Cy in Chains Page 13

  “Aw, shit,” West cried from his place on Mouse’s other side.

  Mouse started to cry.

  “Mouse!” Jess said. “Take it easy. It gonna be all right. Somebody be in here in a minute, take care o’ you.”

  And who would that be? Cy wondered. Jess just couldn’t stop himself from trying to make things better.

  “I’s sick,” Mouse whimpered. “Bad sick. Help me, Jess.”

  “Keep up that ruckus,” Jess told everyone. “We got to get somebody in here.”

  Then another fit took Mouse. Runny snot poured out of his nose, slid over his mouth, and ran down his chin. When the attack stopped, the whistling noise came again. Mouse fell backwards, worn out from the fit.

  But it came on him yet again.

  At last, Stryker appeared at the door. “What’s goin’ on in here? What y’all think you’re doing, making all this fuss? Shut up and go back to sleep.”

  “Please, sir,” Jess implored. “Mouse is real sick, and he done puked all over hisself.”

  “I can smell it,” Stryker said.

  Just at the moment, another attack seized the boy. Stryker came in close and held his lantern overhead. “Jesus Christ,” he exclaimed. “This is all we need.”

  “What is it, Mr. Stryker?” Jess asked.

  “Hoopin’ cough.”

  “What that?”

  “Don’t ask a stupid question. It’s just what you see. You get it, your lungs fill up with that slime, you try and cough it up so you don’t strangle to death, and then you make that noise when you try and catch your breath back.”

  “Mouse got it bad.”

  “You think I can’t see that? Christ, what do we do now?”

  “Give him some medicine,” Billy suggested.

  “Did I ask for your advice?” Stryker snarled. “There ain’t no medicine for it! You got to let it take its course. And now all y’all are gonna get it.”

  A pang of fear shot through Cy. He looked at Mouse, covered in puke, and tried not to imagine himself in the same trouble.

  “How come we all gon’ get it?” Jess asked.

  “’Cause that’s the way it works! It’s contagious, if you dummies know what that means. Once one of you comes down with it, y’all will, too. Just a matter of time. It ain’t gonna be pretty, I promise you that. Shit! This is really gonna fry Cain’s eggs. That’s what he gets,” Stryker said to himself.

  Another fit began, and Stryker moved away. “I’ll be back,” he said.

  He returned with Cain, Prescott, and Rosalee, who was moving slowly and seemed to be half asleep. Mouse started coughing again, and everyone waited until the fit passed, ending with the awful sound of his gasping for air.

  “Told you,” Stryker said to Cain.

  “You sure it’s hoopin’ cough? I ain’t ever seen it before.”

  “Then you’re lucky. Trust me. That’s what it is.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “Nothing to do but let it be.”

  “How long will it take?”

  “Long time. Couple weeks once it gets to this stage. Maybe more. And it’s gonna seem like a year before it’s all over.”

  Cain looked weary. “A doctor couldn’t help?”

  “From what I know, most likely not. And if we tell him the truth about what we got on our hands, he might not even come out and have a look. This stuff is mighty catchin’.”

  “No way to stop it from spreading?” Cain asked.

  “Quarantine. You got to separate the sick boys from the healthy ones, and pray that every single one of ’em don’t come down with it.”

  “Separate ’em?”

  Stryker sighed, then went on, like he was trying to explain something to a child. “We got to keep these boys away from the other gang, starting tomorrow. Nobody in that other bunk has it yet, far as I know. But the minute anyone from over there starts actin’ sick, we move him here. The sick and the healthy—they got to eat separate, shit separate—everything.”

  “Damn it!” Cain exclaimed. “I reckon they can’t work when they got it.” He sounded disappointed.

  You son of a bitch, Cy thought bitterly. Only worried about how much work you can squeeze outta us.

  “No, they can’t work when they got it!” Stryker shot back at Cain. “The ones that get it bad ain’t gonna be able to do anything. And the sickest ones . . .”

  Cy could guess what was in his mind. The sickest ones might die.

  Cain looked down at Mouse, slumped forward, his head down, covered in his vomit. “Get him cleaned up,” he ordered.

