Chasing Secrets (15 page)

I
take out my pencil to write a poem about Maggy. When I'm done, I read it to her as she cleans the parrot's cage.

Loyal, loyal Maggy Doyle

Does our dishes but has no wishes.

Toil and toil, our Maggy Doyle

Only yearns to water the ferns.

Her face screws up. “ ‘Yearns'?”

“ ‘Yearns' means ‘wants a lot.' ”

She gives me a funny look. “I do not yearn to water the ferns,” she mutters.

I laugh. “Well, what do you yearn for?”

She strokes the parrot.

“Maggy?” Nettie calls, stomping through the kitchen door and into the drawing room. She snaps her fingers at Maggy. “I found another one.” Maggy closes the parrot in his cage, turns, and follows Nettie.

“Found another what?” I call after them.

“Never you mind, Miss Lizzie. This is between Maggy Doyle and me. Right, Maggy?”

I don't like the sound of this. I follow them to the path on the other side of the Sweeting house, careful not to let them see me.

“There!” Nettie points to the flower bed, bright with nodding daisies.

Maggy leans down, picks up a dead rat, and carries it to the rubbish heap. The Sweetings have five stable boys and five gardeners. There is no reason Maggy should be doing this.

I dash down the path and up the Sweeting stairs. Aunt Hortense has her accounting ledgers fanned out in front of her. “What is it?” she asks.

“Can you come? It's Nettie. She's making Maggy pick up rats.”

“Rats?” Aunt Hortense follows me down the steps. Maggy has another dead rat in her hand.

“What is this all about, Nettie?” Aunt Hortense asks.

Nettie's eyes harden when she looks at me. “Nothing to worry about, Mrs. Sweeting. I got it all taken care of, ma'am.” Her voice is chipper and sweet.

“Yes, Nettie, I can see that. But I would like to know.” Aunt Hortense's eyes drill into Nettie.

“Maggy was just helping us out. That's all. Such a nice woman. Too bad she's…” Nettie taps at her head.

“Why are you making her throw out your dead rats?” I ask.

“Nobody wants to touch 'em none,” Nettie says. “Maggy, she don't mind.”

“Maggy does too mind!” I shout.

Maggy watches me. Aunt Hortense plants her feet. “For goodness' sake, Nettie. You're not to treat Maggy that way.”

“But, Mrs. Sweeting, she's asking to do it—”

“She is not!” I stamp my foot.

“Let Maggy speak for herself, Lizzie. Maggy”—Aunt Hortense's voice is gentle—“did you ask Nettie to let you help with this?”

“No, thank you. No, no, no.”

“Now, Maggy…She don't mean that,” Nettie tells Aunt Hortense.

Aunt Hortense arches an eyebrow at Nettie.

“No, no, no.” Maggy continues shaking her head.

“Pardon me, ma'am.” Nettie grinds her teeth. “I must have been mistaken.” We watch her scurry away.

Maggy takes out her polishing cloth and begins work on a garden seat.

“Thank you, Aunt Hortense,” I whisper.

“Don't be silly. We can't have our Maggy treated like that.”

Aunt Hortense looks at the rats. “The work of Orange Tom, no doubt.”

I shake my head. “Orange Tom's gone.”

“Gone?” Aunt Hortense frowns. Her eyes shift rapidly right to left. “Must be the new barn cat. Maggy, go with Lizzie and wash your hands. Scrub them like Mr. Kennedy does before surgery.”

T
he next morning, I find Billy in the corner of the barn, his big hands covered by puffy gloves, punching a burlap bag of potatoes he's hung from the rafters.
Thwack, bunkity, bunkity. Thwack, bunkity, bunkity.
Juliet skitters around in her stall. John Henry hangs in the back. Head up, ears pricked, eyes watchful, not the lazy way he usually stands, resting on one back leg.

Billy slips off his gloves, picks up a rope, and begins jumping. The rope slaps the ground.

“Is Papa still mad?” I ask.

“How should I know,” he huffs. His face is red except around his mouth, which is white. Why doesn't that part of his face get red, too?

“What are you doing that makes him so crazy?”

“Thirty-five, thirty-six, thirty-seven,” he counts. “Looking out for myself, thirty-eight, thirty-nine.”

“Why wouldn't he want that?”

He catches his foot on the rope, stops, and wipes the sweat from his face. “He thinks every conflict should be settled by a bread-and-butter note.”

“He does not.”

He dribbles water from a bucket into his mouth, and then pours the rest over his head. “People walk all over him.”

“No, they don't.”

He wipes the water off his face. “Sure they do. Where's Orange Tom, anyway?”

“He's gone.”

“And the kittens?” He stares at me.

