Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  I watched Martha purse her lips as Julius stepped down from the driver’s seat.

  “Those horses could use a good brushing,” she decreed.

  Julius opened the carriage door but turned to shoot Martha a look full of poison. Martha’s bulbous eyes narrowed at his impudence.

  “My, Martha runs a tight ship,” Nellie remarked, looking amused.

  “Yes,” I agreed ruefully. “At times, though, I’d like to set her adrift.”

  Nellie stifled a laugh as I attempted to intervene. “Martha, would you mind seeing that the coals in the hearth of the morning room are warm, please?” I intercepted the penetrating glare that Martha was focusing on Julius’s back. “Mrs. Murphy and I would like some tea there.” I tried to knead the impatience from my voice.

  Martha gave me a strained smile as she waited at the door.

  “Are you planning any more outings this afternoon, Mistress Dugan?” Julius asked, rubbing his hands to warm them, or perhaps he was pretending to throttle Martha.

  “No thank you, Julius.You can return the carriage to the stable. And be sure to return for a warm lunch that Martha will ask Brigid to prepare for you,” I added.

  Julius smiled, a mischievous gleam in his eyes, as he mounted the carriage. Martha turned abruptly and opened the French doors of the morning room before taking our cloaks.

  “Just a moment, Madame, and I’ll have the coal for you,” Martha said as she marched down the hallway. I noticed Nellie suppressing a smile.

  “I’m sorry, Rose, but Martha always makes me want to giggle like a bad little girl,” she confided.

  “I might giggle too, if she didn’t live with us,” I replied, watching Martha’s return, a bucket of coal in her hand.

  “How does Patrick abide it?” Nellie whispered. “I can’t imagine him putting up with her.”

  I had often wondered about this myself. Patrick was amazingly immune to Martha’s tirades. In fact, he took amusement from them.

  “I can only guess that his affection for Martha overrides her shortcomings. He grew up with Martha and Julius.They are a part of his history, however a contentious pair they may be,” I answered.

  Martha reappeared in the hall, the coal bucket now empty. Her blue eyes looked stern beneath the soft glow of her pinned white hair.

  “I’ll see to the tea, now, Mistress Dugan. The room is ready.” She proceeded down the long hall toward the kitchen. The odor of flowered toilet water was left in her wake.

  Martha had drawn the curtains back to allow the now tepid light of the October day fill the room. We settled into the chintz-covered armchairs that flanked the hearth. Nellie glanced casually about the room.

  “Rose, are they new?” Nellie indicated the two porcelain clocks and the Japanese vase on top of the white marble mantel.

  “Patrick’s decorator acquired them for us,” I replied. “Patrick recently developed an interest in objects and furniture, although I’m not quire sure what spurred it,” I replied, still somewhat mystified myself. Just a few weeks ago, he had come home with a dusty, old crystal chandelier that now hung from the middle of the ceiling. He had picked it up in a building that he was demolishing. Today, the room contained a profusion of items that had caught Patrick’s attention.

  “Patrick is surely a man of eclectic tastes,” Nellie noted. I was quick to search Nellie’s face but did not detect any mockery in her voice.

  Brigid knocked as she carried the tea tray into the room. A feather duster poked from the tie of her apron. Brigid was my age and timid in the shadow of Martha’s bullying supervision. I always wanted to protect her from Martha’s furies.

  “Thank you, Brigid. You can place the tray on the table,” I said with an encouraging smile.

  Brigid smiled gratefully and bobbed a quick curtsy.

  “I’ll pour, Brigid. Why don’t you fix Julius his lunch now?” I asked.

  “Julius’s lunch?” she replied blankly. Brigid still possessed a soft Irish lilt. Momentarily flustered, she recovered and added, “Yes, of course, ma’am.”

  Nellie couldn’t help but smile as Brigid left the room.

  I poured our tea into the blue and white Delft china cups, once Patrick’s mother’s set, as Nellie stood to inspect the framed sepia-colored photographs on the cherry wood table by the window.

