“What are you thinking?” Alvi asked as they reached the end of the porch that circled around 101 Lincoln.
“How lucky we are,” Thomas replied immediately. “How very, very lucky.”
“You mean us personally, or the village?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “That’s exactly right.” He guided her up onto the porch, and they stood for a few minutes, looking down the hill at the few, scattered lights of Port McKinney. “If we can get through the night—with no further outbreaks or without losing the patients we have, there is a chance.”
“Incubation of cholera may be two weeks or more,” she reminded him, and smiled almost self-defensively. “I have the time to read, you know.”
He sighed heavily. “Call it wishful thinking. But I want to believe that all this is an isolated outbreak. Our beloved textbooks tell me that despite its lethal nature, the cholera bacillus is remarkably frail—when confronted with a head-on assault, the contagion can be defeated. I know it can be.”
He followed her inside, the door closing behind him with a satisfying thunk. For a few moments, anyway, the rest of the world could fend for itself.
Prince appeared from underneath the first floor stairway, his ratty tail thumping once or twice before hanging at half mast.
“Gert must love her escort,” Thomas said.
“No, Gert doesn’t,” their housekeeper said. She appeared in the doorway of the library with the infant in her arms. The dog’s tail thumped again at the sight of them. “He stinks to high heaven, that creature does. But I can’t convince him to go outside.”
“Some things are not open to negotiation,” Alvi said. “Prince has decided that John Thomas is his charge, and he takes the task very seriously.” She knelt, and Thomas saw that she did so effortlessly. She ruffled the dog’s unkempt headpiece and gently scratched the back of his torn ears. His eyes closed to half mast.
“And now your hands will smell like dog,” Gert groused. “If it isn’t one thing, it’s another.” She frowned at Alvi as she said to Thomas, “I tried to talk this young lady out of walking to the clinic, but you know the success of that. And now the pastor’s wife has been stricken?”
“Mrs. Patterson manages to cling to life,” Thomas replied, and Gert’s angular face softened. “Elaine is still with her. And of course Dr. Hardy…within mere steps, should there be a crisis.”
“Eleanor is with her, you mean.”
Thomas shook his head. “No, just Elaine. Eleanor has enough to do at home, although I confess that nursing is not one of her talents. The episode with her up at the logging camp set me to wondering just what her mental state might be.”
“She is a girl who suffers the flights of fancy,” Gert said. “I have known her for years, the poor child.”
“I have to say that without her sister, the outcome might have been in doubt.”
“Elaine is but fourteen,” Gert protested. She handed John Thomas and his cocoon of blankets to Alvi.
“And a most intelligent, calm young woman with the common sense of someone twice her age. She would not go home with her mother so in jeopardy, so this may be the next best thing. She stays at the clinic. You should have seen her assisting me. Completely unflappable.”
“What does the pastor say about that?”
“I’m not sure what choice he had in the matter. And we haven’t spoken with him since, which is just as well. He’s an ass.”
Gert frowned disapproval. “Come now. He is highly thought of in the community, Doctor. And his family is threatened. It is a difficult time for him.”
“For many. You know him better than I do, Gerti, but it appeared to me that he was content to let his wife lie there and die.”
“Oh, pshaw,” Gerti sniffed. “His faith lies in prayer. That’s what we all turn to when we don’t know what else to do.”
“Listening to advice would be a start for him,” Thomas replied. “What is the logic of not allowing himself to be tested for the cholera? A culture swab is so simple. But he refuses—in fact, refuses to actually acknowledge that the outbreak is cholera in the first place. But he neither likes nor trusts me. That much is obvious. He is furious that Winchell takes corpses directly from the clinic to the cemetery, without public funeral.” He shrugged. “So we’ll work around him. I left instructions with Eleanor about cleaning the household, and not long ago I saw smoke rising, so at least they’ve made a start. That house should be quarantined, and so should the church.”
“The entire church?” Gerti asked.
“I would think so. The pastor goes from house to church, from house to church, from house to church…even if he doesn’t lift a finger for his wife, with the changing of linens and such, he is at risk, just like the others. And then he carries it to the church. To the congregation.”
