Читать книгу The Orphan Collector - Ellen Marie Wiseman - Страница 14

CHAPTER SEVEN

PIA

After discovering two more corpses in the row house next door, and more apartments either locked or occupied by people who told her to go away or refused to answer, Pia decided to try more prosperous neighborhoods, where people had extra to begin with. Maybe she’d discover an open market or street peddler along the way. One thing was certain—leaving her brothers was torture and she didn’t want to do it again until absolutely necessary. She needed to find enough food to last until Vater came home or this nightmare was over. If it was ever over. And the food she’d found so far—the jar of Mellin’s, a can of black-eyed peas, and two slices of bread—wasn’t nearly enough. As much as she dreaded wandering farther away from home, she wouldn’t find what she was looking for among the poorest of the poor.

After leaving Shunk Alley, she moved west on Delancey, then turned north, walking fast. No motorcars or wagons traveled along the cobblestones. No one walked along the sidewalks. A trolley rattled by, but only a few masked passengers rode in the seats, sitting far away from one another. The feeling that she and her brothers were some of the last people alive in the city grew stronger with every step. Normally the thoroughfares were so crowded she couldn’t walk two feet without bumping into shoppers or children or businessmen or bicyclists. Now crepe ribbons hung from doors, silent and swirling in the morning breeze, and sheet-wrapped corpses lay outside what seemed like every other building. The only sounds were her shoes on the cobblestones and the tinny voice of a radio somewhere, floating out into the empty streets. The farther she walked, the harder a cold slab of fear pressed against her chest, making it hard to breathe.

She’d planned on staying on the sidewalks, close to front doors and banisters in case she needed to hide—from whom, she wasn’t sure—but the stench of dead bodies was unbearable. Instead she walked in the middle of the road, trying not to think about what was under the bloody sheets, or Mutti, or the blond woman with maggots on her face. She tried not to think about the fact that only days ago those people had been watching a grand parade, celebrating and having fun with their spouses and children and friends, unaware that death was waiting right around the corner. Now they were covered with flies and rotting on the sidewalk, like the fish sold at the seaport, and the dead pigs hanging behind the butcher’s shop. At least the fish were on ice. And the pigs were cut up and cooked before maggots crawled on their faces. The gorge rose in her throat, and she wrapped her arms around herself, blinking back tears and trying not to be sick.

Announcements with black lettering on buildings and telephone poles read: ALL SHOWS AND CHURCHES ARE ORDERED CLOSED TO FIGHT THE EPIDEMIC. CASES IN THE STATE 100,000. STATE AND CITY HEALTH BOARDS MAY TAKE MORE DRASTIC STEPS—COMPLAIN THAT FAILURE OF PHYSICIANS TO REPORT CASES HANDICAPS THEM IN THEIR WORK—DEMAND FOR PHYSICIANS GREATLY EXCEEDS THE SUPPLY.

Ignoring the screaming voice in her head telling her to turn around and go home, she made her way toward Third Street looking for a sign to point her in the right direction. Every now and then a moving curtain caught her eye, but when she looked up at the window, the curtain dropped back into place. On one hand, she worried someone might try to rob her—not that she had anything worth stealing, but people were desperate. She knew because she was too. On the other hand, seeing moving curtains gave her a small measure of comfort. At least she wasn’t alone. Other people were hiding in their apartments too, trying to survive. She thought about going inside one of the houses to ask for help, but knew she’d likely be turned away. And she needed to stop wasting time in the poor sections of Philadelphia. If she knocked on the right doors in a different part of the city, maybe some rich woman, after hearing her story, would offer a loaf of bread or jar of fruit. Maybe a caring mother would share a tin of cow’s milk or a jar of Mellin’s Infant Food. She prayed someone would, anyway.

Then she came to Pine Street and slowed. Men with guns guarded what looked like hundreds of homemade coffins stacked outside the fence around the cemetery of St. Peter’s Church. Next to the coffins beneath a row of sycamore trees, haphazard piles of bloody corpses lay beneath dirty sheets and swarms of flies. More men, in masks and filthy clothes, picked up the bodies and carried them into the cemetery, where another group was digging what looked like a massive grave. Some of the men were wearing what looked like prison uniforms, while others were wearing school vests and trousers. Another wave of nausea washed over Pia, making her dizzy. Hoping no one noticed her, she dropped her eyes and kept going.

