Die Once Live Twice (25 page)

“I knew your education was a good idea.” Jonathan slapped Angelo across his back.

As they walked, Jonathan saw New York City employees cleaning streets and picking up trash. He knew this was an unfamiliar sight for the residents of Pigtown. Everyone in New York City believed that these people were filthy and their filth caused this disease. Probably because of this bias, public health advancements in medicine were not enforced in Pigtown. Only in a crisis did the politicians send in workers to clean up the neighborhood, hoping this would stop the disease. Jonathan wondered if they had clean milk stations, like the ones in the tenements in Manhattan. He assumed Pigtown was connected to the city’s clean water, but were the children in Pigtown vaccinated like those in Ward 19?

Park had arranged for them to meet with two local doctors. Angelo translated as the doctors told Park and Jonathan there was nothing different in Pigtown from other years. Jonathan pressed them, “Why did this happen?”

Angelo translated their answer, “It must be the Hand of God.”

“So much for our cultural authority in Pigtown,” Jonathan said to Park.

“That is the same answer we heard twenty years ago,” Park replied.

Jonathan left Pigtown with Angelo, well aware of the irony that he had a bodyguard because of secular scientific medicine. But if there were a scientific answer for infantile paralysis, why couldn’t their laboratory technique at Rockefeller Institute reveal it? He had to succeed in isolating this virus. Maybe this strain of the virus, which had infected thousands of children and killed many of them, would give him the chance.

The next morning Jonathan entered his laboratory excited, expecting that he would at last be successful in his quest. He walked the length of the black counter in the center of the laboratory toward the back wall, where his incubator held tissues for culture.

Doctor Ross Harrison, at Yale, first showed him how to nurture germs to grow on plates and in test tubes, in the cells of tissue cultures. “I can never tell this to my brother,” Jonathan told Harrison. “He graduated from Yale and I was always teasing him about this school.”

“Tissue cultures forever change our study of microorganisms, for now we can selectively grow them
in vitro
. We do not need to grow them inside animals. What of equal importance has come from Harvard’s medical school?” Harrison turned the knife in Jonathan with a deadpan face.

“Can we talk football?”

Jonathan prepared his cultures with a virulent strain from Pigtown. In two to three days he would know if he had successfully isolated the virus. Growing germs on a plate or in a test tube—
in vitro
—opened multiple opportunities of study for researchers, but a difficulty remained. Germs would only grow in certain tissues. The infantile paralysis virus was an especially stubborn bug. Any time Jonathan tried to grow it outside nerve tissue, at least in quantities large enough to be useful, bacteria overwhelmed it. But if he could grow the poliomyelitis virus outside nervous tissue it would be a “shot heard ‘round the world.” It would allow a vaccine to be developed.

Jonathan left the laboratory and climbed the stairs one floor to his office. He threw his white smock over his chair and his notes from the laboratory on his desk. His small desk was positioned in front of a window so he could see a glimpse of nature while he worked. Stacks of papers scattered on the floor were data from his studies and manuscripts. A bookshelf on the wall opposite the doorway was stuffed with journals and books. He meant to get them organized. On the wall behind him hung a portrait of his mother with William Welch. The only other picture was of Marion, and it stood on his desk facing his chair so he could readily admire her beauty. He leaned back in his chair. There was nothing more he could do today.

That evening Marion met Jonathan at the Oak Room bar. Both were exhausted by the past days, but the anticipation of change gave them extra energy. Jonathan lit a cigar and ordered Louis XVI Cognac for himself and Puligny-Montrachet wine for Marion. Marion tasted her white wine and thanked the waiter. Jonathan noticed he was not the usual waiter. “Where’s Tony?”

“His boy has the virus.”

Marion’s shoulders slumped. “Flexner is so damn wrong and so are all the experts. This isn’t a disease of filth and it’s not from the immigrants.”

“I believe you. With any luck my lab experiments will prove you right. What’s happening at your clinic?”

“Today was just one sick kid after another. Lots of flu-like symptoms. That’s why I know it comes in through the stomach. It’s not through the nose. The worst part is I know we will start getting paralyzed kids next. They are all five years old or less. It is just tragic.”

Jonathan took a long drag on his cigar. “This is a mean strain of the virus. This is the worst infantile paralysis epidemic in history. I think there are 15,000 cases already. That’s how bad it is.”

