bleriot XI, hunting the Kaiser down.

  But he wasn’t over there helping to win the war. By the time he was old enough it would be over, the brave soldiers hailed heroes long home and old men. So the only thing he could conquer was this trail, avoided by all but the very bravest.

  His blue eyes squinted against the bright sunshine and keen wind that stung bare flesh until it was as red as a morning glory in the middle of July, though little was actually exposed. Just a narrow strip wide enough to see through was all that had escaped his mother’s determined hands. From the thick knit hat covering his head to the even thicker scarf wrapped round and round his face and neck, to the heavy woolen coat and mittens, he was well protected from the elements as he flew across the white blanket that covered the hill - and everything else in sight.

  Whoosh!

  He quickly guided the sled around the branches of a bare hydrangea bush and actually left the ground, careening off a steep drift and sailing through the air.

  His breath caught in his throat as, for mere seconds, he found himself airborne. He would have shouted for joy, except that same breath was knocked out of him when boy and machine made contact with the hard packed snow again.

  Whump!

  Whew! That had been close, he thought, his grip tightening against the wood. He had, narrowly, managed to maintain his position atop the sled and knew he wouldn’t be able to resist boasting of this accomplishment at school Monday morning. Not that just everyone would believe him, of course, but it didn‘t matter. He figured those who claimed that they didn’t were, plain and simply, green with envy over the exciting life he led.

  All about him children swarmed the hill, engaged in the same glorious activity, screaming and squealing with glee. Oblivious to the frigid February weather they, like Jonathon, made countless trips to the bottom, but he ignored them all. Scaredy-cats. They stayed on the safe trails. Trails for sissy girls.

  As he neared the bottom, and the field where he would eventually coast to a stop, the wind beat against frozen cheeks, bared after the brief flight, and subsequent jarring from the landing. No matter. He couldn’t wait to do it again. And again and again!

  Vaguely disappointed with the swiftness in which the ride had ended, he didn’t wait for the sled to come to a complete stop but, instead, rolled off and jumped to his feet. Standing with his hands on his hips he squinted toward the top, the glare of bright sunshine against brilliant white nearly blinding him. Finally he spotted her amongst the crowd.

  “Beat that, Kathleen!” he shouted triumphantly, knowing his running start had sent him a good ten yards farther than before. Farther than his sissy girl sister could ever manage. Not that she would ever come down this trail. Kathleen stuck the pink tip of her tongue out at him. Jonathon couldn’t actually see it, but she always stuck her tongue out at him so he was sure she did now.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he bent down to grasp the rope tied securely to the sled in one mittened hand and walked to the side, near a small stand of trees that was safely out of harm’s way. He knew first hand that being plowed into by the unyielding missiles could have painful consequences. Absently he rubbed the leg that had been broken two years ago.

  As he trudged uphill in almost knee deep snow, to where Kathleen and his two brothers waited, Jonathon’s legs ached and burned with the effort. But then he’d made many such trips this morning. It truly seemed unfair that such a joyous pastime should be hindered by an equally miserable climb. Still, it was a necessary evil.

  Panting as he reached the top, his breath coming out in great, steaming clouds, he couldn’t resist bragging about his latest accomplishment.

  “Did you see that?” he demanded with enthusiasm.

  “I did,” Richard, five years his senior and the eldest of the Owens sons, shot back. “And if you do it again, I’m telling Mother.”

  “You would,” Jonathon muttered irritably, bristling at the adult-like tone in his brother’s voice. At fifteen Richard towered over almost everyone and thought he could boss whomever he pleased.

  “You’re lucky you weren’t hurt,” Richard continued, tugging the rope from Jonathon’s hand, his other holding the smaller one of Charles, youngest of the five children.

  “Hey! I was gonna go again.”

  “We’re going down one last time, and then we’re all going home. Charles and Kathleen are getting tired and cold.” Gently he sat the boy on the wooden slats and climbed on behind him.

  “That’s not fair,” Jonathon complained, trying to adjust the scarf on his face with snow crusted mittens, a painful move against icy cheeks.

  “Too bad,” Richard said simply, inching the sled forward with his heels in what Jonathon knew would be a wasted trip down the hill. Everyone who knew anything knew you needed a good running start.

  He glared at the back of his brother’s black coat, almost identical to the one he wore. Just once it would be nice if he could come alone and stay as long as he wanted. But no, Kathleen and Charles always had to tag along and spoil his fun.

  With much envy he watched his brothers begin their descent and, before he could stop himself, stuck his tongue out. Then, feeling a bit foolish, he pulled it back in again before anyone could see. Bad enough when Kathleen did it.

  Babies. When he grew up he wasn’t having children. They spoiled everything.

  “Thanks a lot, Kathleen,” he snapped angrily. “I wanted to stay all afternoon.”

  “I’m sorry,” came the timid reply, tears welling up in her blue eyes, the same shade possessed by each member of the family.

  “Oh jeez. Don’t cry or Mother won’t let me come out for weeks. And then the snow’ll be all gone.”

