One night in the fall after Peter had gone, Helen and I went for a walk. The sky was stormy, but Helen needed fresh air and I thought maybe she needed to talk about her day, about who had been stricken by or died from the influenza, which had gotten very bad. But she was silent as we went along the dark streets past the bungalows with their wide porches and the square two-story houses that were being built all over Denver. The wind had come up. I shoved my hands deep into my pockets and was glad when Helen turned to go home.
The wind blew dead leaves in front of us as we hurried up the walk to the porch. I watched them swirl into the air and nearly tripped over the dark bulk curled up in front of the door.
“It’s Dorothy,” Helen said, and knelt beside her. “What is it, sweetie?” she asked.
Dorothy looked up at us, tears streaking her face.
“What is it?” Helen repeated in a soft voice as she sat down on the porch floor and put Dorothy’s head in her lap. “What’s wrong?”
“Oh, Miss Helen,” the little girl moaned.
“Is it your father? Did he…” Helen’s voice trailed off. She cleared her throat and asked in a firmer voice, “Did he come back?”
Dorothy didn’t answer. She was shivering, and Helen said she might be in shock.
I wanted to ask Helen what was going on. But my questions could wait. We needed to take care of Dorothy first. The two of us led her into the house and settled her on the davenport. Helen took off her cape and spread it over Dorothy.
I went into the kitchen to make tea. After I had gotten the tea canister and mother’s silver pot, cream and sugar, and the cups with the roses on them, I returned to the living room. Helen was sitting on the davenport beside Dorothy, stroking her hair. There were tear lines through the dirt on Dorothy’s cheeks, so I went to the bathroom and fetched a wet washcloth. Helen took it from me and gently wiped Dorothy’s face, then her hands.
“What is it, dear? You can tell me,” Helen said. “Did your father … hurt you again? It’s not your fault. Don’t be ashamed. You can tell me.”
So Mr. Streeter really had beaten his daughter, I thought.
“No,” Dorothy muttered. “Papa hasn’t come home.”
Helen seemed not to want to push the girl. I returned to the kitchen and brewed the tea, then set the cups on a tray and carried it into the living room.
“Why look, Dorothy, Miss Lutie has made us tea. Wouldn’t you like sugar in yours? It’s ever so much nicer with sugar, don’t you think?” Helen picked up the sugar bowl and one of the spoons on the tray. When Dorothy nodded, Helen said, “See how prettily the tea tray is arranged. Miss Lutie is an artist. She always makes things nice. Shall I add the sugar for you?”
Dorothy sat up and stared at the tray, but she didn’t comment, only nodded again. After Helen handed her a cup, Dorothy gulped down the tea.
Helen said to me, “I imagine she hasn’t eaten.”
She turned back to Dorothy. “Would you like toast and jam? Then you can tell us what is wrong.”
“Yes, please,” the girl whispered.
I went back to the kitchen and took a sack of bread out of the bread box. I put two slices into the toaster, and when they were done, I spread the toast with butter. It was soft, since with the influenza the iceman was not making regular deliveries and the icebox was no longer cold, but the butter had not turned rancid, so I used it, along with the plum jam Helen and Gil and I had made in the summer. It was very good, and Gil had suggested we send a jar of it to Peter. I hoped the jam had made its way to him and had reminded him of sitting beneath the plum tree in our yard.
When I returned to the living room with the plate of toast, Helen said to Dorothy, “Do you think you can eat it as you tell us what’s wrong?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dorothy said. She gobbled the toast. “It’s Mama,” she said at last, and Helen looked at me sharply. We should have realized immediately that something was wrong with Maud since she rarely left Dorothy alone. Maud must have gone out on an errand and left Dorothy by herself, and the girl had become frightened.
“Did your father come around?” Helen asked, but Dorothy shook her head.
“I haven’t seen him. Mama’s sick.” And then, as if a dam had broken, she said, “We were at the grocer’s and Mama threw up, and the store man told her to get out before she made everybody sick. And we went outside, and Mama lay down on the sidewalk for a minute. Then a big white truck came along, and two men, they picked her up, and they took her away.”
