NightScape Page 14

  I'll keep fighting for you, Anthony. I swear you can count on me. I couldn't let you die before me. It's a terrible thing for a father to outlive his son.

  Douglas €. Winter is a fiction writer (Run), critic (books about Stephen King and Clive Barker), anthologist, and attorney. His first anthology, Prime Evil (1988), is one of the great collections of the macabre. In the mid-1990s, he phoned to tell me about a second anthology he Was planning: Millennium. When published in 1997, the book was retitled Revelations because of a conflict with a TV series that had the same name, but the original title Millennium gives you a sense of what Doug had in mind. He invited various writers to choose a decade in the twentieth century and write an apocalyptic story about it, one that would be rooted in history and give a sense of the ultimate issues that the decade had faced. I was immediately intrigued, As many of my novels show, the professor in me has always loved working with history. The forties, fifties, and sixties had already been taken, Doug said, so which of the remaining decades did I want? The teens, I said. Because of the First World War? No, although the war would be in the story. The subject I wanted to dramatize had been potentially more apocalyptic than the war and foreshadowed later similar global threats. It gave me nightmares.

  If I Should Die before I Wake

  It wasn't the first case, but it was Dr. Jonas Bingaman's first case, although he would not realize that until two days later. The patient, a boy with freckles and red hair, lay listlessly beneath the covers of his bed. Bingaman, who had been leaving his office for the evening when the boy's anxious mother telephoned, paused at the entrance to the narrow bedroom and assessed immediately that the boy had a fever. It wasn't just that Joey Carter, whom Bingaman had brought into the world ten years earlier, was red in the face. After all, the summer of 1918 had been uncommonly hot, and even now, at the end of August, the doctor was treating cases of sunburn. No, what made him conclude so quickly that Joey had a fever was that, despite the lingering heat, Joey was shivering under a sheet and two blankets.

  "He's been like this since he came home just before supper," Joey's mother, Rebecca, said. A slim, plain woman of thirty-five, she entered Joey's room ahead of the doctor and gestured urgently for him to follow. "I found his wet bathing suit. He'd been swimming."

  "At the creek. I warned him about that creek," Joey's father, Edward, said. Elmdale's best carpenter, the gangly man still wore his coveralls and work boots and had traces of sawdust in his thick, dark hair. "I told him to stay away from it."

  "The creek?" Bingaman turned toward Edward, who waited anxiously in the hallway.

  "The water's no good. Makes you sick. I know 'cause Bill Kendrick's boy got sick swimming in it last summer. Breathed wrong.

  Swallowed some of the water. Threw up all night long. I warned Joey not to go near it, but he wouldn't listen."

  "The creek through Larrabee's farm?"

  "That's the one. The cattle mess in the water. The stuff flows downstream and into the swimming hole."

  "Yes, I remember Bill Kendrick's boy getting sick from the water last summer," Bingaman said. "Has Joey been vomiting?"

  "No." Rebecca's voice was strained.

  "I'd better take a look."

  As Bingaman went all the way into the room, he noted a baseball bat in a corner. A balsa-wood model of one of the Curtiss biplanes that the American Expeditionary Force was using against the Germans hung above the bed, attached by a cord to the ceiling.

  "Not feeling well, Joey?"

  It took an obvious effort for the boy to shake his head "no." His eyelids were barely open. He coughed.

  "Been swimming in the creek?"

  Joey had trouble nodding. "Shoulda listened to Dad," he murmured hoarsely.

  "Next time you'll know the right thing to do. But for now, I want you to concentrate on getting better. I'm going to examine you, Joey. I'll try to be as gentle as I can."

  Bingaman opened his black bag and leaned over Joey, feeling heat come off the boy. Joey's mother and father stepped closer, watching intently. Joey's cough deepened.

  Ten minutes later, Bingaman put his stethoscope back into his bag and straightened.

  "Is that what it is?" Edward asked quickly. "Bad water from Larrabee's farm?"

  Bingaman hesitated. "Why don't we talk somewhere else and let Joey rest?"

  Downstairs, the evening's uneaten dinner of potatoes, carrots, and pork chops cooled in pots and a frying pan on the stove.

