Title: Influenza
Characters: Edward and Elizabeth. Oh, and Edward Sr. gets some lines here and there, too. They're a bit racist, though . . .
Rating: T
Word Count: About 3900
Disclaimer: Don't own the characters. Or the story, either, actually. Damn.
Summary: Elizabeth Masen loves her son. All she wants is to save his life. A story of familial love. No incest. Promise.
To see all entries in the "Love Lost" Contest, please visit the author profile: .net/u/2458839/Love_Lost_Contest
#
There is a young boy.
He sits on a swing near the front porch of a modest Chicago home.
The swing is made of a wooden plank held to a tree branch by two long, weathered ropes.
The setting sun—all milky yellows and mixed reds—paints a silhouette behind him.
There is a young mother.
She looks out of her window at the young boy.
She wears a modest dress the color of dusky midnights, with a thin string of pearls draped around her neck.
The window seat beneath her is made of worn cloth stitched on top of soft cushion.
The setting sun—all milky yellows and mixed reds—dips low behind the horizon in front of her.
The boy waits patiently for his father to return from work. His hat angles forward over his face, forcing brilliant green eyes underneath haphazard burnt orange bangs. His mother watches with apprehension as it begins to grow darker. She watches the shadows run down the asphalt street. They seem to race each other, each threatening to reach forward and engulf her only son.
The grandfather clock near the door chimes deep and throaty. Eight o'clock.
So far, Chicago's summer of 1911 has been sickly sweet. As June leaks into July there is an expected change from pleasant to humid, but it is late in coming this particular year. Of course, no one can complain about this fact. It's not exactly inconvenient. The children have used the long summer days basking in the extended sunlight. Well, most children.
Not the young mother's son.
Not Elizabeth's Edward.
They tease him. They push him to the ground and call him a Momma's boy. They throw dirt in his face and rumple his clothing. Only two months ago, he returned home with a swollen, multi-colored eye where a fist most certainly kissed his face. Of course, Elizabeth fixes him up. The swelling goes down and the cuts heal. And he is still her son.
He is still her little boy.
Edward suddenly jumps off the swing, all knobby knees and elbows. He runs out into the street and before Elizabeth can stop herself, she is out the door after him. The bottom of her dress brushes the wooden porch as she leans over the railing, catching sight of her husband rumbling up the road in their brand new Model T. It was a splurge that Edward Sr. insisted on buying. Elizabeth knew that it was because of the Rolls Royce that the neighbors across the way newly acquired, but she wasn't about to mention it.
Edward races alongside of the vehicle, almost tripping over his own two feet several times. By the time his father parks along the side of the road, he is winded and hunched over at the waist like a forgotten accordion. Edward Sr. steps out of the car and greets his son, pulling him into a brief but tight hug.
Elizabeth cannot help the way her heart skips drunkenly in her chest at the sight.
They float up the walk, their bodies encased in matching suits.
A slight peck on stubbly jaw and they are inside, a fireplace crackling and roaring.
"How is the automobile running?" Elizabeth asks her husband, her voice quiet and demure.
"Quite well, actually. I motored all the way here from the heart of the city with no problems at all. I do wonder what the Bakers would say about that."
(As neighbors across the way, the Bakers are, of course, required to be jealous.)
He picks up a copy of the Tribune and slides on his spectacles, gazing at the page with a furrowed brow. Edward Jr. moves to sit beside his mother. She pulls off his hat and coaxes her hand through his hair, which is wild and untamable as always.
"Will you play for us tonight?" she asks, pinching a flushed cheek.
A candle burns unwavering on the right corner of a dark piano.
It is a beautiful piano, really. All deep, stained wood and pristine ivory keys. It plays with Edward's soul, coaxing the beautiful melodies from sloppy, uncoordinated fingers. Edward's face buckles in concentration, mirroring his father who sits beside him, still reading the paper.