“I’m telling you, honey, it’s all over the City. It’s in New Jersey, too,” Marion said. “Filth doesn’t cause it. My ward is clean and we’re swamped. Quarantines don’t stop it.”

“Well, with any luck in three more days I can stop it!” Jonathan clinked glasses with Marion.

The next day, Jonathan was thrilled to see that the tissue culture was not overgrown with bacteria. Some slight tissue destruction told him the virus was growing. He was getting close. The next morning, too restless to spend the whole day in the lab, Jonathan accompanied Marion to her clinic. All day mothers brought their children. Those without paralysis were sent home and their dwelling quarantined. Those with paralysis were sent to Willard Hospital. The only treatment was bed rest. There was little hope that the paralysis, once it occurred, would recede.

By late afternoon he was at Rockefeller Institute. As he bounced down the stairs to gaze on his prize, doubt arose.
Why would I be successful at what Flexner can’t do
?
Maybe this strain will be the one that is different
. One look and depression replaced anticipation. Then anger filled him. The tissue was mush—necrotic. Clearly overgrown by bacteria. It was unavoidable as long as there was no chemical to add to the culture to kill bacteria and selectively grow virus. The bacteria always won.
They are thugs
. Jonathan didn’t bother looking at his preparation under the microscope. He didn’t want to give the bacteria the satisfaction of looking back up at him, their cellular faces grinning. Slamming his fist on the counter, he wheeled around and stomped out of the lab.

Back upstairs, sitting at his desk looking at a beautiful tree outside the window, he resigned himself to his failure. Maybe he should stop this chase for the Holy Grail, give up pretending to have a medical lion’s heart. He wasn’t better than Flexner. This experiment to prove Flexner wrong and Marion right had only proved him wrong. He spoke to his picture of Marion. “Sorry, honey. I had a chance but this damn virus still won’t grow outside nervous tissue. Even worse than not proving Simon wrong is there can be no vaccine.” Closing his eyes, he felt beaten by his arch enemy, the germ. He let out a long sigh.

After sitting in silence for nearly thirty minutes, Jonathan stood and reached for his suit coat hanging on a peg in the wall. He froze. He felt Katherine’s eyes boring into him. Lifting his head toward the portrait of his mother standing with William Welch, he stared back. Finally he moved again, sliding his arms into his coat. “Okay. Okay, Mother,” he said out loud. “I won’t quit. But maybe I’m not the one to be Richard, your lion-hearted hero.”

When he exited his office he went back down the stairs to his laboratory. Defiantly he strode with purpose along the counter to his failed cultures. He looked straight down at the bacteria laden plates and yelled, “You fucking little buggers. You’ve controlled the earth through all time. But we’ll win. We’ll find a substance to kill you. Then I’ll grow all the viruses I want!”

Chapter Twenty-six

J
onathan sat in an overstuffed leather chair in the library of the Union Club, not far from his home on Fifth Avenue. He was entertaining the three graduating surgery residents from Rockefeller Hospital, all of whom had volunteered for the Medical Corp of the Army. It was July 3, 1917 and the United States was now in the Great War. Sipping on a twenty-five-year-old single malt scotch, Jonathan’s Cuban cigar was doing a slow burn as he continued his lecture to the residents on the war.

“The Boche have been asking for it ever since they sank the
Lusitania
two years ago. Germany, Austro-Hungary, and Italy thought they were invincible. They didn’t count on the courage of the Frogs and Brits.”

“Why in the world wouldn’t Congress arm the ships after the Zimmerman telegram?” demanded one resident who considered himself knowledgeable. “The German foreign minister openly saying they would begin destroying our shipping with their subs? And worse, offering to form an alliance with Mexico to open up a Western Hemisphere front? It took the sinking of three more ships two weeks later before they would do anything.”

“At least the Mexicans weren’t foolish enough to take them up on the offer in order to get back New Mexico, Arizona, and Texas. They were probably just happy to have Pershing out of the country,” Jonathan laughed.

“So now all three of us have to risk our lives to save France and Britain,” the same resident groused. “At least we’ll get lots of surgical experience.”

“Yes, just be alert all the time for the Germans gassing your camp or your city. Since Ypres in 1915, we know the mustard gas is lethal and we have no antidote for it. So keep a gas mask handy,” Jonathan continued.

