A Plague Year

Poor everybody.”

Lilly came back down behind me. She had taken the wool blanket off of her bed. Mikeszabo stepped back and opened the Hefty bag for her. Lilly folded the blanket into squares in midair. Then she leaned out and stuffed it into the bag.

Mikeszabo said, “Thank you,” then added, “I’ll see you guys at the church.”

I asked, “Aren’t you going to school?”

“Nah. There’s no reason to.” He set off for next door, hoisting the black bag over his shoulder like Santa Claus.

Mikeszabo was right about school. This was the Friday before Christmas break. That meant that all the tests at school had been taken; all the grades had been recorded. There was no reason in the world to be at Haven Junior/Senior High. It was obvious the moment Mom dropped us off. No one but the Battlin’ Coal Miner was standing outside.

Lilly threw up her hands. “This is ridiculous! There is nobody here. I could be sleeping.”

Mom answered automatically, “It’s a school day. That means you go to school.”

“But there’s nobody here!”

“Of course people are here.”

“Where? Do you see anybody?”

“They are all inside.”

I thought, Mikemurphy sure isn’t here.

Lilly held up an angry index finger. “I will go to one class. One. If nobody is there, I am calling you, and you are coming back to pick me up.”

Mom, to my surprise, conceded. “All right. But you’ll see—people are here. It’s a normal school day.”

I thought, A normal day? Not in a plague year. As it turned out, though, Mom was partially right. There were teachers and students inside, just not very many.

I entered my first-period class, sat down next to Ben Gibbons, and looked around. Mikeszabo (I guess I can just call him Mike now) was not there, of course. He was collecting clothes for the needy. Jenny was not there, either. (I would later learn that the Weavers were making Christmas baskets for the needy. I thought, Damn! I could be doing that, too.)

Coach Malloy was there, in body at least. He was seated behind his desk, with his nose stuck in a Sports Illustrated magazine. (Maybe he should have been reading Strawberry Preserves magazine.) When the bell rang, he announced, “It’s a free period. You can all do homework.”

Ben raised his hand. “It’s the last day of the semester, Coach. Nobody has any homework.”

The coach lowered the magazine and looked at him. He growled, “Okay, so it’s just a free period, then.”

The TV blipped to life. Mrs. Cantwell addressed us as if it were a regular day. She made a very solid pitch for Mike’s clothing project. “The Student Council is collecting warm clothes for the homeless and the needy. That is becoming a big problem here in our community.

“I know that, historically, when the town of Blackwater has faced a problem, the people have come together and solved it. I remember my grandmother telling me about the Great Depression, back in the 1930s. People with only two blankets to their name gave one to people with no blanket at all. That’s how we do things here. We all pull together, and we all get by, so please give generously.”

Mrs. Cantwell would normally have been followed by Wendy Lyle reading the news, but there was no Wendy Lyle because her father had withdrawn her, and there was no news because it was the last day of the semester.

The Pledge of Allegiance came on, so the coach rose out of his seat. We did, too. We remained standing for the national anthem. Then we all sat down, and most of the kids went to sleep.

Ben and I did not, though. We stared at each other for a moment. I finally said, “How’s the play going?”

“Good.” He added, “That Chris guy sucks, though.”

“Does he?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe he doesn’t have the time, you know? Between the play and work.”

Ben looked surprised. “Chris doesn’t work.”

“Yes, he does. At the bowling alley.”

“Not anymore. He got fired.”

It was my turn to be surprised. “Why?”

“For stealing the shoe money! People would pay two bucks for shoe rental, and he’d put it in his pocket.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told us about it. It’s like he didn’t care who knew it.”

“Huh. Well, how’s Wendy Lyle? She’s good, right?”

Ben’s eyes lit up. “She’s great. She’s a great actress.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Then Ben lowered his voice. “I like what we’re doing with the counseling group. You know? At the new place.”

“The church basement?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah. Me, too. It’s better away from school.”

“Definitely. That way, parents can come. And siblings. And anybody who is, you know, messed up. I’m trying to get my mom to come. And my sister.”

“You have a sister?”

“Yeah.”

“Does she go to Haven?”

“No. She’s older. She went to high school in Pittsburgh. Then she joined the army. Then she got kicked out.”

“Whoa. For what?”

Ben shrugged and said, “I don’t know,” in such a way that I believed him.

“What’s she doing now?”

“She’s at home.” He added, “My dad was in the army. He joined up when he was eighteen, and he retired when he was thirty-six.”

“That’s a sweet deal.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“What’s he doing now?”

Ben looked puzzled. “I just told you. He’s retired.”

“Oh. Okay. How about your mom?”

“She’s at home. They’re all at home.”

“Really? So, you’re the only one who gets up and goes out in the morning?”

He thought for a moment. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

I remembered what Wendy had told me, that Ben was a “designated patient.” Then I remembered Catherine Lyle’s ethical rules. But I decided to ask him anyway. “Do any of them have problems?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, you have that pica disorder, right?”

“Right. I eat—”

“Yeah, yeah. How do you know about that?”

“Uh, I got diagnosed at school, back in Pittsburgh, by a social worker.”

“Are you the only one in your family with a disorder?”

Ben looked offended. “Yeah. Like I said, I got diagnosed. Nobody else in my family got diagnosed.”

“Okay. Sorry. Well, I hope they do come to the meetings.”