“The influenza?” I asked Helen.
“Most likely,” she replied.
She turned to Dorothy. “Didn’t they let you go with your mother?”
Dorothy shook her head. “They didn’t know I was with her. Mama didn’t tell them. She was too sick. I begged them to let me go with her, but they said no, and they drove away. So I came here.”
“That was a wise decision to return home,” I said.
“Won’t you find out where they took her so I can see her?” Dorothy asked. “Do you think she’s all right?”
Helen and I exchanged a glance.
“Maybe Gil would know,” I suggested. “We could telephone him.”
“Yes, please,” Dorothy said. “Dr. Gil could make her well.”
“If we could reach him,” Helen said. “Who knows where he is.”
“Shall I go and try to find Maud?” I asked Helen.
“No,” Helen said. She knew the hospitals and the emergency medical facilities better than I did, and the doctors were more likely to talk to her since she was a nurse. “You stay here with Dorothy.” She sighed. I knew she was tired and did not want to go out. “Maybe it’s not the influenza at all but an upset stomach. Lots of things are being misdiagnosed as the influenza.”
We both knew it was not an upset stomach, and I said, “All right, but I hate to see you have to go.”
“It can’t be helped. It’s Maud.”
Helen put on her cape and took an umbrella and left, and Dorothy and I went into the kitchen, where I rummaged around in the icebox for something that hadn’t gone bad. Finally, I fried an egg for her and made another piece of toast, and she ate at the table.
When Dorothy finished, I asked her if she wanted a bath with lovely soap that smelled like roses that I had bought at Neusteter’s. The basement apartment had only a shower and large laundry tubs where Dorothy bathed. I ran the taps and got out towels, then asked if she would be all right if I went downstairs to get clean clothes for her, and she said yes. I left her to undress and climb into the tub by herself.
As I went down the basement steps, I remembered how each year, Helen and I had made a May basket for Dorothy and left it on the doorknob. We’d gather violets and daffodils from our yard and add sprigs of myrtle and put them in a paper basket with a note saying the fairies had left it for her, although this year we suspected that, at ten, Dorothy recognized the flowers from our yard and no longer believed in fairies.
I unlocked the basement door and went into the apartment, then into the little room where Dorothy slept, taking out socks and a dress from the bureau. Dorothy had few enough clothes, and those that she had were seedy. Helen and I should buy some for her, I thought. Shoes, too, and boots for the winter and perhaps a coat. Then I spotted the Whitman’s candy box in which Dorothy kept her treasures. She had never shown me the contents and I was curious, so I opened it. Inside were bits of ribbon and lace, the cards from her May baskets, a rock with flecks of mica, two jacks, and a golden button. Dorothy liked to sit in the yard and go through her treasures. I took the box with me because I thought it might take her mind off her mother.
In the bathroom, Dorothy was leaning against the white porcelain tub, moving her legs back and forth, forcing the water over and under them, so that they looked like logs in a flowing stream. Her eyes were closed, and she didn’t hear me come into the bathroom. When she saw me, she leaned forward and covered herself with her hands.
I thought she was being modest. “Shall I soap you?” I asked.
“No. I can do it.”
I sat on the edge of the tub and unwrapped the soap, then sniffed it. “Smell,” I said, holding it in front of Dorothy’s face. “Isn’t the scent heavenly? Just like summer. I saved it for a special time, and what’s more special than you?”
Dorothy smelled it without moving her hands away. I bustled around, straightening the things in the medicine cabinet and checking the temperature of the water in the tub. When she saw I was not looking at her, Dorothy moved her hands and took the soap from where I’d placed it in the little wire soap holder attached to the porcelain rim and began washing herself. I thought I might sit on the stool beside the tub and talk to her, comfort her, because I knew she was afraid for her mother. When I turned to her, however, I saw the bruises on her chest. I could tell they were old because they had turned yellow.
