Due Preparations for the Plague

Copyright

First published in Great Britain in 2004 by

Fourth Estate

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

Copyright © Janette Turner Hospital 2003

The right of Janette Turner Hospital to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007149285

Ebook Edition © FEBRUARY 2016 ISBN: 9780007485338

Version: 2016-06-15

I have often asked myself what I mean by preparations for the plague … and I think that preparations for the plague are preparations for death. But what is it to make preparations for death? or what preparations are proper to be made for death?

Daniel Defoe, Due Preparations for the Plague (1722)

To state quite simply what we learn in a time of pestilence: that there are more things to admire in men than to despise.

Albert Camus, The Plague

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Book I: OLD MOLE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Book II: FOG

1. Salamander

2. Chien Bleu

3. Phoenix One, Phoenix Two

4. Phoenix Three

5. Lowell

Book III: CODE NAME: BLACK DEATH

1. Code Name: Tocade

2. Code Name: Geneva

3. Code Name: S

4. Code Name: Black Death

5. Triage

Book IV: VANISHING POINTS

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

Book V: JOURNAL OF S: ENCRYPTED

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

Book VI: IN THE MARSH

1.

2.

3.

Book VII: THE DECAMERON TAPE

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

8.

9.

10.

Book VIII: AFTERMATH

1.

2.

3.

4.

5.

6.

7.

Keep Reading

Acknowledgment

P.S.: Ideas, interviews & features …

About the Author

About the book

Read on

About the Author

Also by Janette Turner Hospital

About the Publisher

Book I

OLD MOLE

Hamlet (to the ghost of his father):

Well said, old mole! cans’t work in the earth so fast?

Hamlet, Act I, Scene v

Nobody chooses his parents,

but everyone invents them.

Adam Phillips

1.

Brightness falls from the air, and so do the words, which rush him. They swoop like starlings from the radio hooked to his belt, though before brightness, before Queens have died young and fair, the broadcast was blurred murmur, bits of music, bits of talk, voices heard but not listened to. Now the phrases flock about Lowell and he bats at them, distressed. Dust hath closed Helen’s eye, I am sick, I must die—but no, Lowell thinks, I must not—Lord, have mercy on us, and yes, Lowell prays, Lord have mercy, because in spite of the fact that the reader has a mellow voice, a soothing and expensive poetry-reading voice, an unmistakably National Public Radio voice, what Lowell can hear is his own father in shadow duet, word for word and line for line, and then suddenly, with a sharp change of tone, Forty thousand feet, he hears, severed fuselage … the fatal plunge …

Shocked, he almost loses his balance on the ladder. Death, he hears, and it is plummeting at him, no question, final cure of all diseases. The news commentator says these words. (Does he really say them? Is it possible?) The paint can, mad rudder, swings wild and a length of eavestrough comes away in Lowell’s hand. He throws himself forward across the steeply pitched roof and lies sprawled there. The tiles beat against his heart like frightened birds.

Oblivion has taken to offering herself this way, quick and shameless. She tries it once or twice a week. She sickens him because he is not immune to her whorish charms. He can feel the ladder with his feet and if he puts his weight on the top rung, he thinks the whole contraption of self-erected scaffolding will stay firm. Probably. Perhaps. The brush is still in his right hand, the can of Milky Way White (high gloss, oil-based, exterior finish) in his left. There is a comet’s tail of spilled cream across the cedar shakes and he will have to climb down for the turpentine.

Later, he thinks, looking below. He feels queasy. Anniversaries of the airline disaster are a very bad time. Every year, every September, this sort of thing happens, even though every year, as September approaches, he believes he has put it all behind him, he believes he has laid the ghosts, he believes he will feel nothing more than a dull, almost pleasurable sort of pain, like a toothache. And then: Shazam, he is a wreck again.

Have the words really come from his radio? Or from the messy attic of his mind? He supposes he could check, call the station, order a cassette, replay the show, and if they really had been spoken, what would that prove? A convergence of inner and outer worlds? Thoughts and fears escape, Lowell thinks. When the pressure inside the head builds too high, thoughts fly the coop and speak themselves back at us through other people’s mouths. He dips his brush in the can and paints a long wide stripe on the fascia board. From two storeys down, through the window, he can hear the phone ring. The house is not his, but even so he fears it will be that girl again, that young woman, the one who will not let sleeping dogs lie. He knows this is irrational. He knows there is no possible way she could reach him here. Even so, whenever he hears a telephone, he trembles. He fears it will be that young woman. Samantha. That is her name. He never returns her calls.

