The Stars Are Fire(52)

“Possibly,” he muses, “but the infections should have happened sooner. The body reacts to an unwanted foreign substance by trying to get rid of it—hence infections. That’s why, for instance, you have to get a bullet out of a person as soon as you possibly can.”

She wonders about all the men involved in fighting the fire. To be laid low by pneumonia after having exhibited such bravery seems cruel. Though Grace knows, at least as well as anyone, how cruel nature can be. “You could put up signs,” she says.

“How do you mean?”

“Something like, WERE YOU FIGHTING ON THE FRONT LINE OF THE FIRE? DO YOU COUGH A LOT? IF SO, SEE YOUR PHYSICIAN AS SOON AS POSSIBLE.”

“And put them where?”

“Here for one. Post offices, grocery stores, gas stations, churches, anywhere men go.”

“Anywhere women go, too, since they’re often the ones who get their husbands to a doctor.”


In the waiting room, Grace has the task of telling each patient that Dr. Lighthart will be at least forty minutes with his current case and that he has another waiting for him in an adjacent room. If they would like to leave, she’ll book them first thing in the morning.

“I already took one afternoon off. I can’t get another.”

“My mother’s babysitting the kids. I’ll have to wait.”

“Okay,” says a man, coughing badly. “But it won’t be tomorrow. I can’t get time off until next Friday.”

Grace asks the coughing man, who must have come in while she was in the back, to wait a minute. She explores the examining rooms and finds a clean, empty one near the kitchen. “Come with me,” she says when she returns.

She walks him down the corridor and into the room. “Why don’t you lie down here and rest,” she suggests.

“Can’t lie down. Just cough more. Can’t sleep at night less I’m sitting up, and I can’t sleep sitting up.”

“Does the cough hurt?” she asks.

“Son of a bitch, it does. Sorry, miss.”

His color is bad; Grace would say gray if asked. He strains for breath. Another case of pneumonia.

“What’s your name?”

“Busby,” he says with a harsh rasp. “Harry Busby.”

She’ll have to have another conversation with Dr. Lighthart about posting signs.


In the evening, Grace leans against the doorframe in her coat, waiting while Dr. Lighthart writes out a check for her. When she opened a bank account, she put in ten dollars. He hands her the check but seems to want her to stay. For the first time since she started working at the clinic, two weeks ago, the waiting room is empty. “Hell of a day,” he says. “Thanks for your help.”

“The man you saw after Mrs. McPeek has pneumonia, doesn’t he?”

“I think we may have a statewide epidemic, or rather a state-long epidemic. If we could just get the men to come in sooner, before they’re so compromised…”

“That man will die?” she asks.

“I’d be surprised if he didn’t. He could hardly breathe when I saw him. He’ll get closer observation at the hospital, and they have better equipment. We need an X-ray machine for the clinic. Listen, let me drive you home.”

“I couldn’t let you do that.”

“Why not?”

She can’t think of a good answer.


Grace wills herself to enjoy the ride in the Packard with Dr. Lighthart beside her. She knows now why he bought it—the room between the driver’s seat and the pedals is ample. She has never seen him in his suit coat, since he always wears the white coat at the clinic. When she gets to the office in the mornings, he’s already there; he’s there when she leaves for the day.

“This is much more luxurious than the bus,” she says.

“I should hope so. You strike me as someone who’s philosophically opposed to luxury.”

“Yes,” she says, “when it’s luxury I haven’t earned. Though I have to warn you, when you drop me off, it will be in front of a large Victorian house on a wealthy street. That’s my mother-in-law’s house.”

“She must be waiting, too, for her son to come home.”

“She died before the fire. I took my family there because we were homeless.”

“That’s not unearned luxury. That’s necessity.”

“That’s how I’ve chosen to see it. The mink hat isn’t mine either. I got it from her closet. It keeps me warm.”

“Again, a necessity.”

“Well, I could have knit myself a hat.”

He laughs. The car seems to float over the road. He tunes the radio to a station he must like. In the darkness, with only the lights from the dashboard and the seductive notes of the jazz ensemble, she can’t believe the pleasure of a simple ride home. In the morning, she’ll take the bus into Biddeford and buy her own car, but it won’t be anything like the vehicle she’s in now. The warmth from the heater coddles them. Will her car even have a heater?

She tries to savor every minute. She wants to close her eyes, but she can’t risk drifting off. Somehow that would be insulting.

“I loved driving your car,” she says.

“I forgot to show you where the controls are to bring the seat forward. I hope you found them.”