Door County Fiction: Another Child has Gone

Jerry Donovan had intended to quit his newspaper route after Christmas, but his mother talked him out of it. She said it was important that he continue to have something to do after school and besides, the money he earned was helping the family. Jerry bought his own clothes, his school supplies and lunch. His mother’s insistence he keep the route was actually stronger than necessary because Jerry had learned that money provided other benefits such as candy bars, comic books and movies on weekends.

For these reasons Jerry found himself, a couple of weeks after New Years, trudging through the snow down Fremont Street, pulling a wagon full of newspapers. Coins jingled in his pocket. At Mrs. Buchanan’s Jerry stopped to climb her steps and deliver her paper. He was glad they were free of ice and snow. A year ago he had slipped and cut his chin on icy steps.

Before he could lay the paper down, Mrs. Buchanan opened the door, took it from his hand and advised him to stay away from the gray house near the corner. A neighbor told her a girl there was seriously sick. She didn’t know who it was, but thought it might be one of the Jenkins.

Three houses further down, Mrs. Catalini told Jerry a “Quarantine” notice had been posted on the Jenkins’ house because their daughter, Rosemary, had a contagious disease. Jerry’s stomach became queasy, and he suddenly felt like crying. The spontaneity of his reaction surprised him. He knew Rosemary, but his feelings toward her were mostly negative. He and the other boys his age considered her a neighborhood nuisance. Knowing boys didn’t cry, Jerry quickly rubbed his eyes to hide his embarrassment.

The first time Jerry experienced the death of someone close to him occurred the previous fall when Frank, a boy who sat behind him in school, died. The impression on Jerry was deeper than he realized. And although the death may have seemed forgotten, the psychological wound hadn’t healed. Jerry and Frank were 12 at the time. A death at that age was alarming enough, but Rosemary was only six – far too young, Jerry thought, to have death stalking her.

When Jerry approached the Jenkins’ house, he saw the white “Quarantine” notice nailed to the black front door of the house. The contrast between notice and door was stark…and startling. As Jerry stared he noticed the corners of the paper fluttering in the wind. Snow still covered the stairs, flattened in the center by footprints that indicated people had come and gone. The presence of the large word “Warning” on the notice frightened Jerry, and he quickly pulled his wagon across the street through the snow to the opposite side.

That night at dinner, Jerry’s mother told the family Rosemary Jenkins had Scarlet Fever. Because the disease was extremely contagious, the Board of Health required that a warning notice be posted to keep people away. No one knew how long the notice might be up. People would just have to wait and see.

Rosemary was a small, pesky girl with blond curly hair and clear blue eyes. She smiled easily, talked continuously and always wanted to play. Unfortunately, there were few children her own age on Fremont, so she invariably tried to join in the games of the older ones. Usually, she just got in the way.

Everyone knew Rosemary was too young and too little to play most games, but once she’d made up her mind to join, she persisted until she was accepted…or stern measures were taken to exclude her. When Jerry and his friends played touch-tag football on the street, for example, one of them was always assigned the thankless task of keeping Rosemary out of the way. It was a real challenge; she didn’t give in easily.

Rosemary may have lacked tact but she had spunk. Children in the neighborhood began calling her Rosie, after Rosie-the-Riveter – the woman pictured on posters representing women who worked in defense plants to help the war effort. Rosemary proudly accepted the nickname after its source was explained to her.

Jerry’s friend Tony lived across the street from Rosie. The day after the quarantine notice was posted, and Jerry had finished delivering his newspapers, he went over to Tony’s and the two sat on the front steps. Huddled against the cold, they tried to guess what would happen to Rosie.

“She’s gonna die,” Tony said matter-of-factly. “I just know it. I asked my parents, and they said they never knew anyone who lived through Scarlet Fever. Everyone who had it died sooner or later.”

“But she’s too young to die,” Jerry insisted. “Old people die. Did you ever know a young person who died?” he asked, still staring across the street at the house.

“Well, no,” Tony admitted.

“See.”

They continued to watch the Jenkins’s house for a sign of something…anything.

Then Jerry remembered Frank. “I did,” he said hesitantly. “The boy who sat behind me in school. His name was Frank. Our teacher told us he had a serious illness, but she never said what it was. Then one day she told us he died.”

“What did I tell you,” Tony said, exultantly. “It can happen.”

“Well my father says it’s the exception that proves the rule,” Jerry said firmly. “Frank was the exception. Besides, if Rosie dies, it isn’t fair. She’s a good person. It just wouldn’t be fair.”

“What’s her being good got to do with it?” Tony asked

Jerry felt fairness and death were somehow connected, but he wasn’t sure how. With his hands and feet hurting from the cold, he stood up, knocked the snow off his shoes and told Tony he’d see him after supper. Thoughts of fairness and death slipped from his mind.

The next morning, as Jerry began walking down the alley on his way to school, he saw a huge bonfire behind the Jenkins’s house. Approaching it, he felt the heat and saw a child’s possessions engulfed in the flames. Toys Jerry had seen Rosie use and clothes he had seen her wear were rapidly turning to ash. Books and games in the depth of the blaze were now no more than charred fragments. As Jerry continued to watch, bedding was added to the fire, while a stained mattress, leaning against a fence, waited its turn.

The smoke billowing immediately above the fire was thick and gray. Ascending, it stretched into thin spirals of white that climbed toward a cloudless sky.