“And the little ones? Are they in danger?”
“Of course.”
“But what’s to be done?”
“Once their home has been cleaned and aired, only vigilance. Cleanliness and vigilance, Gert. A bright, airy home, good food, cleanliness. And if we can keep other people away, that will only help.”
“And Eleanor understands that? She understands that clearly?”
“I believe that she does, Gert. I certainly hope so. It was my intent to return there later this evening. I must see the children again.”
“And the pastor? You’ve explained all this to Pastor Patterson?”
Thomas held up his hands. “What he believes is a mystery to me, Gert.”
“Perhaps in the morning,” Gert said, without adding what she foresaw for the morrow. She reached out and folded back the baby’s blanket, revealing a snoozing face with two tiny fists clenched. “Everyone needs a good night’s sleep. That’s the secret.” She raised an eyebrow at Thomas. “Dr. Hardy? How is he fitting in?”
“Like an old slipper, Gerti. It’s as if he’s always been with us. I don’t know what we’d do without him.”
“We must have him to dinner, Thomas. It’s not right that such a gentleman is marooned down there in that monstrosity.”
“Most certainly. I look forward to it. But right now, he is where he is needed.”
“Of course.” Her breath whistled out of her impossibly spare frame. “You will take time for breakfast in the morning?”
“I cannot remain for the night,” he said. “There is…”
“Yes, he will,” Alvi interrupted. “That will be my mission.” She smiled at Thomas. “They’ll come to fetch you if there is a need, Doctor Thomas.”
With no will to argue, and knowing that his mind was in a fog of fatigue already, Thomas spent an hour eating dinner and enjoying entertainment provided by little John Thomas. Then, an exquisite, long hot bath followed by ferociously laundered night clothes touched with lavender water welcomed them to bed, and where the night went, Thomas had no idea. He awoke to a silent house and an empty bed. For a moment he lay still, disoriented.
“Alvi?” he said, and his voice, though a whisper, sounded thunderous in the empty bedroom. With no response, he threw off the bedding and slid out. Only the dog’s fragrance lingered, and Thomas made his way quickly in the dark to the stairway. He had padded halfway down when he smelled the coffee and bacon, and then heard the tiny eh, eh, eh of his son fretting in his wicker bassinette. The towering clock in the hallway clicked to 4:12 AM as he passed.
The kitchen was bright from four gas lights, and the coal-fired Newark kitchen range chased out the dampness. Prince lay like a large unkempt rug just inside the kitchen door and rose as Thomas appeared, stepping deferentially to one side. Alvi worked at the range, and the bacon in the frying pan snapped even as she turned at his approach.
“Go get dressed,” she said. “By that time I shall be finished here.”
“I could have slept another ten hours,” Thomas said, then saw the tight expression on Alvi’s face. “What is it?”
“Gert has gone down to the Pattersons’ to see if she can help,” Alvi said gently.
“Mrs. Patterson passed last night. Not long after midnight.” Thomas felt as if every benefit of a solid night’s sleep had been snatched from him. His first thought was of Elaine. He could not imagine the Patterson child’s heartbreak. She had tried so hard.
“Horace has gone down to help with the horses.”
“I’m sure Pastor Patterson needs little help with his horses,” Thomas said, but Alvi’s withering glance told him that wasn’t the case at all.
“Our horses, Thomas. Howard Deaton is ill.”
“My God,” Thomas said. “I’ll be but a moment.” He charged back up the stairs, cursing in desperation, first at those who had not awakened him, and then at himself. Why had he left the clinic? Those critical hours spent pleasuring himself…those very hours could easily have meant the difference for a patient. Lucius Hardy was competent—more than competent—in every way, but still…
He dressing quickly, then selected a clean pair of boots from the armoire. Back downstairs, he was ready to shrug into his coat when Alvi called from the kitchen.
“Come here, Doctor Thomas.”
“Please, Alvi. There is no time. How could you let me lie abed like some sluggard while the whole world comes a flinders.”
