Unmentionables Page 8

Deuce wanted nothing more than to get outside. He edged past his fellow diners, patting shoulders as he went. At a table near the door, the town’s most prosperous undertaker cornered him to complain about a misspelling in an obituary.

  Deuce listened impatiently. “Tell the family we’ll rerun it. And I’ll send a note of apology.”

  “That’s all well and good, but I think—”

  “Sorry, Campbell, I’m a bit under the weather.”

  Deuce passed into the reception room, which was, like the dining room, thick with cigar smoke. Now his gut really was roiling. Maybe I’m coming down with something, he thought. He grabbed the door handles, pulling Father Knapp, who was entering, almost off his feet.

  “What the . . . Oh, it’s you,” the older man said, straightening. “Just who I wanted to see anyway. Where are you headed in such a hurry? They haven’t stopped serving, have they?”

  Deuce finger-combed his hair. “No, the kitchen’s still open. I just have an upset stomach, and a pile of locals to write.”

  He stood to one side, expecting Father Knapp to push past. Despite his trim waist, Deuce’s father-in-law was known for the formidable amounts of food he put away.

  “That’ll have to wait. You won’t believe who I spotted going into the Alhambra just now.”

  Deuce shrugged. “No idea.”

  “Helen! At a moving picture in the middle of the day,” Father Knapp said, his voice rising. “And with that sign painter. The younger one. If I hadn’t been half a block away, I’d have yelled out, given him a piece of my mind.”

  “I’m not sure this is all that—”

  “Of course it is. You are way too lenient. No wonder she got that wild notion of running off to Chicago.” Spittle webbed the corners of the old man’s mouth. He jerked his arm toward the door. “Get down there right now. We don’t know who this man is, what his intentions are. Probably not good. I cannot, I will not see Helen go down the same path as her mother. And if you are unwilling to step up and act like a father, I’ve told you what I intend to do. She’ll be living under my roof, under my rules.”

  The old man was working himself up into a fit.

  Fear rose in Deuce’s throat, but he managed to tamp it down. “Look,” he said as soothingly as possible, “I’ll handle it. You go have lunch and I’ll talk to her.”

  “Make sure you do,” Father Knapp responded, before striding into the dining room.

  Deuce stepped outside. The outer door closed behind him. He turned right, toward the theater, but then stopped.

  Let the girl be. Why force her to carry her mother’s pail of stones? Just another ancient trouble passed to the next generation. He glanced once more at the Alhambra’s marquee, then headed toward the Clarion, in the opposite direction.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  BOOST, DON’T KNOCK

  “YOU’VE GOT TO MAKE A TRIP out to the Sayre farm today.” Dr. Jack’s voice crackled like crumpled cellophane into the receiver Deuce held to his ear. “What I saw out there just now will make your skin crawl.”

  The doctor’s words didn’t register at first. Deuce was leaning over his desk to make sure Helen was still at work out in the newsroom. She was. It was the day after Father Knapp had spotted her with the sign painter. Deuce frowned, tipping back in his chair. “What’d you see?” he asked the doctor.

  “A whole list of things that would be in violation of a sanitary code, if this county had one. I’m sure their hired hand has typhoid. He’s had a fever for more than a week but they only called me out there this morning.”

  “Typhoid.” Deuce’s gut tightened. “I can’t believe Jim Sayre’d let that happen.”

  “Well, he did. I’ve been telling you for weeks now that I’ve got more typhoid cases this year than I’ve ever seen. I think the Sayre dairy could be one of the sources.”

  “Oh Lord.” Deuce dropped his face in his hand. “You’re sure?”

  “No. I need another set of eyes on this—yours. But my suspicions are that the Sayres are watering down their milk with contaminated water or—”

  “Jim wouldn’t do that,” Deuce broke in.

  “Or,” Dr. Jack raised his voice, “or they’re using tainted water to cool down or wash out their milk cans. Either way, we’ve got adulterated milk.”

  Deuce squeezed his eyes shut, thinking of the editorial he should have reprinted months ago. “So what now?”

  “I want you to go out there. See for yourself. We need to press for a countywide sanitary commission. You’ve got to write the column calling for a commission. I’m going to see if the last ten typhoid cases got their milk from the Sayres’.”

