Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 8, No. 7, July 1963
The Epidemic
by T. E. Brooks
Sometimes it is difficult to know how to protect the very young from a sickness far more devastating than a virus.
Heat quivered in the town, concentrating in the short business block of brick and concrete. Across the street, the maple trees and green summer grass of the town square breathed humidity into the air, bringing sweat to the faces of the men repairing the bandstand. They worked silently, grimly, covering the scars and discolorations with fresh white paint. A carpenter finished nailing a new step into place, and a man in paint-spattered coveralls — he was the town’s mayor — leaned forward with dripping brush to paint in the fresh wood.
The streets were almost empty, the public places — the theater, the library, the Community Park — all closed. In the residential areas the doors were shut, die front yards deserted. There wasn’t a child in sight. The hot summer day hung muted and motionless. Only the shimmering heat moved and, mingling with it, emanating from behind the grim faces and closed doors, rose the stifling, unwholesome effluvium of fear.
Behind the big white house on Herger Road, Ellie Thompson lay on her back in the grassy hollow between two forgotten maples at the south end of the garden. Her eyes, fixed on a scrap of heaven through the branches overhead, worked in a series of squints — half closing, opening, half closing again — trying to telescope the patch in a long distance focus. She had heard it could be done. It was a trick that was supposed to make things look further off or closer up or something, Ellie wasn’t quite sure. So far, nothing had happened either way. Sky was sky and squinting or just plain looking, it was all the same. She switched to a branch but that didn’t work either. Maybe the branch was too close. Sitting up, she searched the horizon for a better subject. Beyond the low brick wall that marked their own property line was an open field, broken about a quarter of a mile south by the railroad tracks. After that came the row of willows that stretched for miles along the river banks. No single tree wore a separate outline. They were all jumbled together. She reeled in her gaze, pulling back to the railroad track, following it a few yards down the line to the abandoned doll factory. Her gaze fastened on the factory, securing it carefully in her sights. A rapid succession of blinks and squints did no more than blur the edges of the old building. Ellie flopped back in disgust, — plucking a long blade of grass, sticking it between her teeth, chewing desultorily. It was so boring, this epidemic. There was nothing to do.
In the house, Ellie’s mother, preparing dinner, worked with quick, nervous movements! Every few minutes she paused, glancing through the kitchen window for some sight of Ellie in the backyard; Ellie’s blonde hair catching the last rays of sun, the flying remnants of an imperfect cartwheel, a small tennis shoe waggling in the air; anything that told her Ellie was there, safe in the yard. This time she stopped, frozen at the edge of the sink. There was no sign of life, nothing; only the lawn, the vegetable garden, the uncut grass beyond it. Mrs. Thompson felt terror rip through her heart. Gripping the sink, trying to control the fear, she cried, “Joanne!” and felt dismay at the shrill panic she heard in her voice.
“Yes, Mother,” Joanne returned quickly, alarmed, from upstairs.
“Do you see Ellie? I can’t see her anywhere.”
“She’s lying in the long grass, down by the maples. I can see her perfectly from my bedroom window.”
“Oh...” It was inaudible, almost a sob, then louder, to carry upstairs, “Thank you, Joanne. Keep her in sight will you, dear, while I finish dinner?”
Mrs. Thompson felt the adrenalin drain off, felt the weakness, the trembling in its wake. Toward evening the panic always grew sharper, quivering at the edge of her brain, poised to plunge at the slightest provocation through her body. She drew a deep breath and halved the hard-boiled eggs, pushing the yolks out deftly with her thumb. She wished Allan would come home so she could call Ellie into the house.
Allan had worn old work clothes this morning and he would probably be covered with paint when he got home. If Ellie saw him dressed that way, she would know that he hadn’t gone to the office today; she would bristle with curiosity and there would be questions, everlasting questions. Gwen Thompson’s brain, already weighted with fabrications, curdled at the thought of still a new one. What possible reason could she give Ellie for her father’s painting the bandstand in the middle of the “epidemic”?
There was a sound in the garage and Gwen stiffened a moment, listening. Yes, thank God, it was Allan. There was the noise of the car sliding into place, the motor cutting off, the garage door closing. She moved into the service porch, through the connecting door. Allan, white-faced, smelling of turpentine and sweat, smiled vaguely. “Hello, honey,” he said, moving past her, into the little utility bathroom off the service porch.
He looked positively ill. “Allan,” she said anxiously, “Are you all right?”
He mumbled something, soaping his hands at the sink, splashing water on his face. She didn’t understand his answer but she found comfort in her own. “It’s the heat, darling,” she murmured, handing him a towel, “And that awful smell of paint. You’re not used to it.”
“Not the heat or the paint,” he said, his voice muffled in the towel. “You get used to that in a hurry.” He came out from under the towel. “What we weren’t used to,” he said slowly, his gaze inverting, seeing something in his own mind, “was the look of that bandstand when we got there this morning.”
Her eyes widened. “You mean they didn’t have it cleaned up?”
He glanced at her, surprised that she hadn’t realized the full purpose of his day. “No, honey,” he said gently. “That’s what we were there for, to clean it up.”
Horror and incredulity crept into her voice. “You mean little Sharon was... still there?”
“No, of course not, Gwen,” he said quickly, trying to make his voice matter-of-fact. “Sharon was taken to the mortuary last night.”
Her face relaxed a little. “Then it was cleaned up.” She paused, her breath catching in sudden comprehension. “I mean, except for the painting and... and everything.” Abruptly she moved into his arms, holding him tightly. “Oh, Allan,” she breathed, “I didn’t realize. It was all there, wasn’t it? Everything but the poor little body...” She buried her face on his shoulder. “What a hideous day for you!” For a moment they clung together, holding each other in pain and horror and love. Then she lifted her face, moving back a little. “Has Morgan City been called in yet?”
He nodded grimly, unbuttoning his shirt. “That’s what took us so long to get started this morning. We had to stand around and look at it till their Homicide Squad finished up. Backus didn’t even call them till six a.m.”
Her face twisted a little. “That man must be out of his mind. Why, Allan? Why didn’t he call them the first time?” It was a lament.
“He wanted to crack it himself, that’s why. Be a big man.” There was venom in Allan’s voice. “He’s cracked something all right. His political career. Right down the middle. He’ll never be elected to anything again, not in this town. He’ll be damn lucky if there isn’t a third murder around here — his own.” Allan yanked open the shower door, glad for the momentary release of anger.
Gwen picked his shirt off the floor. “Did Morgan City find anything new?”