“I hope I don’t get sick from the inoculations,” a second resident said.

“Be glad the troops are vaccinated,” Jonathan answered. “This is the first war ever where disease is not the number one killer. Twenty years ago, in the Spanish-American War, thirteen men died from disease, mostly typhoid, for every one that died from trauma. It’s a feather in medicine’s cap that just as many men are dying from trauma as disease.”

“But there are some pretty serious diseases over there,” said the first resident.

Jonathan nodded. “One of the worst is typhus. It can travel on a louse passed from human to human, and with these men crowded in wet, filthy trenches it has a field day. Be sure your men get hosed off frequently. Then there’s trench foot. They need to change socks frequently to prevent that.”

“I hope the troops will listen to me.”

“We doctors have more respect than we’ve ever had. The generals know fewer men are sick and dying from disease. Our citizens expect their boys to return because the inoculations will”—Jonathan wiggled his first two fingers of each hand to simulate quote marks—“protect them.” He grinned wryly and stood. “Gentlemen, I must retire. My wife and I are motoring to Fort Washington with my friend Doctor Spanezzi tomorrow to have a 4th of July picnic. Good night to each of you.” Jonathan took their leave to walk home, quite certain they would savor their evening in the Union Club until it closed the bar.

The next day was sunny and warm. “Magnificent day for a picnic,” Marion said as she dressed. “Let’s take the open car today.”

Jonathan, just out of his bath and toweling off, patted Marion’s tummy as he passed her. “How’s my boy doing?” Marion was three months pregnant and her stomach showed it.

She rubbed it in a circular motion and grinned. “You hope it’s a boy! But I think it is. He sure is growing fast.” She looked down at her stomach and continued rubbing, as if she wanted to confirm one more time there was a baby inside. Then she grabbed Jonathan’s arm. “Before you go to your closet, fix the clasp on this new-fangled brassiere.”

Jonathan dropped his towel and fumbled with the clasp. “So this shows your bosom off better?”

“Yes, it does. Now more men will look at me.”

Jonathan pressed up against her back and reached under her arms, pushing his hands under the bra. “Yes, but only I get to touch them.” He leaned forward and kissed her neck. Now naked, his erection stiffened against her buttocks.

“Oh, you would do that,” Marion whispered. “Now I want you. Undo this contraption.” After Jonathan unclasped the brassiere she took his hand and towed him to their bed.

Two hours later, Spanezzi stood on the landing of the staircase and hollered toward their bedroom. “How long are you going to make us wait? You’re already pregnant, Marion!”

Jonathan appeared at the top of the stairs in a tweed sport coat, an Ascot around his neck and holding a driving cap. “You know these women, Phil. They take forever. Let’s go wait with Danica.”

Danica Lindstrom was a Scandinavian actress, about twenty-five years old, Jonathan figured, whom the forty-five-year-old Spanezzi had dated for a year. Blonde, full-busted, and five-feet, seven-inches tall, she was most pleasant to look at. When Marion joined them, Danica exclaimed, “Oh, Marion. You’re wearing one of those new breast supports.”

Spaneezi looked at Marion, then at Danica, then back to Marion and said, “It makes yours look, well, crestfallen, Danica!”

“Deezi, be nice.” Marion’s index finger wagged at him.

Jonathan was impressed with Marion’s new appearance. Her blonde hair was tied in a ponytail, which Jonathan loved. “If we gave a picture of you to each of our soldiers and promised them a date when they returned home, the war would be won in a week.”

“Until they found out I’m a pregnant woman!” she said with pride.

Broadway, as the old Bloomingdale Road was now called, had been paved about a decade before, and although the latter parts of the road were still rough, Jonathan liked both the view of New Jersey’s Palisades from the highest point on Manhattan Island and the bucolic setting so different from the bustling neighborhoods they lived in. He had even been to Hilltop Park to watch the Highlanders play baseball while they rebuilt the Polo Grounds. He wasn’t at all sure he liked their new nickname, “Yankees,” which seemed to him much plainer and more prosaic. Jonathan’s new car was powerful, reaching forty miles per hour when the ground was level. He wore goggles to protect his eyes from dust and wore a dapper tan driving cap.