  “And if they did?”

  “You and I take this to the county board of commissioners and demand that commission.”

  Outside Deuce’s window, the sidewalk was crowded with farm families in town for Chautauqua. How many would cancel their subscriptions if he followed Dr. Jack’s advice?

  When Deuce didn’t answer, the doctor continued, “Are you listening? You need to go out there. It’ll light a fire in your belly. Weren’t you telling me the other day that you’ve been trying to steer the Clarion in a new direction?”

  Deuce thought of how he’d boasted to Marian that he was changing things, moving the newspaper forward.

  “No, you’re right. I’ll head out there.”

  As Deuce put the receiver down he glimpsed the sign he’d tacked to his office wall during his early years as publisher. Boost, Don’t Knock. “There’s good in everybody. Bring out the good and never needlessly hurt the feelings of anybody.” How many times had he repeated that admonition to his reporters? The sign had hung there for so many years, he no longer took note of it. On his way out of the office, he snatched it off the wall and tossed it in the waste can.

  He swung by the house to grab a bite of lunch and to change his clothes. Nothing like a barnyard to muck up nice togs.

  Attired in old pants and paint-spattered work shoes, Deuce was shutting the front door when Tula waved hello from her side yard. She stood knee-deep in her vegetable garden, clutching a handful of freshly yanked weeds. Marian sat nearby in a canvas deck chair, a closed book in her lap.

  “Don’t usually see you home this time of day,” Tula said as Deuce approached. She tossed the stalks into a pile at the edge of the plot. He tipped his hat toward Marian.

  “Needed a change of clothes for a trip out to the Sayres’.”

  “What’s going on out there?”

  Marian put the book on the ground and struggled to push herself up from the low-slung chair.

  “Here, let me.” Deuce strode over and pulled her to her feet. She grabbed a cane hooked over the chair back.

  Tula joined them in the shade. “So, the Sayres?” she asked.

  “I got a call from Dr. Jack. Typhoid cases are still way up.”

  “I heard the Smith children have come down with it,” Tula said, shaking her head.

  Deuce slumped.

  Marian leaned both hands on her cane. “Who are the Sayres?”

  “Farm west of town. Their dairy operation supplies a lot of Emporia’s milk,” Deuce explained.

  “And Dr. Jack thinks they might be spreading typhoid?” Tula asked, a shadow passing over her face.

  Deuce held up his hand. “Unknown as yet, and this is not for public consumption. But yes, something’s not right out there. I’m going out to see for myself.”

  “I’m going with you,” Marian said abruptly.

  Deuce pulled back. “What?”

  “I’m bored to tears. Sorry, Tula, but if I hear one more piano recital, I’ll go batty. And this trip sounds like something worthy of Ida Tarbell.”

  Tula frowned. “Your ankle.”

  Marian lifted up the walking stick. “See? I’ve got the cane. I’ll be careful.”

  Deuce rubbed his chin. “The footing is dicey around a barnyard.”

  “I take full responsibility.”

  “Well, I guess you can come, if you insist.
”

  “I insist.”

  * * *

  Five minutes after pulling out of the driveway, Deuce and Marian bumped across the railroad tracks at the edge of town. Off to the left was a dirt road, lined on either side with narrow houses, one room wide. Three colored children were huddled over something in a ditch. Then the open fields set in.

  After ten minutes of idle talk about the evening’s speaker, Marian abruptly asked, “If everyone suspects it’s carried in the milk, all the dairies should be shut down. Simple enough. Bring in the inspectors. Meanwhile, get milk from outside.”

  “There are no inspectors. Macomb County doesn’t have a sanitary commission. That’s one problem.” Deuce swerved sharply to avoid a pothole. The Model T’s left wheels bounced along the weedy berm. “Also, it probably isn’t all the dairies. Why punish everyone when it’s only maybe one or two unsanitary operations? And right now, Dr. Jack isn’t even 100 percent it’s adulterated milk. But something’s gone wrong at the Sayre farm.”

