The Lions of Fifth Avenue: A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY

New York City, 1914

Laura entered the library apartment, steeling herself to not fall apart amid the bustle of family life, and was taken aback by the silence. Maybe Jack had brought the children to the park, in which case Harry must be feeling better. In the kitchen, she was pulling items out of the icebox for dinner when Pearl appeared in the doorway.

Laura blanched when she saw her daughter’s tear-streaked face.

“Pearl? What’s wrong?”

“You’re finally home. Where have you been?”

“I was downtown.” She knelt down in front of the girl. “What’s happened? Where are your father and Harry?”

Laura couldn’t make out her response as Pearl sobbed into her shoulder. “Where?”

Pearl lifted her head. “The hospital. Bellevue.”

Laura rose abruptly. “What happened?”

“Harry was sick, he went into a spell. Father raced out with him and told me to wait for you.”

“How long ago was that?”

“I don’t know.”

Laura took her hand. “We must go now.”

After a slog through traffic in a cab and a dizzying run through the halls of the hospital, practically dragging Pearl behind her, Laura spotted Jack sitting outside a door. The look of relief on his face as she approached only added to the brick of guilt building inside her.

“Is Harry inside?” She put her hand on the knob, but Jack stopped her.

“We can’t go in. It’s not safe.”

“Why not?” Through the glass, she could see rows of beds filled with children, with only a few nurses flitting around.

“He’s very sick. Here, sit with me.”

“No, I must see him.”

“They won’t let you in. I tried. Besides, it’s locked.”

She turned the handle to confirm it herself. “Tell me everything.”

“It’s typhoid.”

She shook her head. “That can’t be. It doesn’t make sense.” The drinking water for the library was brought down via an aqueduct from the reservoirs upstate, and safe.

A doctor in a white coat approached. Jack lurched toward him, grabbing his elbow. “Doctor, if you have a moment.”

The doctor pulled his arm away, annoyed, and knocked on the door. “I can’t talk right now, sir.” He nodded to one of the nurses inside, who unlocked it.

“Can we please see our son?” Laura asked.

The doctor barely glanced their way. “No, you may not. Not yet, anyway.”

As Laura began to cry, the doctor let out an exasperated sigh. “Which one is yours?”

“Harry Lyons,” Jack replied.

“Right. Just brought in. How long has he had a dry cough?”

Laura thought back, relieved to have something specific to concentrate on. It’d been before she’d failed out of Columbia. She’d been consumed with her thesis, and when Harry had approached complaining about a sore throat, she’d felt his forehead and turned back to work, determined to meet her deadline. She whispered her answer. “About two weeks.”

“It slowly became worse and worse?”

“I guess so. Yes.” She should have never left him today. She’d been so selfish.

“Did you notice any small red spots on his shoulders and chest?”

Jack jumped in. “This morning, he came to me, feeling miserable, and showed them to me. Then he went back to bed, and when I went to check on him, he wouldn’t respond.”

“He’s fallen into what’s called the typhoid state. We’ll do what we can to take care of him, but he should have been brought to us sooner. Meanwhile, you should get the vaccine. Don’t listen to the idiots who say that it causes tuberculosis. It’s perfectly safe.”

“Of course. How long until we can see our son?” asked Laura.

“When he gets better. If he gets better. In the meantime, be sure to tell the teachers at his school that he has it. We don’t want an outbreak.”

The doctor closed the door behind him with a thud. Laura pressed her face to the glass, searching for Harry. She spotted his profile, with that familiar snub of a nose, in the bed farthest from the door, his eyes closed. His cheeks were red, as if he’d been slapped. How had she not known?

Typhoid. The same illness that had killed Amelia’s father and brother. She whirled around to Jack. “We have to fetch Amelia. She knows typhoid well, she’ll be able to help.”

“Yes. If you think so.” Jack frowned. “I thought you’d be home a few hours ago, after you’d said your piece at the meeting.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. I ended up walking home.” What an utter waste of time, bemoaning her sorry state when she should have been by her son’s side.

Through the window, Harry opened his mouth and shut it again. Had he called out for her? None of the nurses responded. This was torture, watching him suffer and not being able to hold his hand or comfort him in any way. She wanted to break through the glass, open the door, and gather him up in her arms.

She arranged for her mother to come and take Pearl home, and then Jack and Laura spent the rest of the day like sentries outside the ward, asking questions of anyone, nurse or doctor, who came in or out. One nurse had kindly offered to encourage Harry to look over at them, and to Laura’s delight, he had, his eyes focusing on her own and a slight smile on his lips. It had felt like a victory, that interaction. He knew they were there; he knew he was being looked after.

As the city darkened outside the window at the end of the hallway, Laura heard a familiar step, the even, solid strides of Amelia. She’d received her note. Amelia asked Laura and Jack some questions, speaking in clipped tones, laying her hand once on Laura’s arm in comfort. The touch was kind, reassuring, but that was all. She requested that a nurse fetch the doctor, and the nurse blinked with recognition before disappearing down the hall.

