Red Death

by Alan Jacobson

  Scott did as he was told, feeling the urge to vomit but keeping it down long enough to gather his things.

  5

  An hour later, Scott was in class when he began experiencing pain in his stomach, low down, deep in his belly. It felt like something was grabbing him, pinching him from inside.

  He went to the front of the room and asked the teacher if he could have a hall pass to go to the bathroom.

  “Are you feeling okay, honey? You look a little pale.”

  “Stomach hurts.”

  She gave him the laminated card and Scott waddled down the hall, trying to get there before he made in his pants. That would be very embarrassing, so much so he did not want to think about it. He was focused on the bathroom, now about twenty steps ahead.

  As he pushed through the door, he felt something coming up his throat—and he couldn’t stop it. He grabbed onto the sink and vomited, heaving contractions that felt like his insides were exploding up and out of him.

  It came out his behind, too, and stunk like dog poop. He finally stopped throwing up and stood there in front of the sink catching his breath.

  He turned on the water and let it run, trying to flush the sink clean. It didn’t really work and he just stood there with his head over the faucet.

  The door opened and a kid walked in—then yelled “Oh, gross!”—and ran out.

  The pain was now more intense, gripping his belly and pinching—in multiple places at the same time. He dropped to his knees, then lay on his side on the cold white tile.

  Scott drew his knees to his chest, holding his breath with each stab, when a moment later a teacher walked in.

  “Oh my Lord,” the woman said. “Are you okay?”

  Scott could not answer. He shook his head no, and she said something about being right back—then ran out of the room. Scott did not care as long as the pain stopped.

  Time passed. He was not sure how much, but the teacher returned with another woman, the school nurse. Scott recognized her from once before when she sent him home with a fever.

  “I’m Doris. What’s your name, son?”

  “Scott. Scott Meece.”

  “Who’s your teacher?”

  “Mrs. Ortega.”

  “And where’s the pain?”

  “Stomach. Real bad.”

  Doris glanced around, appeared to be sniffing the air. She looked in the sink. “Did you throw up also?”

  He nodded.

  “I’ll call your mom and see if she wants to pick you up.”

  Scott knew she would not want to. What then? Could they force her to come?

  “Can you get up?”

  “Hurts too much in my tummy.”

  “Okay.” Doris removed her pink sweater, balled it up, and gently lifted Scott’s head. “Not as comfy as a pillow, but better than lying on the tile.”

  He nodded. Why was she being so nice to him?

  The door opened and the first woman who had come into the bathroom reappeared. “Office is calling his mother right now.”

  “Thanks, Catherine,” Doris said. She touched Scott’s hair, stroked it. “Still hurting?”

  Scott nodded again.

  “Your mom will be here soon, okay?”

  He wanted to tell Doris his mother would not be coming, but she would find out soon enough.

  “When did this start, Scott?”

  “Right after I ate.”

  “What did you eat?”

  “Oatmeal.”

  “With milk?”

  Scott nodded. “And Hawaiian Punch.”

  Doris drew her chin back and crumpled her brow. “In your oatmeal?”

  Scott nodded. “Didn’t taste good. Way sweet.”

  “Sweet.” Doris chuckled and shook her head in disapproval. “I can see why.”

  A few minutes later, Catherine appeared again. “His, um, his mother said she can’t come, that we should take him to the doctor.”

  “We don’t do that.”

  “I told her that.”

  Scott crumpled tighter as a wave of pain grabbed him.

  “And?”

  “She wouldn’t budge. Said she was busy, that he can wait till he gets home.”

  Doris mumbled something under her breath, then said, “What about the father?”

  “At work. Can’t be reached.”

  Doris growled. “We can take him to my room, but—”

  Scott moaned. More pain.

  “Call an ambulance,” Doris said. “This isn’t normal. I don’t know what’s going on, but it’s more than we can deal with and if the mother isn’t willing to come get him, we’ve got no choice.”

  “Okay,” Catherine said with a sigh. “I’ll call the ambulance.”

  6

  Queensborough Community Hospital

  Thirtieth Avenue, Long Island City

  The ride to the hospital was painful, the rocking of the van intensifying both his headache and the cramping in his belly.

  But at least someone was going to do something to make him feel better.

  The doctor examined him, nurses came and went … but no sign of his parents.

  Finally, another white-coated man entered and pulled the curtain around behind him. “I’m Dr. Bratt. How are you feeling?”

  “A little better.”

  Bratt nodded. “We gave you something to ease the pain. And we tried reaching your mom, but she didn’t answer and we left a message for her. Same for your father.”

  “I guess they’re busy,” Scott said.

  “Right.” Bratt shared a look with his nurse, who was standing nearby, on the other side of the gurney. She was blonde and had red lipstick on. Scott wanted to look at her, not the doctor.

  “So, we’re gonna have to wait until we hear from your parents. In the meantime, this is Annette from Child Protective Services.”

  Scott swung his gaze back to Bratt, where another woman had walked in.

  “Hi Scott.” She smiled.

  Scott just stared at her.

  “Annette,” Bratt said, “a moment. Scott, excuse us please.”

