Chapter 18: A Change of Plans
By December, Boston's volunteer-run clinics had vaccinated 400,000 of the city's 560,000 residents against smallpox. The epidemic wasn't over; disease would continue to erupt in pockets across Boston for many months. But a crisis that might have taken tens of thousands of lives in an earlier era resulted in only 270 deaths. St. James the Greater lost not a single congregant.
On December 10, 1901, Patrick Collins defeated Thomas Norton Hart in Boston's mayoral election, drawing over 60% of the vote.
It was a jubilant Advent season at St. James the Greater. Monsignor McQuaid prayed with a glad heart; congregants congratulated one another; Dr. Mary and Dr. Blythe were both in notably good humor.
On the Sunday after the election, Gilbert's last patient was old Mrs. Laughlin, whose arthritis had twisted her fingers into painful rigidity. Gilbert massaged her hands, speaking softly, as he had once seen his Uncle Dave do. He called Mrs. Laughlin's young granddaughter over to observe, then sent the pair away with a jar of menthol ointment and instructions to repeat the massage twice every day.
His work finished, Gilbert peeked around the screen where Mary was still treating her final patient. A girl of seven or eight sat on her examination table, gesturing dramatically as she told a rambling story. The red, peeling burn on her forearm was large, but not serious, and the child did not seem to be in much pain. If she were, her ceaseless chatter covered her discomfort. Between her gesticulations and the swinging of her stick-straight brown braids, Mary was having some difficulty bandaging her injury.
"Peggy, will you please sit still for just a moment?" Mary sighed.
Gilbert stepped forward and wordlessly took the child's outstretched hand in his own, steadying her.
". . . and I'm gonna sing in the children's choir at the Christmas concert on Friday night. My Da said that I can have new ribbons for my hair, one red and one green. Won't that be pretty? I get to stand in the front row because I'm so small, so I have to be real careful and stand up straight and not spill nothing on my robe. Say, Dr. Mary, are you gonna sing at the Christmas concert again this year?"
Mary seemed to be focused on her task with somewhat more intensity than a simple bandage should warrant. "Yes, I told Monsignor McQuaid I would," she said through her teeth.
"Oh, good! You sang so pretty last year. After you sang, my Ma was crying and I asked if she was hurt and she said no that it just makes her cry to hear the Irish the way you sing it. I heard Ma tell Mrs. Walsh that you're as good a singer as your granny was."*
Mary remained silent, lowering her head to her task and coincidentally obscuring her face.
Gilbert smirked, sensing her discomfort. "Why Dr. Mary, I didn't know that you spoke Irish."
"I don't," came the tight reply. "Only an endearment or two from my grandmother. And a few curses . . ."
"Oh, but she sings it bully," said Peggy, swinging her legs. "Will you come to the concert, Dr. Blythe?"
Gilbert smiled at the child. "I'm sorry, Peggy, but I won't be here. I'm going home to visit my family for Christmas."
"Is your family still in Ireland, then?"
"No, Peggy," said Mary, her voice dripping sugar. "Dr. Blythe is English."
Peggy gasped and jumped, dislodging the edge of her bandage.
"English?" Gilbert cried with mock asperity. "Indeed not. Well, perhaps many generations back, though I think the Blythes are mostly Scots. But there's no need to fear, Peggy. My family lives in Canada."
Peggy's curiosity was piqued. "Are there bears there?"
"In Canada? Yes, although . . ."
"Great big white polar bears with razor-sharp teeth? Or giant grizzlies as tall as a tree?"
Plenty of them.
"Elsewhere in Canada, yes," Gilbert replied aloud. "But not where I'm going. My parents live on an island in the sea called Prince Edward Island."
"Does your wife live there, too?"
The question brought Gilbert up short, but he managed a reply and a grimace for the child's sake. "No, I'm not married."
"You should get married, Dr. Blythe," Peggy chirped. "You're awful handsome. I heard Nellie Sheehan's big sister tell Fiona Cavanaugh's big sister that you . . ."
"That's enough for now, Miss Peggy," Mary announced, seizing the little girl under the arms and swinging her down from the examination table. "Your bandage is done. Run along."
Peggy grinned up at her. "Thanks a heap, Dr. Mary! Will you wave to me at the concert?"
Mary knelt down and held out a lemon drop to the child. "I will, but you must make me a promise. No more daydreaming when you are tending a boiling kettle. Do you understand?"
Peggy hugged her agreement and skipped off to find her mother.
That night, Gilbert wrote a hasty letter to his parents.
15 December 1901
Dear Mother and Dad,
I have had a slight change of plans. I will still be home for Christmas, but I'll be arriving at Carmody on the Sunday evening train, instead of the Saturday . . .
*Monsignor William McQuaid was a strong proponent of the movement to revive the teaching and speaking of the Irish language in Boston during the early years of the 20th century. The Boston Irish community supported language acquisition through institutions like the Boston Gaelic School and cultural events that featured singing and recitation in Irish. The Boston Gaelic School met on weekends in a public school building about half a mile from St. James, and offered classes to adults and children.
