Contagion

by Joanne Dahme

  “Nevertheless, she’s here with me today, because she believes that this is important and that fear and intimidation have no place in a civilized society. Allow me to recognize my devoted wife, Rose.” Patrick extended his hand in my direction with a flourish. All heads suddenly pivoted. I was mortified and felt my face redden with shame. I looked up to catch Sean’s eyes, and the anguish I thought I saw in his face grabbed at my heart. I stared back at him for a quick moment, hoping my gaze could convey my sorrow and my shame at his predicament.

  Patrick waved at the air for silence and began to speak again. He raised his hand to his throat clearing it. “As you know, I am interested in building the filtration plants.” He paused to allow the statement to sink in. “And because we are in the midst of a horrible epidemic, I will offer to build them at cost, allowing myself enough revenue to pay for the wages of my employees.” Patrick stopped again, as scattered cries of “Hear, hear,” and sporadic clapping commenced. Mayor Warwick jumped from his chair and interrupted the proceedings before the entire room applauded in approval. He appeared a blustering subordinate.

  The mayor’s wide face was red, and his bushy eyebrows dropped low in a scowl.The mayor stood beside Patrick, the crown of his head reaching Patrick’s shoulder.

  “That’s very kind of you, Mr. Dugan. But we cannot just give you the contracts.” The mayor frowned at Patrick as if this was a suggestion that Patrick had not shared with him back in his office. “As you are aware, we have specific laws requiring us to bid our work in the name of fairness ...”

  “To hell with the laws!” some gentleman shouted from the back of the room, not far from where I sat. “We are all dying!” a woman implored.The mayor raised his hands, urging for quiet. Patrick stood alongside him, looking grave and surprised but smiling at those who caught his gaze.

  Suddenly, there was a commotion at the entrance. Both doors exploded into the room. As the crowd parted for the newcomer, I was shocked to see Peter Brophy approach the velvet rope, beckoning to be admitted. He smiled at Patrick, a smile that lent his angular face a look of cunning. He wore overalls, the knees of which were stained with mud. I followed the red of his hair as Brophy made his way toward Patrick.When he reached the rope that separated the Councils’ seats from the public area, he simply extended his lanky leg over it.

  Patrick appeared pleased to see him as Brophy handed Patrick a paper bag. Patrick nodded to him, agreeing with whatever Brophy was saying. Mayor Warwick was gesturing to the Council president.The two were looking around the room as they spoke as if they expected an ambush.

  Patrick raised his voice again, and the cacophony of the crowd slowly dissipated. “I’d like to introduce Mr. Peter Brophy, my foreman. Mr. Brophy agreed to assist me to illustrate to you all what you are drinking these days,” he announced, his voice now sounding to me like a barker’s. “Mr. Brophy was kind enough to go to the river and obtain a sample of it directly above the point where the Water Works draws its supply for the reservoir.”

  Patrick wrested the glass sample jar from the bag. He held it up above his head for all to see. Even from my vantage point, I could see the murky, milky-colored water, laden with sediment. There were more cries now, of disgust and horror. I sensed a new menace in the crowd. I knew Patrick was going too far.

  “Unfiltered water!” Patrick bellowed, turning around so that the people on all sides of the chamber could see. He hoisted the jar above his head. Men began to press against the rope, shouting and demanding that Patrick get the contracts. I could only discern one common word in their cries—typhoid.

  It was then that Brophy brushed against Patrick, knocking the jar from his hand. It burst when it hit the tiled floor. A dank pool of water, mud, sludge, and splintered glass stained the floor, a rivulet of the puddle creeping in a serpentine toward the Councils’ table. Those seated at the table leaped up; a few of them knocked their chairs to the ground.

  I dug my fingernails into my fist when I caught the look exchanged between Patrick and Brophy. Good God. They had done this on purpose.

  A woman screamed, “Typhoid!”There were more cries, and people began pushing against one another toward the exit. The mayor and Council president looked horrified at the scene before them.

