Deadly (9 page)

I must figure that part out, if I can.

I wish I could get into the laboratory and look through the microscope and see for myself what this typhoid germ looks like, but Mr. Soper has not yet responded to my few subtle queries to that effect. In fact, he had me working all week at the task of contacting every employment bureau in the city by telephone to find Mary Mallon.

I have never used a telephone and I was quite excited at first; I had the impression a voice would magically appear at the other end like in a conversation. Instead, it required heavy manual labor to produce a reply. You have to crank the handle on the square wooden box to speak to the switchboard operator, and that handset—like holding an iron against my ear! Half the bosses I reached seemed to be answering from beneath the river, the other half had tin throats. Most times,
I had to yell and repeat my query, and pressed the set so close to my ear for replies, I feel as if I've been pummeled. I studied the instrument, the box, the wires, the metal handset, and still cannot figure out how a voice can travel through it all. Mr. Soper says the telephone converts the voice into electrical impulses, which vibrate the wire and then are transformed back into what sounds like a voice. It has to do with the characteristics of sound waves. An invention of affection, he called it—Mr. Bell created the telephone to communicate with his mother and his wife, who were both deaf.

By the end of the week, I was almost wishing I had one of the convenient contraptions at home, imagining Anushka had one too. The wonder of it was, finally, that I could locate the cook's present employment bureau, and all without taking
a single streetcar trip. From the bureau, we found out that the cook currently works for a family on Fifth Avenue. Mr. Soper spent some time thinking of how to approach her.

“I imagine she must be wondering why it is that the typhoid follows her to each job,” he said.

“I think she'd be grateful to know that she carries the disease inside her and spreads it like a spice in her cooking,” I said.

Of course, I did not mean it to be a joke, it was simply the picture that came to me, but Mr. Soper's brow darkened at my words, and he barked at me sharply, “Prudence, this is an epidemic we're facing here. This woman is very likely responsible for a girl's death, and the illness of many others, and a humorous approach will not help her fathom the gravity of the situation. We must find a way to explain this in the proper manner to her, in a way she'll understand.”

His admonishment still rings in my head. I apologized, but Mr. Soper hardly heard me. My foolishness hung from me like a sign.

He went on, “If she knows of the possible danger she is bringing into households, if she is made aware of it, I believe she'll work with us. We need to convince her of the importance of testing, that we must check her bodily fluids, urine,
blood, and feces. We must tread lightly with her, however,
as this is a new theory, and not yet proven
.”

“Surely she'll understand that she's connected somehow,” I ventured to him, trying to make up for my joke.

“We'll approach her at her place of work,” he said. “The laboratory results will give us our answer.”

He turned his attention to another task in the office, and I watched him for a minute over my typewriter. Here is a man who has not only solved epidemics, but other things too, like the running water they installed in our neighborhood tenements, and the toilets they put downstairs—all of this to conquer those things that cause death. His goal is cleanliness, an orderliness that will bring health to everyone who lives here. I feel sometimes as if I'm drowning in a sea of unknowns and Mr. Soper is like a ship passing. I call to him, but my mouth is full of dark water, and soon he is out of reach. He seems to work all hours, and never speaks of a family he must return to, not even for holidays like Thanksgiving. He is the first person I've met whose home life I cannot imagine. He never seems to need a rest; he lives for his work. One day I hope to be like him, my whole soul focused on my work, to the exclusion of all else.

Yet I think I would be lonely without my family. We
spent the holiday with Aunt Rachel and Uncle David in Williamsburg, and they were so generous, baking pumpkin pie and turkey legs, mashed yam and challah bread to celebrate the coming together of the Pilgrims and the red man. Uncle David invited a man from the factory, and I'm not sure how to feel about him. Directly after supper Marm sat alone, apple-cheeked in the corner, until the man went over and presented himself to her. It seemed expected that the two of them would meet, this man and Marm (I believe Uncle David invited him for that purpose) and I watched Marm very closely for her reaction. It's been eight years since my father left, and in all that time, men's attentions have rolled off my pretty Marm like water drops. I think my absence and the emptiness of my long work hours away from our apartment has given her thought. Maybe she is worried I'll leave her, maybe the day has come—maybe my matchmaking aunt, as she has tried in the past, has succeeded in convincing her it's time.

The thought hardens my stomach. This man from Uncle David's factory is handsome, with rounded features and a streak of gray in his otherwise dark hair. His eyes look directly and intelligently at a person. Despite Marm's discomfort, he was impressively persistent and discussed all manner of subjects with her. But Marm is not like her sister Rachel,
comfortable in her marriage to the same man for twenty-two years. She, like me, is used to being alone.

A peachy glow rose on her cheeks as they spoke, and she laughed at the things he said. Her eyes flitted to me, seeming surprised at her own laughter, guilty at it even, yet she seemed engaged, happy, joyous in a way I haven't seen her in a long time. I have to say, it bothered me. I loved to see her so happy, but I worried about my father, what he might think, what our neighbors would say, Marm with another man—yet even Mrs. Zanberger thinks Marm should surrender the thought of my father's return….