  The auto turned off the road. Jolting slowly up the dirt lane, it brought them to a sun-hardened yard encircled by a farmhouse, barn, withered corn crib, and a couple of outbuildings, without a speck of shrubbery or grass to soften the scraped earth. Deuce climbed out and eased Marian onto her feet.

  “Wait here,” he said.

  No one answered his knock at the back door of the clapboard farmhouse. After a couple of tries, Deuce gave up and returned to Marian.

  “Let’s see if we can’t find the hand. Watch your step.” He held her by the elbow.

  An old-time log cabin sat off to one side; behind it squatted a single-seat privy, listing toward a weed-choked creek.

  Marian sniffed. “I smell that outhouse.”

  Deuce lifted his head. “Me too. This cabin’s the original homestead.”

  Inside they discovered the hired hand on a narrow bunk, shivering despite the stifling heat. With each breath his gaunt cheeks labored like leaky bellows.

  “Jesus,” Deuce muttered. Marian covered her nose and mouth with her sleeve. A flap of oilcloth hung over the window, preventing any fresh air from entering.

  Deuce bent down toward the man. “How you doing, Frank? I heard you were sick.”

  “Something’s got aholt of me.” The effort to speak sent him hacking. He propped himself on an elbow and spat a wad of phlegm into a rag clutched in his hand, then fell back on the grimy pillow. “Could you get me a drink?” he asked in a hoarse voice.

  A pail of water and dipper stood near the bed. Deuce lifted the man’s head and brought the ladle to the cracked lips. Beneath his fingers, Deuce felt Frank’s gaunt neck and narrow skull.

  “Did Dr. Jack give you something for the cough?”

  Frank nodded.

  “Where is it?”

  “Here,” Marian said. She handed Deuce a bottle of syrup from the table. That and a chair were the only pieces of furniture besides the bed.

  Frank took a couple of sips with Deuce’s help, then lay back and closed his eyes. The pair stood looking down at the sick man. After a minute, he drifted off.

  “Jim or Maybelle should be around somewhere,” Deuce said in a low voice. “I can’t believe they’d leave Frank alone, sick as he is.”

  As Deuce and Marian walked toward the barn, a heavyset woman wearing a faded Mother Hubbard and sunbonnet emerged from a shed with a pail of slops in her hand.

  “Afternoon,” she called, putting down the bucket. “What brings you out this way, Deuce?”

  He hesitated. He hadn’t thought this part through. “Got a city visitor here who was asking about farming and such . . .” Marian shot Deuce a glance, and he surreptitiously squeezed her arm. “. . . and my first thought was you all. Oldest farm family in the county, right?”

  Maybelle nodded, directed her gaze to Marian. “We’re the oldest. But I’m afraid you’ve come a long way for nothing. Jim’s out working creekside and won’t be back till dark.” She paused. “Aren’t you the unmentionables lady?”

  “Women’s dress reform,” Marian said stiffly.

  “Mrs. Elliot Adams has a packed schedule,” Deuce added. “Don’t think she can come back tomorrow, can you?” He turned to her with raised brows.

  She picked up the ball. “No, unfortunately I can’t. I know you’re busy but—”

  “Busy isn’t the half of it,” Mrs. Sayre said, her tone snappish. “Some kind of rot’s moved into the alfalfa fields. Jim’s trying to stave it off. I’m behind on my butter orders and the hand is sick again. And that’s not even touching the washing or the windows I was hoping—”

  Deuce quickly jumped in, “’Course, we don’t want to be a bother. What say I just give Marian a quick tour myself and let you get on with your work? All those visits out to my granddad’s farm as a kid, I think I know the basics. Do you mind?”

  “I don’t want to be rude, but you’ll have to come back another day,” Mrs. Sayre said, picking up the pail again and moving toward the house.

  As soon as the farmwife was out of earshot, Marian said, “That woman was trying to get rid of us! She’s trying to cover something up.”

  “You think so?” Deuce frowned.

  “Yes. And you do too. I can see it on your face.”

  “Maybe so, but we’ll just have to wait and try again tomorrow.”

  Marian exhaled impatiently. “This has to be investigated today. Can’t we just get into the auto, like we’re leaving, park it down by the road, and walk back through that corn?” She pointed toward the field closest to the barn.