  "But what do you think it is?" Rebecca asked the moment they were seated at the kitchen table.

  "How serious is this?" Edward demanded.

  "His temperature's a hundred and two. His glands are swollen. He has congestion in his lungs."

  "My God, you don't think he has diphtheria from the water." Rebecca's anxiety was nearing a quiet panic.

  Edward stared at the floor and shook his head. "I was afraid of this."

  "No, I don't think it's diphtheria," Bingaman said.

  Joey's father peered up, hoping.

  "Some of the symptoms are those of diphtheria. But diphtheria presents bluish-white lesions that have the consistency of leather. The lesions are surrounded by inflammation and are visible near the tonsils and in the nostrils."

  "But Joey-"

  "Doesn't have the lesions," Bingaman said. "I think he may have bronchitis."

  "Bronchitis?"

  "I'll know more when I examine him again tomorrow. In the meantime, let's treat his symptoms. Give him one-half an adult dose of aspirin every six hours. Give him a sponge bath with rubbing alcohol. Both will help to keep down his fever. When his pajamas and bedding get sweaty, change them. Keep his window open. The fresh air will help chase the germs from his chest."

  "And?" Joey's father asked.

  Bingaman didn't understand.

  "That's all? That's the most you can do?"

  "That and tell you to make certain he drinks plenty of water."

  "If he can keep it down. It's water that got him into this trouble."

  "Possibly. Did Joey tell you if any other boys went swimming with him?"

  "Yes. Pete Williams. Ben Slocum."

  Bingaman nodded. He not only knew them; he had delivered them, just as he had delivered Joey." Take Joey's temperature every couple of hours. Telephone me if it gets higher or if other symptoms appear."

  * * *

  "Mrs. Williams, this is Dr. Bingaman calling. This might sound strange, but I was wondering - is your son, Pete, feeling all right? No fever? No swollen glands? No congestion?"

  He made another call.

  "Nothing like that at all, Mrs. Slocum? Your son's as fit as can be? Good. Thank you. Give my regards to your husband. Why did I telephone to ask? Just a random survey. You know how I like to make sure Elmdale's students are all in good health before they go back to school. Good night. Thanks again."

  Bingaman set the long-stemmed ear piece onto the wooden wall phone in the front corridor of his home. Troubled, he shut off the overhead light and leaned against the wall, peering out his front-door window. Twilight was dimming. In the yard, fireflies began to twinkle. A Model T rattled past. On a porch across the street, illuminated by a glow of light from the living-room window over there, Harry Webster sat in his rocking chair, smoking his pipe.

  "Jonas, what's wrong?"

  Bingaman turned to his wife, Marion, whose broad-shouldered outline approached him in the shadows of the hallway. The daughter of a German immigrant, an ancestry that she avoided mentioning given the war in Europe, Marion had been raised on a farm in upstate New York before she received her nurse's training, and her robust appearance had been one of the reasons that Bingaman was initially attracted to her. Twenty-five years ago. Now, at the age of fifty-two, she was as robust as ever, and he loved her more than ever. True, the honey-colored hair that he enjoyed stroking had acquired streaks of silver. But then his own hair had not only turned silvery but had thinned until he was almost bald. Marion called it "distinguished."

  "Wrong?" B
ingaman echoed. "I'm not sure anything's wrong."

  "You've been pensive since you came home for dinner after visiting Joey Carter."

  "It's a problem I've been mulling over. Joey seems to have bronchitis. His father thinks he got it from swimming in infected water this afternoon. But bronchitis takes several days to develop, and none of the boys Joey went swimming with is sick."

  "What are you thinking?"

  "Whatever it is, Joey must have gotten it somewhere else. But usually I don't see just one case of bronchitis. It spreads around. So where did he catch it if no one else in town has it?"

  * * *

  Rebecca Carter fidgeted at the open screen door, impatient for Bingaman to climb the front steps and enter the house. "I was afraid I wouldn't be able to reach you."

  "Actually, when you telephoned, I was just about to drive over. Joey's the first patient on my list this morning."