  I saw Sean bolt from his table and pull its cloth. He quickly draped it over the slowly expanding puddle.

  “Please! Calm yourself!” he pleaded. “You cannot be infected by breathing. Typhoid is not carried by the air.” He looked about the room.

  I watched Sean stand by the wet red cloth, his palms held out in a request for calm. A woman stopped, staring from the cloth to his hands as if she could see the contagion.

  “You are going to kill us all!” she shouted. Sean flinched. He looked at the red cloth by his feet.

  The Council president began banging his gavel.

  “Do you not want a report from the Bureau of Water?” he demanded.

  “No!” they yelled in unison.

  “To hell with the Bureau of Water!” some gentleman cursed above the others. The people that remained began shouting again that they wanted filtration, as they raised their fists above their heads, or banged their walking sticks on the floor, drowning out all possibility of speech. The mayor signaled to a number of police officers who had just entered the room. The Council president banged his gavel for a final time. “Adjourned!” he roared. “This session is adjourned!”

  I hurried to reach our carriage, parked on the north side of City Hall. I heard my name called and saw Sean running across its paved apron. I wasn’t worried about Patrick observing us because he had told me that he would be late in coming home. But I didn’t think I had the heart to face Sean.

  “Rose,” he said breathlessly, as he quickly caught up to me, pulling at his coat and collar to straighten himself up. “Have you been well?” His blue eyes were pained with concern.

  I held on to the handle of the door because I knew that my hands were trembling. “Sean,” I began, looking into his face, startled by an urge to reach out and take hold of his hand. I suddenly felt such despair that I turned away. I was ashamed of my feelings. I had an obligation to be loyal to Patrick.

  “I hope that you believe that Chief Trout acted alone,” he pleaded. “After you left, I worried that you might think that I was involved in Mrs. Murphy’s murder in some way.”

  I turned to face him and noticed that he had taken a few steps back from the carriage. He was oblivious to the angry stares and disrespectful remarks grumbled at him from the people still leaving City Hall.

  “Of course not!” I blurted. “How could I ever think such a thing—after you have shown such friendship and kindness?” I had released the carriage door and was pulling my caftan robe about me, my only acknowledgment of the bracing wind. “It is I who need to apologize today, Sean. Patrick treated you—and all who stood in his way—horribly. I’ve been powerless to stop him. I fear I have no influence on him when it comes to his business.”

  Sean’s face clouded on hearing Patrick’s name. He then shook his head to dispel the notion that I was at fault. “Rose, you are the only decency that he has claim to. Don’t ever apologize for that.”

  I was afraid that I would cry if he continued to look at me and speak to me like this. Had I nothing good to say? “Julius is improving,” I volunteered, happy to share some truly favorable news. “He should be returning to us within the next two weeks, if his recovery continues.” I glanced at the stranger sitting on the driver’s bench, who was absorbed in conversation with a number of unengaged livery men. I was glad that he appeared oblivious to our conversation.

  “Good,” Sean nodded. “I am happy to hear that someone who cares for you as if you were a most priceless possession will be by your side again.” Sean then looked down at the ground, his words embarrassing him.

  I suddenly wanted to be in his arms. The force of my desire almost made me gasp for breath. “Sean,” I began hesitantly.

  He cut me off. “Excuse me, Rose.
I must return to a meeting.” He cocked his head disdainfully toward City Hall, whose shadow was creeping toward our feet. “We have so much to do. ...” He rubbed his forehead, overwhelmed. “I know now that filtration is the only solution left to us.” He paused for a moment and looked beyond me through the carriage toward the Schuylkill River and his beloved Water Works. His expression grew wistful.

  I knew that he was losing everything, and my eyes began to burn. “I believe in you, Sean,” I replied, barely above a whisper. I wanted to embrace him. I wanted to hold him against me to take away his pain. But I stepped back, frightened and appalled by this impulse.

  Sean’s eyes moistened as I spoke. He looked away but then just as quickly bowed to me. “Take care of yourself, Rose,” he said softly. He turned on his heels to return to City Hall.