  “You want all of ’em unchained, or just clean him up where he is?”

  “Unchain ’em all. Kid needs to be washed off and put in another uniform. Looks like he needs a new blanket, too.”

  “He needs a couple of blankets, at least,” Stryker declared. “Chances are he’s gonna have more spells before the night is out. Then we’ll just have to clean him up again.”

  “You two and Rosalee can handle it. Lemme know the situation in the morning. I’m going back to bed.”

  A look of disgust flickered across Stryker’s face. He waited until his boss was gone before he cursed. Prescott looked just as unhappy. Rosalee stood like a figure carved in wood, gazing off into the dark corners of the bunkhouse. But she obeyed Stryker when he told her to go fetch a water bucket, towels, and a clean uniform. Stryker and Prescott unlocked everyone and got Mouse separated so he could be cleaned up.

  Rosalee returned with the water and the clean clothes. Mouse didn’t protest as she undressed him and got him to his feet. In the dim light of the lantern, his body looked as fragile as a tiny scarecrow, one the slightest wind could push into the dust. His ribs showed through the skin of his chest. Rosalee washed him and held a basin under his chin during the next attack of vomiting.

  At last he was cleaned up. Stryker moved him to the end of the sleeping platform and let Jess take the place next to him. Rosalee gave Jess the basin and a towel.

  “If he has more fits, y’all are gonna have to take care of it,” Stryker announced. “I can’t lose a night’s sleep over a sick nig—a sick kid.”

  Stryker and Rosalee left the building and closed the door. At least they had put fresh wood on the fire, and the stove gave off enough heat that Cy could feel it on his feet.

  No one could sleep. Cy kept waiting for Mouse’s next fit. Already he hated the attacks: the coughing, the gagging, the gulping for air. The final sound, the high-pitched whistle at the end, was the worst. Stryker said it took a long time for the sickness to end, maybe weeks. And if he was right, all the rest of them would get it, too. Cy thought for a moment about what it would be like if they were all coughing, gagging, vomiting. And what if some of them died? Maybe Stryker was hiding the truth. Maybe Mouse would die. Maybe everyone who got this cough died.

  There were more attacks that night, but no more vomiting. Mouse’s stomach was empty. Finally, before dawn, he fell asleep. He slept through both morning gongs, and he was deeply asleep when Prescott came in and the boys got to their feet.

  Stryker appeared with a pitcher and a tin cup. He went right to Mouse and roused him.

  “How you doin’?” he asked.

  Mouse was too weak to answer. He just moaned. Stryker called Prescott to come close. “See,” he said, pulling Mouse’s left eyelid down. “His eyes.”

  “Glory be!” Prescott exclaimed. “The whites ain’t white.”

  “God, you’re a smart man, Onnie,” Stryker said. “No, they ain’t white. Red.”

  “Why?”

  “Boy coughed so hard he broke some of the vessels in his eyes.”

  “Sure ’nough? I didn’t think nobody could cough that hard.”

  “That’s ’cause you ain’t never had hoopin’ cough,” Stryker said.

  “And I suppose you have?”

  “Matter of fact, yeah.”

  These two men, Cy had come to realize, shared a habit with other whites he’d known: they would talk to ea
ch other as if the black folks nearby didn’t exist or couldn’t understand. Sometimes you could gather useful information from whites when they didn’t stop to think you had ears.

  “When you get the cough?” Prescott asked.

  “When I was a kid.”

  “You have it bad?”

  Stryker didn’t answer that right away. Instead, he filled the cup from the pitcher and held it in front of Mouse. “Drink it,” he ordered.

  Mouse turned his head away. “I can’t.”

  Stryker seized his head and turned his face back to the cup. “You sure as hell can, and you’re goin’ to. And when you’re done, you’re gonna drink some more, and more after that. You’re gonna drink this pitcher dry, and then another one.”

  Mouse gave in. He began to sip from the cup.

  “All of it,” Stryker commanded.

  “So you had it yourself when you was young?” Prescott persisted.

  “Said so, didn’t I? Got it when I was about his age,” he said, nodding at Billy. “Whole family got it.”

  “And . . . ?”

  “We recovered. All except for Mary Elizabeth. She didn’t make it.”

