Mary Keane - Fever

“I can tell you, Mary, that so far, your blood and urine come back negative, but your stool comes back with a positive result roughly sixty-five percent of the time.”

“That’s not true.”

“Mary.” Dr. Albertson held up one of his hands, and Mary remembered that he’d always been kind to her. “I’m on your side, believe it or not. Don’t misunderstand — you do manufacture and carry Typhoid bacilli in your body, but I don’t think you should be held for that reason. You are not wrong when you talk about how valuable you are to our work. However, at this point we know that there are many healthy carriers out there, and it’s unfair that you should be here while the rest of them are conducting their lives.”

Dr. Soper bristled. “Or they should all be held. Or they should be taken case by case. In any event, Dr. Albertson explained it clearly, I think. These results are worthless.”

Mary looked at him and was so furious that she spat when she spoke. “You’re a liar,” she said to Dr. Soper.

Dr. Soper continued as if she hadn’t responded. “What I find interesting is that you dismiss our test results completely, give them no credence whatsoever, and yet you wholly believe these private results. So which is it, Miss Mallon? Do you believe in the science or don’t you?”

“You are a vile person.” Mary’s whole body shook as she said it.

“Mary,” Dr. Albertson offered, taking the envelope from Dr. Soper and returning it to Mary’s hands. “Why don’t you take these and think about it for a day and then come back when you have more questions? We can talk about all of this at length.” He gave her a look that said he was sorry to have called in Dr. Soper. He hadn’t understood. “I know it’s disappointing.”

“I want to see all the doctors. I want to see them right now.”

“I’m sorry. We have several new Diphtheria patients as of this morning. And Dr. Soper has come to give a lecture. Come back tomorrow morning. I’ll organize a group of doctors and we’ll all talk about this.”

“Oh, I’ll be back tomorrow. You can count on it.”

But she didn’t go back the next day, because she imagined them in wait for her, ready to punish her for taking investigative steps on her own. She was not a carrier. She had not made anyone sick. And yet, from time to time she felt a fissure in her certainty, like a reminder string wrapped around her pinkie that she’d forgotten about entirely until, at the end of a long day, she glanced down and noticed it there where she’d left it.

• • •

Though she had not yet replied to Alfred’s last letter, she decided it was time to break the silence.

Dear Alfred,

Thank you for the seeds. I have been thinking about how to respond, but right now I need your help with something important. I need you to go to the Ferguson Lab on W. 72nd Street and ask someone there to send more details on the testing they did for me. I’m going to write to them as well, but I think they need to see a person standing in front of them. Tell them that the doctors at Riverside won’t accept the results. Please, Alfred. Try to remember everything they say. Then write to me right away.

Mary

She didn’t know if the letter had reached him, if he’d been sober enough to read it, if he cared about her at all anymore, until two weeks later when the small rectangle came through the mail with Alfred’s writing on the front, saying that he’d been to the lab, not only once but twice, but no one there would talk to him about her. “What’s happening?” he wrote.

Alfred,

Thank you for trying. I had an idea that these private results would force the doctors here to set me free, but they’re ignoring them entirely. I don’t want to believe them, but there is one doctor here who seems to be on my side and he’s the one who told me the results are worthless. I feel sick thinking of all the money I gave them to do the testing. I had relaxed for a while but now I’m going to work harder to find a way out of this place. You think I’ll be here forever, but I won’t be, Alfred. I’m going to be home soon.

Mary

For a week or so she went back to old habits, waiting by the pier to watch the mailbag be carried into the hospital. And then, when she realized Alfred had resumed his silence, she armored herself against the hurt by writing more letters to lawyers, doctors, anyone who might help. Time was slipping by quickly, much more quickly than when she first arrived. Another new year arrived. Another winter turned into spring. The mailman rarely made his way down the path to her hut.

Then in June 1909, as Mary was making her way from the water’s edge in bare feet, John Cane came rushing across from the hospital with a letter in his hand. “For you,” he panted. “I told them I’d deliver it.” He watched her study the return address: O’Neill & Associates. “What is it? They said you’d want to see it right away.”

“You are so nosey,” Mary said as she slid her finger under the flap. They were right. It was a letter from a lawyer named Francis O’Neill. He’d been working on a case in Texas for the past two years, but now he was back in New York City and a letter she’d written to a colleague had been passed on to him. He wanted to meet with her. “I’ve read all the press,” he wrote, “and I’d like to hear your side. The case I was involved with in Texas was also a medical-legal issue. If your situation is as I understand it, and you have not yet secured other representation, then I am confident I can win your freedom.” He understood that she was not allowed visitors, but if she told the hospital that he was her lawyer they would have to make an exception.

Still in her bare feet and clutching the letter in her fist, she ran up to the hospital, gave the head secretary the name Francis O’Neill, and wrote back to him within a half hour asking him to come, please come.

Mary sent her response to Mr. O’Neill on a Tuesday, and on Friday she watched an unfamiliar young man step off the ferry and steady himself for a moment before continuing up the path to the hospital. He clutched his briefcase with both hands. “Mr. O’Neill?” she asked. She was waiting in the shadow of the hospital’s western wall.

“You must be Mary,” he said, shaking her hand. She had so much to say and so many questions that she didn’t know where to begin.

“Why don’t I check in?” he said after a moment, nodding at the hospital doors. “They’ll want me to sign something.”

“I’ll wait down there,” she said, pointing to her hut.

Twenty minutes later, after a brief conversation about what was what on the island — Mr. O’Neill seemed interested in the X-ray building — she showed him inside and watched as his gaze skittered across the counter to the pile of rubbage she’d collected for John Cane. She offered him tea, but he declined. He pressed his handkerchief to his nose, and then opened his briefcase and removed a pile of papers. He had with him a copy of every newspaper article about her, plus her records from Willard Parker. She noticed he had notes attached to each item. He opened a notebook to a blank page.

“Let’s start with your arrest,” he said as he uncapped his pen.

“You mean my abduction,” she corrected him, and bit her lip. She didn’t want him to think she was unreasonable.

“Well, yes,” he agreed. “That’s probably more accurate.”

They spoke for two hours, and when he left, they had a plan. As Mr. O’Neill explained, the Department of Health may have been within their rights if they’d tested her first, and then put her in quarantine in Willard Parker following a positive result, but not the other way around. They were completely out of line to arrest her without a warrant and to test her once she was in their custody. First, he told her, she would apply for a writ of habeas corpus. There would be a hearing. He warned her that this meant her real name would be released, and asked if she needed to think about that. “No,” Mary said. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”