  Feeling burdened by the weight he had put on recently, Bingaman started up the stairs to the second level, then paused, frowning when he heard labored coughing from the bedroom directly at the top." Has Joey been coughing like that all night?"

  "Not as bad." Rebecca's face was haggard from lack of sleep. "This started just before dawn. I've been giving him aspirin and sponge baths like you told me, but they don't seem to do any good."

  The doctor hurried up the stairs, alarmed by what he saw when he entered the bedroom. Joey looked smaller under the covers. His face was much redder, but he also had a dark blue color around his lips. His chest heaved, as if he was coughing even when he wasn't.

  Bingaman went urgently to work, removing instruments from his bag, noting that Joey's temperature had risen to a hundred and four, that his lungs sounded more congested, that the inside of his throat was inflamed, that his glands were more swollen, and that the boy didn't have the energy to respond to questions. The day before, Joey's pulse and respiration rate had been 85 and 20. Now they were 100 and 25.

  "I'm sorry to tell you this, Mrs. Carter."

  "What's wrong with him?"

  "It might be pneumonia."

  Rebecca Carter gasped.

  "I know you'd prefer to keep him at home," Bingaman said, "but what's best for Joey right now is to admit him to the hospital."

  Rebecca looked as if she doubted her sanity, as if she couldn't possibly be hearing what the doctor had just told her. "No. I can take care of him."

  "I'm sure you can, but Joey needs special treatment that isn't available here."

  Rebecca looked more frightened. "Like what?"

  "I'll explain after I telephone the hospital and make the arrangements." Hoping that he had distracted her, Bingaman hurried downstairs to the wall phone near the front door. What he didn't want to tell her was that the dark blue color around Joey's mouth was an indication of cyanosis. The congestion in the boy's lungs was preventing him from getting enough oxygen. If Joey wasn't hooked up to an oxygen tank at the hospital, he might asphyxiate from the fluid in his lungs.

  * * *

  "It certainly has the symptoms of pneumonia," the Elmdale hospital's chief of staff told Bingaman. His name was Brian Powell, and his wiry frame contrasted with Bingaman's portly girth. The two physicians had been friends for years, and Powell, who happened to be in the emergency ward when Joey Carter was admitted, had invited Bingaman to his office for a cup of coffee afterward. In his mind, Bingaman kept hearing Mrs. Carter sob.

  "But if it is pneumonia, how did he get it?" Bingaman ignored the steaming cup of coffee on the desk in front of him. "Do you have any patients who present these symptoms?"

  Powell shook his head. "During the winter, the symptoms wouldn't be unusual. Colds and secondary infections leading to pneumonia. But in summer? I'd certainly remember."

  " It just doesn't make any sense." Bingaman sweated under his suit coat. "Why is Joey the only one?"

  * * *

  "No." Rebecca Carter waited outside Joey's hospital room in the hopes that she'd be allowed to enter. Her eyes were red from tears. "Nothing different. It was just an ordinary summer. We did what we always do."

  "And what would that be?" Bingaman asked.

  Rebecca dabbed a handkerchief against her eyes. "Picnics. Joey likes to play baseball. We go to the park, and Edward teaches him how to pitch. And the movies. Sometimes we go to the movies. Joey likes Charlie Chaplin."

  "That's it? That's all?"

  "Just an ordinary summer. I have my sewing club. We don't often get a chance to do things as a family because Edward works late, taking advantage of the good weather. Why do you ask? Didn't Joey get sick from the water in the creek?"

  "Can you think of anything else that Joey did this summer? Anything even the slightest bit unusual?"

  "No. I'm sorry. I-"

  She was interrupted by her husband hurrying along the hospital corridor. "Rebecca." Edward Carter's lean face glistened with sweat. "I decided to come home for lunch and check on Joey. Mrs. Wade next door said you and he had gone to.. .My God, Doctor, what's wrong with Joey?"

  "We're still trying to find that out. It might be pneumonia."

  "Pneumonia?"

  The door to Joey's room opened. For a moment, the group had a brief glimpse of Joey covered by sheets in a metal bed, an oxygen mask over his face. Then a nurse came out and shut the door.

