Wickett's Remedy (37 page)

She was on the verge of asking who Joseph was when she realized Nurse Foley was referring to Dr. Gold.

“Now that both wings are to be continually occupied,” Nurse Foley offered, “I suspect that you’ll find it easier to manage your time. If what Joseph says has any bearing on things, we’re going to be rather busy from here on out.”

Mechanically, Lydia stripped the beds and made them up with fresh sheets. She removed ten names from ten footlockers and threw the labels in the rubbish bin. She opened the room’s windows and rid the room of the smell of men until, finally, there was nothing left.

Just as they had at the volunteers’ arrival, the entire staff was on hand to meet this newest ferry. The first person to emerge from the ship’s cabin was Dr. Gold. Lydia thought they all could have benefited from a rousing speech but without preamble Dr. Gold enlisted the aid of the junior personnel and Dr. Peterson in carrying four stretchers from the boat, leaving as
spectators only Lydia and Nurse Foley. On each stretcher lay a man, his head emerging from a cocoon of bedding. Three lay with their eyes closed; whatever curiosity they might have had about their new surroundings was trumped by illness. The last was either too weak or too tired to raise his neck and saw only as much as the placement of his head on the stretcher would allow. Only the color of the uniforms beneath the bedding identified them as naval recruits who had fallen ill before shipping out.

The path leading to the compound was unpaved and ran uphill, precluding the use of wheeled gurneys. As the stretchers got under way Nurse Foley assumed the head of the slow procession, walking beside the stretcher carried by Peterson and Gold. Watching the nurse from her own place at the rear, Lydia tried to recall the sense of limitless possibility that had struck her on first spying Gallups from the bow of her own incoming ferry, but that feeling seemed to have belonged to someone hopelessly young.

At the hospital entrance, the four new arrivals were transferred to wheeled gurneys and brought to the recovery room, which lay along the same hallway that housed the surgery and examination rooms. The recovery room was the twin of the lab where the volunteers had reported for preliminary tests, but here beds took the place of counters, lessening the power of the white tiles to evoke memories of City Point. The beds were arranged in two rows of four separated by a wide aisle. The curtains that had been pulled around the sailors’ four beds reminded Lydia of Carney.

“We are joined today by four seamen from the Chelsea Naval Hospital, who have generously agreed
to aid us in our study,” Dr. Gold explained once the last sailor had been bedded down. “I met and interviewed several seamen at Chelsea who were eager to help our efforts, but these four represent our most ideal donors.” The doctor walked to the bed at the far end of the room.

“This is Seaman Pruett. An early but acute case, he claims to have experienced the first symptoms this very morning. He arrived at Chelsea just as I did and immediately expressed his heartfelt willingness to help in any way he could. The other three arrived at Chelsea the previous night but represent candidates almost as impeccable.”

Dr. Gold turned to face the bed behind him. “Son, you’ve done your country a great service by agreeing to come here.”

“Sure, Doc,” rasped an unfamiliar voice from behind the partition.

“We’re going to take good care of you, sailor, even better care than you would have received at Chelsea. You’re in excellent hands.”

“Thanks, Doc. I’m awfully grateful.”

As Gold proceeded to the next curtained bed, Cole and an escort led ten volunteers into the room. These men represented the last of the thirty, whom Lydia had not seen since the interim days preceding the study’s commencement. She could only vaguely recall their names—but on seeing her, several smiled and cried out, “Nursie Lydia!” their faces lighting up in recognition.

The men’s faces quickly changed at the sight of the four curtained beds.

“What’s happened?” she was asked by a tall, narrow-necked volunteer with a prominent Adam’s
apple and a thatch of straw-colored hair. “Have the west ward boys gotten a dose after all?”

“Your friends are fine,” Lydia assured him.

As if he had been waiting for her cue, Dr. Gold approached.

“Good morning!” he began, either unaware or unconcerned that he only received wary nods in reply. “Boys, today we will be inaugurating the next phase of our tests, which is called the ‘direct phase.’ Behind these curtains are four enlisted men who, unlike the fellows we’ve been working with here,
have
managed to catch the flu.” The doctor’s chuckle, emerging from behind the white blind of his mask, elicited uneasy smiles.

“We’ll be employing two techniques today, split evenly between you,” he continued. “The first couldn’t be simpler: all it involves is talking to these fellows and allowing them to breathe and cough on you a bit. For the second you don’t have to be nearly so sociable, we’ll just be asking to swab your noses and throats with a bit of donated material. Are there any questions? Good. When Dr. Peterson calls your name please proceed to the indicated bed and await further instructions.”

Gold spoke so assuredly and with such speed that by the time Peterson had divided the men into two groups of five, Lydia suspected they still had not grasped the meaning of his words. While Foley assisted Peterson, Cole motioned for Lydia, the two of them leading their five to the bed nearest the door.

“Would you like to perform the nasal procedure?” Cole asked as they stood outside the bed’s drawn curtain.

Lydia was certain she had misheard.

“All it requires is speed and a gentle touch. You’ve evidenced both in our work together and I think, in this circumstance, the men would be more at ease with a female practitioner.”

He handed her a swab. “I’ll be your assistant for a change. Just rotate this along the inner perimeter of the donor’s nostril and then use the same technique to transfer the material to the subject.”

She rolled the swab between her thumb and forefinger. “I suppose if you’re fast enough,” she mused, “you won’t give the fellow too much time to think about what you’re putting in there.”