  I watched his retreating figure approach the colossal structure until my vision blurred. Only then did I call the attention of my driver, breaking him from his knot of cronies, to ask that he take me home.

  Although it was scarcely dinnertime, I headed directly to my room. Martha was blocking my way to the stairs and was visibly agitated, wiping her hands on her apron as if they were wet and couldn’t get dried. Her eyes bulged in her florid face.

  “How did the Master do at City Hall today?” she asked, her voice high and girlish. “Did he do well?” Martha was standing in the middle of the stairway landing, leaning uncomfortably close to me.

  I recoiled. I couldn’t help but wonder how I had ever been able to live with this woman without this sense of revulsion. Martha’s obsession with Patrick sickened me.

  “Yes, Martha. He did exceptionally well. He always does, as you know,” I answered, hoping the impatience wasn’t evident in my tone.

  Martha beamed, not at me, but at the thought of her master. Only then did she recall that I was standing in front of her, waiting to climb the stairs.

  “Are you not having dinner tonight, ma’am?” she asked, without a trace of genuine interest. Her gaze flit from my face as soon as it alighted there.

  “No, I’m not feeling well, Martha, although I’m sure that Mr. Dugan will expect a hearty meal. Please tell him that I am sorry for not sharing it with him.” I knew that Martha would do nothing of the kind.

  “Certainly, ma’am,” Martha replied agreeably, stepping aside to allow me to pass. As I began climbing the stairs, I couldn’t help but look back. Martha was still standing in the same spot, watching me ascend. Martha flicked an automatic smile.

  I was happy to obtain the privacy of my bedroom. I gratefully pulled off the caftan robe and velvet dress and unlaced my corset. I exchanged my burdensome attire for a linen nightdress and slipped under the quilts of my bed.

  My head was aching, and my heart was sore. All of the doubts that I had harbored about Patrick were bearing down on me in one great wave. What I had witnessed today in City Hall confirmed a suspicion that had lingered in my soul, vague and intangible as a fog, ever since I had been promised to Patrick when I was a mere child of thirteen. Patrick was not a good man.

  I had never formed this sentence, never allowed it to intrude upon my love for Patrick. In fact, I had forever rallied against this truth. I had made myself believe that Patrick was exactly the man I hoped him to be. But he had fooled me completely, and with this declaration, I allowed the despair to flow in an angry torrent. I reached for the lamp on the bedside table and turned it off, welcoming the darkness to hide me from Patrick and the world.

  I didn’t know how long I had slept when I heard the bedroom door whine in a slow motion protest. I was still dull and half-asleep as I turned over, resting one cheek on my clasped hands. I watched the door continue to open as if on its own accord.

  Slowly it dawned on me that Patrick was probably standing in the hall, deciding which tactic would make this night’s conquest an enjoyable one. Surely he wanted to celebrate in his physical way. I tried to make out shapes in the darkness, at the same time dreading to see Patrick’s eager figure approach.

  After a few minutes, as I lay in bed without moving a limb or breathing discernibly, I felt a more primitive fear descend on me. No one appeared in the frame of the open door. My sight had adjusted well enough to see only a shadowy darkness. This was one game that Patrick had never played before.

  “Patrick?” I whispered. “Is that you?”

  Before I could raise my head from the pillow, a form in a billowy white gown dashed across my bedroom’s threshold. I screamed, or thought I screamed, as the figure, within seconds, reached my bed. I was suddenly sitting straight up, flailing at my covers to claw at the apparition that was pressing its hands against me. The hands pulled at my hair and pushed against my chest, forcing my head violently against the pillow. As I struggled, I smelled something sweet and medicinal clamp across my mouth and nose, suffocating me. Then, all consciousness was lost.

  SEAN

  I sat on the bench in the vestibule of the Central Station of the Bureau of Police, staring at the Rogues Gallery display. Face after face stared back at me—murderers, thieves, arsonists, and rioters all. Each face looked wiped of emotion, as if to hide all hint of their criminal qualifications. Dugan’s photograph should be featured prominently in the center of them all.