  “I’m sorry,” she repeated, wiping a fat tear from her cheek. “I won’t, I promise.”

  “Hello, young Owens!” came a shout from the road. Jonathon turned to look, then groaned.

  “Hello, Reverend Thornton,” he called back, groaning again as he waved. All he needed now was for the reverend to find out he’d made his sister cry.

  ~~~

  Colby Thornton shivered at the sight of the Owens children playing out in this particularly arctic weather. Just driving his buggy to Maude Granger’s house had left him chilled to the bone, his teeth chattering now as he made his way back to town. He would be glad to get home and huddle near the stove today.

  Another quick wave and his young parishioners were out of sight. Shaking his head, swathed in a thick scarf, Colby realized that it had been years since he’d frolicked in the snow. He wondered how it was that, as children, the weather had little effect but, as one aged, the cold and damp got to be more - well, cold and damp, and more so with every passing year.

  Not that it mattered. As minister to a rather large congregation, he would never let something as trivial as the weather keep him from his duty, which included visits to the ailing, his mission this particular morning. Maude had been the last stop on a list of three.

  These trips always annoyed his wife to no end. He could clearly see Anna’s thinned lips, her eyes narrowed into unbecoming slits, as he closed the kitchen door behind him right after breakfast. After, of course, her incessant nagging tha
t he never spent enough time with her.

  Time for what, he wondered, waving to Mr. Hanley, who was shoveling several inches of fresh snow from the steps at the chair factory.

  Time to listen to an endless list of complaints? That she never had enough of anything, from fashionable clothing to the sweets that had rounded her once lovely figure so that she looked like the snowman in a nearby yard. He always thought it odd that she should have let herself go so, yet still worry about keeping up appearances.

  The only important thing in life to Anna, he supposed, was appearances.

  Colby sighed. Eighteen years. Eighteen years of listening to those complaints. To that whining voice, comparable to fingernails screeching across a blackboard. Eighteen long years.

  Approaching the intersection of Main and Lawrence, he noted that Charlotte was bustling with activity. Citizens stocking up on provisions, he expected, as they usually did following a heavy snowfall. Even though it was unlikely that another would follow, it seemed that most residents felt safer with overflowing cupboards.

  He waved, calling out greetings to most everyone hurrying along the sidewalks. Bundled snugly to protect themselves from the chill they walked, leaning slightly forward against the wind that beat relentlessly against everything in its path. It was an almost comical sight; but they had no one to blame for their misery but themselves.

  He doubted any were starving, or had such pressing business that they needed to be out. Not when they could have easily remained at home, warm and snug instead of-

  Colby gasped in disgust at himself, taken aback at the direction of his thoughts. These people weren’t miserable. He was. And no matter that they weren’t aware of it, he had no business taking that misery out on them.

  It wasn’t their fault that he, a minister of the gospel, wished every day of his life that he had the power to turn back time and choose a different wife. Or no wife at all, which would be much better than to be bound to a woman who had never spared him so much as a token of honest affection once his ring was on her finger.

  Making a determined effort, he shook himself out of the irritable mood that had fallen on him and guided the horse to a hitching post near Zourdos and Spires. Perhaps some chocolates would cheer Anna so that his afternoon might be spent as peacefully as possible.

  A blast of warm air hit him full in the face at the same time his nostrils were filled with the wonderful aroma coming from two long glass cases on either side of the narrow store. Each was filled with glorious, mouth-watering confections.

  Removing his gloves, leather stiff from the cold, Colby walked toward the counter where Angelo Spires waited with a smile. He wasn’t sure how his own might appear because his skin felt frozen in place, and a bit numb now as well.

  “Good morning, Reverend Thornton,” the shopkeeper greeted jovially. “How are you today?”

  “Very well, thank you. And yourself?” He hoped that, rather than sounding like the lie it felt like, his response would fall under the ‘calling things that were not as though they were’ category, but silently asked forgiveness just in case.

  “The same, my friend, the same. Praying for an early spring and an end to this hateful weather, but I can’t complain.” Colby flashed him another smile, one that felt like his lips actually moved this time.

  “That makes two of us. Perhaps if we pray hard enough, the good Lord might grant our request, hmm?”

  “One can hope.” Angelo laughed heartily and said, “What can I get for you this morning?”

  Colby quickly scanned the sweets for an appropriate peace offering and decided a dozen bonbons might be just the ticket. He’d say they were Anna’s favorites except most anything made with sugar could be considered a favorite of hers.

  “Anything else?” Angelo asked, his eyes lighting on the jar of peppermint sticks about the same time Colby glanced that way.

  A fairly disciplined man, he prided himself in maintaining not only excellent health but a strong physique as well. Unfortunately he’d had a weakness for peppermint since he was a boy. And the red and white striped candies standing brightly in pristine jars on the countertop seemed to be calling his name.

  He didn’t indulge often but was overdue for a treat, he decided, holding up one finger.

  “Only one?” Angelo teased, raising a dark, bushy eyebrow.

  “I’m afraid so,” Colby said, chuckling. “Not that I couldn’t polish off every one of them, mind you.”

  A few more minutes of cheerful banter and Colby left the shop, his mood much improved. Even the thought of spending the rest of the day in the company of his wife didn’t seem as daunting as it had a short while ago.

  For a man of thirty-eight, he climbed back into his buggy with surprising agility and wasted little time in urging the horse along. Somehow, after the warmth of the store, the air seemed even colder.

  Turning east on Seminary, he saw that while the Sanatorium on his left was quietly peaceful, the Owens’ home across the street was anything but. Jonathon was bounding up the steps, followed at a more leisurely pace by three of his siblings. He and Richard seemed to be quarreling. Again, he called a greeting and waved at the bickering fellows.

