"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?" Bingaman 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."