Lungs filled with fluid, vessels hemorrhaged, and blood oozed from the nose and ears of the afflicted before they died. Others lingered with the fever, chills, and fatigue common to pneumonia. But they died, too.
War’s curse ended November 11, 1918, but as the fighting wound down, a new scourge swept the land: Spanish flu. In the first year news trickled through the newspapers, but the boys returning home reported thousands ill and hundreds dying in the camps. During the winter of 1919 the usual head colds and flu prevailed, but by summer Ashley Springs felt the sting of this virulent disease. At first townsfolk expressed surprise that the flu extended into warm weather, but soon they panicked when the sickness worsened.
Harold Murrish was first. He fought through Europe’s trenches, avoided the killing gasses, and escaped bayonet charges with no scars to brag about, but he bled profusely before succumbing to an organism that he couldn’t even see. Then it was Rafe Turner and Frank Dobberstein, strong adults who never lost a day’s work in their young lives. Stores closed, and people avoided friends and neighbors.
Mary rushed through the parlor door, almost knocked Will off the stick pony that he and Michael rode around the room. “I saw Agnes Sealy at the Post office. Her daughter Florence and their neighbor Jimmie Chappell are sick in bed. I knew we should have cancelled the school picnic.” Mary threw the mail into the secretary without opening the envelopes.
Will noticed that several were bills. She always opened the bills. Said she wanted to get those behind her.
“We never should have brought those kids together. It’s a shame.”
“You wanted to cancel,” Will said.
“I knew better, but I didn’t insist. It’s my fault.”
Will dropped the stick and turned toward Mary, but when Michael protested, he took a horehound from his pocket, picked up the shaft, and handed both to his son. “Take Nellie to your room and put her in her stall, but groom and feed her before you eat your candy.”
Michael rode his steed through the pocket doors and toward the stairway. Will turned back to Mary and embraced her. “It’s not your fault. You tried to warn Gable about the danger, but he is the board president. You had no choice.”
“I should have tried harder.”
“Don’t worry, Mary. The children will be okay.”
But Will worried. With the scourge hard on the young, he knew that Mary was exposed daily. He hoped the Lord was with them.
Will stewed over having to close doors to his customers, but was thankful to have repair work. Then when Mary went to bed with a fever and the chills, he was glad he didn’t need to work from eight to five. Will made tea, toast, and chicken broth and tried to keep Michael away from Mary, but he found that impossible, so he sent him to stay with his mother on the farm. Dr. Ruggles said to keep Mary in bed and make her drink plenty of liquids, and that there’s little else he could do. “Besides, her symptoms seem mild,” Dr. Ruggles said. “I have others who are so much worse.”
“She’s just plumb tuckered out,” Will told Charlie Nesbitt when he passed him on the boardwalk the next morning. “I hate to leave her home alone, but she insists. She says someone’s gotta work.”
Mary’s cough subsided, and she began to take solid food and to gain strength. Will thought he could call Michael home in a couple days, but he was haunted by other worries. He hadn’t heard from Jesse since the war. He’d called his mother and Frank, and then contacted the Draft Board, but they knew nothing. Gertrude said that Thomas was drinking more these days. She said he was worried about Jesse. Now that most of the boys were home, Will expected to see Jesse or hear that he was in town, but he heard nothing. Then when he was most concerned about Mary, a letter arrived from the War Department, which was mailed nine months earlier and said that Jesse was missing in action. Will remembered Jesse’s threat that if anything happened to him, Will would pay the price. Will remembered his nightmares.
Mary slowly improved. She washed clothes, dusted, and cooked, but she didn’t start the flowerbeds that she had planned during the prior Easter vacation. She complained that she was just too tired to do more. It didn’t help that Michael clung to her after his return from the farm.
Will was glad that Mary was on the road to recovery and that Michael remained healthy, even though more of his friends and neighbors took ill each week. Would this plague never end?
But as Ashley Springs’ residents readied for winter — cut wood, chinked chimneys, filled root cellars, and hunkered down for the flu season’s peak — the unexpected happened. Those who had survived the summer’s assault improved, and the number of new cases declined to the year’s lowest. It left as rapidly as it came. The worst was over. But that was when Michael showed the symptoms.