  ~~~

  Startled by the sudden crash of the door opening, Elliot Owens was distracted from an ongoing, wearisome argument. He glanced up, as did his wife, who was standing before their eldest daughter, hands on her hips, as Jonathon burst inside, fairly flying up the stairway in the hall.

  “Jonathon Andrew Owens!” Margaret admonished at once. “You’re tracking snow all over the house!”

  “I’ll clean it up when I’m done,” came the muffled reply from somewhere overhead.

  “You’ll clean it up this instant,” his wife was saying, though it would have taken a miracle for Jonathon to hear her as the hall filled with the rest of his brood. Elliot watched for a moment as Richard began to help the youngest children remove their boots and outerwear before turning his attention back to his wife and daughter.

  As golden haired as her mother was dark, Elizabeth sat rigidly in one of the overstuffed chairs flanking the stone fireplace across the room, glaring at Margaret defiantly.

  “I fail to see why I should be forced to endure something I don’t believe in simply because you do,” she snapped irritably.

  Elliot sat as calmly as he could on the sofa, poised to act as mediator should the need arise, which it did more often than not with this contrary child. Since her involvement with the Women’s Suffrage Movement, there had been little peace in the house. He had hoped that, in time, the situation would calm but as months passed, it only continued to escalate.

  “As long as you live under this roof, you will obey our rules,” Margaret said firmly, glancing toward the hall again as Jonathon’s footsteps pounded back down the stairs and carried him outside. Muttering something about the Lord having mercy, she turned back to Elizabeth, who was saying,

  “How can you possibly believe in something you can’t see, touch or hear? It’s one more way you let others control your life, Mother. Only in this instance, it’s your invisible God instead of a man.” Elliot sighed.

  “That’s quite enough, young lady,” he told her, fixing her with a parental stare that any of the other children would have wilted under. But not Elizabeth.

  “Enough for whom, Father? You’ve had enough of my opinions and expect me to bow to your wishes? Aren’t I, too, entitled to have had enough of your antiquated fantasies of God?”

  “Elizabeth!” Margaret’s face actually paled at that. “I will not allow such blasphemy in this house! Our family will attend church. And as you are a member, whether you like it or not, you will go as well.”

  “Of course, Mother. Whatever you say, Mother,” she said sarcastically, coming quickly to her feet, her gaze not wavering from her mother’s face. “Why should I be entitled to a feeling or thought you haven’t forced on me?”

  Elliot braced himself. He’d known Margaret long enough to know that the girl was
coming perilously close to crossing the line with her.

  But before catastrophe could strike, Elizabeth flounced from the room, stepping carefully around the puddles of melting snow covering the hall floor and stairs. Richard, from where he stood helping Charles hang his coat, scowled at his sister.

  Elliot looked back at Margaret, noting that she hadn’t moved so much as an inch, still standing before the now empty chair.

  “Papa?” Kathleen had crept over to where he sat, fat tears ready to spill down her cheeks, still rosy from the trip to the hill. Elliot lifted her onto his lap and held her close, stroking her soft brown hair. Sweet child.

  Like Richard, Kathleen possessed a very gentle spirit but, while Richard tried to fix problems, she was deeply hurt and confused by them. He knew that Kathleen viewed Elizabeth’s recent rebelliousness as a threat to her family, and his heart ached for her.

  “Mother?” Richard said hesitantly. “Charles would like some hot cocoa. Should I make it?”

  Elliot saw his wife inhale slowly, deeply, and relax the slender hands that had curled into fists at some point during the argument.

  “I’ll do it,” she murmured with a stiff smile at their son as she turned toward the hall. “Would you mop up the snow before someone slips and hurts themselves please? I’ll see to it that Jonathon does one of your chores when he comes back inside.”

  “It’s all right, Mother. I don’t mind.”

  “I’ll see to it, Richard,” she repeated, disappearing in the direction of the kitchen.

  While Richard followed her to get the mop, Charles headed for a small box in the corner, flashing a dimpled grin at his father.

  “We went swidin’, Papa,” he said happily, dumping a small mountain of wooden blocks on the rug that covered most of the honey colored floor.

  “I know you did,” Elliot told him, continuing to stroke Kathleen’s hair. She had relaxed to the point that he suspected she’d fallen asleep.

  “Jonafon was mad ‘cause Wichad made us go home.”