Chapter Forty-One Frankie
FORTY-ONE FRANKIE
I stitched and bandaged the bite wound on my uncle’s neck, trying to keep my face neutral, to not show the waves of horror and panic that I felt overtaking me.
Thankfully, Benjamin had missed the major vessels and arteries, leaving only a ragged flesh wound.
I’d taken the clothes Uncle Thomas had been wearing, the ones soaked in the black vomit, and thrown them out in the backyard to be burned.
Aife had accompanied me. I wore a kerchief over my face, rubber gloves on my hands in an attempt to protect myself, though I believed it was in vain: I was going to get the sickness sooner or later—we all were.
At my uncle’s request, Luther and his son had brought Benjamin’s body back to my uncle’s surgery.
He was laid out on the table, a sheet covering him.
Luther and Henry were going to go spread news of what had happened.
To warn the townspeople to arm themselves, to beware of the sick, even—especially—if they seemed to be recovering.
Henry St. James kept his eye on Benjamin’s body as if he expected him to rise up again.
“Panic will ensue,” Uncle Thomas said.
Luther nodded. “I’d say it’s ensued pretty good already, wouldn’t you, Doc? If people want to get through this, whatever the hell it is, they’ve got to protect themselves. And it’s going to take more than prayers, offerings, and the silly charms the women are hanging in doorways to do that.”
Uncle Thomas said nothing, just watched them go, fingers moving to the bandages on his neck, working over them.
“What are we going to do with Benjamin?” I asked, eyeing the sheet-covered corpse.
“An autopsy,” Uncle Thomas said. “Perhaps we’ll learn something about the illness.”
“But, Uncle, you—”
“We haven’t got much time, Frankie.” He looked at me hard then.
“I haven’t got much time.” His words hit me in the solar plexus, the grief and power of them nearly putting me off-balance.
My uncle’s face was stoic, determined. “Now, please, go get the leather case that has my saws in it along with my surgical blades. I’ll also need specimen jars and formaldehyde. ”
I nodded, knowing it was important to keep busy, to continue moving forward, to be the best assistant I could—give my uncle the things he needed, take notes, follow his directions. It had gotten us through the Spanish flu, after all. It was best to pretend it might get us through this.
“Have you done an autopsy before?” I asked once we had gathered the tools and equipment he would need. He wore a brown leather apron.
Aife sat watching from the doorway, instinct keeping her out of the room.
“Not since medical school,” he said as he pulled back the sheet. Benjamin was there, naked and, thankfully, motionless.
Aife ran off, tail between her legs.
Clever dog.
“Step away, Frankie. I don’t want you anywhere near the body. I believe the fluids, some of them at any rate, carry the contagion.”
I nodded, did as I was told.
“Take notes for me,” he said.
He began with an external examination, stating the subject’s age, height, weight. “Cause of death, gunshot wounds to the head and chest,” he said matter-of-factly.
I wrote it all down. “Subject’s sclera are yellow in color, suggesting jaundice. Signs of cyanosis present in the extremities and face. These were visible in the hours before death.”
He continued to study the body, picking up limbs, poking at his abdomen, rolling him over with effort and inspecting his backside.
At last, Benjamin flat on his back, Uncle Thomas reached for the scalpel and began the Y-incision.
Tough as I believed myself to be, I winced as he sliced, half expecting Benjamin to sit up, screaming.
Two incisions, one descending from each shoulder joint, met at mid-chest. There, a single incision was made all the way down to the pubic area.
“Next, I’ll remove the rib cage,” Uncle Thomas said, reaching for a saw and a heavy pair of pliers.
The room was redolent with the mingled smells of blood and rotten burned fruit.
Feeling lightheaded, I stepped back, resting against the wall, clinging to my little notebook and pencil with damp hands.
I had never seen the inside of a person.
Not like this. I’d assisted Uncle Thomas with an appendectomy once, sewn up torn muscle and skin myself, but this was something else altogether.
I’d studied the pages of my uncle’s anatomy books, done drawings of the body’s systems, could name each organ and all of their lobes and chambers.
But all of this in no way prepared me for the violent crack of the ribs, the terrible sound of the saw biting through bone as my uncle labored, pushing back and forth, his hands soaked in blood, his face covered in a sheen of perspiration.
I wanted to run from the room with its stink of blood and sweet sickness, to hide like a coward, like the timid child I still felt inside me sometimes.
Instead, I stepped forward, forced myself to peer inside the body cavity, wrote down everything my uncle was saying about the heart and lungs. “Atypical,” my uncle said. “Heart badly damaged by the gunshot.”
“You heard something odd when you listened to his chest back at his house,” I said, remembering. “What was it?”
My uncle, his eyes on the still heart, ruined from the gunshot, on the lungs full of a dark, viscous fluid, said, “Nothing.”