At first, it was a runny nose, a slight fever, and a mild cough. Then his dry cough turned to severe spells that lasted almost a minute, so severe that Dr. Ruggles thought Michael might have pertussis, but he never showed the characteristic whoop.
Mary and Will took turns walking the floor at night, and Michael seemed calmed by their presence. His severe coughing diminished when he was held upright, but the sleepless nights wore them down.
Now that Will could open his doors again, young veterans overwhelmed his office space, and the waiting list for new cars was six months out and increasing daily. Old cars that were stowed for the boys return home were brought in for repairs and tune-ups. Will couldn’t keep up, so he hired two young fellows to help. But he had to stay longer to train and guide them as they learned the trade.
Mary couldn’t find time to correct the papers that she brought home each night. “Will, I’m exhausted and getting further behind each day. Do you think your mother would come and help until Michael gets better?”
Will called home that night and caught Thomas in the house. “Dad, Michael’s pretty bad with this flu and Mary needs help. Do you think Mother could come in for a few days?”
“Just a minute.”
Will waited but not for long.
“I’ll bring her in after milking tomorrow. Be glad to get some relief, myself. Tell the boy I’ll bring him to see the new calf soon as he’s up and about. Prettiest thing you ever did see.”
Gertrude O’Shaughnessy arrived with a bag full of cures and a mouth full of advice. “I’ll take care of him. I know what’s best for that boy. He’ll be better in no time once I get my tonic into him. You’ll see.” She pulled a garlic clove, a dried lemon, a cayenne pepper, bee pollen, and a bottle of peroxide from her satchel.
Mary gasped. “You’re not going to give him that?”
“Calm down. This works wonders. Just two tablespoons each day and he’ll be good as new. Tell her, Will.”
“Your concoction tastes awful, Mother.” Will picked up the peroxide. “Are you sure he needs this?”
“It’s an old family recipe. It kept your grandpa Duffy on his feet, didn’t it? He never went down.”
Not until the hogs got him. “Maybe we should ask Dr. Ruggles.”
Mary inspected each ingredient. “It shouldn’t hurt him, I guess.” She removed the peroxide bottle. “But no peroxide. I’ll not let him drink this.”
“A little won’t hurt him,” Gertrude said.
But Mary placed the bottle in the medicine chest. “He’ll not take peroxide, not even a little.”
“I’ll put some behind his ear.”
Mary shook her head and planted her feet between Gertrude O’Shaughnessy and the medicine cabinet.
Gertrude fumed, but began to chop a garlic clove. “Will, go get some fresh water. This needs to be mixed in clean spring water.”
Michael continued to languish. The only time he showed spunk was each morning and night when Gertrude O’Shaughnessy poured a spoonful of tonic into his mouth. “See how it perks him up,” she said.
But Will knew it was his laddie’s protest against that awful concoction.
“It can’t be much worse than the cod liver oil he takes,” Mary said.
“He hates that, too,” Will said. “I don’t blame him, do you?”
They called Dr. Ruggles back, and he said to pour as much liquid into the boy as he could take. Plenty of clear, cool water, and juices, too.
But Gertrude O’Shaughnessy didn’t stop at water and juice. She tried chicken soup, onion syrup, bitter teas, and apple vinegar mixed with honey, but Michael didn’t improve. She bathed him with Epsom salts, rubbed oil of oregano on his chest, hung a sack of cloves around his neck, and bathed his feet with eucalyptus oil, but Michael’s cough persisted and his body temperature climbed. They called the doctor again, and he tended Michael overnight while Grandma swabbed the boy’s chest with cold water which Will pumped from the well.
Christmas 1919 was one week away, and they hadn’t even raised a tree. No candles, no tinsel, and no colored balls. Will was so busy at his shop that he hadn’t noticed the season, not until he saw lights in the windows as he walked home that Friday night. When he noticed the candle-shrouded star through the glass, Will thought about the Christ child, silently prayed for his intervention in curing Michael’s disease. He dropped onto the snow and whispered a simple prayer. “Dear Lord, take care of my laddie. Don’t let him die. Please, don’t let him die. Let him live a full life.” He followed the star’s light downward across the decorated tree. “Your will be done, O Lord.”