What do I say to this? “Gone, too,” I mumble.

“Is that so?” He puts his gloves back on and whales on the bag again.
Thwack fumba. Thwack.

When I turn around, Papa is standing behind us in the brown tweed vest and jacket he wears on the road. “Lizzie, I've got a local call. Interested?”

“Of course!”

Papa smiles, his two-dimple smile.

Thwack. Fumba-fumba.
Billy hits the potatoes so hard, the bag splits and some of the potatoes spill onto the barn floor.

“Where?” I ask.

“Daisy Bennett's servant girl. How soon can you be ready?”

“Five minutes.”

Thwack. Thwack. Fumba.
Another potato falls out. Billy's back is to us.

“I need to immunize you both,” Papa says.

“From what?” I ask.

“The plague.”

“What?” I say.

Billy stops hitting the bag. He turns around.

“It's a precaution…that's all. I'd rather not take chances.”

“Why do I need to be immunized? I'm not going with you,” Billy announces.

“Humor me,” Papa says.

“Why should I?” Billy whispers.

Papa's face gets red. “Because I'm your father.”

“I don't want to.”

Papa takes a breath, sucks in his lips. He turns and walks into the house. I follow him, rolling up the sleeve of my shirtwaist.

In the cold storage room, Papa sets his bag on the table. He unrolls the cloth to reveal a clean syringe. It's Jing's job to boil the syringes and reroll them in clean chamois. Papa takes out a small rectangular bottle marked with an
IP
for the maker. Institut Pasteur. And then it says
YERSIN
'
S ANTI-PLAGUE SERUM
. He sticks the needle into the bottle and pulls the stopper back, suctioning the brown serum into the chamber.

“ ‘Yersin's,' ” I say, “rhymes with ‘persons.' ”

He swabs me with alcohol. The needle pricks. The serum is injected. Papa cleans my arm just as Billy walks in.

I roll down my sleeve. “I read that the plague can look like a bad case of the flu with a terrible headache. Swelling in the groin and black-and-blue marks is how you know.”

Billy snorts. “That's what you do in your spare time?”

“Swelling in the lymph nodes, yes,” Papa answers me. “But this is just me erring on the side of caution. There's no evidence the plague is here.” Papa focuses on Billy. “Change your mind?”

“No,” Billy says.

Papa's face falls.

“I'm sorry, Papa,” Billy whispers. “It's just, people who get sick get sick. And people who don't, don't. I don't see as how your intervention does much of anything.”

“Sometimes it is just a matter of giving comfort, Billy. You're right about that. But immunizations are different. There's real science behind this. They work inside you to stimulate your own immune system to fight the disease. Look, you know how to immunize yourself. I'll leave everything in your room.”

Billy doesn't seem to care. But this makes me wonder about Noah. How will he get immunized? And Jing, too, for that matter. It doesn't seem fair that we get immunized but no one else. And what about Gemma and Gus? Papa says this is only a precaution, so I suppose I shouldn't worry.

“Get the picnic basket from Jing. I'll meet you in the barn,” Papa tells me.

I run upstairs and change into my softest ribbed stockings and my most comfortable skirt. It may be twenty-four hours before I change my clothes again.

Jing is in the kitchen, wrapping turkey legs for the buggy. My stomach grumbles when I see him.

He nods toward the partially loaded hamper. “Bacon, corn cakes, currant scones.”

A happy sigh escapes my lips. Jing smiles.

In the barn, Papa is harnessing Juliet. Jing hands me the food basket, and I place it in its usual spot between the medical bags.

Papa climbs in and gathers the lines, and Juliet prances out.

“Wait.” I hear Jing running behind us, my coat with the brown velvet collar in his hands.

The Chinese words for “thank you” float through my head.
“Doh je,”
I say.

Jing stiffens. His eyes register shock. Then a huge smile busts open his face.

“Where'd you learn that?” Papa asks me.

“I found a Chinese-English dictionary,” I say.

As we trot onto the street, I run my hand over my arm where it aches from the shot. “You immunized me. Why can't you immunize everyone?”

“Not enough serum. Comes from horses. They lose quite a number before they gather enough for one man.”

“The horses die?”

“Sometimes, yes.”

“I couldn't stand it if a horse died because of me,” I mutter.

“You are more important than any horse, and don't you ever forget it.” Papa settles into his seat.

“How did you get the Yersin's?” I ask as we pass a milk wagon driven by a Chinese man with a long braid.

“Medical officers are given immunizations. We have to stay well so we can care for the sick.”

“So I'm a medical officer?”

“Today you are.” He winks at me. “But this is an accident call. Broken bones, I'm guessing. The girl jumped out of a second-story window.”

