9. Polio Claims a Victim
Ralph stayed for the rest of the week and life for Jean was one grand whirl. Then Jeannie drove him to town and put him aboard the Boston train. As she turned the car around and headed slowly for home, her heart grew heavy. She tried to blink back the tears as she told herself that they would be apart for only a few months this time. But by the time she reached home, she was openly crying.
Doris was standing on the front porch when she drove up. Jean turned her head away, but Doris, who had already seen the tears, put her arm around her sister’s shoulder. Jean reached up and squeezed Doris’s hand. Without saying anything, the two sisters shared a moment of complete sympathy.
Finally Doris said, “Jean, this is terrible, but the hospital called and wanted you to come right over. It’s mean to make you go right out when you feel this way....”
Jean grinned at her sister. “Work is the best cure for what ails me, you know. What’s up?”
Doris shook her head. “They have a polio victim,” she said flatly.
Jean gasped. “Polio!” she cried. “But this is only May! The polio season shouldn’t start for another month, at least!”
“That’s what they told me,” Doris said dully.
“Thanks, dear,” Jean replied. “I’ll go right over.”
Jean dashed up to the emergency ward as soon as she reached the hospital. Ted and Sally were bent over a small, frail boy, whose body was horribly rigid.
“We’ll be lucky if we can keep him out of the iron lung,” Ted muttered as he worked over the boy.
Jean ran her cool hand across the boy’s feverish forehead. The tiny victim began to mumble.
“There, there,” Jean whispered. “Try to relax.”
“Take it easy, son,” Ted said.
The two girls made him as comfortable as they could, while Ted worked on his muscles. For hours the spasms continued, and then gradually they began to subside. Finally the boy went to sleep.
“Will he be crippled?” Sally asked.
Ted shrugged. “It’s way too early to tell.”
“Who is he?” Jean asked.
“We don’t even know that. Found him down at the railroad track. Mr. Berger found him as he was driving by and brought him right over.”
Jean gazed down on the dirty, tear-stained face. “He’s so young,” she murmured.
“Not more than ten,” Ted agreed. “He might be a little older, of course. He looks as if he hasn’t had a decent meal in months!” He sighed. “He was brought in in ragged clothes which we had to cut off and burn in the incinerator.”
“Can we bathe him now?” Jean asked, looking at the dirty boy.
“Yes, but be careful. He’s still having some pain,” Ted answered.
By morning, the new patient was resting more easily in fresh, clean garments. His face and body were clean, but his hair was still matted and dirty. He awoke around seven to find Jean sitting by his bed.
“Good morning,” Jean said cheerfully. “Feel better?”
The small boy let forth a stream of profanity.
“Still hurts, eh?” Jean asked. “Well, the worst is over. You’ll feel better from now on.”
“Get out!” the boy ordered. “Get, and leave me be!”
Jean shook her head and smiled. “Tell me your name, will you? I’m Miss Craig. Now, who are you?”
The boy looked up at her, his dark eyes flashing. “None of your business!” he snarled. “Who was that old nosey what brought me in?”
Jean bent over the child. “You’re a very sick boy,” she said. “Mr. Berger found you down at the station. He saved your life.”
“Thanks for nuttin’,” he said. “I gotta get outta here. I gotta get to Boston.”
“When you are well, you can go to Boston. Is that where you live? Your parents’ home?”
“Naw, I gotta pal in Boston.”
“Where’s your home?” Jean asked.
Ted came in and sat down beside the child. “Good morning,” he said briskly.
The boy swore at Ted.
“I still don’t know his name or where he’s from,” Jean said. “He won’t tell me.”
Ted nodded. “Riding the rails?” he asked the boy.
“What’s it to yah?” the boy asked.
Ted shrugged. “Well, we’ll send out an alarm. His parents are probably frantic.”
“He was on his way to Boston,” Jean offered. “You might concentrate on towns south of here.”
“You gonna call the cops?” the boy asked with terror in his eyes.
Ted nodded. “Something like that. We can’t let your parents worry about you.”
The boy turned his face to the wall. “They won’t worry. Skip it. But jest don’t call the cops.”
Ted patted him gently on the shoulder and went to the door. “I’ll see you in a few minutes. Take it easy.”
“Drop dead,” the boy said and made a rude noise.
Ingeborg came in to relieve Jean around eight o’clock, and Jean decided to go home for breakfast. When she arrived, she tossed her jacket over a chair and wandered listlessly into the kitchen where her mother was washing the breakfast dishes.
“Any more food for a prodigal child?” Jean asked wearily.
“Of course, dear,” Mrs. Craig said. “Why don’t you go out on the porch? It’s such a fine day, I have Jack out there. He’ll be glad of the company.”
Jean wandered out to the porch and sat down beside Jack. He lay in the porch glider enjoying the balmy May breezes.
“Hi, Jack,” she said wearily.
“Pretty bad, was he?” Jack asked.
“Well, not as bad as some, I guess,” Jean answered, nibbling on a piece of buttered toast. “Ted seems to think he’ll need some therapy to prevent crippling. But we kept him out of the iron lung.”
“What’s he like?” Jack asked. “A real young kid?”
Jean shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said. “He wouldn’t give his name or address or what he was doing in town, or anything. He just swore at us.”
“Jeepers!” Jack exclaimed. “How do you like that!”
“We think he caught a freight train into town from the south. He did say he was going to Boston.” She sighed. “His parents must be worried to death.”
Jack looked thoughtful. “Polio catching?” he asked finally.
Jean shook her head. “No one knows. Why?”
“Oh, just wondered. This kid ... you think he was riding a freight? I mean, he looked sorta ... poor?”