The doctor appeared, the scorn in his voice replaced with cheery bonhomie. “Dr. Potter, I’m Dr. Bell. We’re thrilled to have you visit our ward.”

“Thank you. I’m concerned about one of your patients, Harry Lyons. I’m a dear friend of his mother, you see.” She glanced at Laura.

“Of course. Would you like to join me in examining the patient?”

Amelia checked with Laura, who emphatically approved.

She and Jack watched again through the window as the two doctors spoke to Harry, who giggled at something Amelia said.

Finally, they reemerged. “Harry’s doing quite well,” said Amelia. “Dr. Bell has assured me he will keep me informed, and you also. We predict a full recovery.”

The doctor smiled widely at them before taking his leave.

“Thank you, Amelia, for coming uptown.” Laura swallowed. “I know you’re busy.”

“Of course. I’m happy to help in whatever way I can.”

Jack stepped in closer and held out his hand. “Dr. Potter, as my wife said, it was kind of you to put in a good word with Dr. Bell. Our family appreciates it, very much.”

“You’re welcome, Mr. Lyons.”

A silence rose. Seeing Amelia again was strange, like meeting a confidante and a stranger all at once. Laura knew everything about her—that she liked her tea with two sugars and had a birthmark on her lower back—yet her face at this moment was a fortress, impenetrable. Once again, Amelia had done Laura an enormous favor, and Laura had nothing to offer in return. She probably couldn’t wait to get away fast enough. “You must need to get back. Thank you again.”

With that, Amelia turned and left, meeting Laura’s eyes only briefly.

By Monday, Harry was sitting up in bed and eating again. The kind nurse read a letter to Harry from Laura and Jack, saying they loved him and to focus on getting well. Harry had even managed a small wave.

“You might as well go about your business,” said Dr. Bell on Monday morning. “You can’t do any good sitting around here.”

Laura sat back down on the bench, like a passenger waiting for a train that would never arrive. Jack joined her but soon became twitchy, alternating between standing and sitting, pacing and staring through the window. After a half hour he turned to Laura. “I might as well go back, since the doctor says we should. I can get some work done on the book.”

She didn’t reply.

Around four o’clock, remembering the doctor’s warning, Laura stopped by the school. She was promptly shown to the principal’s office, where a long, thin man sat behind a desk drumming his fingers at her. “Mrs. Lyons.”

“Yes.” Laura explained the situation, that the other students should be sure to be vaccinated, as she, Jack, and Pearl all had been.

“Typhoid?” The principal stopped drumming. “We’ll warn the parents. When exactly did he fall ill?”

“A couple of weeks ago. I didn’t notice at first, thought it was a cold. There was just a cough, you see. That’s how it began, and I never suspected it could be so serious.”

He waved away her explanation. “It’s fine, then. There’s no danger.”

“I’m sorry?” She couldn’t figure out what he meant. That because Harry was recovering, the other students couldn’t be infected? She wasn’t sure how it all worked, but this didn’t make much sense.

“None of the students could have been infected if he only came down with it two weeks ago,” said the principal.

“Why is that?”

He consulted a leather notebook filled with names and X’s, an attendance record. “Here it is. Yes, I’m correct.”

She buzzed with fury. The man was being cagey, and she wasn’t sure why. Harry’s illness brought her impatience to a sharp point. “Correct about what?”

“Harry hasn’t been in school for two months now.”

“Harry? Harry Lyons? Of course he has.”

“I’m afraid not, Mrs. Lyons.” He licked his finger and turned the page. “Two months. We sent home a note with your daughter after the first week, but didn’t get a reply. Between that and his illness, which of course is quite unfortunate, he’ll have to repeat the same grade next year.”

Part of her wanted to laugh. The thought of Harry being held back was much less important today than it might have been a few days earlier, before he’d fallen ill. At least he was alive.

But why hadn’t he come to school for two months?

And where had he been?

The note that the principal had given Pearl sat beneath a pile of books on Jack’s desk. Laura had a feeling that Pearl hadn’t wanted to get her brother into trouble and had tucked it away where there was a good chance it would be overlooked. If Laura had been home instead of at school or out reporting, Pearl probably would have handed it right over. Laura blamed herself, not her daughter, for the lapse. Upon questioning, Pearl had insisted that Harry walked into school with her and was always waiting at the end of the school day in the playground, ready to walk her home. As far as she knew, he’d been inside the whole time, like her.

The next day, Laura checked in with Harry at the hospital and was thrilled to learn he’d been moved out of quarantine and into a children’s ward, where she could sit with him in the mornings. He was still subdued, sleeping most of the time, but the fever had subsided and his prognosis was good. She wanted to pepper him with questions but held back. She certainly didn’t want to upset him while he was still fragile.

That afternoon, she showed up early to the children’s school for dismissal. As she waited for Pearl to appear, she scanned the crowd until she found a boy who looked familiar. Sam was his name, she recalled. He’d come home with Harry once or twice early in the school year. Jack had caught them playing baseball in the Stuart Room, using books as bases, and let them off lightly, much to Laura’s relief. It wasn’t easy growing up in a revered institution like the library.