When she reached the end of the block it started to rain, a dreary gray drizzle pitting the greasy tops of brown puddles. The wind picked up, carrying with it the chill of the coming winter. She blinked against the cold and wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly freezing despite Mutti’s heavy winter coat. She was quickly becoming exhausted too, as if her legs had turned to cement. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that everything she’d been seeing and feeling and doing was starting to wear her out, that trying to stay strong for the boys and refusing to give in to panic was tiring. But how much fear and worry was someone her age supposed to bear? And who was going to take care of her when, or if, this was over? As soon as the thoughts crossed her mind, she scolded herself for being selfish. Finding food for Ollie and Max was all that mattered. Not how she felt. Not how scared she was. Not how much she missed her parents. Only a few more blocks and she’d be nearing South Street, the much-traveled route that, along with the Schuylkill River, claimed to separate the city’s rich from the poor.

By the time she reached Lombard Street, a thin sheen of sweat had formed on her forehead and upper lip. She wiped her face with the sleeve of Mutti’s coat, then stopped and took it off, yanking on the collar and cuffs, suddenly desperate to remove it. She put the coat over her arm and trudged on. Why was she so hot? Being cold was understandable—it was October and the raindrops felt like ice. But somehow, rather abruptly, the air had turned heavy and warm and damp, like it did in the middle of summer. She slowed, her heart racing, and stopped on the edge of the road. Mutti’s coat felt like it weighed a hundred pounds.

Footsteps sounded behind her and she spun around. A man stumbled toward her, his eyes and nose bleeding, his mouth gasping for air. He reached for her with bloody, clawed hands.

“Help me,” he said in a ragged voice.

She turned and ran. When she glanced over her shoulder to see if he was following her, he had collapsed on the sidewalk, his legs and arms splayed out at odd angles. She ran a little farther, then stopped and put her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. Strands of wet hair hung in her eyes. Then she coughed, hard, and pain exploded in her throat and lungs. She put a hand to her chest. No. She couldn’t be getting sick. She just couldn’t. Maybe it was a cold. Maybe she was exhausted from worry and grief and lack of food and sleep. Whatever it was, she was determined to ignore it and keep going.

She straightened and looked back at the man. He lay motionless on the sidewalk, a growing puddle of blood around his head. Ignoring her burning throat, she swallowed her terror and started walking again. Just two more blocks and she’d find what she was looking for. Then she’d be able to go home. She’d be able to feed the boys, have something to eat, and they’d all curl up on her bed to sleep. They’d wait for this to be over and for Vater to return from the war, together and safe in their rooms. Then everything would return to normal. Except . . .

Mutti, she thought, and her eyes filled. Her legs went weak and she sat down hard on the curb. The buildings across the way seemed to waver, like they did in the summer when heat rose off the cobblestones. Except it wasn’t summer. It was October. And it was raining. She put her head in her hands. Her chest felt heavy and her throat felt raw, as if she’d swallowed broken glass. Her temples pounded with each hard thud of her heart. She closed her eyes. She needed to rest. For just a minute. Then she’d be fine.

Suddenly remembering she hadn’t eaten anything but a mouthful of bread since yesterday, she reached into the coat pocket for the bread from the dead woman’s apartment. She unwrapped it and took a bite. This time it tasted like paper, and her teeth hurt when she chewed. Swallowing felt like razor blades going down her throat. She took another bite anyway. She had to keep up her strength. Then she coughed again. And again. And again. She couldn’t stop. She spit out the bread, staggered to her feet, and bent over at the waist, gagging and trying to breathe. Panic exploded in her mind. She had to turn around. She had to go home. She had to get Ollie and Max out of the cubby.

Finally, after a few minutes of coughing so hard she thought she’d pass out, she could breathe again. She picked up Mutti’s coat from the sidewalk, then half walked, half staggered to the other side of the street to avoid the collapsed man, and turned toward home. The only food she had was the Mellin’s, the can of black-eyed peas, and the rest of the bread. It would have to do for now. Maybe she could go out again after she got some rest. Maybe things would get better in the meantime. Maybe people would stop dying and those left behind would come out of their homes.

It was a relief, in a way, to be going home, to know she would be letting her brothers out of the cubby. Her heart lurched when she pictured them, red-faced and crying in the dark space, scared and wondering where they were and what had happened. Would they ever forgive her for what she’d done? Would they remember tomorrow? She tried to walk faster.

Then something happened—she wasn’t quite sure what. It seemed like she fell, except she was still upright. The world started to spin, around and around like a carousel. She crumpled to the ground in what seemed like slow motion and her cheek collided with the street, tiny stones and gravel cutting her skin. Pain exploded in her useless limbs; the muscles in her neck loosened and tightened as her lungs screamed for air. Terror twisted in her mind and dizziness overwhelmed her as she felt herself sinking deeper and deeper into darkness, suddenly blind, deaf, and mute. Her last thought was of Vater finding the twins in the cubby, their small white bodies skeletal and cold.

Then the world disappeared.