Fever Season (24 page)

“A lot of that information,” she said, “was already in my story about you. And most of what wasn't he could have guessed at and simply made up. For now we have no way to prove he's telling the truth. And he didn't seem to remember a lot of the things you told me about, but he claims to have the other half of your photo.”

“Really!” David said excitedly. “Where does he live? When can I see him?”

Mrs. Bailey glanced at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 3:30. She was supposed to go home, but the reporter in her needed to know how the story would end. Besides, there was no way she was going to make David wait another day. “I'll telephone Mr. Williams right now. If he's home, we'll go straight away.”

“No need for that,” a voice behind them said.

They turned around with a start. A man was walking up to Mrs. Bailey's desk, and he looked so much like an older version of David that she gasped when she saw him.

David just stared. “Uncle Danny?” he finally said. His voice was barely a whisper.

The man's head tilted a bit when he smiled. “No one's ever called me that before.” Then Daniel Williams reached into a pocket inside his coat. He took something out and put it on Mrs. Bailey's desk. It was a photograph of a teenage girl. Or rather, it was half a photograph.

David put his own photo down beside it. The edges of both had been rubbed too smooth to say they fitted together like pieces of a puzzle, but there was no doubt at all they were a perfect match.

“I've been looking at it all these years,” Daniel said, “and wondering if she was doing the same.”

“She was,” David said. “She looked at it a lot. And she kept all your letters, too. But why did you stop writing to her?”

David had never seen a grown man cry before, but there were tears in his uncle's eyes now. “I was still just a boy. Not much older than you are now. I loved my stepfather very much. I'd already lost so many people, and after he passed away, I decided I didn't want to be that close to anyone anymore. So I stopped answering Maude's letters … and after a while she stopped writing, too. But I couldn't forget her.”

Daniel wiped the tears from his eyes. Then he shook his head. “I never even knew she had a son.”

“And a daughter, too,” David told him. “The first time she ever showed me your picture was a little while after my sister was born. She said that Alice liked to cry and that you did, too, when you were a baby.”

Daniel laughed. “I don't remember that.”

“I used to think I hated my sister,” David said, “but my mother always said there's nothing in life as important as family. She was right, and I know that's why she wanted me to find you.”

“And now you have. And you can stay here with me and my wife. We'll be your family now. We are your family.”

C
HAPTER
25

David couldn't wait to tell Joe the good news. But when he got back to the hotel, he knew right away something was wrong. Dr. Stephens was talking to Al in the hallway outside Joe's room. And both of them were wearing masks.

“We're being careful,” Al told David. “It might still be nothing. It's too soon to tell, but Jack McDonald's got a fever now, too.”

“Is it all right to see Joe? I have something to tell him.”

“Now's probably not the best time,” the doctor said. “He needs to sleep. Hopefully, we'll know more in the morning.”

When Monday morning came, nobody was any surer of anything. The newspapers were still filled with stories about Saturday's game and the winner-take-all final that was scheduled for Tuesday. There was a lot of news about everybody's cuts and bruises and who on which team was hurt worse than whom. Royal Brougham spent most of his column explaining how much weight the Seattle players had sweated off during the series. He didn't say much about the Canadiens. Mostly that Corbeau's shoulder was still bad. He also mentioned that Lalonde “had a number of bumps” and that Pitre “has some bruises on his legs that will keep him from going at top speed.” All he said about Joe and Jack McDonald was that their high fevers were “caused by their exertion in the last two battles.” There was still nobody who seemed very concerned: “Both teams are a weary-looking bunch, but neither squad lacks the determination to win the final game. The managers both say their players will go all out to win tomorrow at all costs.”

On Monday night all that changed. Mr. Kennedy developed a fever. So did Newsy. Louis Berlinquette and Billy Couture had fevers, too. It was obvious now that it wasn't just fatigue making people sick. It was something worse. Much worse. The Spanish Flu was back!

No one was thinking of the Stanley Cup now. With five of their nine players too sick even to get out of bed on Tuesday morning, there was no way the Canadiens would be able to play that night. And even if they somehow could, there was no way that city officials in Seattle were going to let four thousand people jam together inside Seattle Arena. It would be much too dangerous to have so many people exposed to the germs. So at 2:30 on Tuesday afternoon a decision was made. The final game of the series was cancelled. There would be no Stanley Cup champion in 1919.

The bonus money the players had been so worried about was going to be split fifty/fifty by the two teams. Every player on each side would receive $262.70. It was good money, but it was no longer so important. Suddenly, a battle that had seemed like a life-and-death struggle had truly become one.

Nurses were sent to the Georgian Hotel on Tuesday afternoon so that the sick Canadiens could be treated in their beds. The newer cases all had temperatures of around 101 degrees. They were certainly high, though not considered life-threatening … unless they went up instead of down. Joe and Jack McDonald were already in dangerous territory. Their fevers had crept over 104 degrees. They needed more treatment than they could get in a hotel room, so Dr. Stephens sent for an ambulance to take them to Providence Hospital.

The hospital was close to the team's hotel. Al agreed to take David there on Wednesday afternoon.

“How they doing, Doc?” Al asked when they saw Stephens.

“Not much change, I'm afraid. Mr. McDonald's fever has come down a bit today but Mr. Hall's is still over 104. If it doesn't come down soon, we're going to lose him.”

“Joe's a fighter,” Al told him. “Toughest hockey player I've ever seen.”

“Well, I'm afraid he's in the fight of his life right now.”