  I had walked the few blocks from City Hall to see Chief Trout, who was being held here while awaiting his preliminary hearing. I needed to talk to him about his incredible confession and about Peter Brophy, who just some hours before, had provided Dugan with his show stopping proof that the city’s water supply was in a dire state.

  It was when I watched Brophy burst into the fray of the City Councils’ filtration hearing, bearing the obviously lethal jar of water, that the realization struck me like a bullet. Brophy had been working—had been digging—at exactly the location where Dugan had claimed that Brophy had grabbed the water sample. For a moment, the tumult about me had dissolved. Was there a connection between Dugan and the epidemic? My heart had raced as I watched Dugan lift the jar of dirty water over his head.

  I never had the opportunity to talk to Trout about the sewer repair contract that Brophy claimed to be working on for Dugan. I never had the chance to voice my surprise and skepticism about the propriety of Dugan obtaining a contract for pipe work in the park, conveniently adjacent to the grounds of the Water Works. I knew now, sitting on this hard bench in this cold, dark place without a doubt that if Trout’s hatred for Dugan was all consuming enough to motivate Trout to murder, he damn well would not have awarded Dugan the contract for that job. And if for some reason Trout was unable to prevent the contract from going to Dugan, he surely would have told me about it.

  I glanced up when I heard the door of Buchanan’s office open. I reached for my hat and was about to stand, when the detective placed a thick finger in front of his expansive nose and mustache to indicate to me that he would be a few more minutes. I had not mentioned my suspicions to Buchanan yet. I wanted to be sure. Dugan had already made the entire city administration and me look like fools. I could still taste the acrid bile in my mouth.

  Had Dugan somehow poisoned the water supply? If he did, could I prove it?

  I had met with the mayor and the dour representatives of the Bureau of Health after the public hearing. Only the old, experienced chemist, whom I was seeing regularly at the Water Works now, sampling the reservoirs a few times a day, appeared unflappable. The mayor paced back and forth at the head of the table like an outmaneuvered Napoleon. Dugan had taken him by surprise with his offer to build the plants at cost. The mayor pounded the table. His eyes were bulging and his face was a rosette of outrage.They all agreed now that there was no recourse but filtration. But Dugan had usurped the mayor’s role as the city’s leader. This was obviously the mayor’s bitter pill.

  “You have two days to determine the cause of this hellish epidemic and another two days to affect an immediate decline in the infection rate. Do you understand me?” he thundered. The gentleman chemist barely blinked. He had seen many an epid
emic during his long career. The politics of typhoid meant nothing to him.

  “Death is a part of life,” the chemist had remarked to me, during the first blush of the outbreak.

  The sudden squeal of Buchanan’s door interrupted my pacing. I eagerly reached out to grasp Buchanan’s outstretched hand. The detective looked perturbed, his dark, bushy eyebrows weighing heavily on his eyes.

  “I’m sorry about that hearing, Mr. Parker. Mr. Dugan is quite a showman. I wouldn’t have been shocked if he had his employee arrive on a unicycle with his bag of water.”

  I smiled as if it hurt, but I wanted Buchanan to know that I appreciated his efforts to lighten my humiliation.

  “That is one of the reasons that I want to see the chief. I need to ask him about some work that Dugan’s crew performed—a sewer job—north of the Water Work’s gardens.”

  “You think the sample may have been tampered with?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know. I’ll have a better idea after I speak with Chief Trout.”

  Buchanan tapped his fingers against his chin. “You know, I thought of the possibility myself, only because of the timing and the drama of Dugan’s entire act. I suspect all evidence when it is given to the public before an official examination.”

  I was gratified to hear that my own reaction to Dugan’s claim was not the only skeptical one. “May I see Chief Trout alone?” I asked.

  The detective nodded, still absorbed in thought. “I think it’s best. He doesn’t trust me. I believe he will be more honest with you.”