Before the night was through, the man was able to extract a promise of an outing with Marm.

I cannot imagine her on an outing with a man. It doesn't fit. She is otherwise occupied, she is married, she's mated for life until death….

Later I overheard Aunt Rachel and Uncle David talking in the kitchen about Marm marrying this man, and that made my throat hurt. What if the day came and my father returned and Marm had married Mr. Silver? What would happen to my father? What would happen to me?

I feel torn by this man's appearance—concerned for my lonely Marm and fearful of my father's broken heart, should
he ever return. I feel we should wait for him, just me and Marm alone, even if that means waiting forever. Receiving his checks is a reminder of him every month; it keeps alive the hope that he will come back, despite what our neighbors and friends say.

I talked with Marm about the man on the way home, and she seemed to view him kindly.

“He is a friend, Prudence, a gentle person to talk to, one who knows your aunt and uncle, that's all.”

“He seemed keen on you,” I said.

She pulled me to her and kissed my cheek. We held hands. She said, “I know what you're thinking, and there's nothing to worry about. He knows about—your father. And he mentions only friendship.”

“That's all?” I asked.

“That's all,” she said.

I worry that my Marm contains pockets of loneliness that even a daughter cannot fill.

When I think about my father, I feel as if he and I are in a dense fog. He's backing away from me slowly, the edges of the fog closing in on him, making it harder and harder for me to see him. Any day, I fear, any day he'll turn away from me and be gone from my sight forever.

I
have not
been able to rid my mind of the look on that woman's face—a wide-eyed dread at first, then a closing, smaller, as if her features were swelling shut, the anger turning her freckles a deep brown, spotting her high forehead. The fear, what is it from? I cannot figure out this cook, I cannot figure out this case; it seems to be getting more confusing to me the further we proceed.

Monday morning, cautious and grave, Mr. Soper and I took the elevated train up Sixth Avenue to 57th Street and marched our way to Central Park and over to Fifth Avenue, up to the mansion where Mary Mallon works. We rang the bell and said we were from the Department of Health and Sanitation. We know now not to mention our real purpose until we speak to the head of the household. The very pleasant butler showed us to a dazzling parlor, where he asked us
to wait while he fetched his employer. But his kindness gave me an eerie feeling; he seemed to be expecting us. Mr. Soper briefly met my eyes in question as we waited.

I couldn't help admiring the polished shine of the furniture and the floors and the window glass. I wondered how disease might come to such immaculate homes. How did it manage to survive in places with maids who swept and scrubbed daily? It was easy to see it in my own building, where we all live so close together and can practically feel each other's coughs through the walls. But in a large, sparkling house with so few people—how did the bacteria continue to live?

The butler returned and said his employer would be down shortly, as soon as he finished tending to his wife.

Mr. Soper asked what ailed the wife.

The butler seemed bewildered. “Didn't you state you were from the Department of Health?” he asked. He thought we had been summoned by his employer.

“We are in fact investigating a typhoid epidemic,” Mr. Soper answered.

“Typhoid, yes!” the butler exclaimed. “The same disease that has felled the missus. Their daughter was hospitalized with it last night.”

A gasp slipped from me; it was unprofessional, but I couldn't help it.

At that moment, the man of the house came into the parlor and sank to the sofa; he was dressed in night shoes and gown. He rested his forehead in his hands and sighed. “I'm so glad you're here.”

Mr. Soper sat across from him and said, “My assistant and I were engaged to hunt down the source of a typhoid epidemic that probably began some years ago.”

“The vomiting started after we took Melissa to the hospital,” the man said.

“I'm sorry,” Mr. Soper said. “I must be clear, I'm not a medical doctor.”

The man looked up and Mr. Soper went on, “I'm investigating this epidemic. Our findings have led us here. I believe you've hired a cook named Mary Mallon. We have reason to think she has unwittingly brought the disease to you.”

“My cook is not ill,” the man said. “She never has been.”

“I understand,” Mr. Soper said. “We believe she doesn't need to be ill to carry the typhoid.”

“I've never heard of such a thing,” the man said.

“We only ask that she submit to testing at our offices,” Mr. Soper said.

“But her bureau says the only sickness she's ever had was the common cold,” the man said.

Maybe he was distracted by his worry, but the man was very resistant to the idea that his cook carried the typhoid disease. Mr. Soper insisted—we must have the chance to test her; it's the only way to rule her out.

“I think you're wasting your time, but if you say you can prevent the spread of the disease …,” the man said. He showed us to the kitchen and introduced us to a tall, flame-haired woman with a knife in her hand and a half-cut onion on the chopping block before her. This was Mary. I could not stop myself from staring at her. In my mind, I had pictured a Medusa, a pox-ridden hag with missing teeth and long, dirty fingernails crawling with worms, yet standing before us was a woman who looked proper and stately, hair in a bun, apron neatly ironed, nails trim and pink.

Mr. Soper started by telling her we were from the Department of Health and Sanitation of the City of New York, and she resumed slicing her onion.

“My kitchen is clean,” she said.