“Is there any chance the kid and I can see him?”

“I'm not sure that would be wise.”

“But he's got news that Joe will want to hear.

Couldn't good news help him get better?”

The doctor considered that for a moment. “I suppose it's worth a try. Were you by any chance sick in the fall when all this started up?”

“Not me, Doc,” Al said. “I've been fit as a fiddle.”

Dr. Stephens glanced at David. “What about you?”

“I had the flu in November.”

“A bad case or mild?”

“Bad, I guess. I was in bed for nearly a month.”

The doctor nodded. If David's body had already fought off the Spanish Flu, then he was unlikely to catch it again. “The boy can see him, but I think it might be too dangerous for you.”

David was nervous when he entered Joe's room. He hadn't seen his mother or his sister when they were sick. He didn't really know what a flu victim looked like. Would Joe's skin be blue? Would there be blood oozing from his nose or mouth? The doctor probably wouldn't have let him in if Joe's condition was that bad. Still, the sight of him was startling.

Joe was lying in bed, but he was propped up so that his head and chest weren't lying flat. His skin wasn't blue, but it was chalky white. It seemed to be pulled too tight across his forehead, and his cheeks were sunken and hollow. His short dark hair was greasy and plastered to his scalp with sweat. His eyes were open, but they didn't seem to see anything he was looking at. And his breath came in huffs as if it were being squeezed out of his lungs by some kind of machine.

“Joe? Can you hear me? Joe? It's David.”

At first there was no reaction, then Joe slowly lifted his head off the pillow. David saw his eyes begin to focus.

“I found him, Joe. I found my uncle. We found him, really. It was the story in the newspaper that did it.”

David noticed Joe nod slightly, and there was a thin smile on his face when he rested his head back on the pillow. Then he waggled his hand a little as if he were trying to muss David's hair. The effort of even that small gesture exhausted him, and he fell asleep. David sat beside Joe's bed a few minutes longer, then left. He knew there was nothing more he could do for Joe. All anyone could do was wait and see.

Now that the Stanley Cup series was cancelled, the newspapers that had followed the games with interest filled their pages with medical updates instead:

Seattle, April 3 — Word that George Kennedy was seriously ill this morning was later denied by his nurse. She asserts that he is recovering more rapidly than could be expected.

Louis Berlinquette and Newsy Lalonde are on the mend, but sympathy should be extended to Jack McDonald, Billy Couture, and Joe Hall. These three boys are still dangerously ill. Odie Cleghorn of the Canadiens is the latest of the easterners to be stricken with the influenza.

Seattle, April 4 — Three members of the Seattle team, Roy Rickey, Muzz Murray, and Manager Pete Muldoon yesterday became sick. All three are under the care of a physician.

Word from the Montreal camp is that there is great improvement in the condition of George Kennedy. He will soon be out of bed. Couture, Berlinquette, McDonald, and Lalonde are on the mend, too. McDonald and Couture both had serious attacks, but they are recuperating rapidly.

Joe Hall remains in critical condition. He has been moved to Columbus Sanitarium.

Seattle, April 5 — George Kennedy and Newsy Lalonde are expected to get out of bed today for a short time at least. Berlinquette is improving rapidly and expects to exercise a little this afternoon in his room.

Jack McDonald, whose condition was serious, is reported as gaining and it is now thought he is out of danger. Seattle's Pete Muldoon is holding his own, while Roy Rickey made big gains during the past 24 hours and Muzz Murray is not considered in dangerous condition.

All the hockey players except Joe Hall are improving. The Canadiens defenseman's condition is reported as being serious. A case of pneumonia has developed and he is in critical shape.

It didn't seem fair. Just as David finally found a family to belong to again, he lost someone else. Joe Hall died in the Columbus Sanitarium at 2:30 in the afternoon on Saturday April 5, 1919. His funeral was held three days later in Vancouver. Joe's mother, a brother, and a few other relatives lived in that city, and his wife and children were going to move there, too, so they could be close to the rest of their family.

David went to Vancouver, as well. His Uncle Danny took him there to attend the funeral. He hadn't been able to say a proper goodbye to his parents or sister. At least he was there to say one to Joe. He saw his children and told them how much their father had missed them when he was away, and what a good man “Bad Joe” really was, and that he would never forget him.

At least he could do that for his friend.

A
CKNOWLEDGEMENTS

First, thank you to Michael Carroll and Dundurn Press for the opportunity to write fiction again. While there were times I worried I couldn't do it anymore, working on this book was mostly a lot of fun!

Even though this book is a work of fiction, it is based on a lot of real-life events. George Kennedy, Joe Hall, Newsy Lalonde, and the rest of the Montreal Canadiens were real people. So were the Seattle hockey players and newspaper reporters. Even Benton Embree, who helps David in his search, really was a lawyer in Seattle. Although I've used them all fictitiously, much effort was taken to present the historical details pertaining to their lives and time period as accurately as possible.

There are many people to whom I wish to express my thanks; first among them is my mother-in-law, Alice Embury. Alice grew up in Montreal, and though she was a girl about David's age in the 1920s and 1930s, her memories, and the stories she has written down, gave me all the details I needed to create David's neighbourhood near Papineau Avenue. In fact, Alice was born in the house on Chabot Street I used for David's home. (Although the address was 1960 in the 1910s, a switch in the numbering system in the 1920s changed it to 5628, which it remains to this day.) I gave David's sister Alice's name in tribute and used the Embury name for the same reason.