  Bratt took a few steps away and huddled with Annette while the pretty nurse with red lips came closer to his bedside. “You ate some bad oatmeal, I hear.”

  “I dunno. Guess so.” But Scott heard the doctor say the words “arsenic poisoning.” Obviously Scott was not supposed to hear this—they were having an adult conversation—and he did not know what arsenic was. But he was pretty sure poisoning was not good. “All I did was eat my cereal,” he said to the nurse.

  “I know.”

  “But my mom put Hawaiian Punch in it.”

  The nurse made the same face of disbelief Doris had made in the bathroom.

  “Didn’t taste good.”

  She placed a warm hand on his forearm and squeezed. “Dr. Bratt’s going to give you something that’ll make you better, okay?”

  Scott nodded.

  Someone parted the curtains and her eyes found Bratt. “Dr. Bratt. Father’s just arrived. Wants to see his son.”

  “Send him through.”

  Scott tried to sit up but his arms wobbled like rubber and he fell back into the pillow.

  A man in his late thirties with jet black hair and pock marks punctuating his face walked in.

  “Scotty!” He glanced at the doctor and nurse but went straight to his boy and gave him a hug—then pulled back and planted a kiss on his forehead. The man swung his head around toward Bratt and said, “I’m Waverly Meece. Is Scotty gonna be okay?”

  “Yes. We need your approval to administer some medication for treating him.”

  “Anything you say. Is he okay?”

  Bratt motioned him aside.

  “Will this medication fix him?”

  “It should, ye
s. He’s lucky.”

  “What—what happened? No one would tell me anything over the phone.”

  Bratt drew back the edge of the curtain. “Follow me. I’ll explain what I know.”

  Waverly turned back to Scott. “You’re in great hands here. They’re gonna make you good as new. Okay?”

  Scott nodded weakly, his eyes at half-mast.

  Waverly followed Bratt out of the ER treatment area and into the hallway.

  “What happened to Scott?”

  Bratt contorted his lips, studied Waverly a moment, then said, “Do you keep any kind of unusual chemicals around the house?”

  “We live in a small apartment. Not much room for us and the kids. We don’t have anything that ain’t necessary. What kind of chemicals? You mean like bleach? Or nail polish remover?”

  “Well, those are good guesses. But no, more like pesticides.”

  “In an apartment?”

  “Insecticides, then. You have roaches or ants?”

  Bratt snorted. “Who doesn’t in Queens?”

  “Any chance Scott was exposed to it?”

  “Wife hates the smell. She works graveyard in a factory so by the time she gets home she doesn’t want anything that reminds her of the job. She breathes bad chemical smells all day. So we don’t have any of those sprays in the apartment.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah I’m sure. You learn which fights to fight and which to let go. Killing roaches ain’t one of them.” He laughed, but Bratt did not share the humor. “Listen, Doc, why are you asking me these questions?”

  Bratt contorted his lips and nodded, then looked down. “Your son was poisoned, Mr. Meece. Arsenic.”

  “Arsenic. You serious?”

  “Dead serious. Arsenic is a naturally occurring chemical, but it’s not a substance usually found in high enough concentrations to do damage. Obviously, a child is more vulnerable. Water can contain arsenic, but the city’s water is exceptionally good. Absent chemical exposure, this looks to be a highly suspect toxicity.”

  Waverly looked at Bratt a long moment. “Come again, Doc?”

  “It looks like he was deliberately poisoned.”

  Waverly’s bottom jaw dropped and hung open. He swallowed hard. “By who?”

  “Good question.”

  Waverly searched his thoughts. He knew Mary could be mean at times, and she had a problem with Scott, but she also had her moments with their other son, Phillip. Poison? Kill her son? No.

  “I don’t know what to say, Doc. I can’t believe anyone’d wanna poison my son. Maybe it happened at school. They have more of them chemicals than we would.”

  Bratt studied his face a moment. “There’s a lady from Child Protective Services. You’ll need to talk with her before we can release Scott to you.”

  Waverly bit the inside of his bottom lip. “What does that mean?”

  “I’m not the one to answer that question.” Bratt placed a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure she’ll go through everything with you.”

  Waverly nodded, but a million thoughts were rushing through his mind, starting with, Had Mary tried to kill his son?

  7

  Astoria, Queens

  May 20, 1982

  The following morning Waverly led Scott into their apartment. Dr. Bratt had administered chelation therapy, in which a chemical compound is used to bind with the offending toxin to help the body excrete it.

  Scott was feeling well enough to be brought home. The doctor explained that arsenic, consumed in large amounts, can kill a person rapidly. In smaller amounts over a longer period, it would cause serious illness or a slow, prolonged death.

  The working theory was that Scott had inadvertently consumed something that contained an unusually high amount of the toxin: not a continued exposure but a single dosing.

  Child Protective Services could not find any evidence of wrongdoing, especially with a naturally occurring substance that could be present in a number of household products, despite Waverly’s insistence that they did not have any of the chemicals at home.