Will rushed into the house. “Mary,” he shouted, “it’s almost Christmas and we don’t have a tree! How will Michael know it’s Christmas without a tree?”
“Shush,” his mother hissed down the stairway. “Michael’s sleeping.”
He raced to the kitchen to find his wife. “Mary, get out the decorations. I’ll take Fanny to the farm and cut a fir. We’ll put it up tonight.”
“Slow down, my dear. Dinner’s almost ready. We’ll eat, then we’ll pull out the decorations. The tree’ll wait until morning. While you get it, I’ll clear a space in Michael’s room. We’ll put it where he can watch while we decorate. But he’s asleep right now.”
Will slumped into his chair. “I so wanted to take him along this year. I wanted him to pick the tree.”
“This will pass, my dear. He’ll not only select one, but he’ll help you cut it next year.”
But it didn’t pass. Michael weakened each day, and on Christmas morning his breath came in short shallow gasps, and his skin turned blue. Will raced to get Dr. Ruggles.
Dr. Ruggles worked over his laddie throughout the morning.
Will wanted to run from the room when Michael screamed with pain and his body shook so hard that his teeth chattered. But he couldn’t leave his son in this moment of darkness.
Dr. Ruggles called out, “Will, get more blankets.”
Will was glad to leave for a moment, but he rushed back immediately with his arms full.
Michael continued to gasp for air and he coughed and spit phlegm. Will cringed while the doctor tilted Michael’s head to the side and wiped the greenish, foul smelling mucus from his lips. Sweat wound down Michael’s brow and his chest heaved as his breathing rapidly increased. Even Michael’s fingernails were turning blue.
Will felt helpless as he saw his child slowly slip away. He knew there was little hope. Why was this happening to them? Had he not bundled Michael adequately against the cold? Had he offended God? Life had been easy these last years, and although he’d given money, he hadn’t furthered God’s work like he should. Was it that? But Mary was fervent about doing God’s work. She couldn’t deserve retribution.
The boy lapsed into a coma and stopped breathing by noon. Sweat pouring from his brow, Dr. Ruggles turned to Will. “I did all I could, Will, but it turned to pneumonia, and pneumonia’s a deadly disease.”
Will slumped on Michael’s bed. “My baby. Why? Why did God need him? Didn’t He call enough children home this year?” He pulled Mary to him. “Did we do something wrong? Was it Mother’s tonic? Should we not have given him that horrible medicine?” Will slumped on the bed and sat with his head in his hands. “Why?”
“No, the tonic didn’t hurt him, but it didn’t help either,” Dr. Ruggles said. “If we only had more tools. I’m sorry, Will, Mary.” Dr Ruggles’ shoulders drooped as he stepped away from Michael’s side, then he turned back and pulled the blanket over the child’s still head. “You can’t know how sorry I am that I couldn’t save your little boy.”
Most everyone in town attended Michael’s funeral. Family, friends, neighbors, and customers stumbled through the service and burial as if they were everyday occurrences. And they were. No Ashley Springs’ family went untouched by the scourge of war or the curse of illness during those years.
The minister recited the Twenty-third Psalm from memory. Annabelle Murrish sang “Blest be the Tie That Binds” as discordant as ever, but with only half her usual enthusiasm. The pall bearers stumbled, although the casket was light.
Mary wept inconsolably, clung to Michael’s casket, and refused to leave the gravesite, but nobody pressed her. They had seen too many mothers cry by their child’s grave, and everyone there felt death’s sting.
Will wouldn’t sit up front near the casket, wouldn’t console Mary, and stayed as far back in the burial tent as was possible. Thomas and Frank urged him forward, told him that Mary needed his support, and Will tried. He started up the aisle, but after two steps, he retreated to the back and ran from the cemetery at the last amen.
Mary slowly recovered, but Will stayed nights at the shop, and he spent Saturday there, too. He came home Sunday, but spent the day stacking firewood in the garage.
“I know you’re busy,” Mary said, “and I hate to push you, my dear, but I asked you last week to remove the tree and crib from Michael’s room.”
“I’ll get to it.”
But Will didn’t get to it that week either. He continued to stay at his shop, and when he did come home, it was late, and he went straight to bed with little or nothing to eat.