“Proper nutrition,” she snapped. “I read the same books as you, Doctor Thomas. The foundations of health are proper nutrition, adequate rest, and fresh air.” As she talked, she slid a mound of scrambled eggs onto a plate, hemmed in with a half dozen slices of thick bacon and a generous slice of the plain brown bread that Gert favored over the “high-fallutin’ white.” The coffee gurgled into the cup, forming a slick of rich bubbles around the rim. “Take five minutes, Thomas. It will make a world of difference to you, and to the patients you treat. This day will be one for your journal.”
As he gobbled the food without argument, she rolled an apple across the table toward him. “Take that with you.”
“Really Howard?” he asked between mouthfuls. “Who came to the house last night to awake you?”
“Elaine, that dear, sweet child.”
“What? Elaine did? But her mother…”
“Just so.” Thomas saw a tear in the corner of her eye, and stopped. For Alvi to cry, to be overwhelmed, meant that basically the world had stopped turning. She was touched easily, Alvi was, but her usual reaction was a warm smile or gentle touch. “I tried to comfort her, but do you know what she said to me?”
“I can’t imagine her grief, Alvi. She is but a child. To lose her mother so?”
“‘I will cry later,’ the child said. And remember, Thomas, this is a child speaking. ‘I will cry later.’ she said. ‘Right now there is too much to do.’”
The flavor of eggs, bacon, and buttered toast blended together into a tasteless lump in his mouth. “What time did the child come to the door?”
“Shortly after three,” Alvi replied. “Dr. Hardy sent for you on hearing about Howard’s illness. Should the ambulance be needed for others, he wanted a driver. Jake Tate is out at the Dutch camp still.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because he is not here, Doctor Thomas.” Having come to know Jake Tate over the past months, Thomas understood exactly what she meant. The man had been given a job to do, and would stay until he was satisfied. It was that simple. When finished, he would come to the clinic to report.
Rising from the table, Thomas drained the last of the coffee. He stood still a moment, staring down into the small swirl of grounds in the bottom of the cup. “Howard was diligent with his hygiene,” he said. “I don’t understand. This contagion is so virulent, so pervasive.” He looked across at Alvi. “That is why I’m going to plead with you, Alvi. Despite our best intentions, our best efforts, it is obvious that this contagion can spread with an ease that baffles us. Please stay away from the clinic.” His wife started to reply, but he interrupted her. “And now Gert has done exactly what she shouldn’t.”
“It is a shared thing, Doctor Thomas.”
“Of course it is, but…”
“One person’s worth is no greater or no lesser than another’s. If Gerti knows that she can be of assistance, then you cannot tell her not to be so.”
“I can if she endangers others,” Thomas snapped.
“She is well aware of the dangers,” his wife said. “As am I. As are your nurses. Even the child—even little Elaine.” She held up a hand as if caught in mid-thought. “There is another issue as well.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Patterson has become an issue.”
“What has he done? Does he not know that his wife has died? Did no one tell him?”
“Elaine did,” Alvi said. “And then returned to the clinic, despite harsh words from her step-father. I would guess that the combination of grief and anger stirred the good pastor’s mind beyond reason, Thomas. He went to the clinic and took the body home. He tried to drag Elaine with him, but she would not go. Finally, Dr. Hardy had to interfere.”
“My God. Has Patterson no idea…”
“That is absolutely right, Dr. Thomas. He has no idea.” A hint of impatience touched her voice. “He took his wife home. The body will be prepared, and then I suppose he plans a proper funeral in the church.”
Thomas looked heavenward. “And all the neighbors in,” he muttered. “Has this man not a single, solitary brain cell in his head? I’m surprised Dr. Hardy allowed this.”
“He struck Dr. Hardy, Thomas.”
The young physician stared at his wife. “He struck him?”
“That is what Horace said. He escorted Elaine here, and that was the story I was able to pry out of him. Dr. Hardy refused to release the body to him, and Pastor Patterson rose up against him. Cut his face, I’m told.”