  "How is he?" Joey's mother asked.

  "Light-headed," the nurse answered. "He keeps talking about feeling as if he's on a Ferris wheel."

  "Ferris wheel?" Bingaman asked.

  "He's probably remembering the midway," Joey's father said.

  "Midway?"

  " In Riverton. Last week, I had to drive over there to get some special lumber for a job I'm working on. Joey went with me. We spent an hour at the midway. He really loved the Ferris wheel."

  * * *

  "Yes, patients with fever, swollen glands/ and congestion," Bingaman explained, using the telephone in Dr. Powell's office.

  "A possible diagnosis of pneumonia." He was speaking to the chief of staff at Riverton's hospital, fifty miles away. "Nothing? Not one case? Why am I...? I'm trying to understand how one of my patients came down with these symptoms. He was in Riverton last week. I thought perhaps the midway you had there...If you remember anything, would you please call me? Thank you."

  Bingaman hooked the ear piece onto the telephone and rubbed the back of his neck.

  Throughout the conversation, Powell had remained seated behind his desk, studying him. "Take it easy. Pneumonia can be like pollen in the wind. You'll probably never know where the boy caught the disease."

  Bingaman stared out a window toward a robin in an elm tree. "Pollen in the wind?" He exhaled. "You know what I'm like. I'm compulsive. I think too much. I can't leave well enough alone, and in this case, my patient isn't doing well at all."

  * * *

  Marion watched him stare at his plate. "You don't like the pot roast?"

  "What?" Bingaman looked up. "Oh...I'm sorry. I guess I'm not much company tonight."

  "You're still bothered?"

  Bingaman raised some mashed potatoes on his fork. "I don't like feeling helpless."

  "You're not helpless. This afternoon, you did a lot of good for the patients who came to your office."

  Without tasting the potatoes, Bingaman set down the fork. "Because their problems were easy to correct. I can stitch shut a gash in an arm. I can prescribe bicarbonate of soda for an upset stomach. I can recommend a salve that reduces the itch of poison ivy and stops the rash from spreading. But aside from fighting the symptoms, there is absolutely nothing I can do to fight pneumonia. We try to reduce Joey's fever, keep him hydrated, and give him oxygen. After that, it's all a question of whether the boy is strong enough to fight the infection. It's out of my hands. It's in God's hands. And sometimes God can be cruel."

  "The war certainly shows that," Marion said. She was American, stoutly loyal, but her German ancestry made her terribly aware that good men were dying on both sides of the Hindenberg line.
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br />   "All those needless deaths from infected wounds." Bingaman tapped his fork against his plate. "In a way, it's like Joey's infection. Lord, how I wish I were young again. In medical school again. I keep up with the journals, but I can't help feeling I'm using outmoded techniques. I wish I'd gone into research. Microbiology. I'd give anything to be able to attack an infection at its source. Maybe some day someone will invent a drug that tracks down infectious microbes and kills them."

  " It would certainly make your job easier. But in the meantime..."

  Bingaman nodded solemnly. "We do what we can."

  "You've been putting in long hours. Why don't you do something for yourself? Go up to your study. Try out the wireless radio you bought."

  "I'd almost forgotten about that."

  "You certainly were determined when you spent that Sunday afternoon installing the antenna on the roof."

  "And you were certainly determined to warn me I was going to fall off the roof and break my neck." Bingaman chuckled. "That radio seemed like an exciting thing when I bought it. A wonder of the twentieth century."

  "It still is."

  "The ability to talk to someone in another state. In another country. Without wires. To listen to a ship at sea. Or a report from a battlefield." Bingaman sobered. "Well, that part isn't wonderful. The rest of it, though.. .Yes, I believe I will do something for myself tonight."

  But the telephone rang as he walked down the hallway to go upstairs. Wearily, he unhooked the ear piece and leaned toward the microphone.

  "Hello." He listened. "Oh." His voice dropped. "Oh." His tone became somber. "I'm on my way."

  "An emergency?" Marion asked.

  Bingaman felt pressure in his chest. "Joey Carter is dead."