  “But you got over it,” Prescott said helpfully. “That’s somethin’, at least.”

  “Yeah, I got all the luck. I recovered, after a trip through hell.”

  “What about him?” Prescott nodded at Mouse. He was talking about Mouse like he was a piece of damaged furniture.

  “Who knows? We gotta keep puttin’ water into him, food, too, if he can stand it. Let him have a chance to rest. Hope he don’t die of dehydration, or choke to death, or die from sheer exhaustion.”

  So Mouse could die. And if Mouse could, others probably could, too. Anyone who got sick could die.

  “Can I look after him?” Jess asked. “Please, sir?”

  “Why not? In a couple days, y’all are gonna have to be lookin’ after each other. Cain’s got no idea what he’s in for. Y’all, either.” Stryker was quiet a moment, and an expression something like pity came over his face. “The rest of you who ain’t sick, get on with your day. You can eat after the other gang gets finished. Jess, see to it he drinks that pitcher dry. Then get a refill. He got to eat if he can. Rosalee can make him some thin grits. Anything to help keep his strength up.”

  He and Prescott left. Jess held the cup up to Mouse’s lips again, but the boy refused to drink.

  “You got to,” Jess urged him.

  “I can’t. It don’t make no difference, noways. I’s gonna die, so what do it matter?”

  “Don’t you listen to that ignorant cracker talk,” Jess told him. “But do what Stryker say. He been through this hisself, and he know that this is important. And don’t worry none: I’s gonna be right here with you, takin’ care o’ you. You think I’s gonna let Ol’ Man Death stop by here? Not while I can fight him.”

  Brave words, but Cy wondered if Jess was that strong.

  Sixteen

  THE QUARANTINE BEGAN THAT MORNING. CAIN made the other gang dig an open-air latrine at the far corner of the camp. Then Cain and Prescott took that gang to the palmetto woods, leaving Stryker in charge of Cy’s group. He put everyone to work except Mouse and Jess. Mouse was just too sick, and Stryker knew that if anyone could keep Mouse alive, it was Jess.

  Stryker found many things for the boys to do: mend some fence, replace some shakes on the roofs of the bunkhouses so they wouldn’t leak so bad, air out all their straw ticks. Cy felt all right except for a runny nose, but he tried to ignore it. So far, only Mouse was truly sick. He spent the day shivering under blankets, drinking all the water Jess could get down him, and then throwing it up again when the coughing spells came.

  After dinner, Stryker gave the boys a break. Some played dice, and others slept. They acted like a day in camp was all a game, with them the winners. The others had to work palmetto, while the boys in quarantine had it a lot easier. Maybe they right to enjoy themselves, Cy thought. Maybe no one else gonna get sick. Maybe Stryker wrong.

  But the fun didn’t last long. When the other guys got back that evening, Cain made the quarantined boys go inside their shed and wouldn’t let them out except to use the latrine. Dinner was brought to them, but they had to eat sitting on the dirt floor. That night, Mouse had more fits that made it hard for the others to sleep.

  The next day was the same, and the day after. Cain grumbled and said something about losing a heap of money and called Stryker an alarmist. Soon, quarantine just felt like a different kind of prison. There was little to do. Fights broke out. They all got sick of being cooped up, waiting for something to happen.

  And Mouse got no better.

  Cy was nervous, on edge. He picked on the other boys. The sound of Mouse’s spells made him want to choke the life out of the kid. Anything to shut him up.

  On the fourth night, Davy had a coughing fit. Next morning, Billy did, too. That afternoon, Ring and two other boys had it. Stryker had been right.

  The fifth morning Billy huddled near Jess, coughing, puking, gasping for air between his attacks. “We ain’t never gon’ get well,” he said. “We all gon’ die.”

  “No, you ain’t,” Jess insisted. “Stryker had it when he was our age, and he made it.”

  “He said that girl didn’t.”

  “You will, though.”

  Cy had had enough. “Why you keep on lyin’ to everyone? How you know he gonna get well?”

  “You ever heard of a thing called hope?”

  “Don’t preach at me!”