"Grain shipment is slowing," Edward Sr. growls suddenly, interrupting his son's song. The music immediately disappears. The only sound is the slap of the newspaper hitting the desk. It punctuates the silence in the room.
"Bedtime," Elizabeth murmurs quietly, grasping the hand of her son and leading him to his room.
"Already," he whines as his shoes and socks are peeled off.
"Go on and change. We'll read a story."
She makes her way over to the window. Pushing gently, the glass slides up. Wind brushes the curtains aside. The air is so pungent, Elizabeth is sure she can smell Lake Michigan's salt. She takes a deep breath—the air racing into her lungs—then turns back to her son. The yellow-brown blanket swallows him whole. All that peeks out are two emerald eyes, wide awake as they await their story.
"Which one tonight?" Elizabeth asks, already knowing the answer.
"Treasure Island," is the expected reply, though a bit muffled by the blanket.
Elizabeth pulls the book from his shelf and perches at the edge of the bed.
Eager eyes droop and nights dissolve amidst tales of pirates, treasure maps, and morality.
#
"Her name is Evelyn Cooper."
The grandfather clock chimes, interrupting Edward Sr.'s explanation.
"She comes from a very well-respected family and she has a nice face."
"And now you want me to meet her?" his son asks, sitting on the piano bench with his elbows resting on his knees. Now long and lanky, Edward towers over his father. His hair, still unruly as ever, has grown darker and wilder over the years. His skin has remained a fashionable ivory, but his face is cardboard and concrete. His jaw is clenched. His blood is thick. His heart is locked.
"I figure, a brief chat at The Lincoln Jubilee."
Edward sighs.
"It is said that there will be artifacts there used by Lincoln himself. After all, it is best for us, in these times, to show our support of the emancipation of the Negroes."
"Fine."
"We will be there to chaperone, of course. You will not be alone. Don't try anything."
"I won't."
"You won't?"
"I won't, Sir."
Though this August is unbearably hot and humid, Elizabeth descends the stairs in a dress that holds her entire body. It is a pale milky color, and it is paired with the pearls she always wears. They are the pearls her husband gave her on their wedding day. She sends a smile to her son and then one to her husband. Edward Sr. takes her by the elbow and they move out to their Model T.
The crowd is a mixed bag, though the upper class stays close together as they walk through the various exhibits. Edward Sr. catches sight of James Cooper—Evelyn Cooper's father—amidst the group of dyed fabrics and umbrellas. He maneuvers his family toward them, all tuxedo and top hat.
"Mr. and Mrs. Masen, what a pleasure." James Cooper is one of those men with a mustache too burly, legs too short, and fingers too stubby. His belly protrudes with unrestrained vigor from above his trousers. His beady blue eyes peruse Edward's family with judgment. After all, the Masens are far below the social standing of the Coopers. That fact is undeniable.
Given the appearance of Evelyn's father, Evelyn herself is a pleasant and unexpected surprise.
She is all domesticity, with hair pulled high up on her head beneath a watercolor yellow umbrella. She fans herself with feathers, though beads of sweat still appear at her temples. Edward brushes the wrinkles of his suit out in a moment of self-consciousness and intimidation. Elizabeth reaches over and brushes his hair down. Edward steps away, blushing profusely while Evelyn chuckles. She covers her mouth with a gloved hand the color of a dove's wing and moves to be eclipsed by her father.
The conversation is stunted. After a particularly lengthy silence, Elizabeth speaks.
"I saw the most fascinating exhibit when we came in. I think I'll go see it now, then return. Edward, care to join me?" she asks her son.
Edward Sr. wants to tell her to stay, but he can't in present company. He is forced to smile, nod, and remember the warmth of Elizabeth's parting hand on his forearm.
Elizabeth pulls Edward out of the way, behind an exhibit covered with a large wood brown tent.
She begins to comb her fingers through his hair. Edward flinches and jerks away.
"Ma! What are you doing?"