“Sam?”

The boy turned.

“I’m Harry’s mother. You visited us at the library.” She moved closer and bent down, so they were face-to-face. “I understand Harry hasn’t been in school recently. Do you happen to know where he’s been going?”

Sam shrugged.

“It’s fine for you to tell me. You see, he’s gotten very sick, which might have gotten the people around him very sick. You’d be a hero if you let me know anything at all.”

At the word “hero,” the boy came to life, standing a little taller and looking her in the eye. “He started to go downtown to Fourth Avenue, with some boys.”

“Where, exactly?”

“Around Union Square.”

“Would I know any of the boys? How might I recognize them?”

“One used to go to school here. Red Paddy.”

“That’s his name?”

“He has ginger hair, you see.”

“You are incredibly helpful, Sam. You say he used to go to school here?”

“I haven’t seen him in a while. He doesn’t come to school anymore.”

“Is he your age?”

“No. Older, around fifteen.”

What was Harry doing being friends with an older boy like that, one who dropped out of school? She should have known all this. If she’d been home, she might have noticed. Surely she would have.

She thanked Sam and, after escorting Pearl home and getting her started on her homework, put her coat back on.

“Are you leaving again?” Pearl watched her from the doorway to the kitchen.

Laura kissed her on the forehead. “I’m sorry, love. I have to find out where Harry’s been all this time. I’ll be back for dinner.”

Union Square was bustling with cars and pedestrians but no redheaded boys, as far as Laura could tell. She walked down Fourth Avenue a few blocks, peering into alleyways. No luck.

Back in the square, she wandered the perimeter, imagining her son here, doing . . . what? Nothing that the principal or Sam had told her made any sense. Harry wasn’t the sort of boy to cut school and lie to her and Jack. He was sensitive, empathetic, listening closely when she and Jack had an argument, his eyes darting back and forth between his parents. These days, with the tension between her and Jack so high, he had probably needed more reassurance than she’d given.

Somehow, she’d always believed that if she just loved everyone enough, all would be well, that love would be the snowfall that blanketed the crevasses and jagged edges of their world, smoothing them out into a gentle field of white. Maybe she was wrong.

A flash of color caught her eye. A group of boys were gathered under the statue of George Washington on a horse, and the tallest one had a crop of ginger-colored hair under his cap.

She waited until she was only a few yards away to call out, and didn’t shout. She didn’t want to scare them off and watch them scatter. “Red Paddy?”

The boy sauntered right up to her, with an insouciance she would otherwise never have tolerated in a child that age. “Who wants to know?”

“I’m the mother of Harry Lyons.”

The boy’s eyes didn’t flicker. “So?”

“He’s sick. With typhoid. I wanted to warn you to be careful, in case he passed it on to you.”

Red Paddy surveyed his audience with a crooked grin. “What do you think, boys, are we sick? Anyone about to faint? Let me know and I’ll catch you.” The last sentence was directed at Laura with a leer.

“You must be serious about this. It’s a terrible disease. Harry has been very ill.”

“Don’t know anyone named that.”

“You aren’t in any trouble, I promise. I just want to know what he’s been doing these past couple of months. We know he didn’t go to school. Did you meet at school, is that what happened? And then decided to cut class?” She babbled on, desperate to connect. “I don’t blame you, of course, but I need to know.”

“I told you, woman, I don’t know a Harry.”

The other boys snickered.

She tried one more time. “Please, I’ll pay you some money, if that’s what you want. My husband and I, we just want to know why.”

“We don’t want your money. We don’t know you, don’t know him.” Red Paddy spit on the ground near her feet.

“If any of you feel ill, please go to a doctor right away.”

“We don’t get sick, not us toughies. It’s the soft uptown boys that get sick.”

He was referring to Harry, Laura was certain. “So you know my son, right? Is that true?”

But already the boys had withdrawn, heading south, Red Paddy the last to follow. He touched Laura on the arm, and she had to stop herself from yanking it away. “I don’t know anyone. But I’d like to know you better. What do you say we get together some time?”

“You’re very rude. I’m sure your mother and father wouldn’t be happy about what you’re up to, getting young boys into trouble. He nearly died, I’ll have you know.”

Red Paddy just laughed, giving her arm a squeeze before stepping back, looking her up and down. “You tell him to get well soon from me, then, Mum.”

She watched them dash across Fourteenth Street, nearly getting run down by a carriage before disappearing into the crowd.

Poor Harry. What had happened for him to seek out these boys?

Laura should have been home instead of out reporting on violent protests and radical women’s clubs for her studies. Her family had almost sunk without her sure hand on the tiller. Her choices had been all wrong. The fact that she’d so enjoyed the past seven months only made her failure more damning.

There was nothing more for her to do here, downtown. It was time to go home and put right what had gone wrong. Hopefully, by tomorrow, Harry would be well enough to speak, and she could beg his forgiveness for having neglected him.

She would make her family whole again.