The Way to LA
Jame Rada, Jr.
6: The Grippe
Bill Wivell nearly died of all things, the flu. Had he been coherent, it would have shamed him. He’d never lived down his single bad ear; in Thurmont, people already called him a slacker for being turned away from the Great War. Now, bedridden by an invisible enemy, he could only imagine the whispers: “He who couldn’t serve now can’t even beat a cough.”
At first, the fever made his skin feel aflame; then the deep chills stole into his bones, rattling him awake all night. He managed to drag himself from the barn to the house, but when nausea hit, there was no rising again. The worst was the breathlessness—every inhalation felt like a brick pressing on his chest, each exhale a desperate gasp.
His mother, pale and anxious, had fetched a jar of VapoRub. Each morning, she warmed a spoonful over a flickering flame, then had Bill inhale the vapors. The smell of camphor, eucalyptus, menthol, turpentine, and who knows what else, stung his lungs, and though it eased some of the congestion, it made his stomach churn anew.
Then began the delirium. He slipped in and out of consciousness, chased by fever-dream phantoms: skeletal monsters with jagged teeth, Imperial German soldiers towering like giants and smashing hapless men beneath their boots, a night sky suddenly blooming with blood-red fireworks.
Above it all, the sound he understood best—Céline Winfrey’s voice, soft and urgent in French. She had gone west, to her husband’s family in California, yet here she was, calling to him: “Remets-toi vite, Bill.” Her lilting accent wrapped around him like a lifeline.
He thought he smiled; he tried to reach for her hand—but there was only the scratchy sheet and the emptiness where her warmth should have been. She had left on the early train, and every heartbeat told him he would never see those hazel eyes again.
He loved her. Not when he had first seen her on the train platform after missing her train, but once he had gotten to know her and what she had endured in France, stronger for every scar she bore. He admired her, enjoyed spending time with her, and finally, he had fallen in love. He ached to comfort her during her nightmares—she, who had faced down German patrols—yet he never spoke of his love. She was married. It was not his place.
Some time later, he came fully awake under the muted glow of the moon shining through his bedroom window. The room was swirling shadows, and his head pounded like a war drum. His stomach heaved, his throat felt scorched—yet he was alive, and lucid. He tried to sit up; the world lurching beneath him forced him flat again.
A soft movement stirred at his left. “Mama?” His voice cracked. His throat felt raw. But he was awake. He was sure he was finally actually awake and not in some delirium brought on by the flu.
In the dim corner, his mother rose and fetched a chipped glass of cool water from the bureau. When she returned, Bill blinked twice and realized the woman beside him was not his mother at all—but Céline, her dark hair pinned back, her face pale in the lamp’s glow.
She eased the cup into his trembling hand. He drank slowly, savoring each drop, letting it moisten his parched mouth. Then, in hesitant French, he whispered, “Tu es revenue. Pourquoi?”
“I couldn’t leave you when you were so sick.” Her voice trembled more than his ever had.
He forced a laugh that died in his chest. “Désolée de t’avoir retenue.”
She shook her head. “You would have been alone. Besides, everywhere is shut down.” Her eyes flicked toward the window, where darkness pressed against the pane.
“Shut down?” He sank back onto his pillows.
She pressed her hand to his forehead. “The flu… They call it the Spanish Influenza. Trains stopped. Shops boarded up. Everyone wears a mask in the streets. Even this house—the diner is closed. Some say more soldiers died in a single night of this fever than in all the trenches. In some ways, it is scarier than the war. At least then, I knew people stayed indoors because the Germans were nearby or shells were falling. I understood why, but now…” She shrugged.
A soft knock at the door made them both start. The door swung open, and his real mother’s anxious face filled the frame. “Thank heavens, you’re awake!” She hurried forward, smoothing back his tangled hair as though he were still a child. “How do you feel?”
Bill smiled. “I’m still tired, but I guess the worst is past.”
“I should hope so.” His mother came up to bed and felt his head to check his temperature. “Did Celine tell you what happened?”
“Only that everything is shut down.”
“Can you believe it? It’s this Spanish Flu. Everyone has it, it seems, and people are dying. We were worried that you would be one of them, but Celine took good care of you.” His mother smiled at Celine and patted the younger woman’s arm.
Céline slipped away, and Bill’s mother fussed over him, chattering of neighbors felled by the sickness—Jack Routson, Sylvia Harper, Stephen Trebes—names he recognized from school. Fear clung to her voice. When she left to fetch chicken broth, he translated to Céline.
“She said my father had a touch of the flu, but not like what I had.” That figured. It was one more way people would compare him and find him wanting. His father had dealt with the flu better than Bill.
“He is fine now,” Celine told him.
“If you bring me a newspaper, I will read it and let you know what is happening,” Bill offered.
Céline shook her head. “No papers are delivered. It can wait.” She pressed his hand and stood to go. Before she reached the door, though, she paused. “When you were delirious… you cried out in English and French. You said some things—”
His stomach twisted. “What things?”
She met his gaze steadily. “You told me you loved me.”
Blood rushed to his cheeks. “I was sick. It means nothing.” He would never have told her. She was married. He wasn’t going to pursue someone who wasn’t available.
When he didn’t say anything, Celine asked, “Is it true?”
He hesitated. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.”
“It doesn’t. You are married. You are leaving.”
She reached out and held his hand. “I care about you, Bill. I don’t think I can ever thank you for what you have done for me, but I’m sorry it can’t be more than that.”
“I understand. What I said, I said when I was delirious. It’s nothing more than that.”
“It was the truth.”
He nodded, though his heart cracked. Their eyes held each other’s in the lamplight, a moment suspended between longing and duty. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpane. She was gone before he could speak again.
Bill learned that it could have been much worse for him. People had been dying all around the world and in numbers greater than during the war. Hundreds of thousands of Americans were dead. Millions of people worldwide.
In the week that followed, Bill lay low, regaining strength while the world slowly thawed from its fevered pause. Leaves turned color and fell; frost edged the fields. By November, the nation lifted its ban on public gatherings. Families crept outdoors with caution, wearing masks and exchanging wary smiles.
His parents reopened their diner on Main Street. The clatter of dishes and the murmur of subdued conversation were signs of life restored—if only gently.
When the trains began to run on schedule once more, Céline knew it was time to go. Bill, grown strong again, carried her valise to the station beneath a gray morning sky. Steam hissed from the locomotive’s stack; a handful of travelers stood at scattered intervals on the wooden platform.
Céline’s cheeks were damp with tears; her fragrance—the faint trace of bergamot—lingered in his lungs. “Thank you… for everything,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying over the hiss and click of the engine.
He swallowed. His throat felt raw. “I’ll miss you. I hope you and Nathan have a happy life.”
She smiled bravely. “I’m scared of what’s next.”
He lifted her chin. “You faced the Germans. You crossed half the world. California can’t be worse than Paris under siege.”
She shook her head. “It’s not goodbye.”
He suspected it would be, but he didn’t correct her. He wanted her to be right.
A long whistle split the cold air. She gathered her coat and stepped into the first car.
The whistle wailed again, a final toll, and the train lurched forward, carrying her away over Catoctin Mountain.
Bill stayed on the platform until the last plume of smoke vanished into the dawn sky. Then, with his chest tight and his world suddenly vast and empty, he turned homeward down the silent boards, listening still for the echo of her footsteps.
