“Only the young—why only the young and healthy? God damn this thing!”
Later after a much-needed steaming cup of heavily sugared coffee, they spoke—their voices low, their fears apparent.
“Mrs. Geiger, that woman upstairs may not survive. If she does—I have grave doubts she will hold the child. She can’t be moved. All the hospitals are full. Compresses—sponge baths—try to break the fever if you can—and drink—make her drink—you know what to do—fluids, fluids—we have nothing. Nothing helps.” Nodding, Hannah helped him into his heavy overcoat. “There is a husband?”
“He is away working for Mr. Ford in Dearborn—my Fritz is getting him.”
“Well, just remember, keep everyone away—if possible.” The harried doctor and his trusty Model T disappeared into the winter night. The dreaded word influenza had not been spoken, both knew the enemy they were facing.
Like Gregory and Gloria and all the others, Mama would die—Michael was sure. He prepared himself for this ultimate of losses by pretending that his mother was well and that the whispered worry about the house was only grown-ups being overly excited about absolutely nothing. When Hannah moved him and his brother to her house, he left his home willingly without hesitation or defiance and did not question why he was not permitted to say good-bye.
The sudden realization that any moment his wife might be lost to him panicked John. For the first time since Jane had thrust herself into his life, despite its alarming beginning, John felt more than just having made a comfortable bargain. For some reason she had become precious, a woman of worth that belonged to him, who he wanted to keep, even love, if given the gift of time to do so. Looking down at her, knowing she was far too ill to recognize him—he growled, “Ninnie! You get well! You hear me?! I order you!” Grabbing her shoulders, pulling her close—he shook her. Hannah screamed.
“You crazy? Shaking a so-sick woman!” and smacked him.
“Well—you better make her well because I need her!” and shoving an outraged Hannah aside, John stormed out of the room.
“Was that John? Why is he angry?” the exhausted whisper brought Hannah back to Jane’s side.
“Because your so-scared husband—he loves you and don’t know what to do—how to help. No more talking now, Vifey—sleep—fever is down a little—so dat’s good news—sleep, Ninnie, sleep. He loves you, child—finally—he loves you.”
And Jane slept.
Downstairs, hands shaking, John poured himself a stiff drink. The possible loss of her had never entered his mind. He had acquired her as unavoidable convenience, a commitment made into a common reality accepted by both without complaint by either party. True of late it had become pleasurable in ways hardly envisioned before—still this slight adjustment in their relationship could not account for this sudden wrenching, this terror at the possibility of losing her. John was not a man who questioned emotion. Impatience with himself did not permit introspection. He loved, he hated, he liked, he disliked. Life was an exterior battle to be won, not an interior one to mull over. It therefore shocked him that seeing Jane’s face drained of life made him want to grab her, shake her back into life to allow him to love her. Knowing he had duties as a father before those of a husband, John downed the whiskey, and left to seek his sons at the Geigers’.
“Hannah—” the whisper sounded stronger.
“Yes, child?”
“Please, cut my hair.” Thinking Jane was once again delirious, Hannah replaced a compress without comment. “Please, it’s so hot—all this hair is so heavy.” As she drifted, Jane’s voice faded.
Two more such entreaties during the night and Hannah took Jane’s big dressmaking shears and cut off her long hair—quite shocked at herself for having the courage to do it. Receiving a sigh of relief as her reward, she settled back into her chair to watch over the sweet woman she loved.
Eight long arduous days the specter did battle with Hannah, then accepting defeat slunk away ashamed of himself for even having tried. Triumphant tears streaming down her face, Hannah stood in the doorway of her own house.
“She will live! Our sweet Vifey will live!”
Fritz caught her as she collapsed.
As though both scourges decided they had achieved their proper importance in the annals of history—the Great War and its companion, the Great Influenza pandemic, ceased their monumental killing spree by the middle of November 1918. Between them they had wiped out most of the youth of the world. In time, the war would be easily remembered—the other quickly forgotten within the euphoria of peace achieved. A collective amnesia within jubilation quickly blocked out the memory of a worldwide scourge as though it had never existed. Unaware they were statistics of history, people buried their dead, grieved, then forgot what was forgettable. Those who survived the Great War and its virulent companion acquired the inner scarring of both. Wounds seen and unseen—that for the remaining lifetime granted them were forever their own burden. As with all tragedy—those on the perimeter equally affected, needing help themselves, were expected by society as well as their guilt of survival to aid those who were beyond helping themselves. In all nations—those defeated and victorious, healing was assumed automatic through peace recaptured; that it couldn’t be—later generations would have to pay for.
The first arrival of overseas mail brought new tragedies for some—relief and comfort to others. New hope and unbridled joy gripped the nation—its brave boys had done what they had promised. They were coming home because it was over—over there. And the American parlor that had seen so many loved ones laid out to mourn over was rechristened, given the new hope-filled name of living room.
“Dat’s nice, I like dat,” was Hannah’s reaction when first informed by the Ladies’ Home Journal of this monumental change. “We dine in de dining room, now we live in de room for living—so what we do now mit de bedroom?”
This year Thanksgiving was one of true gratitude—whatever the cost, world peace was assured for all time. For those who had survived whatever battle, being alive was sufficient unto itself.