  Mary had not come to the hospital. She called once to find out how Scott was feeling but said that she could not get a sitter for Phillip, so she would wait until Waverly called with updates.

  Waverly tried to find a solution and offered to call a few of his friends at work to see if they could watch Phillip for a couple of hours. “I think it’s important for you to come. For Scotty.”

  “He knows I love him. Why should I waste two hours to walk to the subway, stand in a hot station, and wait for the goddam train to come? And then repeat all that just to get back? I’ll see him when he gets home.”

  Waverly let it go—as usual.

  As he walked into the apartment with Scott, Phillip was on his way out the door to catch the school bus. Waverly gave his older son a hug and a quick explanation—“Your little brother accidentally ate something that was bad for him and the doctors had to make him feel better”—then sent him on his way.

  He put Scott to bed, turned on his room fan, and shut the door. He trudged into the kitchen and sat down heavily on the chair. Mary was sweeping the floor.

  “Take the garbage out. It’s next to the table.”

  “I just need to sit for a few minutes,” Waverly said. “Was up all night and I’ve gotta shower and get to work. They know I’m gonna be late.”

  “Then take the bag out on the way to work.”

  A moment later, with Waverly waiting for some kind of inquisition on his wife’s part about Scott’s condition—and getting nothing—finally said, “A woman from Child Protective Services is s’posed to come by today.”

  “What for?”

  “She said they need to talk with you.”

  Mary, back to Waverly, stopped sweeping. “About?”

  “The poison. They also want to take a look at the apartment, make sure we don’t have any unsafe chemicals around.”

  “What kinda unsafe chemicals?”

  “Anything that has arsenic, I guess.”

  “Arsenic?” She gave a couple of swats in a corner with the broom, then stopped. “They have a search warrant?”

  “A warr—I don’t know. They need one?”

  “To search our home, yeah.”

  “I don’t think it’s a legal search. Just a—a—I dunno, to make sure Scotty’s safe.”

  “Whatever.” She resumed sweeping. “Ain’t gonna find nothing.”

  A moment later, Waverly shook his head. Sometimes he did not understand his wife. “Don’t you wanna know how Scotty’s doin’?”

  “I assume he’s fine.”

  Waverly snorted. “I don’t know about ‘fine.’ But he’s gonna be okay. Feeling better. It was kinda dangerous.”

  She kept sweeping. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. He ate poison, Mary. I mean, you never asked me why he was in the hospital. Every time I called, you listened to what I had to say but you never asked what happened.”

  “You told me. He was vomiting and had diarrhea at school.”

  “And you couldn’t even get there to take him to the doctor?”

  “I had errands to run.”

  “Weren’t you worried about your son?”

  Mary stopped sweeping. She turned her body, both hands on the wood handle. “What kinda question’s that? You’re asking a mother if she’s worried about her son?”

  Waverly swallowed. “Well, I was—you didn’t—you weren’t real upset about what happened. You weren’t there for him. Didn’t sound like you … cared.”

  Mary walked toward Waverly. She shifted the broom to her left hand and slugged him, a roundhouse punch that knocked Waverly back in the chair and tipped it onto the floor. She was on top of him almost immediately, the handle shoved up against his throat.

  “Can’t … breathe. Mar—ry.�
��

  “What happened? Heard something fall.”

  Mary’s head snapped back. Scott was standing in the hallway looking at her. She rolled off Waverly’s hips and pushed herself up. “Your father fell. He’s fine.” Mary swatted at Waverly’s side with the broom.

  He craned his head back to see his son, exposing his now apple-red neck. “I’m fine, Scotty.”

  “Go back to bed.” Mary shooed him off. “You need your rest.”

  “Yes ma’am,” he said under his breath, then turned and headed back to his room.

  Mary got down on her knee, digging it into Waverly’s abdomen. “Don’t you ever say I don’t care about my son. You hear?”

  Waverly nodded, rubbing his throat.

  She pointed an index finger at his nose. “Don’t make me do this to you again. Now get up and get showered. You gotta get your ass to work.”

  Scott sat on the edge of his bed listening to his mother admonish his dad. He did not know why she was so mean to him. And he did not know why his father let her do it.

  But it was nothing new. He had seen this kind of thing happen before. It seemed to be more frequent during the past few months, which bothered him a lot. Why was his mother like this? Was it something he had done wrong? Was he a bad boy? Was his dad bad too?

  There was a banging on his door. The thick, scary shadows at the threshold told him it was his mother. “Get your butt in bed.”

  “Yes ma’am.”

  Scott crawled back and drew the sheet up to his chin. He did not know if he would be able to fall asleep, but moments after closing his eyes he felt the weight of the medication pull him into a foggy, dark dream.

  8

  Oahu, Hawaii

  When Vail arrived, the someone who met her at the airport was Adam Russell.

  He seemed to like the Karen Vail package, as he smiled broadly when she walked out into the bright sunshine of Honolulu.

  “You’re still a redhead.”

  Vail rolled her suitcase over the rough pavement. “Not sure how to take that.”

  “I like redheads. Don’t find many female cops with red hair. Well, naturally red. You’re a natural.”