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.
The first cluster of professors arrived, along with a visiting paleontologist from the Smithsonian, who brought a dinosaur bone from an excavation in Nevada. Gwen marveled at the heft of the bone as they passed it from person to person. Others began a game of charades in the garden. Inside, a chemistry professor argued with an English professor about whether tea could be reheated without affecting the flavor.
Proceeding with tonight’s soiree had been the right decision. That silly memoir didn’t matter to the rest of the world. And the strange man she saw in the courtroom? It could be weeks before Uncle Oscar’s detectives learned anything about him, but the odds were that Oscar was right. Her overactive imagination had probably gone too far.
She joined the debate about the wisdom of reheating tea. Some insisted no one could tell the difference, while others vehemently disagreed.
Dennis Conway, a young professor from the chemistry department, stood on the reheating side. “Reheating will not affect the molecular structure of plain black tea,” he insisted.
Old Professor Snow disagreed. “I can always tell,” he claimed, but Dennis wanted proof and turned to her in supplication.
“Gwen, may we invade your kitchen to conduct an experiment of fresh versus reheated tea? For the good of humanity, we must learn the truth.”
This was why she loved these Friday soirees. She never knew how the evening would unfold, but they were always a delight. President Matthews offered to serve as an impartial observer to ensure the fresh tea and reheated tea were fairly presented to the taste testers.
She and Dennis had retreated to the kitchen to set out teacups when the incessant ringing of the doorbell cut through the dull roar of the soiree noise. Someone answered the door, and Gwen went back to preparing a new pot of tea but was soon interrupted.
“Mrs. Kellerman, I need your help.”
She blinked, not quite believing that Patrick O’Neill was standing in her kitchen doorway, panic on his face. He was a disheveled mess, his sandy hair windblown and his collar askew.
“Good heavens, what’s wrong?”
“The doctor said my mother has tetanus. He says there’s no cure, but I think your college is working on a remedy. Some kind of serum.”
She clasped a hand to her throat. Tetanus was a horrible disease, and Dr. Haas was working on it, but he wasn’t here this evening.
“How long has she been showing symptoms?” Dennis asked.
“They started today,” Patrick said. “She cut herself ten days ago, but she only started having the muscle seizures today. I remember Mrs. Kellerman saying the college has a treatment for it.”
Gwen fidgeted. “We do, but it’s only been tested on humans a few times.”
“And those people died,” President Matthews said.