When Mary pressed him, he growled, “Mary! You don’t understand how much business I’ve got now the boys are home from the war. I can’t keep up.”
On the third Sunday morning after Michael’s funeral, Mary pleaded, “You haven’t been to church since Michael’s death. Please come with me this morning.”
“You go,” Will said. “I’ll do some of those things you’ve wanted me to finish.”
Will removed the wreath from over the fireplace. He took the Christmas candles from the parlor writing stand. He stowed the tinsel, balls, and beads that decorated the kitchen, hall, and their bedroom. But he rushed past Michael’s room without looking through the door.
When Mary arrived home she found Will in the basement boxing the decorations he had taken down. “Oh, Will, I do appreciate all the work you’re doing, but please remove the tree and take Michael’s crib down.”
“I’ll do it, but first I’ve got walks to shovel.”
“You can’t pretend that Michael’s room isn’t there, Will. We must get on with our lives. You’ll make yourself sick over this. You’ve hardly eaten a thing these past weeks. Please, take the tree and the crib out. Then I’ll clean the carpet.”
“Mary, get off my back!” Will snarled. “I’m fine. I got so far behind when Michael was ill.”
He rushed from the house into the garage and grabbed his snow shovel as he hurried through.
Michael’s tree shed its needles until the carpet looked like an untended autumn lawn, but Will didn’t care. Michael’s room had become enemy territory, as unapproachable as Grandpa’s hog pen.
Three nights later, Mary waited up until he got home. “You must face it, Will. You’ve got to realize that Michael’s gone.”
“Of course I know he’s gone,” Will snapped. What kind of dunce does she take him for? He turned and rushed from the house, running to the shop, where he worked throughout the night, through the following day, and into that night.
The next morning, Mary traced brown needles through the upper hallway, down the stairs, and out the back door. She found Will asleep in his parlor chair, cheeks tear-stained, and his head scrunched against the large side wing.
* * *
Early in 1919, prohibition against the sale of liquor had been ratified by the U.S. Congress, but with the onset of the Spanish Flu, Ashley Springs had more pressing problems. Beset by her family’s illnesses, Mary hardly noticed. But when the 18th Amendment went into effect on January 17, 1920, Bennie’s customers took notice. With Prohibition the law of the land now, Bennie had boarded up his bar and moved to an old house near Will’s business on the east edge of town. It had all the trappings of a country residence — until you walked through the front door. It may be illegal, but Bennie’s clientele didn’t complain.
Will passed through the entryway, but when he looked inside, he thought that he’d stepped into the wrong building. The room was filled with showcases of tobacco products and shaving paraphernalia. But the man behind the counter, Dennis Newberry’s son, Wilmer, beckoned and pointed to a nondescript wood paneled door. “Bennie’s in the back. Through that door.”
Not knowing what to expect, Will cautiously edged through the opening, but was immediately greeted by a familiar voice. “Come right in, Will,” Bennie called. “How do you like my new establishment?”
Will scanned the room. Except for a short bar that looked like an elongated kitchen table and booze bottles aligned on a shelf behind, it looked like anyone’s dining room — a side table, wooden chairs all around, a china cupboard, and a corner curio cabinet.
“You’ve gone to a lot of work, but didn’t you forget something?” Will pointed to the shelf lined with bottles. “The evidence is indisputable. But I suppose Tommy looks the other way.”
“Tommy’s not my worry. It’s those damn feds. But I doubt they’ll come up here. Chicago keeps them busy enough. But I’m prepared if they do.”
“Wilmer’ll hold their attention out front?”
“Just long enough for me to dispose of the evidence. By the time they come through that door, all they’ll see is my sparse dining room.”
“How will you know?”
“Know they’re out there? Wilmer has a buzzer behind the counter that alerts me, and when I press on this section,” he pointed to a wood strip embedded into the bar’s side panels, “the liquor shelf tips back and drops those bottles into a pillow lined bin. Then it becomes a plain old wall shelf again.”
“You don’t think a room full of people holding half-full glasses will draw their attention?”
“By the time Wilmer lets them in, the room will be empty. The back door opens to a blind ally.”
“You’re prepared. I’ll give you that. What’re you serving?”
“Not much variety these days, but I’ve got some hooch and homebrew.”
“I’ll take a brew, Bennie.”