“Miss Wickett,” Cole replied, “I think you may have a natural propensity for this sort of work.”

She had not been within the confines of a curtained bed since her time at Carney and, for a moment, she felt like she had been transported back across the harbor. She had a sudden flash of Brian O’Toole struggling to raise his head from his pillow as he begged her not to leave, but this vision was dispelled by the sight of the naval recruit and the nervous silence on the other side of the curtain.

The sailor opened his eyes as she entered. He was not nearly as ill as some of the patients she had helped at Carney. Though feverish, he was alert and his breathing was unimpaired. In a kind voice, Cole described the procedure. The recruit lay perfectly still as Lydia circled a swab inside his nostril until the soft white of the swab’s tip had been obscured by a layer of yellow-green mucus. Then, handling the glistening swab with the care a jeweler might lavish on a rare gem, she rushed from the bed to the other side of the curtain, where she spread the
contents of the swab inside the nostrils of a volunteer, stroking back and forth within the nostril as though applying a thin, fast-drying coat of paint.

Once, when Thomas was no more than a few months old, he caught a terrible cold, and she helped to keep his poor nose clear by alternating gentle suction with drops of saline. The mechanics of her current assignment were far easier. She focused on the movement of her hands. She reminded herself that she was acting for the greater good—that they were all here to serve interests larger than themselves. She no longer needed to look at the swab; she could operate by feel alone. She held the men’s gazes while her hands did their work. That was each man’s wish, that his eyes be diverted from her hands. It did not take long, but a moment spent holding the gaze of another made time into pulled taffy. Ages elapsed between blinks. Just one transfer remained. She was grateful to Cole for entrusting her with this task. She was more grateful still to be finished.

The nasal transfer was the easier job. Lydia’s success only required each man’s immobility. The glass vials under Cole’s jurisdiction were unwieldy things that required far greater collaboration. Lydia watched as, under Cole’s instruction, the bedridden naval recruit cleared his throat and expectorated thick, yellow-streaked spittle into one of the tubes.

When Cole emerged from behind the curtain holding the vial, the first volunteer paled. “You’re not serious?” he asked.

“Just tip back your head and open your mouth and you’ll barely feel a thing,” Cole assured him.

“Gimme a minute, Doc,” the volunteer said, turning
away. When he turned back his eyes were closed. “All right,” he resumed. “Go ahead and do me.”

“Try not to cough or spit,” Cole advised, “or I might have to repeat the procedure.” He was so quick and gentle the fellow did not even gag.

When it was done the young man opened his eyes and grinned. “No problem, Doc. That wasn’t nearly so bad as I thought. It’s like swallowing oysters.”

The next volunteer stared at his tube like it had challenged him to a drinking match. “I’m good for more than that, Doc,” he boasted. “Whatever you can give, I can take.”

“You tell ’em, Duke!” called one of the men from the other group. “If Riordan could see you now his head would near about fall off.”

“He’d be a helluva lot better looking that way,” Duke replied, rubbing a scar that lay across his left cheek like a stray piece of embroidery thread.

Eventually Lydia stopped watching, focusing instead on the recruit, but even as she made polite conversation and adjusted bedding, it was impossible to close her ears to each struggle to permit Cole’s fingers to accomplish Dr. Gold’s bidding.

When Cole was finished, she led the group to the empty east ward. In silence the men found their beds. In silence, Lydia locked the door behind them.

How’re you feeling?

Not so great. S’good t’ be here though. You wouldn’t believe the crush at the pier.

You coming or going?

Going. My company prob’ly shipped today. I tell ya it’s awful lousy getting left behind.

Don’t I know it. Say, you think it’s true about the Gerries?

Sure. They started running outta gas soon as Wilson took us in … ya know it’s funny them dressing you in gray—if I didn’t know better I’d take ya for a jailbird.

Yeah, s’funny all right. They got a real sense of humor around here.

Okay Thompson, that’s good enough. Now lean toward Seaman Riley’s face. Closer. Good. Seaman Riley, if you would, please exhale deeply five times. Then, if you’d be so kind as to cough.

Sure thing, Doc. Feels a little funny doing this, though.

Don’t worry about it, sailor. A little closer, Thompson. All right, Riley. Go ahead.

You gettin’ any good flickers?

Last week at the Pier they showed a Keystone caper that was pretty first rate. But I’d rather a Norma Talmadge pic any daya the week. Even when the picture’s lousy she’s aces.

I’d give my right nut to see Theda Bara.

I heard they was sendin’ a bunch of Hollywood dolls over t’France. I tell ya, I’m missing all the best parts of this war.

Where’re you from anyway? You sound like Detroit.

South end, born an bred.

You’re kiddin’ me! You know Pauley’s?

Do I know it? Chum, if I could have one thing right now it’d be one of Pauley’s roast beef sandwiches, extra mustard, extra horseradish.

Gee that’s funny, two Detroit fellas like us meeting in a place like this. How’d you land this duty anyways? Seems like a bum steer.

Believe me, it was better than where I was before.

Remember me to the 45th when you get there.

If I get there. At the rate things’re going it’ll be all wrapped up by the time I’m ready to ship. Anyone in particular you want to be remembered to?

Anyone but Greenaway. We never got along too good.

I’ll try to remember. Besides this Greenaway fella they’re mostly good guys, am I right?

They’re tops. I miss ’em like brothers. But steer clear of Greenaway. He’ll land you in all sorts of hot water.

Thanks fella.

That’s good enough, boys.