  “I ain’t tryin’ to do that, Cy. Just tryin’ to give you—and all these boys—somethin’ to hold on to.”

  “You can keep it,” Cy told him. “Hope ain’t never done one thing for any of us.”

  Jess started to respond, but Billy broke in. “He gonna make it?” Billy asked, his eyes on Mouse, who was lost in fitful sleep.

  “Him too,” Jess assured him.

  Billy already looked worn out, and his fits had only just begun. You oughtta have your mind on yourself, Cy thought. Worry if you gonna make it, not Mouse.

  Oscar came into the bunkhouse, his hands cupped. “I got somethin’ for Mouse. Found it stuck to a tree outside.”

  He held a giant dead moth. It was brown with little white dots on each of its upper wings, and two big dark spots on the lower ones.

  “He ’sleep?” Oscar asked.

  “Yeah,” Jess said.

  “Hey, Mouse,” Oscar called. “Got somethin’ for you.”

  Mouse roused. His breathing was gurgly and shallow. He looked pinched all over, like his skin was stretched too tight over his bones.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Big ol’ moth. Biggest I ever seen. Sorry he dead, but I thought you want to have him.”

  He gave the moth to Mouse, who held it up close to his face. “Thanks, Oscar.” He lay down again. “I’s gon’ to sleep now. He keep me company.” Mouse held the moth to his chest.

  West nudged Cy and whispered to him. “The eyes, remember?”

  “Eyes?”

  “What I seen that first time I told Mouse fortune. You know.”

  Cy did remember. West had seen a pair of dark eyes. The spots on the moth were like two eyes, looking at you. Dead eyes. He shivered.

  Mouse shouldn’t have the moth. It was bad luck, like a bird in the house. That always meant Death wasn’t far behind. But before Cy could say so, Billy had a coughing attack. Later, when Cy looked for the moth in the sleeping Mouse’s hands, it wasn’t there.

  That night, Cy had his first attack. One moment, he was drifting to sleep, then he was coughing like he’d never coughed before. It felt like something the size of an egg was stuck in his windpipe. He had to get it out.

  The fit woke Billy and Jess. “Easy, now,” Jess said. “It be over soon.”

  That was no help. Cy knew he was choking to death. Panic took him, and he began to shake. He tried to get up, get outside, get some air. He coughed as hard as he could—the thing in his throat
had to come out, or he’d die.

  Finally the fit ended. He gulped air, and now he was the one making those high-pitched whooping sounds.

  Mouse didn’t even move.

  “I’s real sorry, Cy,” Billy told him. “I prayed you wasn’t gonna get sick.”

  That night was the worst he’d ever lived through.

  In the morning, Mouse was a little better, but more boys were sick. “Damn it!” Stryker exclaimed when he came in, a bandanna over his mouth. “How many boys down with it now?”

  “’Bout half,” Jess told him. “Cy got it last night.”

  Cy raised his head. The sour smell of vomit revolted him. He needed a clean uniform. He needed to relieve himself. But he felt too weak to move. Then an attack took him.

  “Christ, what a mess!” Stryker looked worried. “Cain’s got to get a doctor over here. Maybe they have new treatments since I was a kid.”

  “That be a good thing,” Jess told him. “Please help us, Mr. Stryker.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  In the afternoon, Cain showed up. Stryker and Prescott were with him, so all the boys were in camp, even though it was a regular workday. Three other white men were there, too, all with handkerchiefs over their noses and mouths.

  Cy had been dozing since morning, waking up only when the fits seized him. But seeing strange white men brought him wide awake. Up and down the line, other boys were sitting up. A crazy idea came into Cy’s mind. They here to set us free.

  Cain led the way down the line of sick boys. The men stared over the tops of their handkerchiefs. Billy got a coughing fit just then, and they gathered around him to see the show.

  “No question about it,” one of the white men declared. “Full-blown whooping cough.”

  “I told you, Doc,” Stryker put in. “Regular epidemic.”

  “We’ve been doin’ everything we can for ’em,” Cain added. “Extra food and water, lettin’ ’em rest up, not mak­in’ ’em go off the place to work. Anything else we can do?”

  The doctor kept looking at Billy. “How long have you been sick, boy?”