“We can’t bury our heads in the sand and pretend this doesn’t exist,” Edwin said.
“He’s nobody,” Oscar snapped.
“He’s not nobody, he’s got my wedding ring,” she said, and Oscar whirled on her.
“For pity’s sake, I’ll buy you another ring, but you are to let me handle this from here on out, do you understand me?”
She flinched at his furious tone. She hated conflict, and it was too farfetched to believe that Willy could still be alive. Yes, there was a resemblance between Liam and her father, but that couldn’t prove anything. And a sloppy drunk like Mick Malone couldn’t have kept a secret like this all these years.
“Get your Pinkerton agents on him,” Frederick ordered Oscar. “We need to learn everything possible about him.”
For once, all of them were in complete accord.
Elation still zinged through Patrick’s veins when he arrived home, eager to recount his victory in the courtroom for his mother. Birdie hadn’t felt well all week, prompting him to pick up some sandwiches from a vendor on the way home.
“Hey, Ma,” he said as he entered their apartment. “I brought pastrami sandwiches with extra—”
He froze, gaping at his mother sprawled on the floor.
He dropped the bag and rushed to her side. “Ma? What’s wrong?”
She lay at a weird angle, stretched out with her head and shoulders twisted unnaturally.
“I can’t get up,” she said through clenched teeth. “My back started hurting so bad. I fell and have been stuck here for hours.”
To his horror, she started crying.
“Not to worry, I’ll help you up.” He tried to lift her, but her back stayed frozen in that unnatural backward arc. Patrick quit trying to help her stand and scooped her up to carry her to the bed.
“I’m sorry to be such a bother,” she said in a choked tone.
“Nonsense, you weigh less than a child.”
The fall she’d taken at the bakery must have been worse than they thought. Even after he got her settled on her bed, she had that weird backward curve in her spine, like a bow pulled taut. It was abnormal.
“I’m going for a doctor,” he said, prepared to shoot down all her arguments against the expense. She’d always boasted that the last time she’d seen a doctor was on the day she delivered him into the world.
“Yes, I think so,” she said, which only made him worry more.
“I’ll get Mrs. O’Shea from next door to come sit with you while I’m gone,” he said, and once again she gave him no complaint.
Luckily, old Dr. Phalen lived only a block away in an apartment over the butcher’s shop. Even so, Patrick was out of breath as he ran up the stairs and pounded on the doctor’s door, begging him to come right away.
“Back pain?” Dr. Phalen said, pulling the wrinkles of his face into a frown. “Can it wait until morning? My wife just put a hot shepherd’s pie on the table. A dram of whiskey is probably the best thing for your ma anyway.”
Patrick shook his head. “Please come now. Something isn’t right. Her back has been bothering her all week, but this is different.” He explained how his mother fell while lugging a sack of flour that was too heavy for her.
“I’ll come,” the old doctor said with a sigh of resignation. Patrick sent an apologetic nod to Mrs. Phalen, still sitting at the dinner table with the feast laid out before her. This surely wasn’t her first meal spoiled by an inconvenient call for a doctor.
Half an hour later, Patrick paced in his parlor, straining to hear what was being said behind Birdie’s closed bedroom door while Mrs. O’Shea’s knitting needles clicked in a reassuring rhythm. They’d both been booted out of the sickroom when Dr. Phalen arrived, but this was taking an awful long time simply to diagnose back pain.
At last the door opened, and they both stood. Dr. Phalen looked even older than usual as he approached them.
“I’m sorry, Patrick lad, but it looks like your ma has tetanus. Lockjaw has already set in, which is why she’s having a hard time speaking. Muscle spasms are holding her back in that contorted shape. I’m afraid there is nothing that can be done.”
“How long will it last?” he asked.
The doctor’s eyes darkened with sympathy. “It’s only going to get worse in the next few days. And then she will die, lad. I’m afraid there is no cure for this form of tetanus.”
No. Patrick shook his head. No, he couldn’t believe this.
Mrs. O’Shea crossed herself and collapsed onto a chair, but the doctor continued speaking.
“It’s the cut on her arm that did her in,” he said. “I took the bandages off and examined the wound. That’s where the infection got in, and it takes a while to manifest. She said she fell against a rusty wheel when she lugged that sack of flour. I’m sorry, Patrick.”
It was inconceivable that his mother would die because of a cut on her arm. It was only a scratch! He would find another doctor, someone who could give him some hope. He stared blankly ahead, his gaze catching on the cake Birdie had brought home today. She had been well enough to bake earlier today, and now Dr. Phalen said she was on her deathbed?
The doctor and Mrs. O’Shea continued talking about how to make Birdie comfortable, but it sounded like their voices came from a hundred miles away.
“I think it would be best if you called for a priest,” Dr. Phalen advised, and Mrs. O’Shea agreed.
Patrick collapsed on the sofa. His mother’s cheerful light was going to be snuffed out because she had lugged a sack of flour too heavy for her. No hope. Was there anything worse than being robbed of hope?
“The lame, the halt, and the blind can be cured.” He straightened as Gwen Kellerman’s voice sounded in his head. Tetanus had been among the diseases Blackstone College was trying to cure.
He vaulted to his feet. Dr. Phalen had already left, but Patrick bounded after him. “Wait!” he shouted, his voice echoing down the hallway. “Blackstone College is working on a cure for tetanus. I heard about it.”
The doctor shook his head. “They are decades away from a vaccine,” he said. “I wish it were otherwise.”
Was it a vaccine? He tried to remember exactly what he had seen in the laboratories of the college. Mrs. Kellerman said their serums to treat disease were still in the testing phase. Serums, not a vaccine.
He didn’t care. Doing nothing was intolerable. Even if it was only a slim chance for a cure, he was going to reach for it.
Gwen considered canceling the Friday evening soiree after the catastrophe in court that day. News of the humiliating defeat was already spreading on campus, and she didn’t want to discuss it with anyone.
But she quickly rejected the idea of canceling. She had hosted these gatherings every Friday evening for the past ten years. Even on the dreadful week when Jasper and her father died, the campus community gathered at her home to support her, and it had been one of the most affirming nights of her life. The professors had more respect than to gloat or gossip about Blackstone family problems. As she prepared for the soiree, her spirits began lifting, ready to engage with the lively and intelligent people who made these gatherings so rewarding.