"You goddamn German!"
Marion. The nurse the patient shouted at was Bingaman's wife. The three men who had carried in the patient were pushing her away.
Outraged, Bingaman reached the commotion. "Don't you touch her! What's going on here?"
The patient's face reddened from the fury with which he coughed. Spittle flew. Bingaman stepped back reflexively, making sure that he stayed protectively in front of Marion.
"Put these masks on. No one comes in here without one. What's the matter with you?"
"She's what's the matter," one man said. His voice was slurred. He was tall, wore work clothes, and had obviously been drinking." Lousy German."
"Watch what you're saying."
"Hun! Kraut!" a second man said, more beefy than the first." Yer not foolin' anybody." He, too, was obviously drunk. "Yer the one who did it! Made my friend sick! Gave everybody the influenza!"
"What kind of nonsense…"
"Spanish nothing." The man on the bed coughed again. He was losing strength. Despite his feverish cheeks, he had alarming black circles around his eyes. "It's the German influenza."
The first man took a tottering step toward Marion. "How much did the Kaiser pay you, Kraut?"
"Pay her?" the second man said. "Didn't need to pay the bitch. She's a German, ain't she? Germans love killing Americans."
"I've heard enough." Bingaman shook with rage. "Get out of this hospital. Now. I swear I'll send for a policeman."
"And leave her?" The third man pointed drunkenly past Bingaman toward Marion. "Leave her to kill more Americans? She's the one brought the influenza here. The German influenza. This is how the Kaiser thinks he's gonna win the war. Damned murderous Kraut."
"I won't tell you again! Leave this instant or I'll – "
Bingaman stepped toward the men, urging them toward the door. The first man braced himself, muttered, "The Huns killed my son in France, you goddamn Kraut-lover," and struck the doctor's face.
Time seemed to stop. At once, it began again. Hearing exclamations around him, Bingaman lurched back, distantly aware of blood spewing from his lips beneath his mask. Then something struck his nose, and he saw double. Blood spurted from his nostrils. He lost control of his legs. He seemed to float. When he struck the floor, he heard faraway screaming.
Then everything was a blur. He had a vague sense of being lifted, carried. He heard distant, urgent voices. His mind reeled as he was set on something.
A cot. In a shadowy supply room at the rear of the gymnasium.
"Jonas, are you all right? Jonas?"
He recognized Marion's voice. Each anxious word sounded closer, as if she was leaning down.
"Jonas?"
"Yes. I think I'm all right."
"Let me get your mask off so you can breathe."
"No. Can't risk contamination. Leave it on."
She was wiping blood from his face. "I'll give you a clean one."
"Jonas?" A man's voice. Worried. Powell.
"I'm only dazed," Bingaman answered slowly. "Caught me by surprise." His words seemed to echo. "I'll be all right in a moment." He tried to sit up, but he felt as if he had ball bearings in his skull and they all rolled backward, forcing his head down. "Those men. Are they…"
"Gone."
"A policeman. Did you send for one?"
"What would be the point? When they closed the schools, the restaurants, and the stores, they also emptied the jail. There isn't any place to put those men."
"Can't understand what got into them. Accusing Marion. Outrageous," Bingaman said.
He managed to open his eyes and focus his aching vision. He saw Marion's worried face. And Powell's, which had a reluctant expression.
"What is it? What aren't you telling me?" Bingaman asked.
"This isn't the first time."
"I don't understand."
"People are frightened," Powell said. "They can't accept that it's random and meaningless. They want easy explanations. Something specific."
"I still don't understand."
"Someone to blame. The Germans. Marion."
"But that's preposterous. How could they be so foolish as to think that Marion would…"
The discomfited look on Marion's face made Bingaman frown. "You've been aware of this?"
"Yes."
"How long has this been going on?"
"Several days."
"And yet you still volunteered to come down here and help? I'm amazed." But then Bingaman thought about it, and he wasn't amazed. Marion always did what was right, even when it was difficult.
"Don't get the wrong impression," Powell said. "It's not like everyone feels that way. Only a minority. A small minority. But they've certainly made their opinions known."
"I'm going to have to stay home," Marion said.
"No," Powell said. "You can't let them bully you."
"It isn't because of them. I have a more important job. Feeljonas's forehead. Touch the glands in his throat. Put your hand on his chest. You don't need a stethoscope. You can feel the congestion. He has it."
The jolt of wheels into potholes and the noxious fumes of the Model T aggravated Bingaman's excruciating headache, making him nauseous as Marion drove him home. His injuries seemed to have broken the resolve with which he'd subdued the symptoms that he'd attributed only to fatigue. Now, as delirium took control of him, his last lucid thought was an echo of what he'd said to Dr. Bennett after seeing the nurse's corpse: How could this have happened so quickly? By the time Marion brought him home, the pain in his swollen lips and nostrils was insignificant compared to the soul-deep aching of his joints and limbs. He was so light-headed that he felt disassociated from himself, seeming to hover, watching Marion struggle to get him out of the car and up the steps into the house.
He did his best to cough away from her, grateful that he'd insisted she put a new mask on him. But the moment she eased him onto the bed, exhaling with effort, she loosened his shirt collar and took off the mask, which had become blood-soaked on the ride home.
"No," he murmured.
"Don't argue with me, Jonas. I have to get you cleaned up."
"Should have left me in the hospital."
"Not when you have a trained nurse to give you constant care at home."
She took off his shoes, his socks, his pants, his bloody suit coat and vest and shirt. She stripped off his underwear. Shivering, naked on the bed, clutching his arms across his chest, teeth chattering, he watched the ceiling ripple as Marion bathed him from head to toe. She used warm water and soap, dried him thoroughly, then made him sit up and slipped his nightshirt over his head, pulling it down to his knees. She tugged long woolen socks over his feet. She covered him with a sheet and three blankets. When that still wasn't enough and his shivering worsened, she brought him a hot-water bottle and put on the down-filled comforter.
Bingaman coughed and murmured about a face mask.
"It interferes with your breathing," Marion said.
" Might contaminate…"
"I don't think it does any good. Besides, I've already been exposed to it." Working, Marion breathed harder.
Minutes, perhaps hours later, she was spooning hot tea into him, and when the chills suddenly turned into alarming amounts of sweat oozing from him, she tore off the covers, stripped him again, bathed him with rubbing alcohol, ignored his coughing, and eased him out of bed onto the floor. He had lost control of his bowels and fouled the bed. She had to change the sheets, then clean him and change his nightshirt, then tug him up onto the bed, and pull blankets over him again because the chills had returned. She covered his brow with a steaming washcloth and spooned more hot tea into him, trying to make him swallow pieces of warm bread soaked in the tea.