Jean nodded. “He was dressed in very ragged clothes when they found him.”
She finished her breakfast and went up to bed. She felt defeated and lonely. She grinned wryly at herself, realizing that she was discouraged about the boy more intensely because she missed Ralph so much. Slowly she climbed into bed and pulled the light blanket around her shoulders. After fretting and worrying for an hour or so, she finally fell asleep.
Back at the hospital, Ted and Ingeborg were still trying to get information out of the boy. But after blasting them both with profanity, he merely turned his head to the wall and refused to say anything. Finally the phone rang, and Ingeborg reported that Mrs. Craig was calling.
“Jack has been talking to me,” Mrs. Craig said to Ted over the phone. “He wants to see your polio patient.”
Ted stared at the phone. “Why on earth?” he asked.
He could hear Mrs. Craig chuckle softly. “Jack believes he can find out who the boy is,” she said.
Ted was still puzzled. “I still don’t understand,” he said.
“You probably don’t remember how Jack came to Elmhurst, Ted,” Mrs. Craig laughed.
“But of course I do. You told me the night we brought him to the hospital.” He paused. “I’m beginning to see, Mrs. Craig.”
“That’s right,” she said. “Jack feels that he may be able to talk to the lad in his own language.”
“I’ll send someone right over to bring him here!” Ted cried. “That boy! He really gets me! Now how would a youngster that age realize these things?”
Mrs. Craig laughed again. “My Jack is a pretty smart youngster,” she said bluntly and with pride.
“I should say he is!” Ted cried. “Now why didn’t I think of that? You tell him we’ll be right over for him!”
Jack was brought straight up to the emergency ward and placed a good distance from the stranger’s cot. He propped himself up and turned to Ted and the others. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll handle this.”
Ted nodded and motioned to the others to follow him. They stood just outside the door to listen.
Jack looked over at the pathetic figure on the cot. He hesitated. His natural outgoing affection battled with his ideas of what he must do. At last, he willed himself to speak roughly.
“Why don’t you drop dead?” he said.
The boy looked around.
“Think you’re pretty tough, don’t you?” Jack baited. “You ain’t so much!”
The boy stared at him.
“I hear you rode a freight into town.”
“Yeah,” the boy admitted.
“So did I. Some fun, eh?”
There was a long pause.
“Who are you?” the boy finally asked.
“What’s it to yah, punk?” Jack replied. “I don’t go ’round handin’ out my monicker to every stray what asks for it.”
“Okay,” the boy said, admiration creeping into his voice. Then he changed abruptly. “What you doin’ lyin’ down? Get outta here!”
“I’m sick, too,” Jack said. “I gotta stay in bed.”
The patient looked at Jack closely. “Take good care of yourself, pretty boy,” he taunted.
Jack shrugged. “Yeah, I will, thanks. I’m a guy who oughtta take care of hisself. I’m important.”
“You ’n’ who else?”
“Jest me. Wanna make somethin’ of it?” he scowled at the boy.
The child’s eyes opened wider. “Okay, so you’re a big shot,” he said grudgingly. “What’s your name?”
“What’s yours?” Jack snapped.
“Timmy. Timothy Lester.”
“I never hearda yah,” Jack said loftily. “Where you from?”
“A bigger place ’n’ this dump,” Timmy said. “New York.”
“Yeah?” Jack let a note of admiration creep into his voice. “Yeah, really New York? What do your folks do?”
Timmy made a face. His lower lip trembled almost imperceptibly as he said, “I ain’t got folks. We was in a fire. I was the only one didn’t get killed.”
“Aw, gee,” Jack said, his quick sympathy overcoming his acting.
“It’s okay. I gotta pal in Boston. He said any time I wanted tah leave home I should look him up. He has a racket up there. Pretty good dough, I guess,” Timmy said.
“You in trouble with the cops?”
Timmy made a face at the mention of the law. “Naw,” he said, finally. “But I jest hate ’em. I never even had a chance to square myself wid ’em. The other guys said I was too little to heist stuff yet.”
“You ain’t got no relatives? Nobody?”
“That’s right,” Timmy said proudly. “Now, shut up. I’m sick a talkin’.”
Jack pulled the bellcord by his bed, and Mrs. Craig and Ted and Ingeborg came back. “Okay,” Jack said. “I wanna go home, now. But I’ll be back,” he said menacingly. “You give the gang at the hospital trouble, and you’ll hear from me ... plenty!”
“Aw, dry up,” Timmy retorted.
Out in the hall, Ted and Mrs. Craig were both triumphant. Ted shook Jack’s hand. “That was a masterful bit of acting, Jack, old boy,” he said.
Jack turned his head away. “I’d like to go home. I don’t feel very good.”
Mrs. Craig put her hand on his forehead to see if his temperature had risen. He brushed it away.
“No, that’s not what I mean,” he said huskily. “That poor little guy! Jeepers!” his voice rose, “what kind of a chance does he have, anyway?”
Mrs. Craig nodded. “I know, dear.”
Jack patted his mother’s hand. “You heard the terrible way I talked to him. I hated to do it. But he thought I was just passing the time of day. Rough talk, lying and stealing ... they’ve been his school books. I know. I can remember myself at his age.”
Mrs. Craig ran her fingers over Jack’s head. “Maybe it’s just as well that he landed here. Maybe someone can do something for him, now.”
Jack caught Ted’s coat sleeve. “One other thing, Dr. Loring,” he said. “Don’t talk to Timmy about cops or missing persons bureaus. The one thing a kid in his fix is scared to death of is being sent to some home. That’s what cops mean to him right now. He probably has orphanages and reform schools all mixed up in his twisted mind.”