"Your hair is a mess and there's dirt on your nose. That is no way to present yourself to a lady," Elizabeth scolds with a twinkle in her eye. She licks her finger and rubs his nose profusely. He ducks out of reach and straightens his suit. He begins to walk away, and then turns around as if on second thought.
"Do I look okay?" he asks, brow furrowed.
"You look beautiful," she smiles softly.
"Okay. Thanks." He grins his innocence.
She watches him walk back toward the Cooper family, his chin turned to the sky. Evelyn, beneath her umbrella, watches Edward as well. Elizabeth smirks to herself, her mouth cloaked by her hand. Edward Sr. catches her eye and they share a wry smile. The two walk off, Evelyn's palm placed delicately in the crook of Edward's elbow.
Elizabeth catches up to her husband and they walk silently behind.
Amidst the dusty ground, humid sky, and Abraham Lincoln artifacts, she wonders when her only son grew up.
#
It begins when Samuel Baker gets drafted. The oldest son of the neighbor's across the way, he receives his card relatively early. At the ripe age of 19, he will be sent overseas to fight with the Allies on British soil.
It is all over the Tribune on April 6th. Edward Sr. rips the paper up in an aimless fury, but his son is able to patch up the pieces and read the article underneath the candlelight. The white light jumps across the page in dead wind, highlighting words and phrases that spark in Edward's mind.
Words such as "submarines" and "Germany" and "Zimmerman" and "declaration of war."
"They're calling it the Great War," Edward Sr. snaps. His son sits at the piano bench, one with the shadows. Elizabeth stands near the doorway, her hands wringing in fear. She can see her son's hard stare, his determination, his stone of a face. "God damn, Wilson."
"Edward!" Elizabeth scolds. "The Lord's name . . ."
"He deserves it! He promised that we would not join in this war. This is Europe's war. We are not Europe. We are too proud. Too proud. This is a disaster. We are dying for this." As he speaks, his son's face turns red as glowing charcoal. He stands up, the bench sliding back into the piano with a sickening snap.
"It's for our ancestors. For our allies. For our country." Edward's words are punctuated by his hand thumping against his own chest. "Did you not read what it said in that telegram? Germany tried to recruit Mexico. Mexico! To attack us. That is our border."
"I will not be spoken to like this," his father retorts.
Edward knows when to quit.
"Fine," he growls, turning around and walking right out the front door. Elizabeth swivels and goes after him. He is moving quickly, his body chasing the setting sun. Across the street, Samuel Baker prepares himself for the training camp, packing his things and saying good bye to his family.
Edward walks down the road, past the rows and rows of houses. His shoulders are wide now, his jaw strong and sharp. He is nearly a man, though not quite. He turns a sharp corner with Elizabeth following quickly after him. A few more minutes of walking lands them at the shores of Lake Michigan.
The salty water permeates the air, swallowing everything in mist. Edward sits close to the lapping waves, though not close enough to get wet. He is muted by night and haze, his body a ghost of its former self. Elizabeth walks over to him, holding her dress a few inches off the ground. He isn't surprised when she sits down beside him in silence.
They watch the murky lake move and twist, white caps dancing on the horizon.
"I know what you're feeling," Elizabeth says, breaking the silence.
"How can you?" he asks his palms, staring at the ground.
"Because you're my son," she replies as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. She places a hand on his shoulder.
"I want to fight," he says a few minutes later, his face hard and crackling.
"So many die, Edward."
"I don't care." The stubbornness of youth surrounds him.
"The news from the front . . . it is gruesome."
"I know. I have to help. It's my duty." His hands twist and turn, grasping a fleeting, naïve idea.
She turns toward him and he responds with a turn of his own. Cupping his cheek with her palm, she immediately recognizes the young boy inside. The one that couldn't fight. The one that always fell. The one that blushed viciously, and played the piano with such talent.
Death is not an option.
"I'll make you a deal," she says with a plastic smile. "Wait until you're 18. Then decide on enlisting or going to school."