“There are too many unanswered questions concerning the deaths,” she says on his answering machine, but he will not listen. “We are gathering data,” she says, because of course Lowell is not the only one to turn manic at anniversary time. “If you are interested, I have extensive information on the hijacking and on the death of your mother.”

Lowell erases her messages.

“We have new information,” the voice of Samantha says, said, yesterday, last week, the week before, “we have just received startling new information from a woman in Paris,” whom Lowell erases from the machine immediately and entirely, though less successfully, less entirely, from his memory and from his sleep, a certain Françoise of the seventh arrondissement in Paris who had intended to be on that flight, the fateful flight, that hovers blackly whenever Lowell thinks of it—and even when he does not—like a vulture above his head.

“She has unexpected ties to your father,” Samantha says, the voice of Samantha says, speaking of Lowell Hawthorne’s father, “which I think will be of interest to you. Of considerable interest, I think you will find—”

Lowell cuts off her call.

What people will believe and what they will hope for and what they will do within a thirty-day radius of the anniversary of the hijacking is utterly unpredictable. This is a dangerous time. This is a time when clinical depression is epidemic and the death rate peaks, both for survivors and for relatives of the deceased. Lowell knows about this. “We have information, but we need information, we need it desperately,” the voice of Samantha cajoles, “so I’m begging you—” Sometimes she cannot speak for sobbing. Sometimes Lowell pulls the jack from the wall.

“This woman in Paris—Françoise—she says she has an avoidance instinct for anything to do with the flight,” Samantha tells Lowell’s answering machine. “But it’s also a magnet. You know that, I know that, we both know that only too well. Which is why she happened on our website. And which is why, eventually, she couldn’t resist making contact—” Erase, erase. “She thinks your father knew about Flight 64.” Erase. “Why are you so afraid to speak to me?” Erase.

“Listen,” Samantha pleads directly into his ear. “You’ve got to listen. Françoise believes she is your half-sister—”

“I have no siblings, half or otherwise,” he says, and hangs up.

“What can be worse than not knowing?” Samantha’s voice asks in a rush, anticipating digital cutoff. “The deaths could have been prevented. What can be worse than that?”

The explanation might be worse, Lowell thinks.

Everywhere, his father shrugs, brightness falls from the air. Dust hath closed Helen’s eye, his father reminds, and death is merely the final cure of every ill.

But it is after a death, Lowell knows, that riddles and slow torments begin.

2.

In the week of the thirteenth anniversary of his mother’s death—four days before the actual date—Lowell cries out in his sleep. There is a lightning flash or an explosion—he does not know what it is—some terrible intrusive slash of sound, white at the center with red capillaries rivering out. It thump-thumps at his eardrums and skin. Pain razors him, and he knows his heart is going to pop like a balloon.

“What is it, what is it, Daddy?” His daughter, barefoot and frightened, appears in the bedroom doorway and he sits bolt upright and holds the pillow like a shield. Weapon, his reflexes urge, but as he gropes for the lamp, he sees Amy’s eyes and remembers that the children are with him this weekend.

Amy, he says, but a strange sound comes out.

“Daddy, Daddy.” Amy is shivering. “Why did you scream?” She pulls at her hair, a nervous habit, and little hanks of it come away in her hand. She always has trouble sleeping at her father’s place because her father often talks unintelligibly in sleep, pleading with someone. His sheets smell of wet animal.

The pain, he tries to explain. He lurches around the room, arms outstretched. He thumps on his chest.

“Daddy, Daddy!” she quavers, throwing herself at him, hugging his thighs.

“No,” Lowell moans.

Wailing sounds, plaintive as the call of loons in fog, float through the room, and there is Jason, flannelette blanket balled into his mouth, stumbling over his pajama bottoms. Amy runs to him and holds his little face against her chest. “Jason’s scared,” she says bravely. And then, with an edge of anger: “You’re frightening him, Daddy.”

Their father turns and fixes them with his eyes. “Did you hear it?”

“Y-y-yes,” Jason blubbers, sniffling, wetting his PJs. Amy can feel a trickle of warm pee at the soles of her feet.

“We heard you scream, Daddy.”

Lowell is shaking. He bends down and hugs the children to himself. “Poor little fellas,” he says. He takes deep slow breaths. “Daddy had a bad dream, that’s all. I didn’t mean to scare you, pun’kins.”

“Daddy?”

“It’s sleepy time. Let’s go.”

He changes Jason’s pajamas and tucks the children in and kisses them and sits on the edge of his son’s bed. By the greenish glow of the night-light, he croons lullabies and pats his little boy’s behind until he hears deep even breathing.

“Daddy?” Amy whispers, as he is tiptoeing out.

“What is it, sweetheart?”

“What did you dream about?”