“Good God! What happened to you?” I demanded, then bit my tongue because I had alarmed her. How foolish of me to have cried out like that. Dorothy had been hiding the bruises. I wished that Helen had stayed; she would have known the right questions to ask.
“I fell,” Dorothy said, raising her head as if to challenge me.
Fell, my eye! Thank God Mr. Streeter was gone, because I was mad enough to choke him. “Do you like the soap?” I asked.
“It smells like my May basket,” she said.
“That’s a rose scent. There weren’t any roses in your May basket.”
“How do you know?” she asked slyly, and for the first time that night, she gave a glimmer of a smile.
“Because roses aren’t in bloom on the first of May.”
“They are in fairyland.”
She was too old for fairies, but maybe she did believe in them. Perhaps when her father was drunk, she escaped into a sort of fairyland. Helen had told me about such things.
“Do the fairies bring you a May basket every year?” I asked.
“Not until we moved here. I think fairies live upstairs.”
We smiled at each other, and I reached for the bath towel and held it up, held it above my eyes so that Dorothy would not be self-conscious when she stood up. She dried herself, then wrapped herself in the towel.
“I forgot to fetch your nightgown,” I said.
“Oh, I don’t have one.”
“Then you shall wear one of mine.” Dorothy wasn’t a whole lot smaller than I. I got out a warm gown that smelled of lavender from the sachet I kept in the drawer with my gloves and underwear and silk stockings, and I held it over Dorothy’s head. Then I found sheets and a blanket and made a bed for Dorothy on the cot in my studio.
“When is Miss Helen coming back?” she asked, and suddenly she was very serious and looked frightened again.
“When she finds your mother.”
“Is Mama going to die?” Dorothy sat on the cot. Her eyes filled with tears.
“Certainly not,” I said, which was foolish. How did I know?
“I hope Dr. Gil finds her. He’ll make her well,” she said again.
“Do you want to say your prayers and go to bed?” I asked.
“I don’t say prayers.”
Everyone I had known when I was a girl said prayers. I still did—prayers to keep Peter safe. I didn’t know if I believed they would help, but they couldn’t hurt. “Let’s kneel down and ask God to”—I started to say—“to keep your mother safe.” But what if Maud was already dead? So instead, we prayed, “Now I lay me down to sleep…,” the prayer I had said as a child.
Dorothy lay down, and I told her she was my good girl and covered her with the blanket and stroked her hair. Then I said, “Dream about clowns.” It was what Helen and I had said to each other as children. Father had taken us to the circus, and we had laughed so hard at the clowns that we had almost choked.
I was ready to go to bed, too, but it didn’t seem right that Helen should be out searching for Maud while I slept. Rain was coming down hard, and there was so much moisture on the window that I couldn’t see outside. I opened the front door and went out onto the porch. The cold felt good after the warmth of the house, which had begun to seem oppressive. I stood there a long time, peering into the darkness in hopes of seeing Helen coming down the street. But there was only the rain and the yellow light from the streetlamp at either end of the block. A big touring car drove slowly down the street, and for a moment I wondered if it might be the Howells’ auto, but it went on past, splashing water on the parking, and disappeared into the black. The only sound was the rain and the tinny strains of “Red Wing” on a Victrola far away. The song ended, and the night was silent again. And then I heard our ring on the telephone, two long and one short, and I went inside and took down the receiver, standing on tiptoe to talk into the speaker, because it was mounted high on the wall.
I was sure the caller would be Helen, but it was Gil asking for Helen. “She’s gone off,” I said. “They took Maud somewhere, and Helen is trying to find her.”
“Well, she’s here,” he said.
“Helen?”
“Maud.”
“Where?”
“South High School. In the gymnasium.”
“You spoke to her?”
“No, but I’m sure it’s Maud. That’s why I called. I recognized the coat. It used to be Helen’s. Helen told me she gave it to Maud because she didn’t need a coat when she had her cape. Then I looked closer and realized it really was Maud.”
I remembered the red coat. Helen had bought it when she graduated from nursing school, before she realized she would have to wear a cape. It was warm, and she’d worn it when she was not on duty. But after she saw Maud shivering under an old-fashioned shawl, Helen gave her the coat.