  It was my turn to laugh as Nellie dusted their glass with the sleeve of her dress. “It appears that the feather duster is not acquainted with portraits,” Nellie noted.

  “You are incorrigible, Nellie,” I reproved affectionately.

  The photograph Nellie held was of my father with Mr. Dugan, standing arm and arm, at the construction site of the great Centennial Exposition in Fairmount Park.

  “Patrick looks so like his father,” Nellie murmured, staring at the portrait. She turned abruptly, the frame still in her hand.

  “Rose, your first year of your marriage has passed quickly, hasn’t it? I can’t believe that Charles and I have been married for two. Where has the time gone?”

  Where has the time gone, indeed, I thought. I had been thirteen when promised to Patrick Dugan. At the time, Patrick was twenty—a strapping, dark-haired, handsome young man who was quick to laugh and possessed the confidence of one who knew he was the center of everyone’s universe. I had been in awe of him.

  “I was so anxious, Nellie, about our marriage. Patrick seemed such a giant to me.”

  “Ah, well, he is a giant in the contracting business but surely more of a husband to you now.”

  “As he better be,” I laughed, despite a sudden, inexplicable twinge.

  After our parents’ deaths, mine passing soon after our wedding from typhoid, Patrick became the sole proprietor of our families’ combined construction business, Dugan & Tagert. I had noticed that the “Tagert” name was absent in the company advertisements lately.

  “You’re a Dugan now, my dear,” Patrick had stated, taking me into his arms and kissing me gently on the top of my head. “Let’s just concentrate on expanding the Dugan name.”

  When we were first married, he had spoken excitedly about the day when he foresaw bringing a cradle home—keeping the business in the family he had said. Lately, he shrugged off the subject. I had assumed that he was too busy with the business and his lobbying efforts with the City Councils to build the water filtration plants.

  “Well, well, ladies. What a charming surprise.”

  Suddenly, Patrick stood in the yawn of the French doors. His smile was jaunty; his dark eyes were bright. He seemed truly delighted to find us here. He held his walking stick in one hand, tapping it against the palm of the other.

  “And my, you both look ravishing! Your faces still glow with the vigor of your outing. What did you think of the mausoleum, Rose?” he asked, tugging absently at his leather gloves.

  I realized that I was still in awe of his physical presence. Patrick was tall and lean and strong. His body still boasted the taut muscles developed in his youth while working as a laborer for his father. He looked elegant in his black morning coat, pressed trousers, and spats. His aquiline nose and square jaw were softened by his spirited dark eyes. His oiled black hair was combed back to expose a forehead that always tempted me to place my hand over it, to take his temperature—perhaps because it seemed the only vulnerable part of his body. The light of the chandelier shone upon the flecks of white that streaked his hair. It had happened early to him, just like his father. His clothes emanated the smell and the temperature of the outdoors.

  “It is beautiful, Patrick. Nellie and I spent the afternoon at the cemetery admiring its grandeur,” I enthused, crossing the room to take his hand. “No wonder you were so anxious for me to see it.” I felt my face flush. Will I forever be intimated by him?

  He turned from me to appraise Nellie. I knew he liked sparring with Nellie. Nellie was a challenge to him.

  “What did you think, Nellie?” he asked, leaning his walking stick against the door jamb. The snarling serpent head carved into its handle t
urned simultaneously, it fangs barred at the occupants of the room. I hated the walking stick. Patrick thought that it inspired a fearful respect, or at least caused those who opposed him in anything to pause in their resolve. It had been his grandfather’s and later his father’s. “What kind of man would carry such an appendage?” Patrick had asked me rhetorically. “A man that should not be crossed.”

  “The location is lovely, Patrick. Rose and I found the view of the river breathtaking,” Nellie replied diplomatically. I spied the spark in her eyes though. Patrick only needed to push her a bit more to kindle Nellie’s unbridled honesty.

  “Shall I petition Charles on your behalf?” Patrick offered. “I believe that I was misinformed and that there are still a few prime locations left at Laurel Hill.” His arm was about my waist. I loved him, but I would not abide his bad behavior toward Nellie.