"You won't tell . . . ?"
"Of course I won't tell your father. Do you think I'm crazy?" she smiles.
He ducks his head and blushes. That is the boy she knows.
Perfect.
Fragile.
"Do we have a deal?" she asks.
"Yes. Yes, we do."
"Good. I'm proud of you, Edward. Always."
When she hugs him her heart seems to swell as if it were attempting to encompass them both.
With Edward's deal, she makes another deal of her own. The deal is to protect him. No matter what.
#
It is unfair, how many bad things are allowed to happen at once.
If Elizabeth weren't such a devout woman, she might even question and curse God.
She doesn't, of course.
But, Edward? Edward does.
Right after the news of Samuel Baker's death.
He storms through the house like a thunderstorm, leaving only wreckage in his wake. It doesn't take Samuel Baker long to die. He leaves and doesn't come back. In his place are two men in uniform. They're veterans. Veterans of what? Nothing compares to this war.
That's why it's so great, right?
Edward watches from the window while they traipse up the walk, toy soldiers pulled by puppeteer's strings. Samuel's mother—he doesn't even know her name—falls against her husband. Their voices are mute but the message is clear. Samuel Baker isn't coming home.
But this is nothing in comparison to the domestic crisis.
The sun sets hard and fast in response to the tragedies. Day after day people are taken from their homes. They are sick and dying and the color of paper soaked through with water. They are dissolving.
Edward Sr. promises that it won't touch him. It won't touch the Masens.
They're a strong family.
They're resistant.
Four generations of Masen all living in Chicago.
Survivors.
Elizabeth watches it all with the vacancy and detachment of unstoppable events. She realizes with abrupt finality that there is nothing she can do. France is death. Chicago is death. Edward is closing in on his 18th birthday. Time presses forward even when it shouldn't.
She finds her son by the window, staring with eyes of death. Glassy and cold.
She sits down beside him and clears her throat. He startles out of his thoughts. Across the street, the two toy soldiers are leaving the house. Their faces look the same—mottled and tired.
"How do you feel about enlisting tomorrow?" Elizabeth asks suddenly, searching for the happiness.
"I'm still 17," he answers robotically.
"Oh, there are ways to get around that."
Edward turns and stares dumbly, eyes like steel.
"Tomorrow?" she repeats in question.
"You aren't joking?"
"No," she smiles. He grins. He grins in that way that shows all of his teeth. It is blinding and brilliant and beautiful.
"I love you," he says quietly amidst their tight hug.
"I know," she replies.
The next morning has a sky of stew, filled with grays and browns. The sun struggles to break through the thick layer of clouds, leaving a dull lining on an already derelict population. Elizabeth wakes up slowly only to realize that her husband is gone.
Already at work, she assumes. She dresses and washes up before descending the stairs in order to cook a small breakfast. When Edward doesn't surface after many minutes of waiting, she begins to worry. She leaves the newly-made breakfast on the table and returns to the second floor of the house.
Edward's room is still dark.
After three tentative knocks on the door, she opens it.
His forehead is dripping. Parched lips are dry and cracked. His eyes are open, though only barely. He doesn't register that she is in the room.
Anything but my boy. Anything but my only son.
She pulls on his arms and legs, removing him from the bed. He jumps slightly, his eyelashes fluttering like startled butterflies.
"Ma?" he asks as she drapes his arm over her shoulders.
"It's okay, Edward. Everything is going to be okay. I have you," she says, cool and collected.
"We going to the enlistment office?" he asks, all slurs and sweat.
"Yes. That's exactly where we're going. You just wait."
They stumble out into the driveway to find an absent Model T. She sits him against the side of their home and goes door to door, asking anyone for a lift.
The only one that offers is Samuel Baker's mother—even Elizabeth doesn't know her name. She pulls up in the former rival car, the Rolls Royce itself, and helps Elizabeth pull Edward into the backseat. At the hospital, Elizabeth's greatest fears are realized. There isn't enough staff and too many patients. It is a miracle that Elizabeth is able to find a doctor.