“Why?”

“Didn't want to be immunized.”

Kind of like Billy, I think, though I don't mention this. It would get Papa riled up again.

The dark water of the bay comes in and out of sight as we travel up and down the steep streets. Juliet is breathing hard, her coat shiny with sweat. I rest my head against Papa. He puts his arm around me. He likes it when I go on calls with him.

My father reins Juliet into the Bennetts' small stable. I slip off her harness, then lead her to the watering trough as Papa hurries up to the house.

After giving her a flake of hay from the Bennetts' bale, I climb the steps to the front door. A maid with shocking blue eyes leads me up three stairwells to a tiny dormer room, where a slender Chinese girl in a maid's uniform lies on a narrow cot moaning with pain. Another uniformed Chinese girl, a bit older, stands in the doorway speaking in fast Chinese, the language a barricade.

Papa is in the hall, talking to them in his soothing voice, but the bigger girl has a wild look in her eyes. She won't
stop long enough to hear him. I can't understand a word, but her message is clear.

Go away.

“She's in pain. I can help.” Papa's voice is gentle.

“You go. Leave alone,” the girl says.

The delicate girl in the bed sobs. The other girl stands with her arms crossed. Inside the dormer room are banners of Chinese characters, tasseled baskets full of socks and towels, a bowl of oranges, a pencil sketch of a rooster.

Papa steps closer. “She needs help.”

The older girl shouts, then slams the door in his face.

Papa sighs. “Maybe Daisy has someone who can translate.” He disappears down the narrow stairwell. The voices continue at a furious pace inside the closed door.

I wish I had the Chinese-English dictionary. I memorized only a few words, and I have no idea how to pronounce them.

“Nei-ho”
means “hello.” I try this out.
“Nei-ho,”
I say.

Behind the door, the conversation slows. Are they listening?

“Nei-ho,”
I repeat. And then,
“Pung yao.”
Friend.

Now one of the girls is answering me. She's speaking slowly, though I still can't understand.

“Pung yao,”
I repeat, and then in English, “Open the door. I can help you.”

Silence on the other side, then whispers followed by louder rapid-fire Chinese. They seem to be discussing this.

“Pung yao,”
I whisper, touching my hand to my heart.

The door opens; the girls peer at me.

“I can help,” I say. “But only if you let me in.”

They nod.

My feet move a step closer. The door remains open. I find a clean cloth in Papa's bag. “Can you get cool water on this?” I ask the bigger girl.

Her eyes fly to my patient. She doesn't want to leave her with me. But the patient nods, and the other girl disappears.

What would Papa do now? “Where does it hurt?” I ask.

“My knee,” she answers in English.

“Anywhere else?”

She shakes her head.

“Can I do an examination?”

The girl doesn't respond. I step into the attic room, which smells like oranges. On the shelf is a collection of teacups. An embroidered Chinese dress hangs on a wire. I can only stand up straight in the center of the room.

I perch on the edge of the cot. This girl was so terrified that she jumped out a second-story window. I mustn't scare her again.

Her eyes are glassy with fear, but she's worn down. She knows she needs help.

I examine her as best I can. Scratches are scattered over her neck and face. Her lower arm is badly bruised. She must have landed in a bush. It probably broke her fall.

“Can you move your arms?”

She nods, then shows me. “It's just the knee.” She touches her left knee.

“What is your name?”

“Mei,” she whispers.

I focus on the knee as Papa comes up the stairs.

“No luck,” he calls.

“Mei, this is my papa.” I tell her. “He's a doctor. He can help you.”

“No!”

I frown. “He can.”

“No!” She jerks away and yelps with pain. “Okay.” My hand is up, fingers splayed.

“She's afraid of you, Papa,” I call out to him. “Can you tell me what to do?”

My father makes his thinking noise—a popping with his tongue. He rubs his freshly shaved chin. He's too tall for the attic even in the center where the ceiling comes to a point. He stands hunched over, then slides to the floor, settling back on his heels so he can peer into the room as I work. “Okay, Lizzie….We'll take this one step at a time.”

“She says her knee hurts.”

“Anything else?”

“Minor lacerations.”

“Fever?”

“Hard to say. She could be warm from the crying.”

“If she has a substantial fever, you'll be able to tell.”

I put my hand lightly on her forehead. “No fever.”

“Good. That's good. Let's focus on the knee. Left one?”

“Yes.”

“Can you help Mei move her leg out of the covers?” I ask Mei's friend, who is hunkered down at the door.

The other girl moves toward the bed and pulls back the quilt, revealing Mei's thin bare leg. The knee looks distorted. No wonder it hurts so much.