  “Patrick, please. Don’t be rude. It is one thing to be proud but don’t allow your pride to make you ...” I started.

  “Perhaps you may, Patrick,” Nellie interrupted, raising her chin to him in a dare. “But I think we need to finish Sarah’s nursery first.We don’t want to be too extravagant by doing both you know.”

  Patrick smiled at Nellie, but I could sense that he was disappointed that she didn’t attempt to unbraid him. I realized that Nellie was being congenial only because she knew how uncomfortable I felt about the mausoleum.

  “Oh, Rose, I almost forgot,” Patrick said absently. “A letter was delivered to my office. Your name is on it.” He pulled the small envelope from his coat pocket and handed it to me. “Excuse me a moment, ladies.” He picked up his walking stick and turned into the hallway to hang up his Chesterfield.

  I curiously examined my name scrawled messily across the envelope’s face. “Nellie, it’s in care of the Women’s Park Beautification Committee.”

  Nellie was standing by my side now. “Do you think it’s about the upcoming City Councils’ hearing?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” Nellie replied. “I hope our report doesn’t need more work though,” she laughed, shaking her head. “Mrs. Warwick is known for her last minute assignments.”

  I read quickly the content of the note. My heart began to tremor, and for a moment, I could not speak. I could only stare at the harsh, black words scrawled across the page.

  “Rose, what is it?” Nellie’s voice was far away.

  As I read the words, a chill seized me.

  YOUR HUSBAND IS OUT TO DESTROY EVERYTHING THAT YOU

  AND YOUR COMMITTEE ARE STREVING TO PRESERVE.

  CONVINCE HIM TO STOP HIS SELFISH LOBBYING FOR

  FILTRATSHUN BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE.

  I pushed the note toward Nellie, who read it to herself while shaking her head.

  “They misspelled ‘striving’ and ‘filtration,’” Nellie whispered, preoccupied.

  “Patrick,” I called, trying to temper any evidence of hysteria. “Patrick, you must see this.” I stood in the doorway now, motioning for him to hurry back into the room.

  “What is it, Rose?” Patrick had only been to the closet. “You look like you’ve seen a face from the grave.” His voice was skeptical as he took the paper from Nellie.

  As he read it, a smile slowly tugged at his lips.

  “Should I summon the police?” I asked. “Someone is threatening you, Patrick.” I looked at Nellie who nodded in agreement.

  “The police?” Patrick laughed, crumpling the note in his hand and shoving it into his pocket. “Don’t be ridiculous, Rose. It’s just one of my many competitors who obviously feels I’ve already won the trophy.” He touched me playfully on the cheek.

  “It was poor sportsmanship to send the letter to you. I hope neither of you are frightened by such antics.”

  “But Patrick, you simply can’t ignore it,” I insisted.

  “I think Rose is right, Patrick. Why don’t I show it to Charles? Perhaps you can take some legal action.” Nellie’s face had lost all of its disregard for Patrick. I could see her genuine concern as I clasped Nellie’s hand gratefully.

  Patrick shook his head. “No thank you, ladies. You go about having your tea. I will take care of this my way.”

  “But Patrick,” I protested. But Patrick had already retrieved his walking stick.

  The light from the hall fired the ruby eye of the serpent before Patrick closed the morning room doors behind him, leaving Nellie and I to our cooled tea.

  SEAN

  I stood on the Mill House deck at the Fairmount Water Works, staring into the murky waters of the forebay. The October sun was warm, and I could feel its heat in the threads of my white cotton shirt, the sleeves of which I had rolled up to my elbows. I had already taken off my sack coat and hat, leaving them hanging over the chair in my office. I suddenly had a quick notion to remove my black vest too but then thought better of it.

