“It’s not me. It’s a friend of mine. He’s having problems with his feet and hands. And other stuff. He’ll tell you when we get there.”
“Ah,” says the doctor. “Mr. Rosenbluth led me to believe that you were having difficulties of a . . . personal nature.”
The doctor’s expression changes as he follows me down the track. By the time we leave the shiny painted cars of the first section behind, he looks alarmed. By the time we reach the battered cars of the Flying Squadron, his face is pinched in disgust.
“He’s in here,” I say, hopping into the car.
“And how, pray tell, am I supposed to get in?” he says.
Earl emerges from the shadows with a wooden crate. He jumps down, sets it in front of the doorway, and gives it a loud pat. The doctor gazes upon it for a moment and then climbs up, clutching his black bag primly in front of him.
“Where’s the patient?” he says, squinting and scanning the interior.
“Over there,” says Earl. Camel is huddled against a corner. Grady and Bill hover over him.
The doctor walks over to them. “Some privacy, please,” he says.
The other men scatter, murmuring in surprise. They move to the other end of the car and crane their necks, trying to see.
The doctor approaches Camel and crouches beside him. I can’t help noticing that he keeps the knees of his suit off the floorboards.
A few minutes later, he straightens up and says, “Jamaica ginger paralysis. No question about it.”
I suck my breath in through my teeth.
“What? What’s that?” Camel croaks.
“You get it from drinking Jamaica ginger extract.” The doctor puts great emphasis on the final three words. “Or jake, as it’s commonly known.”
“But . . . How? Why?” says Camel, his eyes desperately seeking the doctor’s face. “I don’t understand. I’ve been drinking it for years.”
“Yes. Yes. I would have guessed that,” says the doctor.
Anger rises like bile in my throat. I step up beside the doctor. “I don’t believe you answered the question,” I say as calmly as I can.
The doctor turns and surveys me through his pince-nez. After a pause of a few beats he says, “It’s caused by a cresol compound used by a manufacturer.”
“Dear God,” I say.
“Quite.”
“Why did they add it?”
“To get around the regulations that require that Jamaica ginger extract be rendered unpalatable.” He turns back to Camel and raises his voice. “So it won’t be used as an alcoholic beverage.”
“Will it go away?” Camel’s voice is high, cracking with fear.
“No. I’m afraid not,” the doctor says.
Behind me, the others catch their breath. Grady comes forward until we’re touching shoulders. “Wait a minute—you mean there’s nothing you can do?”
The doctor straightens up and hooks his thumbs in his pockets. “Me? No. Absolutely not,” he says. His expression is compressed as a pug’s, as though he’s trying to close his nostrils through facial muscles alone. He picks up his bag and edges toward the door.
“Hold on just a cotton-pickin’ moment,” says Grady. “If you can’t do anything, is there anyone else who can?”
The doctor turns to address me specifically, I suppose because I’m the one who paid him. “Oh, there’s plenty who will take your money and offer a cure—wading in oil slush pools, electrical shock therapy—but none of it does a lick of good. He may recover some function over time, but it will be minimal at best. Really, he shouldn’t have been drinking in the first place. It is against federal law, you know.”
I am speechless. I think my mouth may actually be open.
“Is that everything?” he says.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Do . . . you . . . need . . . anything . . . else?” he says as though I’m an idiot.
“No,” I say.
“Then I’ll bid you good day.” He tips his hat, steps gingerly onto the crate, and dismounts. He walks a dozen yards away, sets his bag on the ground, and pulls a handkerchief from his pocket. He wipes his hands carefully, getting in between each finger. Then he picks up his bag, puffs out his chest, and walks off, taking Camel’s last scrap of hope and my father’s pocket watch with him.
When I turn back, Earl, Grady, and Bill are kneeling around Camel. Tears stream down the old man’s face.
“WALTER, I NEED to talk to you,” I say, bursting into the goat room. Queenie raises her head, sees that it’s me, and sets it back on her paws.
Walter sets his book down. “Why? What’s up?”
“I need to ask a favor.”
“Well, go on then, what is it?”
“A friend of mine is in a bad way.”
“That guy with jake leg?”
I pause. “Yes.”
I walk over to my bedroll but am too anxious to sit down.
“Well, spit it out then,” Walter says impatiently.
“I want to bring him here.”
“What?”
“He’s going to get redlighted otherwise. His friends had to hide him behind a roll of canvas last night.”