I feel for the back of a kitchen chair and close my eyes against the assault of those words. It is too much. Too much.
When I open my eyes, I see that Papa has brought the morning paper in and set it on the table. A skinny column of type on the bottom of the front page announces the influenza is abating. The number of cases being reported is at last decreasing, and not just in Philadelphia, but elsewhere, too. But like the monster it is, the flu is madly grabbing for its last victims as it pulls away like a tidal wave headed back out to sea.
“Is Uncle Fred up?” Papa says tonelessly.
“I don’t think so.”
Papa takes a drink from his cup, grimaces as he swallows, and then sets it down. “He and I need to get started.” He looks up at me.
I know what he is saying. Mama needs to be brought down and made ready for her burial.
I shudder for a moment at the thought of this, but then I remember Maggie will fix Mama’s hair and cover the awful splotching on her skin and apply rouge to her cheeks and color to her gray lips, such that when I see my mother for the last time, she will look like herself and not the phantom I saw last night.
“I’ll go see if he’s awake,” I reply.
He nods. “I can tell him about Charlie. You don’t have to.”
“All right.”
I make my way to Uncle Fred’s bedroom, feeling numb. I hear no sounds from the other side of his door. I knock lightly.
“Uncle Fred? It’s Evie. Are you awake?”
I receive no response.
I knock again, a bit louder. “Uncle Fred?”
Nothing.
I open the door a crack. “Uncle Fred. It’s Evie.”
I peek around the door. Uncle Fred is still in his bed, eyes closed, his skin a dull gray.
“Uncle Fred?” I hear a tremor of fear in my voice. He is not moving. There is no rise and fall of his chest. He is as still as stone.
For a second I can only stand there in disbelief.
And then my feet carry me to his bedside and my hand, seemingly of its own will, reaches out to touch his face.
It is cold to my touch.
I run back to the kitchen and Papa turns from the sink where he is rinsing out his cup.
“What is it?” he says.
I can barely squeak out the words. “Uncle Fred is... He’s gone.”
Papa doesn’t understand. He thinks Fred has left the house. “Gone where?”
“He’s dead, Papa!”
My father brushes past me and I follow him to Uncle Fred’s bedroom.
Papa calls Fred’s name, feels for his pulse, bends down to listen for the sound of a beating heart.
But there is no pulse, and Uncle Fred’s heart is not beating.
“What happened? Was it the flu?” I ask, remembering how he coughed last night on his way to his bedroom.