“Is Maud all right?” I asked.
“Of course, everything is George,” Gil said acidly, then added, “She wouldn’t be here if she were.”
“No, of course not.”
He apologized. “Sorry to take it out on you, Lute. I’m run ragged. Sometimes I think I’ll go off the deep end.”
“I understand entirely. I hardly know how you and Helen cope.”
“I can’t tell how Maud is. She’s asleep. Like I said, she’s still in her coat, so I don’t know if anyone has even examined her. It’s chaos. I wonder how she got here.”
I explained what had happened and said we hadn’t known where she’d been taken. That was why Helen was searching.
“It’s a pity Maud’s not home. Any place is better than this. A hospital is the easiest place to die, and a high school gymnasium is even worse. This place is like a war zone. But the cab drivers won’t pick up influenza victims, and the ambulances take them to wherever’s closest.”
“I could come, but I don’t want to leave Dorothy alone,” I said. “Helen should be back before long.”
“No, don’t come. And don’t let Helen come. There’s nothing either of you can do. Not tonight, anyway. I’ll be here. Moving Maud would only make things worse. I’ll keep an eye on her.”
We were about to hang up when the front door opened, letting in the smell of rain. “Wait, I think Helen’s home,” I said and let the receiver dangle and went into the living room.
Helen was soaked, despite the umbrella. She shook her head to tell me she hadn’t located Maud.
“Gil is on the telephone,” I told her. “He found Maud at South High. He’ll look after her tonight. We can go there in the morning and fetch her home some way.”
Helen nodded solemnly. “If she’s still alive.”
“If,” I agreed.
Helen went into the hall and spoke to Gil a moment. “Sleep!” she said. “Maybe three and a half hours … It can’t be helped … You be careful, too.” She hung up the receiver, went into the kitchen, and poured herself a glass of water.
“Go to bed,” I said.
“I will, but it won’t do any good.” She drank the glass dry and refilled it and stared at the water. “I think I would sell my soul for a night’s sleep, but when I lie down, I keep thinking about all those people with the influenza, some of them like Maud, hauled in like firewood and dumped on cots or even on the floor. Nobody knows who they are. They’re—what did Peter call them?—little souls. They work hard all their lives, marry, have children, go to work, pay their bills, say their prayers, and where do they end up? Lying in their own filth, calling out in agony, without a single person to hold their hand or wipe their brow. And then they’re gone, and the nurses are too busy even to notice they’ve died. And when they do notice, why, they’re glad for another bed, because there are so many other victims waiting. I don’t think I shall ever get over it.”
I took Helen’s hand, and after a moment she looked at me and smiled. “I think Dorothy will be all right alone here for an hour or so in the morning, don’t you?” she asked. “She won’t mind being by herself if she knows we’ve gone to see her mother.”
“Hasn’t Maud anyone who can take care of Dorothy?”
“There’s no one. Maud told me she was raised in an orphan asylum. And I doubt very much that Mr. Streeter kept up with family. Maud knew nothing about his background. It’s odd, isn’t it, marrying a man you know so little about. She told me that when they met, he was so charming and full of life that she couldn’t help but fall in love with him.”
“Maud never leaves Dorothy alone,” I said.
“That’s because of Mr. Streeter.”
I remembered the bruises and told Helen about them.
She nodded and opened her mouth to say something but stopped. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow after we’ve seen Maud,” she said.
Helen did fall asleep, and she slept so late that I had to wake her up. I wouldn’t have done so except that I was anxious about Maud. While Helen dressed, I explained to Dorothy that we had to leave her alone for an hour or two, that it wouldn’t be wise to take her to the high school, where there were so many influenza victims. “Besides, someone has to make up my studio for your mother. If she’s better, we’ll bring her home. It would be ever so helpful if you would put fresh sheets and pillowcases on the cot in there. And I think she would feel better if there were pictures she could look at when she got here. Won’t you make some for her?” The little girl had been apprehensive about staying alone, and after what Helen had told me the night before, I understood why. If anyone came to the door, I said, she was not to answer it.
