It was 1952, and Mrs Next Door had moved away.
It would seem she was driven out of town by fear and hate - such a nice lady, too - and Elizabeth still lay awake at night sometimes, ashamed that she was just a little glad Mrs Next Door had gone. Mrs Next Door's youngest son was in the hospital now, and his mother couldn't even see him - he had polio.
Elizabeth's gut twisted painfully whenever she remembered her two oldest sons, Darry and Sodapop, rolling around with those kids next door. How could she have been so stupid? Had she thought it wouldn't affect her? She still held out hope, but she hated how her children screamed at her every time she pulled them out of the mud and marched them to the bathroom, scrubbing their tiny fingers with hands that were just a little too rough, trying to do the impossible: force boys of two and six to clean and stay clean.
She'd do whatever she could to keep her children safe. Failure wasn't an option. The children of polio epidemics grew into men who needed canes and calipers to get around, who couldn't play sport, who had trouble finding jobs because of their disability. Darry was already the star of his elementary school's sporting days. He was good at just about anything he tried in that regard - even though the goal was just to have fun. Elizabeth would come to every game to support him, but now she'd just sit hunched over with one arm clenching a pram and the other clenching Sodapop, trying not to picture her little star with his arms and legs immobilised by splints and plaster, sitting sadly at home while his friends went out playing.
Then Soda would start struggling against her hold, and she'd think about him. He wasn't as coordinated as Darry had been at his age - not by a long shot - and she couldn't see him turning into a future softball star like she could see Darry, but he was so hyperactive, almost unnaturally so. He was so young he wouldn't understand what was going on, but if he got sick he'd tire of it very quickly. Soda was the kind of child that could not find anything - anything! - fun unless it involved movement. "Infantile paralysis", the disease was called. She might wish for a reprieve from constantly chasing him, but thought of a still Sodapop made her feel very ill indeed. It would be bad enough if he got it, but if he suffered the ongoing paralysis many survivors did, he'd have a very sad life.
But the real fear was Ponyboy. He was barely a month old - if he got sick, Elizabeth knew he'd die. She'd almost smacked Soda when he'd had a mud fight with some local kids and wiped it off on Pony's baby blanket. At least she felt like she could protect Darry and Soda; tell them where not to play and make sure they had washed their hands before eating. There was nothing she could do to protect Pony - she just had to hope and pray that her baby boy was alright.
Her husband, Darrel, was worried about her.
He had watched her with a sad expression when she boiled all their cutlery after Mrs Next Door's son was taken to hospital. He was well aware of the fact that she didn't sleep much at night. Darrel almost wished he could hide the newspapers from her: she was forever reading up on who was sick and who wasn't; what might prevent polio and what had been proven useless. She was obsessed with it. Darrel worried about his sons too, but he didn't believe there was all that much one could do to stop them getting sick, except praying. His wife, on the other hand... polio was all she could think about. He felt like he was losing her to a disease that hadn't even infected her.
He worried about his boys too. Four months ago, before Pony was born, Darry had had a fever. It had only been mild, and it had cleared up after a day and a half, but Darrel had sat with him in his room for every one of those frightful hours, not letting Soda or a pregnant Elizabeth in there with him, asking Darry to move his neck about every time he woke for signs of stiffness. He'd taken Soda to the doctor after seeing him walk with a slight limp, only to have him diagnosed with a pulled muscle. And every time Pony cried and they couldn't immediately tell the cause, he worried his youngest had a headache that was the first sign of polio.
But all in all, it was his wife who concerned him the most.
"Honey, come to bed," he urged her softly one night, standing in the doorway of the bathroom as Elizabeth scrubbed the toilet, rubber gloves on her hands. "You cleaned the bathroom yesterday."
"Soda threw up while you were at work," Elizabeth said. Her voice was quiet, but the tone and her refusal to look at him made it quite clear to Darrel that she was annoyed with him.
He felt annoyed too. He couldn't be expected to be around all the time. "So?" he asked, shrugging. "Kids have weak stomachs. Ponyboy spits up all the time."
"Soda's two and a half, not a baby!"
Darrel watched her for a moment with patient eyes. "It's not a symptom," he reminded her.
Elizabeth didn't respond, but continued to scrub at the toilet, despite the fact that it was already shining. The idea that vomiting wasn't a symptom wouldn't have placated her. She was bordering on paranoid now, with more and more neighbourhood kids being taken to the hospital. Nobody knew who would be next.
Darrel shrugged again, more to himself than to her. "Come to bed when you're ready," he said. It was eleven, and he was very tired. Elizabeth barely slept anyway - it was near impossible with a newborn - but Darrel really needed to be sharp for work tomorrow.
"Daddy?"
Darrel pushed the door to Soda's room further open and went in. "Why aren't you asleep, little buddy?" he asked, kneeling by the bed in the half-light given by the lamp in the hallway.
"I'm thirsty." Soda was still of that irritating age in which he needed to ask for everything. He'd even gotten up, walked into his parents' room in the middle of the night, shaken them awake to inform them he needed to go to the bathroom before going by himself. He did that every few weeks, even though he still wore diapers to bed.
"I'll get you a glass of water, kiddo," Darrel said, running his hand through Soda's hair. "How're you feeling? Mommy said you felt sick before."
Unexpectedly, Soda grinned. "I eated a slug!" he announced triumphantly.
Darrel's eyebrows quirked upwards. "Did you really?" he asked. "What did it taste like?"
Soda frowned. "Yucky," he muttered.
"Well, let that be a lesson to you," Darrel said quietly. "Don't eat any more slugs, little buddy. Mommy and Daddy don't want you getting sick." Soda nodded. "I'll get you a glass of water."
He paused on his way back from the kitchen to tell Elizabeth that Soda throwing up was nothing to worry about, but it didn't have any effect. As Darrel crawled into bed that night, he listened to Elizabeth turn the shower on, and he realised with a sad heart that she couldn't come to bed without cleaning the bathtub, too.
Darrel Curtis longed for this disease to finally end, so he could get his wife back.
A/N: This came out a little different than I intended. Didn't intend for Mrs Curtis to be borderline OCD, but the fear was real those days. 1952 was the worst year of the epidemic.
Came up with this idea doing family history research - many ancestors of mine were infected with polio. I can't understand why more people haven't written about it actually. Please take the time to leave a review!