  “Hike all that way on that foot of yours?” Deuce shook his head.

  Marian studied her ankle. “All right. On the way out, drive up close to the barn and then stop, as if there’s a problem with the motor. Fold back the hood. I’ll sneak out and into the barn. Drive down the lane, then meet me back here.”

  * * *

  It was dim inside the barn, the floor scored with narrow whips of light filtering through the plank walls. The odor of manure and urine was strong. Two horses and a couple of mules were tethered to stalls on the right. Ropey cobwebs hung from the hay mow.

  “What are we looking for?” Marian asked when Deuce returned.

  “Milking parlor. Let’s try over here.” Deuce indicated a doorway on the left.

  A row of open, bent-rod partitions, parallel to a long feed trough, ran down the center of the low-ceilinged room. Well-trampled straw covered the earthen floor. Double doors at the far end opened to a muddy feed lot and, beyond that, a herd of red and white cattle in a pasture.

  “Is this it?” Marian asked.

  “Yep. Those are the milking stations. Now we want to find the cooling setup.”

  “Which is . . . ?”

  “Sinks of water to keep the milk chilled. Also need to find where they scrub down the milk cans after deliveries.”

  After a few minutes, Deuce found a large tub behind a stack of delivery crates. Full milk cans were lined up in a water bath below a dripping tap. He stuck his finger in the water.

  “Tepid.” He shook the water off with a quick jerk. “Goddamn.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “This should be cold. When I was a kid, visiting my grandpa in the summer, it was my job to change the cooling water a couple of times a day.”

  Alongside the tub was a sink. A milk can was tipped on its side in grayish wash water in which a couple of dead flies floated.

  “That’s filthy,” Marian said. “You’ve got to do something about this!”

  Deuce felt the blood rushing into his face. “Let’s see if we can find the water line that’s feeding this sink.”

  He tramped through the double doors, with Marian hobbling behind. The outside air was slightly cooler.

  The moment he saw the shallow trench running parallel to the barn his heart sank. An underground water pipe, which extended upward through the wall of the barn, had been partially dug out. It was cracked in several places. A second, jerry-rigged pipe entered the milking
parlor through a roughly cut hole. This pipe ran above ground, down a slight incline toward the farmyard and its cluster of outbuildings.

  “That pipe feeds the sink,” Marian said.

  “Looks like someone started to fix the permanent pipe and didn’t finish. So this second line was added,” he said. “I’m going to see where it’s drawing water from. Should be the pump house above the well. Wait here.”

  “Not on your life.”

  “It’s too steep for that ankle. I’ll be right back.”

  Marian’s jawline hardened. “Give me your hand.”

  They proceeded gingerly down the slope, through clumps of Queen Anne’s lace and blue chicory. At the bottom was the concrete block pump house.

  “This is where the pipes should connect to draw up well water,” Deuce said in a constricted tone. “But look.”

  The pipe that they’d followed down the incline ran straight into the creek, and across the water sat the log cabin and privy.

  He stared at the setup, his nostrils widening beneath closely clamped lips.

  “So the water that’s used to cool the milk, wash the cans, it’s coming from here?” Marian asked, her voice rising.

  “Looks that way.”

  “But that water is undrinkable!”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “Contaminated by that outhouse?”

  “Likely.”

  “For God’s sake!” she shouted. “No wonder children are dying. You’ve got to do something.”

  Deuce exhaled raggedly. “I know.” After a pause, he added, “I will.” A dragonfly flitted across the water. Deuce shook his head. “I can’t believe Jim would let something like this happen. You think you know a man . . .” His voice drifted off. After a moment he continued, “Let’s head back. I’d like to reprint that Springfield piece in tomorrow’s paper.”

  Marian, who had planted her cane in preparation to pull herself back up the hill, abruptly yanked it out of the ground and turned sharply on her injured ankle. “Reprint? This is something you’ve got to write yourself, man. You’ve got to describe what we’ve just found.” She swung the cane around, taking in the barn, the creek, the outhouse.

  “But I can’t publicly accuse Jim Sayre of purposeful negligence. That’s slander.”