“I can’t remember,” he says, and he really can’t. He can remember bright light, the electric sense of danger. Tree? Tree struck by lightning? Something to do with a tree and shattered glass. Pieces of metal. A great vulture overhead, as always. He can remember bloodied hands, pulsing heart, thump-thump, thump-thump. He can remember not being able to breathe.

“Where do bad dreams go?” Amy wants to know.

“They go down the garbage disposer,” Lowell says, “and they get smashed up into little pieces and then they get washed into the Charles River and carried out into Boston Harbor and they go miles and miles away into the ocean and they never come back.”

“Mine come back,” she says.

“Oh baby.” He sits on her bed and cradles her in his arms. “What do you have bad dreams about?”

“There’s one dream,” she says, and he can feel her shy away from the telling.

What rotten luck, he thinks, for Amy and Jason to have him, Lowell Hawthorne, for a father, since clearly someone, something, is a jealous keeper of the curse, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children, even unto the third and fourth generation … He wishes he had a spell to break the spell.

“Look,” he says, snapping his fingers and then blowing on them as though scattering dandelion puffs. “It’s gone now, your bad dream. And mine too.”

But she is very solemn. “You were driving away,” she says. “In my dream. You were driving away in your pickup.”

“Did I have my ladders on top?” He has to make this bright and tangibly detailed, slapstick, something light as air. He mimes the sway of the ladders as he drives.

“Yes, and all your paint cans and stuff. And the baby-sitter hasn’t come and Jason and me are running and running because we want to get in the pickup with you and you won’t stop and you keep shouting that Mommy will come.”

“Sweetheart,” he says.

“But she doesn’t. And we wait and wait, but she never comes, and we are all by ourselves and it gets dark.”

“Oh, Amy, baby.” He cups her face in his hands. “I will never drive away and leave you, never ever. And you know that Mommy and Daddy would nevernevernever—”

The phone rings and both of them jump. Amy will not let go of her father. She clings to him as he shambles down the hall.

“Yes?” he says. “What? Who is this?”

…

“Yes, this is Lowell Hawthorne.”

…

“Yes, that …”

…

“Yes.”

…

“Yes, it is.”

Amy feels the muscles in his arm flinch and go still as he listens. He hangs up.

“Daddy?”

He remains leaning against the wall, and Amy, who comes to just above his waist, holds on to him so tightly that she can feel the button on his pajama jacket like a cookie cutter against her cheek. The pain reassures her. She wants to wear his sign. She can smell the wet animal smell again, mixed in with the smell of paint and paint thinner which can never be completely scrubbed off.

“Who was it, Daddy?”

He does not hear, or at any rate does not answer, but scoops her up and carries her back to bed.

“Daddy, who was it?”

“It was nothing,” he says. “Nothing to worry your little head over.”

“Daddy, if you don’t tell me, my dream will come back.”

That is the trouble with a curse, Lowell thinks: no eject button. You’re stuck with it. Around and around and around forever and ever amen.

“It was a hospital,” he says. “In Washington, D.C. Your Grandpa Hawthorne died.” Massive heart attack at the wheel … dead on arrival … fortunately no other cars on the road …

“How did he die, Daddy?”

“His car crashed into a tree.”

Lowell can hear the sound of impact, the flying glass. He remembers that in his dream he could not breathe.

3.

Lowell thinks that his losses may have become simple at last. He thinks they may have become simple and respectable and therefore manageable. He thinks he will be able to speak of them almost lightly. My mother died in that airline disaster of ’87 when I was sixteen years old, he will be able to say, and the effect on my father was devastating. Our lives were never the same.

He tries out a version of this first with Amy and Jason three days after his father’s death, the day before he flies down for the funeral in Washington. His ex-wife has agreed to his pleas for an extra visit, “but try not to upset them,” she warns, when she drops the children off. “I mean it, Lowell.”

“I won’t,” he promises, and indeed, he has no intention of discussing dark matters, but Amy has her grandfather’s wrecked vehicle very much on her mind. From the window of her father’s apartment, she watches cars pass. “Which ones will crash into a tree?” she wants to know.

“None of them,” Lowell reassures her. “Your grandpa’s car crash,” he explains, “wasn’t an ordinary … it was a different sort of thing. It’s not the first time in our family, pun’kin. I’ve never told you how your grandma died, but she was in a terrible accident too, and that affected Grandpa, you see.”

“I don’t like cars,” Amy says. Her lips quiver. She hangs on to the sleeve of her father’s sweater with one hand. “Did Grandma’s car hit a tree too?”

“No. No, no, oh no, sweetheart, that was something totally different. Grandma was on a plane and the plane was hijacked.”