Helen and I walked to the trolley stop and stood in the damp, waiting. When the streetcar came along, we climbed on board and sat in the back with the window open, since the newspapers said fresh air was a good way to prevent getting the influenza. Near us a little girl recited in a singsong voice:
“I had a little bird.
“Its name was Enza.
“I opened the window
“And in-flu-enza.”
She recited it over and over again until I wanted to put my hands over my ears.
We went into South High and looked at the rows of people lying on cots. Some were moaning, others crying out, and still others not moving at all. “How will we ever find Maud?” I asked.
“We’ll find Gil,” Helen replied, and we went into a schoolroom that had been set aside for the doctors and nurses. They slept there when they were too tired to go home. Gil was sitting on a cot and looked exhausted.
Helen asked how he was, and he smiled and said, “Oh, I’m up to the mustard, I suppose. But, God, Helen, do you think we’ll ever get a full night’s sleep again?”
“The odds are stacked against us now, but the influenza will run its course. Epidemics always do.”
He smiled again and said, “You’re darb.”
Helen asked how Maud was doing. Gil said he had been sleeping and didn’t know. He’d told the nurse that Maud was a friend and to be sure to sponge her off when she got hot, which was most of the time. He’d explained that there wasn’t much he could do for her except make sure she got plenty of water. “We’re trying everything—Dover’s powder, Vicks VapoRub, Pierce’s Pleasant Purgative Pellets. Some doctors are ordering icy sheets, and others want us to bathe the victims in scalding water. But nothing works. Nothing prevents you from catching it either. One woman told me she got it from listening in on the party line.”
We followed him to the gymnasium and down an aisle between two rows of cots. Some of the influenza victims called out to Gil and to Helen, who had on her uniform and cape, and asked for water or medicine. Others simply raised an arm, perhaps to show that they were still alive.
“She’s second to the last, on the right,” Gil said. I looked at each face and wondered who would live and who would die. When we reached the end of the row, we saw a man lying on the cot Gil had indicated. Gil frowned and said perhaps he’d been confused, that Maud must be in the next row or maybe she’d been moved nearer to the nurses. “The woman in that bed,” Gil said to a nurse who was cleaning up a patient covered in vomit. “Where is she?”
The nurse turned around. “Who?”
“The woman who was here last night. She had on a red coat.”
“Oh, her.” The nurse straightened her mask and said brusquely, “She died this morning.”
Helen made arrangements to have Maud buried. There wouldn’t be a funeral. The city wouldn’t allow them. Then we went home to give Dorothy the awful news.
She was sitting at the dining room table and looked up and smiled when we opened the door. She held up a picture she had drawn of her mother. She saw our somber looks, and her smile faded.
“I’m so sorry, Dorothy,” Helen said, taking her hands. “Dr. Gil tried to save her, but she’s gone.”
Dorothy looked at the picture. “But I drew it for her. See. She looks fine.”
“I know,” Helen said. “She would have loved it.”
“Maybe she’s looking down at it now,” I said, then thought my words were silly. I sat down next to Dorothy and put my arms around her. Tears ran down her face, and I began to cry, too. We sat there for a long time, the three of us, crying. Helen explained there was nothing Dorothy could have done. Or Gil. Or anybody. It was just a terrible, terrible thing.
At last, Dorothy wiped her face with her dress. “Who will love me now?” she asked in a forlorn voice.
“We will,” Helen said, and I knew at that moment that Helen had made the decision to take Dorothy in, to raise her. I agreed entirely. After all, there was no one else, and neither of us could bear sending her to an orphanage.
“You belong with us now,” I said, nodding my approval.
It was odd how a decision made in just a fraction of a second would surely change our lives. We would be a family. Perhaps Helen and Gil would take Dorothy when they married. Or Peter and I. We would decide that later. But right now, she belonged to both of us.
Helen took one of Dorothy’s hands, and I took the other. Three sisters.