“I must go.” He started for the door, heart pounding in his chest.
Close behind him, Alvi said, “Show them exactly what they must do, Doctor Thomas. Whatever towns people gather? I’m sure they will listen to you. Explain, and then demand that all precautions be foremost in their minds. And then trust them do their part, just as you trust me. That is really all you can do.” A faint smile touched her mouth. “And then maybe Roland Patterson’s prayers will do the rest.”
“Would that were a comfort now to Elaine,” Thomas said.
“Perhaps it is. We don’t know.” She ushered him out of the kitchen. As he picked up his heavy medical bag, Alvi’s strong fingers locked the back of his neck. Her voice was a whisper in his ear, her breath warm. “How often do you disinfect the grip of your medical bag, Doctor?”
He turned to her with astonishment. “I…” and suddenly the bag, with its familiar and comforting black leather and brass fittings, felt like a lethal thing in his hand.
“You see how easy it is,” Alvi said. “But you drip with alcohol most of the day, so I can’t imagine a bacillus living on the grip for long.” She pushed him toward the door and the darkness of dawn beyond. “Give Elaine much to do today, my love. She needs it.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
“I found him halfway between the back door of the barn and the outhouse beyond,” Dr. Lucius Hardy said. He dabbed at his swollen lip with a fresh gauze sponge and flinched at the sting of alcohol. “I had stepped out for a breath of fresh air just before midnight, and first saw his lantern on the ground.”
Thomas knelt beside Howard Deaton’s bedside. The man lay curled in a tight ball, the pillow wrapped around his head the way a child might who was afraid of the night’s creatures. “The head hurts?” he asked, and Deaton grunted something unintelligible, then pulled the pillow away from his face.
“It’s comin’ apart, Doc. Holy Christ, it hurts.”
“Let me listen.” Thomas pulled the blankets aside and roamed with the stethoscope. The man’s pulse was rapid and strong, flailing away against his own anxiety. It was one thing, Thomas thought, to be blind-sided by a disease without knowledge of the most likely outcome. But Howard Deaton had watched what cholera could do, had watched it kill the strongest a
nd fittest.
“Can you roll more on your back, Howard?” Deaton did so with a groan.
“This is killin’ me, Doc.”
“You’re too tough to kill, my friend.” Thomas listened while the man’s gut rebelled. The gurgling and splashing in Deaton’s lower gut, the characteristic borborygmi, practically bellowed through the instrument. “How often has he evacuated?”
“Since I found him?” Hardy looked up at Bertha Auerbach, who stood at the foot of the bed watching the teamster with the deepest sympathy.
“Eight,” she said, always the meticulous keeper of statistics.
“Howard, when did the symptoms strike for the first time?”
“Christ, I don’t know,” he muttered. “Didn’t feel so great after I ate my supper.”
“What did you eat?”
“Some of that stew that Gert James sent down.”
“There can be no fault there. To drink?”
“Still workin’ on a jug of wine.”
“And the vomiting?”
Deaton groaned, gritting his teeth. His hands dropped down to his lower gut, and he curled onto his side once more. “This is it, Doc. This is it. It’s gonna take me.”
“Nonsense, Howard. Work with us now.”
“He has vomited everything we’ve given him,” Berti said.
“Enteroclysis?”
“Four times,” Bertha replied. “And we have been aggressive with the stupes and the laudanum.”
“I’m thinkin’ of becomin’ a dope addict,” Howard whispered, and tried to laugh. “You got any more, Berti?”
“All you want,” she promised.
“His temperature?”
“An hour ago it was just under ninety-seven. Still, he has been able to hold some iced champagne long enough to sooth the mouth.”
“We’re giving Deaton champagne?” Hardy burst out loudly in mock protest, sounding as if he’d known Howard Deaton for a decade as best friend. He toed the door of the small room closed. “The staff is coddled thus?” he added when he saw the teamster try for a smile. He turned to Thomas. “We will need more Salol,” he said quietly. “In fact, we’ll need more of everything. The nearest source?”
Comes a Time for Burning Page 23