Amidst all of the panic, this doctor is calm.
This doctor is confident.
This doctor is mildly frightening.
He helps Elizabeth find Edward a hospital bed, then sits beside her for the moments that she needs.
"What's his age?" he asks politely. Elizabeth stares at the stethoscope dangling from his neck.
"17. Almost 18. We were headed to the enlistment offices today. That was what we were going to do."
The doctor writes down Edward's age on a piece of paper, frowning. He has noticed that this strain of influenza is most deadly in young adults. He leaves her alone after a few moments, moving onto his next patient. Elizabeth holds the hand of her youngest son. He doesn't wake.
To her right is a young woman in a bed. She looks no older than thirty, though her face is as pale as a ghost. Next to her bed are three young girls all under the age of ten. They play with a jump rope, spinning around in circles and singing rhymes.
They chorus,
I had a little bird,
And its name was Enza.
I opened the window
And in-flew-enza.
What feels like ages later, Elizabeth finds her husband in the same hospital. He apologizes, his face of regret and shame. He tells her that he didn't want her to worry. He tells her that he was trying to protect Edward. He tells her that he is ashamed, sorry, repentant.
He tells her that he loves her.
It's not soon after that she, herself, starts to feel sick.
And then it is a blur of time, space, and emotion.
Edward holds on a long time. He holds on long enough to know that his mother and father are deteriorating fast. He finds solace in his only doctor, a man with flaxen gold hair and an unnervingly kind smile. Elizabeth does the same, and they are connected. It is a lifeline.
The doctor knows exactly when Elizabeth is going to die.
He stands by her bed, a statue.
He waits.
Her breathing slows.
He waits.
Her heart beat slows.
He waits.
He is surprised.
Her eyes flash open, determination etched in her brow.
"Save him. Save my son. Give him what I can't. Please."
It is so raw and striking and passionate that it makes the doctor pause.
"I will try—"
"Please," she says, cutting him off. She doesn't have much time. "Anything you can do. Anything at all. Even if it's something no one else can. I love him. You must understand that. You must understand."
"I understand," he manages, speaking only to the dead.
Her son isn't in good shape, but the doctor is forced to wait for the sun to set. The ward is quiet when he makes his way up the familiar tunnel of beds. The darkness creeps in from the open windows. A light breeze rolls through, playfully ruffling the blankets. The patients' breathing is raspy and loud, but to the doctor it is all dull noise.
When he reaches Edward he notices dried blood from the boy's latest nose bleed.
He is too young.
He is not sure he can do this.
But he has to.
He promised.
With a palm over Edward's mouth and a shuddering breath, the doctor bites.
And it burns.
And there are screams.
And the doctor burns right along with him.
Three arduous days later, ruby red eyes open, reborn.
"Ma?" he asks, disoriented and thirsty.
"I'm sorry."
"She's dead?"
"Yes. She loved you."
"I . . . I know."
There is a long pause. A blank stare. A stunned silence.
"Who are you?" he asks.
"My name is Carlisle. I will protect you now. Maybe one day you will love me too."
The newborn vampire smiles wryly, blankly, soullessly.
"Maybe."
#
Thanks to my pre-reader uber much.
The World's Fair that the Masens attended: http:/ lincolnat200 (dot) org/files/display/151/fullsize
Woodrow Wilson once stated on America's neutrality during World War I, "America is too proud to fight." Whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. Load of BS in my opinion. What makes more sense is, "America is too proud not to fight."
The Zimmerman Telegram from Germany to Mexico promised Mexico land that America had snatched and grabbed. But, Mexico had to attack America's southern border in order for the land to be returned. It was intercepted. Fail.
The Enza rhyme is completely true, and wholly unsurprising. Ashes, ashes, we all fall down . . .