“What’s hijacked?”

“Some bad men with machine guns wouldn’t let her plane fly back to New York.”

Huge-eyed, Amy digests this information. “Where did it go?” she asks.

“Well, it went to other places where it wasn’t supposed to go, and then it landed in Germany and all the children got off the plane, because nobody, not even bad men, wants children to get hurt.”

“Did Grandma get off the plane?”

“No,” he says. “The plane took off again, and then it landed somewhere else and then it blew up and everyone was killed.”

Amy begins to cry. “But maybe Grandma wasn’t on it then,” Lowell adds hurriedly, appalled with himself. “Maybe the bad men let her get off somewhere else first, because they said they did that. They took ten hostages off the plane before they—That’s what they said on TV. So maybe your grandma—”

Amy is sobbing convulsively, gasping for air. “I want Mommy,” she says.

“Yes,” Lowell says, panicky, “right. I’ll drive you back to Mommy’s place now, okay?”

“I don’t want to go in your pickup,” Amy sobs. She seems to be choking. A thin stream of bile trickles over her chin, and when Lowell wipes her mouth with a tissue, she throws up over his hand. “I want … Mommy … to come … and get us.”

“I’ll call her, I’m calling her now,” Lowell promises. Amy’s eye sockets look dark and bruised, and there is a bluish tinge to her lips. He holds her while he dials her mother’s number.

Rowena, his former wife, is exasperated. “I was afraid of this,” she says. “I’ll be right there.” In his driveway, she says despairingly, “For God’s sake, Lowell. As if their nightmares weren’t vivid enough. You have to tell them about planes blowing up.”

“Oh God.” Lowell rakes his fingers through his hair. He knows he is incurably inept.

“They already have counseling once a week,” Rowena says. “Jason’s been wetting the bed ever since you moved out.”

“That wasn’t my choice,” Lowell reminds her.

“Especially when you are flying down for the funeral,” she says. “When they know you’ll be on a plane.”

“Rowena, couldn’t you come too? Couldn’t we bring them? Don’t you think that might—”

“Out of the question,” Rowena says. She says it quietly, more in disbelief than in anger. “Lowell, are you completely blind? Every time they’re with you, Amy runs a fever afterwards, and Jason wets the bed.”

Lowell, stricken with remorse, leans in the back window to kiss his children goodbye, but they flinch away from him slightly before submitting. He feels the pain of this like a razor blade in his heart. He is never sure which might inflict greater damage: not spending enough time with his children, or spending time with them. He is highly infectious with doom. “I’m sorry, Rowena.” It is his own desolate experience that there is nothing anyone can do. Nothing will shelter children from life. The young, the fragile, the vulnerable, all are at catastrophic risk. “I guess I thought, you know, if I told them about the hijacking, it might explain why their grandfather—”

“Call them when you get there,” Rowena says crossly. “And call them when you get back. Otherwise they will worry themselves sick.”

“Yes,” he promises.

“Oh, Lowell,” she says, not without tenderness. “You’re such a mess.”

He thinks of telling her that things might begin to improve. It could be different now.

“And you won’t do anything about it,” she says. “You’re stuck, and you don’t even try to get unstuck.”

You don’t even try. The injustice of this is so monumental that Lowell can think of nothing to say.

Rowena turns the key in the ignition. “And for heaven’s sake,” she says in parting, “when you get back, get a new muffler on your pickup. The noise scares them.”

At Logan Airport, he leaves the pickup in the long-term lot. He checks in for the Boston–Washington shuttle, leisurely, because there is time to kill, time to kill, and then he looks at his boarding pass and sees the word terminal and a panic-bird big as a bald eagle picks him up in its talons and carries him off, jerking him along corridors and up and down elevators and into restrooms and out again and into the shuttle that weaves between parking lots and then back again until it drops him abruptly and unceremoniously and he finds himself sequestered in the middle nook of a bank of Bell telephones, a cozy and semi-private and semi-safe spot. He needs to talk to his children again, he must speak with them, but when he gets Rowena’s answering machine, he hangs up without saying a word. Instead, he talks to a waitress in Starbucks. “Flying down for my father’s funeral,” he explains. “He died violently, just like my mother. I think I’ve always been waiting for it. Other shoe to fall, you know?”

Later, circling high above Boston, he tells the passenger seated next to him in the plane. He tells a cabdriver in D.C. and he tells the manager of the funeral home. He edits and fine-tunes as he goes.

“The explosion devastated him,” he says. “It was the second time my father had been widowed.”

“Sixteen years old?” The passenger next to him, a woman, touches his wrist. “It’s a terrible age to lose your mother.”