  I watched as a young couple emerged from one of the footpaths emanating from the South Garden.They hesitated a moment before continuing, pausing to lean against the wooden rail on the forebay’s bulkhead.The rail and wooden balustrades rimmed the entire perimeter of the forebay and served to keep children and dogs from tumbling into the cold, brown waters.The couple then approached the foot of the inclined path, which meandered among the trees and shrubbery growing along the bouldered hill of the reservoir. Sections of the ascending path were supported by arched stone bridges set into the hillside. Other sections simply took advantage of the naturally rocky terrain of the mount. A life-size statue of the huntress, Diana, bowstring in hand, posed atop a stone pedestal to the left of the path’s apron. The couple barely blinked at the statue’s stark whiteness, set against the earthy brown and fading greens of the trees, rocks, and soil. I saw that they only had eyes for each other.

  I too savored the breathtaking view to be gained from the climb. I had walked the same path thousands of times myself, crisscrossing the hill to reach the reservoir above.Yet I was still taken by the almost spiritual beauty of the juxtaposition laid out before all to see—the classical grace of the Fairmount Water Works—with its Greek Pavilion and life-sized mythological statuary—imposed upon the natural, immortal beauty of the Schuylkill River Valley. I liked to think of the Water Works as man’s attempt to adorn nature.

  Once the top of the hill was reached, strollers were struck by the sweeping vista of the Water Works below, thrusting itself like a rescuing arm into the Schuylkill River, thereby diverting its flow into the forebay with the aid of the dam. The foliage on the hill had already acquired the colors of fall. As the leaves of the trees were fewer in number, the statuary which was placed along the paths were all clearly visible.Their whiteness against the dark backdrop of the hillside made them appear exposed and vulnerable.

  I gazed at my favorite sculpture, a fountain on the opposite bank of the forebay. The sculpture was of a woman, classically dressed, in bare feet, her hair piled high on her head, balancing a wading bird on her right shoulder. The bird’s neck and long, slender beak were extended toward the sky, its wings outstretched attempting flight. When the pipes from the reservoir feeding the fountain were in good condition, a spray of water propelled from the bird’s mouth leaped sixty feet into the air. This sculptured woman, and all she symbolized, was the only woman in my life, since the death of Eileen, my fiancée, two years ago from typhoid. Since then, my singular passion was my work and the protection of the purity of the river.

  I worried about what might become of the Nymph and Bittern and the other beautiful statues and fountains, which graced the gardens and grounds of the Water Works, if the mayor and the City Councils decided to shut down this pumping station. It made me sick at heart to think about it. The loss of this—enchanting site—how else could one better describe it, would be immeasurable. For me, the gardens and buildings represented the ingenuity and spirit of man.

  I had been working at the Water Works for five years, starting when I was fifteen, a young engineering assistant to the chief engineer of the facility, who was getting too ol
d to clamber around the turbines and pumps below deck and hike up the hill to the reservoir or standpipe above. It was not long until I had fallen under its spell; the Nymph, and the grounds she occupied, offered me all the beauty and mystery needed from life.

  During my tenure at the Water Works, the facility and its reservoirs had increased its capacity to ultimately supply twenty-six million gallons a day to hundreds of new industries while providing water for drinking, cooking, and cleaning to the citizens of Philadelphia. I thought what was most remarkable was that in addition to its marvelous technology, the Water Works was the most beautiful sight along the Schuylkill River.

  And yet the City Councils were talking about abandoning it.

  In my hands was a rolled up document, now smudged with grease from my fingers, that my supervisor, John Trout, Chief of the Bureau of Water, had given me earlier in the week to read. The report had been drafted by a sanitary engineer from New York for the Philadelphia’s Women’s Health Protective Association concerning the safety of drinking Schuylkill River water. I couldn’t help but wince as the word typhoid leapt from its pages. I thought about Eileen—and the hysteria these outbreaks caused and fiercely gripped the report. I knew there was a better way.

  The report advocated the building of filtration plants to remove the bacteria, believed to be the cause of typhoid outbreaks and other illnesses. Despite its massive and complex machinery, the Water Works could only manage to pump the water from the Schuylkill into its reservoir on the hill—a feat it had maintained unchallenged for over seventy years. But its impressive machines could not cleanse the river water. I had dissected the report, word by word, searching for a weakness in its content and its subsequent recommendations. In the end, I couldn’t find one. I was forced to concur that there was no room at the Water Works to build filters.