“But you—”
“I heard nothing at all, Frankie. No heartbeat. At least none that I could discern.”
My mouth went dry.
“But he was… awake. Sitting up, speaking, surely he was…” I couldn’t bring myself to say it: alive. I was talking too fast, the words all running together.
Uncle Thomas nodded. “Indeed he was.”
“What does it mean?”
“I don’t know, Frankie. I wish I did.” He reached for a scalpel. “Open the specimen jars and put them on the table.”
Hours later, Benjamin sewn back up, my uncle sank into the chair in the surgery.
He’d scrubbed the blood off his hands and sat looking into them now, staring like he was wondering if he’d missed a spot.
The jars full of formaldehyde, sealed with wax, sat in a row on the table: sections of Benjamin’s lungs, brain, heart, and liver.
Glass tubes held blood and sputum samples from both Benjamin and Uncle Thomas.
I left my uncle and went into the kitchen, made coffee and two sandwiches with salami and hard cheese.
Aife was curled on her bed by the stove and I gave her a reassuring pat and a small piece of salami.
I wasn’t hungry and doubted my uncle was either, but I knew we should eat.
We needed our strength for whatever was coming next.
Outside, it was already dark.
How had the day passed so quickly?
A gentle tap at the kitchen window made me jump and step away. Then, summoning up the courage, I looked out, past my own reflection, into the night. There was a face looking in at me, waving a hand. It was Jim Collins. He was pointing to the back door.
I went and opened it.
“Come in,” I said. And he shook his head, looked around nervously. He was holding a rifle. “What is it?” I asked.
“Frankie, you and your uncle, I think you should leave town.”
“We can’t,” I told him. “People are sick.” I left off the rest: My uncle was bitten. He’ll be sick soon.
“They’re killing them,” he said.
His eyes were darting up and down the street, frantic, terrified.
“What?”
He looked at me. “They’re killing the sick: Emile, Niles, Anthony LaRocca. They’re all dead. Shot in the woods.”
“But who—”
“And Clarence Atkins, he and his wife were just found shot in their home. Mildred wasn’t even sick. Not yet.” He looked on the verge of tears. His whole body seemed to be vibrating with fear and panic.
“My God,” I said.
“People are saying… they’re saying the sick aren’t themselves. That they’re evil. They’ve been possessed. They’re saying the knackerman’s the devil. That they’re killing these people to save them, to save their souls.”
“But that’s crazy, that’s just—”
“Me and Paul and Roy—we’re leaving town tonight. You and Dr. Endicott, you should go too.” And before I could answer or ask any more questions, he was gone, slipping off into the darkness.
I carried our sandwiches and coffee to the kitchen table and called for Uncle Thomas to join me. When he did, I told him everything Jim had said.
He wrung his hands tightly together and looked down at them.
“We’ve got to do something,” I said.
Uncle Thomas pushed away his plate of food, looked up at me. “We will. You will.”
“Me? What am I going to do?”
He held the coffee cup in his hands, wrapping his fingers around it like he was trying to get warm, but did not take a sip.
“You’re going to walk out of here and go to Amsterdale.”
“No.” I shook my head fiercely. “I won’t leave you.”
“There’s nothing you can do for me here,” he said. “You know that as well as I do.”
“But I have to try. I have to—”
“No. This is what you have to do. You’ll go to Amsterdale and find Margaret.
From there, you’ll take a train to Boston.
I’ll write down the name and the address of the doctor I want you to find there.
You’ll bring the specimens we’ve collected and all of our notes to him.
I’ll send you with a letter for him, summarizing the situation and asking him to send help as soon as possible—tend to whatever patients might be left, and identify this illness. ”
“But the people here, they’re sick. Without you… they’ll need a doctor. And if the illness keeps spreading, and people are rounding up the sick and shooting them, then—”
“We are out of our depth, Frankie. We need men far better equipped for this sort of outbreak and the madness it’s created.
This is how you can best help the people of Boone’s Ferry.
If you stay, you’ll only be handing out remedies that won’t do a damned thing, and watching folks succumb, one by one, until the inevitable happens and you get sick or shot—or both. ”
I knew he was right. I nodded. “Very well. I’ll go. And I’ll come back with help.”
“Good. Now, once you’ve finished eating, I want you to go to the Stoddards’ home and bring back Benjamin’s finest suit and one of Clarice’s nicest dresses. I’ll see the reverend in the morning. They can be laid to rest together.”
I forced myself to eat, though I wasn’t hungry. At last, plate empty, I stood to go.
“Frankie, wait,” my uncle said, standing. He walked back toward his study, and returned with a Smith and Wesson revolver.
“Take this,” he said. “Don’t hesitate to use it, if you must.”